City Surgeon, Small Town Miracle Read online

  ‘Gee, thanks.’

  She winced. ‘Sorry. Yes, that was rude. But we do need to clear the road.’ She stared across at the mess. ‘You’ll need help pulling the crate out of the way. Hang on.’ And she put her hands onto the ground to push herself up.

  ‘No!’ He was down beside her in an instant, taking a shoulder in each hand and pressing back.

  And his preconceptions were changing all over the place. At first he’d thought she was little more than a teenager, like the young mothers he saw clustered outside the prenatal clinics near his consulting suite in the hospital he worked in. They were mostly scared kids, forced by pregnancy into growing up too fast, but the more he saw of this woman the more he acknowledged maturity. There were lines etched around her eyes-smile lines that had taken time to grow. And more. Life lines?

  She looked like a woman who’d seen a lot, he thought suddenly.

  She wasn’t beautiful-not in the traditional sense-and yet the eyes that met his as he pushed her back down onto the verge were clear and bright and almost luminous. They were eyes to make a man take another look.

  And then another.

  ‘Hey, let me up,’ she ordered, as if sensing the inappropriate direction his thoughts were taking, and he came to with a snap.

  ‘You want that leg to swell so far I have to lance it to take the pressure off?’

  Her eyes widened. ‘What the…?’

  ‘You’re bleeding into the back of your knee,’ he said. ‘If it gets any worse you’ll have circulation problems. I want it X-rayed. And like you, I’m worrying about the baby. You need an ultrasound.’

  ‘You’re a doctor?’ Her voice was incredulous.

  ‘For my pains,’

  ‘Well, how about that?’ she whispered, sounding awed. ‘A doctor, and a bossy one at that. A surgeon, I’ll bet.’

  ‘Sort of, but-’

  ‘They’re the worst. Look, if I promise to sign insurance indemnity, can I get up?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The crate…’

  ‘I’ll move the truck.’

  ‘You and whose army?’

  ‘Just shut up for a minute,’ he said, irritated, and there was her smile again.

  ‘Yes, Doctor.’

  The words were submissive but the smile wasn’t. It was a cute smile. Cheeky. Pert. Flashing out despite her fear.

  ‘You’re a nurse,’ he demanded, suspicious.

  ‘No, Doctor,’ she said, still submissive, still smiling, though there was no way she could completely disguise the look of pain and fear behind her eyes. ‘But you need to let me help.’

  ‘In your dreams,’ he growled, disarmed by her smile and struggling to keep a hold on the situation. Worst-case scenario-she could go into labour.

  Or she could lose the baby.

  Another death…

  He needed a medical kit. Usually he carried basic first-aid equipment but his friends’ luggage had filled the trunk and the back seat. Fiona and Brenda. No medicine this weekend, they’d said, and they’d meant it.

  Women. And here was another, causing trouble.

  But, actually, Maggie wasn’t causing trouble, he conceded, or no more than she could help. She looked like there was no way she’d complain, but he could see the strain in her eyes.

  Okay, he told himself. Move. This woman needs help and there’s only me to give it.

  ‘I meant what I said about keeping still,’ he told her. ‘I have work to do and you’ll just get in the way. So stay!’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said meekly, but he didn’t believe the meekness for a minute.

  There wasn’t a lot of choice. In truth, Maggie’s leg hurt so much she was feeling dizzy. She lay back on the grass and tried not to think about the consequences of what had just happened and how it might have affected her baby. That was truly terrifying. She tried not to think how Gran would be needing pain relief, and how she’d been away from home for far too long. She thought about how her leg felt like it might drop off, and that she wouldn’t mind if it did.

  If this guy really was a doctor he might have something in the back of his fancy car that’d help.

  He really was a doctor. He had about him an air of authority and intelligence that she knew instinctively was genuine. He was youngish-mid-thirties, she guessed-but if she had to guess further she’d say he was in a position of power in his profession. He’d be past the hands-on stage with patients-to a point in his profession where seniority meant he could move back from the personal.

  She wasn’t a bad judge of character. This guy seemed competent-and he was also seriously attractive. Yeah, even in pain she’d noticed that, for what woman wouldn’t? He was tall, dark and drop-dead gorgeous. But also he seemed instinctively aloof? Why?

  But this was hardly the time for personal assessments of good-looking doctors. The pain in her leg stabbed upward and she switched to thinking what the good-looking doctor might have in the back of his car that might help.

  What could she take this far along in pregnancy? Her hands automatically clasped her belly and she flinched. No.

  ‘We need to get through this without drugs,’ she whispered to her bump. ‘Just hang in there.’

  There was an answering flutter from inside, and her tension eased slightly. The seat belt had pulled tight across her stomach in the crash. There’d been an initial flutter, but she wanted more. This flutter was stronger, and as she took a deep breath the flutter became a kick.

  Great! Maybe her baby hadn’t noticed the crash or, if he had, he was kicking in indignation.

  ‘We’ll be okay,’ she whispered for what must be the thousandth time in her pregnancy. ‘Me and you and the world.’

  And she had a doctor at hand. A gorgeous one.

  But gorgeous or not, doctor or not, the guy had no time for medicine right now, and her training had her agreeing with him. Triage told her that unless her breathing was impaired or she was bleeding to death, the road had to be cleared. Someone could speed around the corner at any minute and a minor accident could become appalling.

  But how could he move the crate? It was blocking the road in such a way it stopped both the car and the truck from being moved. He couldn’t lift it.

  He didn’t. As she watched, he put his shoulder against it, shoving harder than she’d thought possible.

  The crate was about eight feet long by six feet wide, iron webbing built around a floor of heavy iron. It had been on the back of the truck for the last twenty years. She’d had no idea it could come loose.

  Gran hadn’t told her that. There were lots of things Gran hadn’t told her, she thought grimly, a long litany of deception. In fact, Maggie’s decision to have this baby had been based partly on Gran’s deceit.

  But there was no way she could yell at Gran now. In truth, she was so worried about the old lady she felt sick.

  What else? She wanted to cry because her leg was throbbing. She desperately needed to check on her baby’s heartbeat.

  But instead she was lying still as ordered, her leg stuck up in front of her, watching this bossy surgeon shift her crate.

  If she had to have an arrogant surgeon bossing her while he organised her life, at least she’d been sent one whose body was almost enough to distract her from the pain she was feeling.

  When she’d first seen him he’d looked smoothly handsome, expensive. Now his perfectly groomed, jet-black hair was wet with sweat, dark curls clinging to his forehead. A trace of five-o’clock shadow accentuated his strongly boned face, and his dark eyes were keen with the intent of strain.

  He also looked gorgeous. It was an entirely inappropriate thought, she decided, but it was there, whether she willed it or not. This man was definite eye-candy.

  He had all his weight against the crate now. He was grunting with effort, sweat glistening. One of his arms was bare-courtesy of the pad she was holding above her eye-and his arm was a mass of sinews. As was his chest. The more he sweated, the more his shirt became a damp and transparent nothing, ex
posing serious muscles.

  And the more he sweated the more she was distracted from everything she should be focussed on. This was crazy. She was seven months pregnant. She was injured. She had so many worries her head was about to explode, yet here she was transfixed by the sight of a colleague attempting to move a weight far too big for one man.

  Only it wasn’t. The crate was moving, an inch at a time and then faster, and then he found rhythm. He was right behind it and he kept on pushing, right up to the verge.

  The verge was too narrow to hold it.

  She should have been thinking forward to what he intended, but she was caught. Watching him. Fascinated.

  ‘Move!’ He gave one last gigantic heave-and it slid onto the verge and further. Before she realised what was happening, the crate was toppling over the side of the cliff, crashing its way down to the beach below. Leaving her stunned.

  ‘So how do you suggest I get the calves home now?’ she muttered, awed, but he wasn’t listening. He was in her truck already, shoving it into gear, reversing it from the cliff face. It sounded like something disastrous was happening inside the engine, but at least it moved. He drove it further along the road, parked it on a widened section of verge, then jogged back for his car.

  She was a passive audience, stunned by his body and by his energy. And by…his car! She’d never seen an Aston Martin up close before. Not bad, she conceded, growing more distracted by the moment. Surgeon in open-topped roadster. Cool.

  Or…hot.

  Or maybe the blow to her head was making her thinking fuzzy. She should be too caught up with the pain in her knee to react like…well, like she was reacting.

  But then, as he turned his fabulous car away from her, suddenly her fuzziness disappeared. It was replaced with a stab of panic so great it took her breath away. He’d backed away from the cliff, turning the car to head north.

  North. Toward Sydney.

  She was staggering to her feet, her hands out, rushing straight forward so he had to slam his brakes on or she would have run right into him. As it was, he stopped with barely an inch to spare.

  She put her hand on the bonnet and tried to regroup. Tried to think of some way to say that this was panic, she hadn’t really thought he’d leave.

  She was being hysterical. Insulting.

  But she had no breath to say it. She could only lean on his car and gasp. And then he was out of the car, taking her hands, tugging her toward him. He looked shocked to the core, as well he might be. Crazy woman runs straight into path of car.

  She had to explain. ‘I-I can’t leave Gran,’ she stammered. ‘You have to take me home. You must. You can’t leave me here.’

  She could hardly breathe through fright. He swore and held her, and then as she couldn’t stop trembling he held her tighter.

  ‘Hey, Maggie, I’m not leaving,’ he said, sounding appalled. ‘I swear. I’m not that big a rat. I was just turning the car away from the bend so it’s safe for you to get in.’ And then as she tried desperately to think how to respond and could only think that her leg hurt and she was close to tears and she could have killed her baby, by running into a car of all things, how could she have been so stupid, he swore again, tugged her even tighter into his arms and held her close.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he whispered into her hair. ‘I won’t leave you. You’re safe. I’ll take you back to Gran, whoever Gran is. I’ll do whatever we have to do. We’ll do it together.’

  His chin was resting on her hair.

  He’d assumed she’d realise he was just moving the car; that he had no intention of leaving her. But why would she assume anything? He was a stranger.

  Up until now it had been all about him, he thought, savage with himself. Sure, he’d reacted to her injuries, but he’d reacted as if she was a patient in Emergency where he was one of a team; the surgeon doing his job without looking at the whole picture.

  But here he had to see the whole picture.

  She had no obvious life-threatening wounds, but she was hurt, she was shocked and she was pregnant. Her truck was a write-off, and without a working cellphone she was stranded.

  He’d climbed into his fancy car and turned away, probably making it clear by his body language he wanted to be shot of her. Her reaction-that he was about to leave-was so understandable he felt ill.

  So he held her close and waited until her racing heartbeat eased, until he felt the rigid terror go out of her. Finally he felt her body soften, mould into his, take comfort from his hold.

  It wasn’t exactly professional, to hold her like this, but who was worrying? He’d been shocked, too. If it felt good to hold onto this woman, then so be it. He could take comfort as well as give it.

  And it felt good.

  Different.

  He’d hardly touched a woman for six years. He hadn’t wanted to. Now slipping into the edges of shock and concern and the need for professional care came something else.

  Desire?

  Surely not. There was no way he could desire this woman, for she was everything he most wanted to avoid. To feel like this within moments of meeting her was crazy. But there was no escaping the way touching her made him feel. There was no avoiding the way his body was responding.

  Her body was soft, yielding against him. Her hair was naturally curly, and her curls were escaping their braids. Her hair was really cute.

  Really soft.

  Nice.

  And then…pow!

  The thump between them was such a surprise it drove them apart. They stood at arm’s length, staring at each other in astonishment. Then staring down.

  ‘I’m s-so…’ she stammered. ‘I’m so s-sorry.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s you who needs to apologise for that one,’ he growled. The sensation of her baby had slammed the need for sense into his head and he took a step back. Literally as well as emotionally. What the hell had he been thinking?

  Caring for a pregnant woman…No and no and no.

  Her wide green eyes stared up at him, and then down at her still heaving bump.

  ‘He’s got a good kick,’ she ventured, cautiously.

  ‘He surely has.’ New emotions were surging in now, and his head was scrambling to reassemble his emotional armour. How long since he’d felt a baby’s kick? It made him feel…

  No. Don’t even think about going there.

  ‘Maybe it’s to reassure us he’s okay,’ he managed, feeling lame, dredging up a smile.

  ‘Maybe,’ she said and wobbled a smile in return. And then: ‘That was unforgivable,’ she said. ‘Thinking you were leaving.’

  ‘I hadn’t told you otherwise. I’m sorry. But consider me kicked. By…’

  ‘Archibald.’

  ‘Really?’ He found himself smiling properly this time, caught by her fierce determination to apologise, and her equal determination to insert humour into the situation. This was one brave woman. The sensations he was feeling toward her were inappropriate but clinical approval was fine. ‘You’ve decided on his name already?’

  ‘He knocked my mug of tea over last week,’ she said darkly. ‘I had to run cold water over my tummy for ten minutes until I stopped stinging. Until then, she was going to be Chloe or he was going to be William, but that’s in the past. Archibald it is.’

  ‘Named for the baby’s father, then?’ he said, still striving to sound professional. He smiled again, but it was her turn for her smile to fade.

  ‘His father would be William, but Archibald takes precedence.’

  He was still holding her, by both hands, but now she made to pull away, as if naming the baby’s father had brought her to her senses. Both of them had to come to their senses. ‘Look, I am sorry,’ she whispered.

  ‘And I’m sorry, too,’ he said. ‘So let’s stop apologising and get things moving. I need to take you to hospital.’

  ‘I’m not going to hospital, but I do need to get back to Gran’s. It’s not far. If I hadn’t hurt my leg, I could walk.’

  Yes! Suddenly t
hings seemed simple. This wasn’t his problem. He could take her to her family and explain the need for hospital assessment. She’d said Gran was ill, but where there was a gran surely there’d be other relatives. He could hand her over with instructions to take her to the nearest hospital, and his nightmare of a weekend would be over.

  ‘The calves won’t go anywhere,’ she said, thinking out loud. ‘With Bonnie’s help Angus can drive them home by foot from here.’

  Hooray for Angus, he thought. And William and Gran. A whole family. Better and better.

  But she was wilting, and he was wasting time.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, and ignoring protests he lifted her across to his car, blessing the fact that the Aston Martin had a rear seat. Once again, though, he was surprised at how little she weighed.

  Were things okay? Was this a normal pregnancy?

  This was Not His Problem, he reminded himself sharply. He needed to cope with the emergency stuff only. She’d have her own obstetrician. Her family could take her there.

  Stay professional and stay clinically detached.

  But as he lifted her into the car he smelled a faint citrusy perfume, and he was caught once again in a totally unprofessional moment.

  Her luminous green eyes were framed by long, dark lashes, surely unusual in a redhead. Her freckles were amazingly cute. Her flame-coloured curls were still doing their best to break out of their braids, and he had an almost irrational desire to help them escape.

  Whoa. What was it with him? He was being dumb and irrational and stupid.

  This was his patient. Therefore he could stop thinking dumb thoughts about how she smelled and how she felt against him and how her hair would look unbraided.

  So turn professional.

  ‘Let’s do formal introductions,’ he said, trying to sound like he was about to key it into her patient history. ‘Can you tell me your full name?’

  ‘Maggie Maria Croft. You?’

  ‘Maxwell Harvey Ashton.’

  ‘Dr Ashton?’

  ‘Max is fine, we’ll forget the Harvey and I’m hoping we don’t need the Doctor. But if necessary…’ He hesitated but it had to be said. ‘If your family can’t take you, I’ll drive you to the hospital at Gosland-or even to Sydney if you prefer.’