Rescued By The Single Dad Doc / The Midwife's Secret Child

‘Tom was a surgeon in Sydney until the boys’ mother died,’ he’d told her. ‘Their dad disappeared. Tom’s all they’ve got.’

The boys were his stepsons. He’d married their mother and then she’d died, Roscoe had told her.

But how could he care so much for kids who weren’t his? It was beyond her but looking at him now she had no doubt that he did care, and he was exhausted because of it.

Roscoe’s story had made her feel more than a little guilty that she’d let her prejudice show when she’d first met him. He might be a stepdad, but stepfathers shouldn’t all be tarred by the same brush. It was just the word. Stepfather… After all these years it still made her feel ill.

‘Welcome home,’ she said now, trying for a smile. His obvious weariness seemed to be making something twist inside her. Normal sympathy for a tired and worried parent? For some reason it felt more than that, and the sensation made her unsettled.

‘How’s Kit?’ she asked, pushing aside her niggle of unease, heading back to talk medicine. Work was always safest.

‘Roscoe’s putting him into a bed in the kids’ ward,’ he told her. ‘The surgery’s gone well. Flexor tendons were damaged as well as nerves but the surgeon’s done a great job and he has every hope that there’ll be no long-term damage. If he was an only child I’d bring him home, but he and his brothers play rough. He has a protective plaster so maybe I’m being ultra-cautious, but given how far we are from help I’d prefer him to stay where he is until the stitches are out. He knows I’ll be in and out. Henry and Marcus can visit. It’s good to have him home.’

Then he gazed around the room again, slowly, as if taking it in. ‘It’s good to be home too,’ he said. ‘Thank you for your care.’

She followed his gaze, noting with satisfaction that nothing had been disturbed after her clean. ‘You’re welcome. I’m not bad at dusting and polishing.’

‘It’s not actually the dusting and polishing I’m thanking you for,’ he told her with a slightly crooked smile. ‘That’s great, but with three kids I’ve pretty much learned not to value them. It’s for starting at the hospital three days early, but mostly it’s for caring for Marcus and Henry—and for Rose too. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.’

‘It’s just what needed to be done.’ She shifted uncomfortably. He was thanking her for care rather than cooking and cleaning? She didn’t care, at least not in the emotional sense. She did what she had to do to keep her world functioning as it should, to keep her patients safe, to keep herself safe. She accepted responsibility when she had to, but that was as far as it went.

Caring was something that had been driven out of her from a time so long ago she could scarcely remember.

So now…she looked at Tom’s weary smile, seeing the telltale lines of strain around his eyes, and she thought it wasn’t caring to accept a little more responsibility. It was simply doing what needed to be done.

‘You look like you could do with a sleep,’ she told him. ‘Why don’t you take a nap now? Roscoe and I have things covered. There’s nothing urgent. We don’t need you.’

‘I’d like to see everyone, though,’ he said diffidently. ‘You’ve been out to see Herbert Daly?’

‘His son’s bringing him into hospital,’ she told him. ‘He should have been in days ago, but he’s stubborn. I had to insist.’

‘He likes his own space,’ Tom said neutrally. ‘But you’re right—he could do with some bed rest. What about the rest of our patients?’

‘Frances Ludeman’s still in. Her blood pressure’s still up but only mildly. It was only after her husband brought the other five kids in to visit that I saw why you wanted her to stay.’

‘She needs all the rest she can get,’ Tom said. ‘And Roscoe says Xavier Trentham’s in the kids’ ward.’

‘Fractured tibia. It’s a clean break but he fell through a hedge and there’s too much swelling to cast it yet. Like your Kit, there’s too much chaos at home for him to be safe without the cast.’

‘Chaos?’

‘Other kids.’

‘Right.’ He gave her an odd, sideways it looked like she didn’t understand. It felt strange, doing what seemed like a medical handover in his living room, but efficiency seemed to be called for. He moved on. ‘Bob’s infection from the cow kick?’

‘There’s still some necrosis. He wants to go home but I’ve said another three days.’

‘He’ll hate another three days. We can probably organise him to go home with visits from district nursing.’

‘He’ll need more than just nursing. He’ll need to be checked, by you or by me.’

‘I can do that.’

‘Why? It’s much easier to keep him in hospital.’

‘Yes, but he has problems,’ he told her. ‘Have you met his wife?’

‘I gave Lois an update yesterday. She’s accepted that he won’t be home until Thursday at soonest. He has no choice.’

‘He does have a choice. I’ll organise it.’

‘Why?’ she asked, startled. ‘You can hardly do house calls. He lives fifteen minutes out of town.’

‘I don’t mind. Lois’s stressed herself. She has high blood pressure, and she worries about a daughter living in New Zealand. I suspect they care for her financially and that’s pushing the farm income. I don’t want Lois ill.’

‘But it’s Bob who’s your patient.’

‘I need to care for them all,’ he said simply. ‘Like I need to go do a ward round now.’

She stilled. ‘I’ve already done a round. You don’t trust that I’ve looked after them?’

‘I’m not saying that.’ He was watching her as if he was trying to understand something that was puzzling him. ‘Rachel, this is a country medical practice. We don’t treat patients in isolation. Every person comes with a story around them, farms that need tending, debts, kid worries, elderly parent concerns. If you ignore them then they come back to bite you. This is your first shot at family medicine, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’re only doing it because of the scholarship?’

‘I’m hugely grateful for the scholarship,’ she said, a bit awkwardly.

‘But family medicine isn’t what you want long-term?’

‘I’m pushing for radiology.’

‘Where you don’t need to look much past the image to the patient.’

‘Is that a criticism?’

‘Of course it’s not.’ He shrugged, and once again she had the impression of deep weariness. ‘Heaven knows we need good radiologists—they helped save Kit’s hand. But here it’s purely country practice, and country practice means looking out for everyone. If we leave Bob in hospital for much longer, Lois’s blood pressure will go through the roof. We send him home.’

His tone was final. Fair enough, she conceded. Tom was, after all, the senior doctor in this set-up. But to choose to do house calls when there was an alternative… She’d had to do a couple already and they made her uneasy. It felt like stepping into an intimate space she had no right to enter.

‘I’ll do the house calls,’ he told her. ‘If they worry you.’

How had he guessed? Was her face so transparent?

‘We share the work,’ she told him brusquely. ‘My contract says full-time family practice for two years. I can do it.’

‘You’ll be a better radiologist for time spent in family medicine,’ he said, still with that odd assessing look on his face. ‘Believe it or not, I believe I’m becoming a better doctor because of it. And I can still do some surgery, which is my passion.’

‘You’re joking. How much surgery can you perform here?’

‘Not as much as I’d like,’ he admitted. ‘But I do the small stuff. Ferndale has specialists, but it’s a hard drive, all curves and kangaroos. Cath Harrison’s the anaesthetist there. She comes over to Shallow Bay once a week or so, and we do a list together. Simple stuff that would be a pain for the locals to have to go to Ferndale—or Sydney—to get done. It keeps me happy.’

‘But it’s simple surgery.’ How on earth could it make him content? ‘So how can you say you’re a better doctor because of what you’re doing here?’

‘Because I’m learning to treat the whole patient,’ he told her. ‘I hope you can get what that means. But now… I’ll head over to do a ward round and then get to clinic.’

‘I’m running the clinic and there’s no necessity to do a ward round. I told you. Everyone’s sorted.’

‘So Roscoe said.’ Once again she got that wash of weariness. This man should be in bed, but he wasn’t going there. ‘I need to see everyone…for me,’ he admitted. ‘I’m not doubting your medicine.’

‘Then why aren’t you being sensible?’ She knew she was sounding stubborn, but so was he.

He took a deep breath, regrouping. ‘Okay,’ he conceded. ‘You take clinic, as long as you ring me for any problems, but I will do a ward round.’

‘You don’t trust me.’

‘I do trust you. Your credentials are impeccable.’

‘Then what?’

‘Rachel, it’s just because I care for them as people,’ he said, sounding a bit helpless. ‘I need to see for myself how everyone’s doing, and it’s not just the medical side I’m interested in.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Which is why you’re here for two years and I’m stuck here for life,’ he said, and suddenly his voice was grim. ‘As doctors… Rachel, you and I might have belonged to the same species once upon a time, but now… Well, somehow, I’ve evolved into a different breed. Darwin might have said I’ve evolved through necessity, for survival. Your survival’s assured. You’re just marking time before you can head back to your own world. But here, Dr Tilding, I need you to pretend to evolve, just for two years. You’re useless here without caring.’

Then he shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. That’s probably too big a statement. You obviously do care. You’re responsible and you’re generous and I’m deeply grateful. Believe me, I’m grateful for what you’ve already done. Anything else has to be an extra.’

They walked back to the hospital together, but they walked in silence. He’d offended her, Tom thought. He knew what he’d said had been clumsy, but he was too tired to get the nuances right.

So now she walked beside him and he couldn’t think where to take it. And it wasn’t just tiredness that was throwing him. Would he have accused any other doctor of not caring? After she’d spent the last three days doing just that, it seemed unfair.

There was something about her that had him off balance.

She was gorgeous. Half a head smaller than he was, she was packaged just right. Bouncy brown curls—well, he’d seen them bouncy, though she had them tied up tight now. Brown eyes, nicely spaced. A wide, generous mouth and a smattering of freckles. She was dressed conservatively—too conservatively for such a warm day, in neat black trousers and a long-sleeved shirt—but her plain clothes didn’t disguise the curves underneath.

It wasn’t the fact that she was cute—well, more than cute—that had him off balance, but he didn’t know why.

Was it the bleak notes in her scholarship application? Was it the way she’d said the word stepfather, as if the name itself conjured horror? Was it the anger he’d seen when she’d thought the boys were neglected?

Or was it the traces of fear that appeared and disappeared, as if there were things, emotions, Rachel Tilding was still hiding?

How did you get over a childhood of neglect?

Tom had had a blessed childhood. His father had left Shallow Bay early—‘I can’t stand the sight of blood—there’s no way I could have done medicine.’ He’d done law, been hugely successful, moved into politics and then into international diplomacy. His mother’s career was equally impressive. Tom’s arrival had been an accident—they’d been too busy to have children—but in the end they’d welcomed him. They were a power couple but their love for their only son had been unstinting.

As his grandparents’ love had been. Tom had had the run of embassies, of political powerhouses, and of Shallow Bay. He’d learned languages, he’d studied, he’d surfed, he’d dated gorgeous women, he’d had fun.

He’d also rescued things. Anything. Beetles lying upside down on wet paths. Unwanted kittens. Bullied kids at school.

He couldn’t bear to see hurt, even though sometimes caring caused chaos.

Like the time he’d brought a huntsman spider home, a female, laden with a huge egg sac. He’d found it at the back of the lockers at school, missing two legs, and decided to rehome it in the laundry. He’d forgotten to tell his mother—who’d found about a thousand baby spiders in her clean washing.

Like the first time he’d seen Claire, being yelled at by her father as she was dropped off at infant school.

Like the time Claire had phoned him after her diagnosis. ‘Please, Tom, help me…’

Was the same drive to fix things attracting him to Rachel? He’d always been a sucker for the needy. He knew it.

‘It’s just the way you’re made,’ he told himself. ‘It’s in your DNA. So leave it. Rachel doesn’t need you. She’s tough and she’s bright and she’ll do what it takes to get on in life. You do the same.’

It made sound sense.

So why did a niggle of doubt tell him that life was about to get more complicated?

CHAPTER FOUR

THE WEEK THAT followed was busy but not frantic—thanks to Rachel. Her efficiency might set some patients’ backs up, it might make Tom edgy, but there was no doubting that it lowered his workload.

Heather Lewis, breeder of Hereford cattle, president of the local Country Women’s Association and stander of no nonsense, met him in the car park late on Friday. He’d just returned from a house call. Heather sauntered over to meet him, a big woman, bluff, kind, bossy. Ready to gossip.

‘She’s good, isn’t she?’ she said without preamble.

‘You mean Rachel?’

‘I’ve just been to see her for my foot. Fungal infection. She gave me a script, instructions and a lecture about wearing wet boots. In and out in five minutes. That’s my kind of medicine.’

‘Hmm,’ he said doubtfully. It was the kind of medicine Heather liked, and mostly it was what people needed, but how many consultations were that easy?

‘And she’s here for two years. We need to get her involved. Does she play tennis? Ride a horse? Play mah-jong? I tried asking but she brushed me off. Fair enough, it was a medical consult after all. But what’s she interested in, Tom? How can we pull her into the community?’

‘I have no idea,’ he said faintly. ‘She seems to like keeping herself to herself.’

‘But she’s there when you need her. It was trial by fire, landing her with your boys last week. She must be a good’un. Worth prodding below the surface.’

‘I guess.’

‘And she’s single,’ Heather went on relentlessly. ‘There’s a thought, Doc. You and her… You could surely use help with those boys. You still got Kit in hospital?’

‘He’ll be home tomorrow.’

‘They’re a handful. A partner would be good. You might want to think about it.’ And Heather drove away and left him standing.

Think about what?

Rachel?

A love life?

Ha.

Even if he had the time for such things—which he didn’t—even if there was a possibility of dating when he was solely responsible for the care of three troubled kids… Rachel? An uptight, self-contained woman who’d stepped in when needed but who’d stepped away fast.

As any woman would from his situation.

But the niggle he’d felt almost a week ago was growing, and as he walked back into the hospital he allowed himself a moment to think about it. Rachel Tilding was about as far from his type of woman as it was possible to get. BK—Before Kids—he’d had a definite kind of partner. Not serious—never serious. He liked feisty, fun women who didn’t take life too seriously. Women who could give as much as they got, who demanded no promises, who didn’t cling, who were happy to step into his world and then out again as life called them in a different direction.

There didn’t seem a lot of joy in Rachel Tilding’s world. Life seemed serious. Organised.

He put the idea firmly aside, heading in to walk through the wards and say hi to everyone who’d appreciate a visit. There wasn’t much for him to do medically. Rachel had obviously done her rounds earlier. Charts had been filled in. Every need had been met.

Except talking. He talked his way round the hospital now, calming worries, explaining, listening. Just being there.

His final visit for the day was Kit. Tom had been in a few times during the day, as much as he could manage. Now he found him engrossed in a battleship conflict. His friend, Xavier, was still in the next bed. There’d been no pressure on the ward, so the decision had been made to keep them longer. They were both due to go home in the morning.

Tom got a short greeting between battles—plus a quick, one-armed hug which was a message on its own. Kit might be content for the moment, but he was still needy.

Finally he headed home. From the track he could see Rose in her favourite seat. She’d be knitting while the kids watched the telly show they always watched on Friday nights. He’d go in, say goodnight to Rose and then cook his standard Friday night fare of hamburgers.

And try not to miss Friday nights of the past. Socialising. Fun.

Suddenly he was hesitating. Rachel’s arrival really had made a difference. It was only five-thirty, far earlier than he usually finished. The ingredients for hamburgers were in the fridge and Rose would enjoy putting them together. She liked eating with the boys. It was a warm night. The beach beckoned.

He could use some me time.

Ten minutes later he’d headed back to town and bought two low-alcohol beers—he was on call. A sunset, a beer, time to reflect—it wasn’t up to the standard of Friday nights of his past, but it’d have to do.

He parked outside his cottage. Rose saw him from the window. He waved towards the beach, put his finger to his mouth in a signal for her not to tell the boys, and she waved back her acknowledgement.

Bless her, he thought. She’d guess he needed space. What would he do without her?

Life was okay, he told himself as he walked down the beach path. He had a great housekeeper. He had a colleague to share his work, to halve his call roster.

He had two low-alcohol stubbies to celebrate Friday night.

Alone.

‘Morose R Us,’ he muttered as he headed down the track. ‘Get over it.’ There wasn’t a thing he could do about his situation and self-pity would get him nowhere. He needed to be grateful that Kit was okay, that Rose was giving him space, that he had two stubbies—and he had a new colleague.

He rounded the bend that blocked the view of the bay from the track—and his new colleague was sitting on the sand in front of him.

She’d obviously been swimming. Her hair, normally tied tightly back, had come loose and was coiling wetly down her bare back. She was wearing a simple one-piece bathing suit. She looked…

Gorgeous?

She swivelled and struggled to her feet, grabbing her towel to cover herself—and all he could see was fear.

She hauled the towel up in front of her.

Not fast enough.

Every time he’d seen this woman she’d been wearing long sleeves. At work she wore formal business-type blouses, tucked into trousers or skirts. At home she wore long-sleeved T-shirts with jeans or shorts.

He thought of the first time he’d seen her, with Kit. She’d been wearing a long-sleeved shirt then. It had been covered with blood and looked truly shocking.

What he saw now, in the moment before she hauled the towel around her, seemed just as shocking.

Blotches were etched deep into the skin of her upper arms. No, not blotches. Scars. Many scars. He hardly had time to see them though, before the towel was wrapped around her, shutting them from view.

She was standing now, fear fading as she realised who he was. But she took a step back, making a clear delineation between the two of them.

‘Sorry,’ she muttered, her voice shaky. ‘I shouldn’t have sat so close to the path.’

‘And I should have whistled as I walked,’ he told her, trying to drive away the panic he still sensed. ‘I usually do. It scares the Joe Blakes.’

‘Joe Blakes?’

‘What the locals call snakes. The advice is to sing as you walk, but if you heard me sing you’d know that it’d scare more than Joe Blakes.’

‘Are there snakes here?’ Her voice was still shaky but he knew it wasn’t from fear of snakes. Why was she frightened?

‘I doubt it,’ he told her, gentling his voice. ‘It pays to be careful, but we haven’t seen any in the dunes for ages. They’re more scared of us than we are of them. The boys’ noise will be keeping them at bay.’

‘Oh,’ she said neutrally, and he could see her fight to get her face under control. Her towel was drawn tight, concealing all.

Or not quite. One of the scars was just above her breast. Until now he’d put her long sleeved tops and high necklines down to her general uptightness. Now…

He’d seen scars like this. A long time ago. In paediatric ward during his training.

Abuse.

Cigarette burns.

Hell.

‘Rachel…’

‘I was just going,’ she stammered, reaching down for her bag. ‘I came down for a swim after work, to get some peace. I imagine that’s what you want, too. I’ll leave you to it.’

She was ready to bolt.

Cigarette burns.

He knew nothing about this woman apart from the fact that she had an impeccable medical record—and she’d won his grandfather’s scholarship. And there’d been foster homes.

Her scars were completely covered now, and he couldn’t ask. Maybe she hoped he hadn’t seen them.

He had to leave it like that, but he didn’t want her to bolt. There were ghosts behind this woman’s façade, and he was intrigued.

‘You know, once upon a time when I finished work on Friday nights I’d head to the pub beside the hospital,’ he told her, casually moving so he wasn’t blocking her way. So she knew she could leave if she wanted to. ‘Half the medics we worked with would be there. I can’t remember a single moment of peace but I wouldn’t have missed it for quids. Noise, laughter, a general debrief of the week’s traumas. Friends.’

He looked down at the two stubbies he was carrying and made a decision, right there and then, that the supreme sacrifice was called for.

‘So the drinks menu here might be limited,’ he told her. ‘But, in memory of all those Friday nights, I’m very happy to share. Do you drink beer?’

The fear and shock were subsiding. She had herself together. Almost. ‘I need to go home,’ she said.

‘No, I need to go home,’ he told her. ‘But not yet.’ Why did he get the feeling she wanted to run? He was sensing his way, the same way he’d approach a scared and wounded child. Or a startled kangaroo. ‘The roster says I’m on call tonight, not you,’ he said. ‘The boys are at home, but Rose is with them and they’re happy and settled. Kit’s safely in hospital. My phone’s in my pocket and I can be there in minutes if I’m called. I have a sliver of time to myself.’

‘Which is why you need peace.’

‘Which is why I need company,’ he said bluntly. ‘Of the adult variety. Of the colleague variety. Which is why I’m making the extraordinary gesture of offering you one of my precious stubbies.’

She stared at him for a long moment, as if trying to read his mind. Then she looked down at his stubbies.

‘You brought two.’

‘And I’m offering you one. You can’t imagine how generous that makes me feel.’

Her lips twitched, just a little.

‘Beer,’ she said.

‘I know, a piña colada with a sliver of lime and a wee umbrella would be more appropriate, but the ice would have melted while I walked down here. You want to slum it with me?’ And before she could answer he plonked himself down on the sand.

She stood, looking down at him. Disconcerted? She was torn—he could sense it. Part of her wanted to leave, but it would have been a rebuff.