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The Surgeon's Doorstep Baby
Marion Lennox
Midwife Maggie’s temporary neighbour, surgeon Blake Samford, is a complication that she really doesn’t need.Not only is she caring for her isolated community, she’s juggling the needs of her younger siblings. But when Blake knocks on her door one dark and stormy night, cradling an abandoned infant in his arms, Maggie suddenly feels her resolve and her heart begin to crack…




About the Author
MARION LENNOX is a country girl, born on an Australian dairy farm. She moved on—mostly because the cows just weren’t interested in her stories! Married to a ‘very special doctor’, Marion writes Medical Romances™, as well as Mills & Boon
Romances. (She used a different name for each category for a while—if you’re looking for her Romances, search for author Trisha David as well.) She’s now had well over 90 romance novels accepted for publication.
In her non-writing life Marion cares for kids, cats, dogs, chooks and goldfish. She travels, she fights her rampant garden (she’s losing) and her house dust (she’s lost). Having spun in circles for the first part of her life, she’s now stepped back from her ‘other’ career, which was teaching statistics at her local university. Finally she’s reprioritised her life, figured out what’s important, and discovered the joys of deep baths, romance and chocolate. Preferably all at the same time!

Recent titles by Marion Lennox:
SYDNEY HARBOUR HOSPITAL: LILY’S SCANDAL† (#ulink_c941be56-9d68-5929-ab2c-bbdde9491241)
DYNAMITE DOC OR CHRISTMAS DAD?* (#ulink_8e484c2c-c592-52dd-93ae-95060cbea05a)
THE DOCTOR AND THE RUNAWAY HEIRESS* (#ulink_8e484c2c-c592-52dd-93ae-95060cbea05a)
NIKKI AND THE LONE WOLF** (#ulink_59d67279-2460-5397-abae-641efc8bfde0)
MARDIE AND THE CITY SURGEON** (#ulink_59d67279-2460-5397-abae-641efc8bfde0)
† (#ulink_3081425f-34c1-5c95-aa12-5658c6319404)Sydney Harbour Hospital
* (#ulink_f060b64d-afbd-5f5f-823a-24944803e380)Mills & Boon
Medical™ Romance
** (#ulink_1b8e0976-c64b-52f9-9b8b-2e94dcc271b1)Mills & Boon
Romance Banksia Bay miniseries
These books are also available in eBook format from www.millsandboon.co.uk

The Surgeon’s
Doorstep Baby
Marion Lennox





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Dear Reader
This year our family farm is to be leased out as my brother retires from farming. One of the next generation may well decide farming’s the life for them, but it needs to be a decision they make in the future, when the time’s right for them. Thus, for now, more than a hundred years of farming history is pausing.
For me this is a sadness. Although I’ve long left behind the reality of twice-daily milking, our family farm has never lost its power, its warmth, its pull. Happily, though, I can still disappear into a farming community in my books.
As you might have read in my introduction to MARDIE AND THE CITY SURGEON, recently the farm was flooded. At midnight a neighbour rang my brother to say the river had broken its banks, and a paddock full of calves was disappearing under water. My brother and sister-in-law thus spent the night in their kids’ ancient canoe, saving every one of their calves.
The story was a fun one, with a happy ending, and the half-grown calves reacted like excited kids when they were finally rescued. The story made me smile—and, as always, it made me think, What if …? What if I threw my city surgeon hero into such a scene? What if my heroine had to depend on him? What if … what if I even threw a wounded baby into the mix?
I love my writing, where reality and fantasy can mingle to become pure fun. As you read this, however, know that the calves are real, the happy ending is true and each rescued calf is now a safe and cared-for member of a magnificent herd. Our farm—our heritage—stays alive in the hearts of every one of our family members, and hopefully in the warmth and fun my writing enables me to share.
Warm wishes from a bit of an emotional
Marion
Dedication:
To Cobrico. To Mayfield. To my beloved family who form the bedrock of who I am.

CHAPTER ONE
As CHIEF orthopaedic surgeon for one of Sydney’s most prestigious teaching hospitals, Blake Samford was used to being woken in the middle of the night for emergencies.
Right now, however, he was recuperating at his father’s farm, two hundred miles from Sydney.
He wasn’t expecting an emergency.
He wasn’t expecting a baby.
Maggie Tilden loved lying in the dark, listening to rain on the corrugated-iron roof. She especially liked lying alone to listen.
She had a whole king-sized bed to herself. Hers, all hers. She’d been renting this apartment—a section of the grandest homestead in Corella Valley—for six months now, and she was savouring every silent moment of it.
Oh, she loved being free. She loved being here. The elements could throw what they liked at her; she was gloriously happy. She wriggled her toes luxuriously against her cotton sheets and thought, Bring it on, let it rain.
She wasn’t even worried about the floods.
This afternoon the bridge had been deemed unsafe. Debris from the flooded country to the north was being slammed against the ancient timbers, and the authorities were worried the whole thing would go. As of that afternoon, the bridge was roped off and the entire valley was isolated.
Residents had been advised to evacuate and many had, but a lot of the old-time farmers wouldn’t move if you put a bulldozer under them. They’d seen floods before. They’d stocked up with provisions, they’d made sure their stock was on high ground and they were sitting it out.
Maggie was doing the same.
A clap of thunder split the night and Tip, the younger Border collie, whined and edged closer to the bed.
‘It’s okay, guys,’ she told them, as the ancient Blackie moved in for comfort as well. ‘We’re safe and dry, and we have a whole month’s supply of dog food. What else could we want?’
And then she paused.
Over the sound of the driving rain she could hear a car. Gunned, fast. Driving over the bridge?
It must have gone right around the roadblock.
Were they crazy? The volume of water powering down the valley was a risk all by itself. There were huge warning signs saying the bridge was unsafe.
But the bridge was still intact, and the car made it without mishap. She heard the change in noise as it reached the bitumen on this side, and she relaxed, expecting the car’s noise to fade as it headed inland.
But it didn’t. She heard it turn into her driveway—okay, not hers, but the driveway of the Corella View Homestead.
If the car had come from this side of the river she’d be out of bed straight away, expecting drama. As district nurse, she was the only person with medical training on this side of the river—but the car had come from the other side, where there was a hospital and decent medical help.
She’d also be worrying about her brother. Pete was in the middle of teenage rebellion, and lately he’d been hanging out with some dubious mates. The way that car was being driven … danger didn’t begin to describe it.
But this was someone from the other side. Not Pete. Not a medical emergency. Regardless, she swung her feet out of bed and reached for her robe.
And then she paused.
Maybe this was a visitor for her landlord.
A visitor at midnight?
Who knew? She hardly knew her landlord.
Blake Samford was the only son of the local squattocracy—squattocracies being the slang term for families who’d been granted huge tracts of land when Australia had first been opened to settlers and had steadily increased their fortunes since. The Corella Valley holding was impressive, but deserted. Blake had lived here as a baby but his mother had taken him away when he was six. The district had hardly seen him since.
This, however, was his longest visit for years. He’d arrived three days ago. He was getting over appendicitis, he’d told her, taking the opportunity to get the farm ready for sale. His father had been dead for six months. It was time to sell.
She’d warned him the river was rising. He’d shrugged.
‘If I’m trapped, I might as well be truly trapped.’
If he was having visitors at midnight, they’d be trapped with him.
Maybe it’s a woman, she thought, sinking back into bed as the car stopped and footsteps headed for Blake’s side of the house—the grand entrance. Maybe he’d decided if he was to be trapped he needed company. Was this a woman ready to risk all to reach her lover?
Who knew? Who knew anything about Blake Samford?
Blake was a local yet not a local. She’d seen him sporadically as a kid—making compulsory access visits to his bully of a father, the locals thought—but as far as she knew he hadn’t come near when his father had been ill. Given his father’s reputation, no one blamed him. Finally she’d met him at the funeral.
She’d gone to the funeral because she’d been making daily medical checks on the old man for the last few months of his life. His reputation had been appalling, but he’d loved his dogs so she’d tried to convince herself he hadn’t been all bad. Also, she’d needed to talk to his son about the dogs. And her idea.
She hadn’t even been certain Blake would come but he’d been there—Blake Samford, all grown up. And stunning. The old ladies whispered that he’d inherited his mother’s looks. Maggie had never known his mother, but she was definitely impressed by the guy’s appearance—strong, dark, riveting. But not friendly. He’d stood aloof from the few locals present, expressionless, looking as if he was there simply to get things over with.
She could understand that. With Bob Samford as a father, it had been a wonder he’d been there at all.
But Maggie had an idea that needed his agreement. It had taken courage to approach him when the service had ended, to hand over her references and ask him about the housekeeper’s apartment at the back of the homestead. To offer to keep an eye on the place as well as continuing caring for the dogs his dad had loved. Harold Stubbs, the next-door landowner, had been looking after Bob’s cattle. The cattle still needed to be there to keep the grass down, but Harold was getting too old to take care of two herds plus the house and the dogs. Until Blake sold, would he like a caretaker?
Three days later a rental contract had arrived. She’d moved in but she hadn’t heard from him since.
Until now. He was home to put the place on the market.
She’d expected nothing less. She knew it’d be sold eventually and she was trying to come up with alternative accommodation. She did not want to go home.
But right now her attention was all on the stupidity of his visitors driving over the bridge. Were they out of their minds?
She was tempted to pull back the drapes and look.
She heard heavy footsteps running across the veranda, and the knocker sounded so loudly it reverberated right through the house. The dogs went crazy. She hauled them back from the door, but as she did she heard the footsteps recede back across the veranda, back down the steps.
The car’s motor hadn’t been cut. A car door slammed, the engine was gunned—and it headed off the way it had come.
She held her breath as it rumbled back across the bridge. Reaching the other side. Safe.
Gone.
What on earth …?
Kids, playing the fool?
It was not her business. It was Blake’s business, she told herself. He was home now and she was only caring for her little bit of the house.
Hers. Until Blake sold the house.
It didn’t matter. For now it was hers, and she was soaking up every minute of it.
She snuggled back down under the covers—alone.
If there was one thing Maggie Tilden craved above everything else, it was being alone.
Bliss.
On the other side of the wall, Blake was listening, too. He heard the car roar over the bridge. He heard the thumps on his front door, the running footsteps of someone leaving in a hurry, and the car retreating back over the bridge.
He also thought whoever it was must be crazy.
He and his tenant—Maggie Tilden—had inspected the bridge yesterday. The storm water had been pounding the aged timbers; things were being swept fast downstream—logs, debris, some of it big. It was battering the piles.
‘If you want to get out, you should go now,’ Maggie had said. ‘The authorities are about to close it.’
Did it matter? He’d been ordered to take three weeks off work to recuperate from appendicitis. He needed to sort his father’s possessions, so what difference did it make if he was stranded while he did it?
‘It’s up to you,’ Maggie had said, as if she didn’t mind either way, and she’d headed back to her part of the house with his father’s dogs.
She kept to herself, for which he was profoundly grateful, but now … A knock at midnight. A car going back and forth over the bridge.
Was this some friend of hers, playing the fool? Leaving something for her at the wrong door?
Whoever they were, they’d gone.
On Maggie’s side of the house he’d heard the dogs go crazy. He imagined her settling them. Part of him expected her to come across to check what had just happened.
She didn’t.
Forget it, he told himself. Go back to bed.
Or open the door and make sure nothing had been left?
The knock still resonated. It had been loud, urgent, demanding attention.
Okay, check.
He headed for the front door, stepped outside and came close to falling over a bundle. Pink, soft …
He stooped and tugged back a fold of pink blanket.
A thick thatch of black hair. A tiny, rosebud mouth. Snub nose. Huge dark eyes that stared upwards, struggling to focus.
A tiny baby. Three weeks at most, he thought, stunned.
Lying on his doorstep.
He scooped the infant up without thinking, staring out into the night rather than down at the baby, willing the car to be still there, willing there to be some sort of answer.
The bundle was warm—and moist. And alive.
A baby …
He had nothing to do with babies. Yeah, okay, he’d treated babies during medical training. He’d done the basic paediatric stuff, but he’d been an orthopaedic surgeon for years now, and babies hardly came into his orbit.
A baby was in his orbit now. In his arms.
He stared down at the baby, and wide eyes stared back.
A memory stabbed back. A long time ago. Thirty or more years? Here, in this hall.
A woman with a baby, placing the baby by the door in its carry basket, pointing at Blake and saying, ‘I’ve brought the kid his baby sister.’
After that, his memory blurred. He remembered his father yelling, and his mother screaming invective at his father and at the woman. He remembered the strange woman being almost hysterical.
He’d been six years old. While the grown-ups had yelled, he’d sidled over and looked at the baby it seemed everyone was yelling about. She’d been crying, but none of the grown-ups had noticed.
A baby sister?
He shook himself. That had been the night his mother had found out about his father’s lover. He’d never seen either the woman or her baby again.
This baby was nothing to do with his history. Why was he thinking of it now?
He should call the police. He should report an abandoned baby.
Who looked like a baby he’d seen a long time ago?
And then he thought of Maggie, his tenant, and he remembered the references she’d given him.
She was the district nurse and she was also a midwife.
The relief that surged over him was almost overwhelming. This was nothing to do with him. Of course it wasn’t. The whole valley knew Maggie’s job. If a woman wanted to abandon an unwanted child, what better way than dump it on a woman you knew could look after it? Maybe Maggie had even cared for the mother during her pregnancy.
‘Hey,’ he said, relaxing, even holding the baby a little tighter now he knew what he was dealing with. The child seemed to be staring straight up at him now, dark eyes wondering. ‘You’ve come to the wrong door. Okay, I know you’re in trouble but you have come to the right place—just one door down. Hold on a minute and we’ll take you to someone who knows babies. To someone who hopefully will take responsibility for getting you out of this mess.’
Maggie was snuggling back down under the duvet when someone knocked on her door and the dogs went nuts again.
What? What now?
She’d worked hard today. She’d set up the entire clinic, moving emergency gear from the hospital over the river, trying to get everything organised before the bridge closed. As well as that, she’d made prenatal checks of women on farms that were so wet right now that every able body was moving stock and if Maggie wanted her pregnant ladies to be checked then she went to them.
She was really tired.
Was this another evacuation warning? Leave now before the bridge is cut?
She’d gone to the community meeting. This house was high above the river. Short of a tsunami travelling two hundred miles inland, nothing worse was going to happen than the bridge would give way, the power would go and she’d have to rely on the old kerosene fridge for a few days.
What?
Another knock—and suddenly her irritation turned to fear. She had eight brothers and sisters. A couple of the boys were still young enough to be stupid. Pete … What if …?
What if the car had come with news?
Just open the door and get it over with.
Take a deep breath first.
She tucked her feet into fluffy slippers, wrapped her ancient bathrobe around her favourite pyjamas and padded out to the back porch.
She swung open the door—and Blake Samford was standing in the doorway, holding a baby.
‘I think this one’s for you,’ he said, and handed it over.
She didn’t drop it.
To her eternal credit—and thinking back later she was very, very proud of herself—she took the baby, just like the professional she was. Nurse receiving a baby at handover. She gathered the baby as she’d gather any infant she didn’t know; any child when she didn’t know its history. Taking care to handle it lightly with no pressure, anywhere that might hurt. Cradling it and holding it instinctively against her body, giving warmth as she’d give warmth to any tiny creature.
But for the moment her eyes were on Blake.
He looked almost forbidding. He was looming in her doorway, six feet two or three, wide shoulders, dark, dark eyes made even darker by the faint glow of moonlight, deep black hair, a shadowy figure.
Tall, dark and dangerous.
Heathcliff, she thought, suddenly feeling vaguely hysterical. Very hysterical. Here she was presented with a baby at midnight and she was thinking romance novels?
The dogs were growling behind her. They’d met this guy—he’d been here for three days and she’d seen him outside, talking to them—but he was still a stranger, it was midnight and they didn’t know what to make of this bundle in their mistress’s arms.
Neither did she, but a baby was more important than the dark, looming stranger on her doorstep.
‘What do you mean, you think it’s for me?’ she managed, trying not to sound incredulous. Trying to sound like he’d just dropped by with a cup of sugar she’d asked to borrow earlier in the day. She didn’t want to startle the dogs. She didn’t want to startle the baby.
She didn’t want to startle herself.
‘Someone’s obviously made a mistake,’ he told her. ‘You’re the local midwife. I assume they’ve dumped the baby here to leave it with you.’
‘Who dumped it?’ She folded back the blanket and looked down into the baby’s face. Wide eyes gazed back at her. Gorgeous.
She loved babies. She shouldn’t—heaven knew, she’d had enough babies to last her a lifetime—but she had the perfect job now. She could love babies and hand them back.
‘I don’t know who dumped it,’ he said, with exaggerated patience. ‘Didn’t you hear the car? It came, the baby was dumped, it left.’
She stared up at him, incredulous. He met her gaze, and didn’t flinch.
An abandoned baby.
The stuff of fairy-tales. Or nightmares.
She switched her gaze to the little one in her arms.
‘Who are you?’ she whispered, but of course there was no answer. Instead it wrinkled its small nose, and opened its mouth—and wailed.
Only it wasn’t a wail a baby this age should make. It was totally despairing, as if this baby had wailed before and nothing had been forthcoming. It was a wail that was desperation all by itself—a wail that went straight to the heart and stayed there. Maggie had heard hungry babies before, but none like this. Unbearable. Unimaginable that a little one could be so needful.
She looked down at the sunken fontanel, the dry, slightly wrinkled skin. These were classic signs of dehydration. IV? Fast?
But if the little one could still cry …
It could indeed still cry. It could scream.
‘Can you grab the bag from the back of my car?’ she snapped, and whirled and grabbed her car keys and tossed them to him. ‘This little one’s in trouble.’
‘Trouble?’
She wheeled away, back to the settee. The fire was still glowing in the hearth. She could unwrap the baby without fear of losing warmth. ‘Basket,’ she snapped at the dogs, and they headed obediently for their baskets at each side of the fire. Then, as Blake hesitated, she fixed him with a look that had made lesser men quail. ‘Bag. Now. Go.’
He headed for the car, feeling a bit … stunned. And also awed.
The only times he’d seen Maggie Tilden she’d seemed brisk, efficient and … plain? She dressed simply for work and she’d been working the whole time he’d been here. Plain black pants. White blouse with ‘Corella Valley Medical Services’ emblazoned on the pocket. She wore minimal make-up, and her soft brown curls were tied back in a bouncy ponytail. She was about five feet four or five, she had freckles, brown eyes and a snub nose, and until tonight he would have described her as nondescript.
What he’d just seen wasn’t nondescript. It was something far from it.
What?
Cute, he thought, but then he thought no. It was something … deeper.
She’d been wearing faded pink pyjamas, fluffy slippers and an ancient powder-blue bathrobe. Her brown hair, once let loose, showed an auburn burnish. Her curls tumbled about her shoulders and she looked like she’d just woken from sleep. Standing with her dogs by her sides, the fire crackling in the background, she looked …
Adorable?
She looked everything the women in his life weren’t. Cosy. Domestic. Welcoming.
And also strong. That glare said he’d better move his butt and get her bag back inside, stat.
She wouldn’t know he was a doctor, he thought. When the baby had wailed he’d recognised, as she had, that the little creature was in trouble. The light-bulb over his door had blown long since, but once he’d been under the light of her porch he’d seen the tell-tale signs of dehydration, a baby who looked underweight; malnourished. He’d reached to find a pulse but her movement to defend the child was right. Until she knew what was wrong, the less handling the better.
She was reacting like a midwife at her best, he thought with something of relief. Even if she needed his help right now, this baby wasn’t his problem. She was more than capable of taking responsibility.
She was a professional. She could get on with her job and he could move away.
Get the lady her bag. Now.
The bag was a huge case-cum-portable bureau, wedged into the back of an ancient family wagon. He grabbed it and grunted as he pulled it free—it weighed a ton. What was it—medical supplies for the entire valley? How on earth did a diminutive parcel like Maggie handle such a thing?
He was a week out from an appendectomy. He felt internal stitches pull and thought of consequences—and headed for the back door and grabbed the wheelbarrow.
Medical priorities.
If he broke his stitches he’d be no use to anyone. Worse, he’d need help himself.
One bag coming up. By barrow.
He pushed his way back into the living room and Maggie’s eyes widened.
She’d expected landlord with a bag.
What she got was landlord, looking a bit sheepish, with her firewood-carting wheelbarrow, plus bag.
‘Appendectomy,’ he said before she could say a word. ‘Stitches. You don’t want two patients.’
Oh, heck. She hadn’t thought. He’d told her he was here recovering from an appendectomy. She should have …
‘It’s fine,’ he said, quickly, obviously seeing her remorse. ‘As long as you don’t mind tyre tracks on your rugs.’
‘With my family I’m not used to house-proud. Thanks for getting it. Are you okay?’
‘Yes.’
She cast him a sharp, assessing look, and he thought she was working out the truth for herself, and she figured he was telling it.
‘If I tell you how, can you make up some formula? This little one’s badly dehydrated.’
‘Can I see?’ he said, over the baby’s cries.
The baby was still wailing, desperation personified.
He stooped beside her. He didn’t try and touch the baby, just pushed back the coverings further from its face.
Maggie had obviously done a fast check and then re-wrapped the infant, leaving the nappy on, tugging open the stained grow suit to the nappy but leaving it on, rewrapping the baby in the same blanket but adding her own, a cashmere throw he’d seen at the end of the sofa.
With the blankets pulled aside and the grow suit unfastened, he could see signs of neglect. This was no rosy, bouncing baby. He could see the tell-tale signs of severe nappy rash, even above the nappy. He could see signs of malnourishment.
She was right about dehydration. They needed to get the little one clean and dry—but first they needed to get fluids in and if it was possible, the best way was by mouth.
‘Tell me where, tell me how,’ he said, and she shot him a grateful glance and proceeded to do just that. Five minutes later he had a sterilised bottle filled with formula, he offered it to Maggie, she offered it to one tiny baby—who latched on like a leech and proceeded to suck like there was no tomorrow.
The sudden silence was deafening. Even the dogs seemed to sigh in relief.
Maggie’s wide, expressive mouth curved into a smile. ‘Hey,’ she said softly. ‘You’ve just saved yourself from evacuation, hospital and IV drips. Now, let’s see what we have here.’ She glanced up at Blake. ‘Are you man enough to cope with the nappy? I’d normally not try and change a baby in mid-feed but this one’s practically walking on its own and I hate to imagine what it’s doing to the skin. It needs to be off but I don’t want to disturb the baby more than necessary. While the bottle’s doing the comforting we might see what we’re dealing with.’
He understood. Sort of. There was a medical imperative.
What he’d really like to do was offer to take over the holding and feeding while she coped with the other end, but he’d missed his opportunity. There was no way they should interrupt established feeding when it was so important. This baby needed fluids fast, and Maggie was the one providing them.
So … the other end.
He was a surgeon. He was used to stomach-churning sights.
He’d never actually changed a baby’s nappy.
‘You’ll need a big bowl of warm, soapy water,’ she told him. ‘The bowl’s in the left-hand cupboard by the stove. Get a couple of clean towels from the bathroom and fetch the blue bottle on the top of my bag with the picture of a baby’s bottom on the front.’
‘Right,’ he said faintly, and went to get what he needed, with not nearly the enthusiasm he’d used to make the formula.
Baby changing. He had to learn some time, he supposed. At some stage in the far distant future he and Miriam might have babies. He thought about it as he filled the bucket with skin-temperature water. He and Miriam were professional colleagues having a somewhat tepid relationship on the side. Miriam was dubious about attachment. He was even more dubious.
He suspected what he was facing tonight might make him more so.
‘Oi,’ Maggie called from the living room. ‘Water. Nappy. Stat.’
‘Yes, Nurse,’ he called back, and went to do her bidding.

CHAPTER TWO
BLAKE removed the nappy and under all that mess… ‘She doesn’t look like she’s been changed for days,’ Maggie said, horrified … they found a little girl.
They also found something else. As he tugged her growsuit free from her legs and unwrapped her fully, he drew in a deep breath.
Talipes equinovarus. Club feet. The little girl’s feet were pointed inwards, almost at right angles to where they should be.
Severe.
He didn’t comment but he felt ill, and it wasn’t the contents of the nappy that was doing it. That someone could desert such a child … To neglect her and then just toss her on his doorstep …
How did they know Maggie would be home? Maggie had dogs. How did they know the dogs wouldn’t be free to hurt her?
Seeing the extent of the nappy rash, the dehydration—and the dreadful angle of her feet—he had his answer.
Whoever had done this didn’t care. This was an imperfect baby, something to be tossed aside, brought to the local midwife, but whether she was home or not didn’t matter.
Returning damaged goods, like it or not.
He glanced up at Maggie and saw her face and saw what he was thinking reflected straight back at him. Anger, disgust, horror—and not at the tiny twisted feet. At the moron who’d gunned the car across the bridge, so desperate to dump the baby that he’d take risks. Or she’d take risks.
‘Surely it was a guy driving that car?’ Maggie whispered.
Sexist statement or not? He let it drift as he cleaned the tiny body. The little girl was relaxed now, almost soporific, sucking gently and close to sleep. She wasn’t responding to his touch—he could do anything he liked and it was a good opportunity to do a gentle, careful examination.
Maggie was letting him touch now. She was watching as he carefully manipulated the tiny feet, gently testing. As he felt her pulse. As he checked every inch of her and then suggested they lower her into the warm water.
She’d had enough of the bottle on board now to be safe. He doubted she’d respond—as some babies did—to immersion—and it was the easiest and fastest way to get her skin clean.
‘You’re a medic,’ Maggie said, because from the way he was examining her he knew it was obvious. And he knew, instinctively, that this was one smart woman.
‘Orthopaedic surgeon.’
She nodded as if he was confirming what she’d suspected. ‘Not a lot of babies, then?’
‘Um … no.’
‘But a lot of feet?’
‘I guess,’ he agreed, and she smiled at him, an odd little smile that he kind of … liked.
Restful, he thought. She was a restful woman. And then he thought suddenly, strongly, that she was the kind of woman he’d want around in a crisis.
He was very glad she was there.
But the priority wasn’t this woman’s smile. The priority was one abandoned baby. While Maggie held the bottle—the little girl was still peacefully sucking—he scooped her gently from her arms and lowered her into the warm water.
She hardly reacted, or if she did it was simply to relax even more. This little one had been fighting for survival, he thought. Fighting and losing. Now she was fed and the filth removed. She was in a warm bath in front of Maggie’s fire and she was safe. He glanced at Maggie and saw that faint smile again, and he thought that if he was in trouble, he might think of this woman as safety.
If this baby was to be dumped, there was no better place to dump her. Maggie would take care of her. He knew it. This was not a woman who walked away from responsibility.
He glanced around at the dogs on either side of the fire. His father’s dogs. When his father had gone into hospital for the last time he’d come down and seen them. They were cattle dogs, Border collies, born and raised on the farm. The last time he’d seen them—six months before his father had died—they’d been scrawny and neglected and he’d thought of the impossibility of taking them back to the city, of giving them any sort of life there.
His father hadn’t wanted him here—he’d practically yelled at him to get out. And he’d told him the dogs were none of his business.
Despite the old man’s opposition, he’d contacted the local hospital and asked for home visits by a district nurse.
Maggie had taken his father on, and the dogs, and when his father had died she’d suggested she take this place on as well. It had solved two problems—the dogs and an empty farmhouse.
This woman was a problem-solver. She’d solve this little one’s problems, too.
The baby had fallen asleep. Maggie removed the bottle, then took over from him, expertly bathing, carefully checking every inch of the baby’s skin, wincing at the extent of the nappy rash, checking arm and leg movement, frowning at a bruise on the baby’s shoulder. A bruise at this age … Put down hard? Dropped?
Hit?
‘There are basic baby clothes at the bottom of my bag,’ she said absently, all her attention on the baby. ‘And nappies. Will you fetch them?’
He did, thinking again that no matter who the lowlife was that had cared for the baby until now, at least they’d had the sense to bring her to the right place.
He brought the clothes back as Maggie scooped the baby out of the water, towelled her dry and anointed the sores. Looked again at her feet.
‘They should be being realigned now,’ he growled, watching as Maggie fingered the tiny toes. ‘Three weeks after birth … We’re missing the opportunity when the tissue is soft and malleable. The longer we leave it, the longer the treatment period.’
‘I’ve only seen this once before,’ Maggie said. ‘And not as severe as this.’
‘It’s severe,’ he said. ‘But fixable.’
‘We have basic X-ray facilities set up at my clinic—at the church hall,’ she said tentatively. ‘We’ve brought them in so I can see the difference between greenstick fractures and fractures where I need evacuation.’
‘We don’t need X-rays tonight. This is long-haul medical treatment.’
‘I don’t want to call out emergency services unless I have to.’ Maggie was still looking worried. ‘They have their hands full evacuating people who are being inundated, and in this rain there’s no safe place for the chopper to land.’
‘There’s no urgency.’
‘Then we’ll worry about tomorrow tomorrow,’ she said, her face clearing, and she dressed the little one so gently he thought the dressing was almost a caress in itself. The baby hardly stirred. It was like she’d fought every inch of the way to survive and now she knew she was safe. She knew she was with Maggie.
Maggie wrapped her in her soft cashmere rug—the one she’d tugged from her settee—and handed her over to Blake. He took her without thinking, then sat by the fire with the sleeping baby in his arms as Maggie cleared up the mess.
She was a restful woman, he thought again. Methodical. Calm. How many women would take a child like this and simply sort what was needed? Taking her from peril to safe in an hour?
She was a midwife, he told himself. This was what she did.
This baby was her job.
She was gathering bottles, formula, nappies. Placing them in a basket.
A basket. He’d been drifting off in the warmth but suddenly he was wide awake. What the …?
‘Are you thinking we should take her to hospital?’ he asked. ‘I’m not driving over that bridge.’
‘Neither am I,’ she said, and brought the basket back to him. ‘She looks fine—okay, not fine, neglected, underweight, but nothing so urgent to warrant the risks of crossing the river again. I think she’ll be fine with you. I’m just packing what you need.’
‘Me?’
‘You,’ she said, gently but firmly. ‘Your baby tonight.’
‘I don’t want a baby,’ he said, stunned.
‘You think I do?’
‘She was brought to you.’
‘No,’ she said, still with that same gentleness, a gentleness with a rod of inflexibility straight through the centre. ‘She was brought to you. If I didn’t think you were capable of caring then I’d step in—of course I would—and I’m here for consulting at any time. But this little one is yours.’
‘What are you talking about? You’re the midwife.’
‘It’s got nothing to do about me being a midwife,’ she said, and searched the settee until she found what she was looking for. ‘I found this when you were making the formula. It was tucked under her blanket.’
It was a note, hastily scribbled on the back of a torn envelope. She handed it to him wordlessly, and then stayed silent as he read.
Dear Big Brother
The old man’s dead. He never did anything for me in my life—nothing! You’re the legitimate kid, the one that gets everything. You get the farm. You get the kid.
This kid’s your father’s grandkid. My father’s grandkid. I don’t want it—just take a look at its feet—they make Sam and me sick. I called it Ruby after my Mum’s mum—my grandma—she was the only one ever did anything for me—but that was before I figured how awful the feet were. So it’s deformed and we don’t want it. Change the name if you like. Get it adopted. Do what you want. Sam and me are heading for Perth so if you need anything signed for adoption or anything stick an ad in the Margaret River paper. If I see it I’ll get in touch. Maybe.
Wendy
Silence. A long, long silence.
‘Wendy?’ Maggie said gently at last.
‘My … my half-sister.’ He was struggling to take it in. ‘Result of one of my father’s affairs.’
‘Surname?’
‘I don’t even know that.’
‘Whew.’ She looked at him, still with that calmness, sympathetic but implacable. ‘That’s a shock.’
‘I … Yes.’
‘I think she’ll sleep,’ Maggie said. ‘I suspect she’ll sleep for hours. She’s not too heavy for you to carry. If you need help, I’m right through the door.’
‘This baby isn’t mine.’ It was said with such vehemence that the little girl—Ruby?—opened her eyes and gazed up at him. And then she closed them again, settling. She was dry, warm and fed. She was in Blake’s arms. All was right with her world.
‘She’s not mine,’ Blake repeated, but even he heard the uselessness of his words. Someone had to take responsibility for this baby.
‘I’m a nurse, Blake,’ Maggie said, inexorably. ‘I’m not a parent. Neither are you but you’re an uncle. Your sister’s left her baby with you. You’re family. Let me know if you’re in trouble.’ She walked across to the porch and opened the door. ‘But for now … You have everything you need for the night. I’ll pop in in the morning and see how you’re going.’
‘But I know nothing about babies.’
‘You’re a doctor,’ she said cordially. ‘Of course you do.’
‘Looking after them?’
‘If fifteen-year-old girls can manage it, you can. It’s not brain surgery.’
‘I’m not a fifteen-year-old.’ He was grasping at straws here. ‘And I’ve just had my appendix out.’
‘Fifteen-year-olds who’ve just had Caesareans manage it. How big are babies compared to an appendix? Toughen up.’
He stared at her and she stared right back. She smiled. He thought he sensed sympathy behind her smile, but her smile was still … implacable.
She’d given him his marching orders.
He was holding his niece. His.
Maggie was holding the door open; she was still smiling but she was giving him no choice.
With one more despairing glance at this hard-hearted nurse, at the crackling fire, at the sleeping dogs, at a domesticity he hardly recognised, he accepted he had no choice.
He walked out into the night.
With … his baby?
She shouldn’t have done it.
The door closed behind him and Maggie stared at it like it was a prosecutor in a criminal court.
Maggie stands accused of abandoning one defenceless baby …
To her uncle. To a doctor. To her landlord.
To a guy recovering from an appendectomy.
To a guy who was capable of driving from Sydney to the valley, to someone who was well on the way to recovery, to someone who was more than capable of looking after his baby.
His baby. Not hers.
This was not her problem. She was a professional. She cared for babies when they needed her medical intervention, and she handed them right back.
She’d done enough of the personal caring to last a lifetime.
She gazed down into the glowing embers of the fire and thought, My fire.
It had taken so much courage, so much resolution, so much desperation to find a house of her own. Corella Valley had practically no rental properties. She had so little money. It had taken all the courage and hope she possessed to gird her loins, approach Blake at the funeral and say, ‘I’m looking after your dad’s dogs; why don’t you let me take care of your house until you put it on the market? I’ll live in the housekeeper’s residence and I’ll keep the place tidy so if you need to use it it’ll be ready for you.’
The feeling she’d had when he’d said yes …
Her family still lived less than a mile away, on this side of the river. She was still here for them when they needed her—but she wasn’t here for everyone when they needed her. She was not ‘good old Maggie’ for Blake. This baby was Blake’s problem. Blake’s niece. Blake’s baby, to love or to organise another future for.
If she’d responded to the desperation in his eyes, she’d have a baby here, right now. A baby to twist her heart as it had been twisted all her life.
Eight brothers and sisters. Parents who couldn’t give a toss. Maggie, who spent her life having her heart twisted.
‘Of course you’ll stay home today and look after your brother. Yes, he’s ill, but your father and I are heading for Nimbin for a couple of days for the festival … You’re a good girl, Maggie.’
Two guitar-toting layabouts with nine kids between them, and Maggie, the oldest, the one who had cared for them all.
She did not need any more responsibility, not in a million years. She had two dogs. She had her own apartment, even if it was only until Blake sold the property.
She was not taking Blake’s baby.
And on the other side of the wall, Blake settled the sleeping baby into a cocoon of bedding he’d made in a tugged-out bureau drawer, then stood and stared down at her for a very long time.
Even in two hours she’d changed. Her face had filled out a little, and the signs of dehydration were fading. She’d been stressed since birth, he thought. She was sleeping as if she was intent on staying asleep, because being awake was frightening and lonely and hard.
He was reading too much into the expression of one sleeping baby. How did he know what she’d been through? How could he possibly guess?
This little one was nothing to do with him. As soon as the river went down he’d hand her over to the appropriate authorities and let them deal with her. But until then …
Maggie should take her, he thought. That was the reasonable plan. A trained midwife, accustomed to dealing with babies every day of her working life, was a far more suitable person to take care of a little one as young as this.
But there was something about Maggie that was implacable. Not My Problem. The sign was right up there, hanging over her head like a speech bubble. Said or not, it was what she meant and it was how she’d acted.
She’d sent him home with his niece.
His niece.
He watched her sleep for a while longer. Ruby, he thought.
His niece?
He didn’t feel like he had a niece. He didn’t feel like he had a sister. He’d only seen his sister that one appalling time, when she’d been little older than Ruby. The moment had been filled with sounds enough to terrify a six-year-old, two women screeching at each other, his father threatening, the baby crying and crying and crying.
He remembered thinking, Why don’t they stop yelling and cuddle her? He’d even thought of doing it himself, but six was too young to be brave. He’d wanted a cuddle himself. He’d been scared by the yelling and far too young to cope with a baby.
Was he old enough now?
He didn’t feel old enough.
He looked down at the tightly wrapped bundle and thought of the tiny feet, facing inwards, needing work to be aligned. He could do that. He was an orthopaedic surgeon. Fixing twisted limbs was what he did.
Not the rest.
Maggie was just through the door. A trained midwife.
The phone rang and he picked it up with relief. It’d be Maggie, he thought, changing her mind, worrying about a baby who should rightly be in her charge.
It wasn’t. It was Miriam, doing what she’d promised. ‘I’ll ring you when I’ve finished for the day,’ she’d told him. ‘You don’t mind if it’s late? You know I’d like to be with you but the board meets next week to appoint the head of ophthalmology and I need to be present to be in the running.’
Of course he’d agreed. They were two ambitious professionals, and a little thing like an appendectomy shouldn’t be allowed to get in the way of what was needed for their careers.
A little thing like a baby?
Miriam didn’t notice that he was preoccupied. She asked about the floods. He told her briefly that the bridge was blocked, that he was fine, that she needn’t worry. Not that she’d have worried anyway. She knew he could take care of himself.
There was little she didn’t know about him. They’d been colleagues for years now, in a casual relationship, maybe drifting toward marriage.
And now …
Now he was about to shock her.
‘I have a baby,’ he told her, and was met with stunned silence. He heard her think it through, regroup, decide he was joking.
‘That was fast. You only left town on Friday. You’ve met a girl, got her pregnant, had a baby …’ She chuckled—and then the chuckle died as she heard his continued silence. ‘You’re not serious?’
He outlined the night’s events, the letter, Maggie, their decision not to call for medical evacuation and Maggie’s insistence that he do the caring. He heard her incredulity—and her anger towards a nurse she’d never met.
‘She’s dumped it on you?’
‘I guess.’ But it was hardly that.
‘Then dump it right back,’ she snapped. ‘Fast. She has to take care of it. She’s the local nurse. It’s her job. This is like someone turning up in your office with a fractured leg and you refusing to help.’
‘She did help. She bathed and fed her.’
‘Her?’
‘She’s a little girl. Ruby.’
‘Don’t even think about getting attached.’ Miriam’s voice was almost a hiss. ‘That’s what she’ll be counting on. You being soft.’
‘I’m not soft.’
‘I know that, but does she? The nurse? And this sister you’ve never told me about … Who is she?’
‘I know nothing about her other than she’s called Wendy. I can’t be soft to someone I don’t know.’
‘So call in the authorities, now. If the bridge is properly cut …’
‘It is.’
‘How did they get over?’
‘They went round the road block and risked their lives.’
‘Okay,’ she conceded. ‘I don’t want you risking your life. You’ll probably have to wait till morning but then call for a medical evacuation.’
‘She’s not sick, Mim.’
‘She’s not your problem,’ Miriam snapped. ‘And don’t call me Mim. You know I hate it. Call the police, say you have a baby you know nothing about on your doorstep and let them deal with it.’
‘This is my father’s grandchild. My … niece.’
There was a hiss of indrawn breath. ‘So what are you saying? You want to keep it?’
‘No!’ He was watching the baby while he talked. She’d managed to wriggle a fist free from the bundle Maggie had wrapped her in, and her tiny knuckles were in her mouth. They were giving her comfort, he thought, and wondered how much she’d needed those knuckles in her few short weeks of life.
This was not his problem. Nothing to do with him.
She was his niece. His father’s grandchild.
He’d loathed his father. He’d left this place when he’d been six years old and had had two short access visits since. Both had been misery from first to last.
His father had been a bully and a thug.
Maggie had known him better, he thought. Had there been anything under that brutish exterior?
He could ask.
‘Just take the baby back to the midwife and insist,’ Miriam was saying. ‘It’s her professional responsibility. You could … I don’t know … threaten to have her struck off if she doesn’t?’
‘For handing a baby back to her family?’
‘You’re not her family.’
‘I’m all she has.’
‘Her parents are all she has. The police can find them tomorrow. Meanwhile, lean on the nurse. You’re recovering, Blake. You do not need this hassle. Okay, misconduct mightn’t fly but there are other ways. You’re her landlord. Threaten to evict her.’
‘Mim—’
‘Just do whatever you need to do,’ she snapped. ‘Look, love, I rang to tell you about the paper I presented this afternoon. It went really well. Can I finally tell you about it?’
‘Of course,’ he said, and he thought that would settle him. He could stand here and listen to Miriam talk medicine and he could forget all about his little stranger who’d be gone tomorrow.
And he could also forget about the woman who’d refused to take her.
Maggie.
Why was he thinking about Maggie?
He was remembering her at the funeral. It had been pouring. She’d been dressed in a vast overcoat and gum-boots, sensible garments in the tiny, country graveyard. She’d stomped across to him, half-hidden by her enormous umbrella, and she’d put it over him, enclosing him for the first time, giving him his only sense of inclusion in this bleak little ceremony.
‘I took on your father’s dogs because I couldn’t bear them to be put down,’ she’d said. ‘But I’m sharing a too-small house with my too-big family. The dogs make the situation unworkable. I assume your dad’s farm will be empty for a while. It has a housekeeper’s residence at the back. If I pay a reasonable rent, how about you let me live there until you decide what to do with it?’
‘Yes,’ he’d said without any hesitation, and he’d watched something akin to joy flash across her face.
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘You won’t regret it,’ she’d said gruffly. ‘The dogs and I will love it.’ Then she’d hesitated and looked across at the men filling in the open grave. ‘He was a hard man, your father,’ she’d said softly. ‘I’m sorry.’
And he’d thought, uncomfortably, that she understood.
Did this whole district understand? That he and his father had had no relationship at all?
They weren’t a family.
Family …
His mother had gone on to three or four more relationships, all disastrous. He’d never worked out the concept of family. Now …
He listened on to Miriam and he watched the sleeping baby. Would he and Miriam ever have babies? Family?
Now wasn’t the time to ask, he thought, and he grimaced as he realised he hadn’t heard a word she’d said for the last few minutes.
Focus, he told himself. Do what the lady says. Concentrate on medicine and not baby. Tomorrow give the baby back to Maggie or get rid of it some other way. Do whatever it takes. This was an aberration from the past.
One baby, with twisted feet and no one to care for her. An aberration?
He carried on listening to Miriam and he thought, Maggie’s just through the wall. She might even be listening to half this conversation.
The thought was unnerving.
Forget it, he thought. Forget Maggie. And the baby?
Do whatever it takes.
If only she wasn’t sucking her knuckles. If only she wasn’t twisting his heart in a way that made him realise a pain he’d felt when he’d been six years old had never been resolved.
She was his father’s grandchild. She was the child of his half-sister.
Family?
It was his health that was making him think like this, he told himself. He’d had his appendix out barely a week before, and it had been messy. He was tired and weaker than he cared to admit, and he was staying in a house that held nothing but bad memories.
He had a sudden, overwhelming urge to thump a hole in the wall in the sitting room. Let his father’s dogs through.
See Maggie.
Heaven knew what Miriam was saying. He’d given up trying to listen. It had been an important paper she’d presented. Normally he’d listen and be impressed. Tonight, though, he looked at one tiny baby, sleeping cocooned in Maggie’s cashmere blanket, and suddenly he felt tired and weak—and faintly jealous of the deep sleep, the total oblivion.
And he also felt … alone.
If the bridge was safe, maybe he’d suggest Miriam come down.
Don’t be nuts, he told himself. She’d never come, and even if she did there’d be nothing for her to do.
She wouldn’t care for a baby.
He had to.
Baby. Floods. Maggie. The images were drifting around his head in a swirl of exhausted confusion.
Baby. Floods. Maggie.
‘I need to go,’ he told Miriam, cutting her off in mid-sentence. ‘Sorry, love, but I’ll ring you back tomorrow. The baby needs me.’
‘The midwife—’
‘She’s gone to sleep,’ he said. ‘That’s where I’m heading, too. Hours and hours of sleep. I just have to get one baby called Ruby to agree.’

CHAPTER THREE
MAGGIE fed the hens at six the next morning and she heard Ruby crying.
She sorted feed, cut and chopped a bit of green stuff and threw it into the chookpen—there’d been a fox sniffing around and she wasn’t game to let them out. She collected the eggs.
Ruby was still crying.
It wasn’t her business, she told herself. Not yet. What district nurse dropped in at this hour? She’d make a professional visit a little later. Meanwhile, she should make breakfast and head to the makeshift clinic she’d set up in the back of the local hall, to do last-minute preparations and sort equipment.
That could wait, though, she conceded. The authorities had only put the roadblock up yesterday. Everyone who’d needed anything medical had had two days’ warning. The weather forecast had been implacable. The water’s coming. Get your stock to high ground. Evacuate or get in any supplies you need because it may be a week or more before the river goes down.
The pharmacy over the river and the doctors at the Valley Hospital had worked tirelessly over the last few days, checking every small complaint, filling prescriptions to last a month. The Valley people had seen floods before. There’d be no last-minute panic.
There would, however, be no doctor on this side of the river for a while.
Except Blake. The thought was strangely comforting.
Floods often meant trauma as people did stupid things trying to save stock, trying to fix roof leaks, heaving sandbags. Knowing she had a doctor on this side of the river, even one recovering from an appendectomy, was a blessing. If he’d help.
And if she expected him to help … maybe she could help him with his baby?
She’d made it clear she wasn’t taking responsibility. That was what he wanted her to do, but even if she agreed, she couldn’t care for a newborn as well as for the medical needs of everyone on this side of the river.
So she’d been firm, which wasn’t actually like her. But firmness was her new resolve.
Right now, though, she was figuring that firm didn’t mean cruel. The guy really didn’t know anything about babies. If she had a teenage mum floundering, she’d move in to help.
Hold that thought, she decided, and she almost grinned at the thought of one hunky Blake Samford in the role of teen mum.
She’d help—even at six a.m.
So she knocked on his back door and waited. No answer. The wailing got louder.
She pushed the door tentatively inwards and went to investigate.
Blake was standing in the living room, in front of the vast, stone fireplace that was the centre of this huge, old homestead. The room was as it always was when she did her weekly check on the whole house, huge and faded and comfortable. A vast Persian rug lay on the worn, timber floor. The room was furnished with squishy leather settees, faded cushions and once opulent drapes, now badly in need of repair. The fire in the vast fireplace made it warm and homelike. The house was a grand old lady, past her prime but still graciously decorous.
Not so the guy in front of the fire. He was wearing boxer shorts and nothing else. He looked big, tanned, ripped—and not decorous at all.
Maggie was a nurse. She was used to seeing human bodies in all shapes and sizes.
She wasn’t used to seeing this one.
Tall, dark and dangerous. Where had that phrase come from? She wasn’t sure, but she knew where it was now. It was flashing in her head. Danger, danger, danger. A girl should turn round and walk right out of there.
Except he was holding a baby—all the wrong way—and his look spoke of desperation.
She put down her bucket of eggs, headed wordlessly to the kitchen to wash her hands, then came back and took the little one into her arms.
Blake practically sagged with relief.
‘You need to wrap her,’ she said, brisk and efficient because brisk and efficient seemed the way to go. ‘She’s exhausted.’
She cradled the little one tightly against her and felt an almost imperceptible relaxation. Babies seemed to respond instinctively to those who knew the ropes. To their mothers, who learned from birth how to handle them. To midwives, who’d delivered too many babies to count.
‘She’s been safely in utero for nine months,’ she told him. ‘She’s been totally confined, and now her legs and arms are all over the place. It feels weird and frightening. She can handle it if she’s relaxed, but not if she’s tired and hungry.’
‘But she won’t feed,’ he said helplessly, motioning to the bottle on the table. ‘I can’t—’
‘She’s gone past it. She needs to be settled first.’ She sat on the settee and almost disappeared. These settees must be older than Blake, she thought. Old and faded and stuffed loosely with goosedown. She’d never seen such huge settees.
In truth she was finding it hard to thinking about settees. Not with that body …
Get a grip. Settees. Baby.
Not Blake.
She set about rewrapping Ruby, bundling her tightly so those flailing little legs and arms could relax, and the baby attached to them would feel secure. But she was a midwife. Bundling babies was second nature. She had more than enough time to think about settees and baby—and Blake Samford’s body.
Which was truly awesome. Which was enough to make a girl … make a girl …
Think unwisely. Think stupid, in fact. This was her landlord—a guy who wanted to get rid of a baby.
You show one hint of weakness and you’ll have a baby on your hands, she told herself. And if you fall for this baby …
She’d fallen for two dogs. That was more than enough.
She lived in this man’s house as a tenant, and that was all. If babies came with the territory then she moved out.
This was dumb. She was thinking dramatic when the situation simply needed practical. This guy had a problem and she could help him, the same way she’d help any new parent. She’d help and then she’d leave.
Ruby was still wailing, not with the desperation of a moment ago but with an I-want-something-and-I-want-it-now wail.
She lifted the bottle and flicked a little milk on her wrist. Perfect temperature. She offered it, one little mouth opened and accepted—and suddenly the noise stopped.
The silence was magical.
She smiled. Despite very real qualms in this case, Maggie Tilden did love babies. They sucked you in.
Her mother had used that to her advantage. Maggie’s mother loved having babies, she just didn’t like caring for them.
Over to Maggie.
And that was what Blake wanted. Over to Maggie.
Do not get sucked in, she told herself desperately. Do not become emotionally involved.
Anything but that. Even looking at Blake.
At his chest. At the angry red line she could see emerging from the top of his shorts.
Appendix. Stitches. Even if the external ones had been removed, it’d take weeks for the internal ones to dissolve.
‘So no keyhole surgery for you?’ she asked, trying to make her voice casual, like this was a normal neighbourly chat. ‘You didn’t choose the right surgeon?’
‘I chose the wrong appendix,’ he said, glancing down at his bare abs. ‘Sorry. I’ll cover up.’
‘I’m not squeamish about an appendix scar,’ she told him. ‘I’m a nurse. So things were messy, huh?
‘Yes.’
‘No peritonitis?’
‘I’m on decent antibiotics.’
Her frown deepened. ‘Are you sure you’re okay to stay on this side of the river?’
‘Of course.’
But she was looking at problems she hadn’t foreseen. Problems she hadn’t thought about. ‘If there’s the least chance of infection … I assumed you’d had keyhole surgery. If I’d known …’
‘You would have ordered me to leave?’
‘I’d have advised you to leave.’
‘You’re in charge?’
‘That’s just the problem,’ she said ruefully. ‘I am. Until the water goes down there’s no way I can get anyone to medical help. There’s just me.’
‘And me.’
She nodded, grateful that he was acknowledging he could help in a crisis—having a doctor on this side was wonderful but one who’d so recently had surgery? ‘That’s fine,’ she told him. ‘Unless you’re the patient.’
‘I don’t intend to be the patient.’ He was looking down at the blissfully sucking baby with bemusement. ‘Why couldn’t I do that?’
‘You could. You can.’ She rose and handed the bundle over, bottle and all, and Blake was left standing with an armload of baby. ‘Sit,’ she told him. ‘Settle. Bond.’
‘Bond?’
‘You’re her uncle. I suspect this little one needs all the family she can get.’
‘It’s she who needs medical help,’ he said, almost savagely, and Ruby startled in his arms.
‘Sit,’ Maggie said again. ‘Settle.’
He sat. He settled, as far as a man with an armload of baby could settle.
He looked … stunning, Maggie thought. Bare chested, wearing only boxer shorts, his dark hair raked and rumpled, his five o’clock shadow a few hours past five o’clock. Yep, stunning was the word for it.
It’d be wise if she failed to be stunned. She needed to remember she was here for a postnatal visit. Maternal health nurse visiting brand-new parent …
Who happened to be her landlord.
Who happened to be a surgeon—who was telling her the baby had medical needs.
She needed to pay attention to something other than how sexy he looked, one big man, almost naked, cradling a tiny baby.
With medical needs. Get serious.
‘If you think her legs are bad enough to require immediate medical intervention I can organise helicopter evacuation,’ she said. She knelt and unwrapped the blanket from around the tiny feet and winced.
‘I can’t believe her mother rejected her because of her feet,’ she whispered, and Blake shook his head.
‘No mother rejects her baby because of crooked feet.’
‘Some fathers might. Some do. A daughter and an imperfect one at that. If the mother’s weak …’
‘Or if the mother’s on drugs …’
‘There doesn’t seem any sign of withdrawal,’ Maggie said, touching the tiny cheek, feeling the way the baby’s face was filling out already. ‘If her mother’s a drug addict, this little one will be suffering withdrawal herself.’
‘She’s three weeks old,’ Blake said. ‘She may well be over it. But if she was addicted, those first couple of weeks will have been hell. That and the talipes may well have been enough for her to be rejected.’
‘That and the knowledge that you’ve come home,’ Maggie said thoughtfully. ‘If your sister knows you’re here, and thinks you’re in a position to care for her, then she might see you as a way out.’
‘She’s not my sister.’
‘Your father is her father.’
‘I don’t even know her surname.’
‘No, but I do,’ she said smoothly. ‘She’s Wendy Runt-land, twenty-nine years old, and she lives on a farm-let six miles on the far side of the base hospital. Ruby was born on the twenty-first of last month. Wendy only stayed overnight and refused further assistance. The staff were worried. They’d organised a paediatrician to see the baby to assess her feet but Wendy discharged herself—and Ruby—before he got there.’
‘How the—?’
‘I’m a midwife employed by the Valley Health Service,’ she told him. ‘If I’m worried about babies, I can access files. I rang the hospital last night and asked for a search for a local baby born with talipes. Ruby’s the only fit. The file’s scanty. No antenatal care. First baby. Fast, hard labour with a partner present for some of the time. They were both visibly upset by the baby’s feet and there’s a note in the file that the guy was angry and abusive.
‘The next morning Wendy discharged herself and the baby against medical advice. There were no grounds to involve the police but staff did notify Social Services. The maternal health nurse has tried to make home visits but each time she’s found gates locked and dogs that didn’t allow her to go further. There’s a phone number but the phone’s been slammed down each time she’s rung. You might have more luck. You want to try while I check the bridge?’
‘What’s to check?’
He looked almost dumbfounded, she thought. Man left with abandoned baby. Surgeon way out of his comfort zone.
‘I’ve been listening to the radio and it’s still raining up north,’ she said evenly. ‘There’s a vast mass of water coming down. If the water keeps rising it might be a while before you can get her to Social Services.’
‘Social Services?’
‘Unless we can get her back to her mother—or unless you want her—I assume that’s where she’ll be placed. Either way, the decision has to be made soon. Those feet need attention now, although I assume you know that.’
‘I know it,’ he growled, and then he fell silent.
He stared down at the baby in his arms and she thought … there was something there, some link.
Family.
He’d said he didn’t have a sister. He’d said he didn’t even know her full name.
This was a guy who was an intelligent, skilled surgeon, she thought, a guy who’d know how to keep his emotions under control. But his recent surgery would have weakened him, and a sleepless night would have weakened him still more.
She had a feeling this guy didn’t let his defences down often, but they were down now. He was gazing at the child in his arms and his face said he didn’t know where to go with this.
Evacuate her? Hand her over to Social Welfare? Keep her until the river went down?
Risk attachment?
She couldn’t help him. It was his decision.
‘I’ll try and phone Wendy,’ he said at last, and she nodded and got to her feet and collected her eggs.
‘Excellent. I’ll leave some of these in your kitchen. Tell me how you go.’
‘Maggie?’
She paused. Met his gaze. Saw desperation.
‘Stay here while I ring,’ he said, and she thought maybe she could at least do that.
But as he handed back the now fed, sleeping Ruby, and she gathered her into her arms and watched Blake head for the phone, she thought … she thought …
She thought this was as far as she should go.
Babies did things to her. Her mother had used that, played on it, trapped her with it. And now …
The sight of Blake was doing things to her as well.
He was all male, one gorgeous hunk of testosterone, but it wasn’t that that was messing with her head.
It was the way he’d looked at Ruby—and the way he’d looked at her when he’d asked her to stay.
Under that strength was pure vulnerability.
Maggie had lived most of her life in this valley and she’d heard stories about this family; this man. His mother had been glamorous and aloof and cold, and she’d walked out—justifiably—when Blake had been six. His father had been a womanising brute.
Blake may come from the richest family in the district but the locals had felt sorry for him when he’d been six, and that sympathy hadn’t been lessened by anything anyone had heard since.
What sort of man was he now? Like his mother? Like his father?
She couldn’t tell. She was seeing him at his most vulnerable. He was wounded, shocked, tired and burdened by a baby he didn’t know.
Don’t judge now, she told herself. Don’t get any more involved than you already are.

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