A Wedding for the Single Dad

by Meredith Webber

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ve been here so long I’m just part of the furniture. Although...’ She thought about it, and finally admitted, ‘Because I have been here so long, it might be even more startling—juicier.’

  She wasn’t going to sigh again.

  No tears and no sighing.

  ‘And then there’s your age,’ she said bluntly. ‘Lakesiders are fairly conventional people. Cradle-snatching will come up somewhere along the line.’

  ‘Not if we got married,’ he said.

  And this time she wanted to sigh and cry at the same time.

  ‘Aren’t you already married?’

  She was watching him closely, wanting to read his reaction. She didn’t expect the smile that came.

  ‘I am trying to get unmarried,’ he said. ‘In fact, one of the reasons I was so delighted to move out here was because my wife is in Australia and I thought it would be easier to push her to sign divorce papers from here.’

  Lauren was telling herself she shouldn’t feel pleased about this when he floored her completely.

  ‘I think I was smitten the first time I saw you—or very soon after—so it seems natural to think of marriage.’

  ‘Smitten? What do you mean “smitten”? And if it’s what I think it means it’s a passing thing, nothing more, and certainly not a basis for marriage—which isn’t possible anyway, given where we’re at!’

  She folded her arms as she finished this rant, and glared at him—not that her glare had the slightest effect. In fact, it seemed to encourage him, because he left his stool on the other side of the breakfast bar and came to put his arm around her, pulling her to her feet and kissing her so passionately on the lips that her bones began to melt.

  Dear heaven, what was she supposed to do?

  Let him carry her into the sitting room?

  Let him slip off her robe?

  Let him kiss his way down from her mouth to her neck, to her breast?

  Yes.

  So she let him tease and tantalise her, until she joined in the teasing, the kissing, the movement of their bodies as they came together...

  He tipped her so she was on top of him, sliding into her, his hands on her breasts making her moan as he moved and cry out as she climaxed, his matching groan of satisfaction sweet in her ears.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  FOR THE SECOND morning in a row she was woken by Janet arriving for work, and as she flung herself out of bed she called down to her, asking her to please put on toast, and the kettle. She walked into the bathroom. She could feel him still...his skin against hers, the scent of him in the air around her.

  Her body flushed with heat just thinking about it and she dived into the shower, hoping that common sense would soon return, and that she’d at least outwardly look normal and composed.

  Fortunately, the morning passed smoothly enough, the only surprise arrival being Madge, towing a reluctant Maddie along behind her.

  ‘She’s starting school next week and I’m told she needs some final vaccination, before she goes. I’ve got her record book from London, so you can see what she’s had.’

  She passed a small booklet to Lauren, who checked through the vaccinations Maddie had already received.

  ‘There’s not one for meningococcal here,’ she said to Madge. ‘They’re usually given to under-twos and fifteen-to-nineteen-year-olds, because those are the most susceptible age groups, but it wouldn’t hurt for her to have one.’

  She looked across at Maddie, who was looking openly mutinous.

  ‘I hate needles,’ she said, in case Lauren hadn’t got the message.

  ‘So do I,’ Lauren assured her. ‘I hate getting injections and giving them, but I have to give them to keep you safe.’ She turned back to Madge. ‘You’ll talk to Cam about the meningococcal?’

  Madge nodded, then added, ‘You might talk to him yourself as well, in case I don’t remember.’

  ‘Madge always forgets things,’ Maddie said.

  Lauren felt a twinge of alarm—older people forgetting things was something she was only too familiar with—but Madge was already speaking.

  ‘Rubbish,’ she said to the young critic. ‘Although I might—just sometimes—forget to keep an eye on you when I’m fishing...’

  ‘And one day you went home without me!’ Maddie reminded her.

  Poor Madge flushed. ‘Not all the way home—and that’s enough, young lady. You’re only talking because you think we might forget about the injection.’

  Time to intercede.

  ‘Okay, Maddie, come with me into the treatment room and we’ll see just how brave you are.’

  ‘Will I get a sweetie?’ the child asked, eyeing the jar of jelly beans on Lauren’s desk.

  ‘Good children sometimes get two,’ Lauren told her, with a slight emphasis on the ‘good’.

  In the colourful treatment room, she lifted Maddie onto an examination table and cranked it up. She was convinced, for no particular reason, that needles hurt less if you could put them straight into the muscle rather than at an angle.

  Maddie was still counting some of the animals in a chart on the wall when Lauren stuck a small round plaster on the tiny hole and lowered the table.

  ‘It’s finished?’ Maddie demanded. ‘I didn’t even feel it!’

  ‘That’s good,’ Lauren told her as she lifted her to the floor.

  ‘But will I only get one sweetie?’

  Lauren smiled. ‘No,’ she said, ‘you were especially good and can have two.’

  Back in the consulting room, she opened the jar and let Maddie choose—one red and one black.

  With those two clutched in her hand, she eyed the jar. ‘I do like green ones too,’ she said, and Lauren had to laugh.

  ‘Nice try, kid,’ she said, ruffling Maddie’s hair as she propelled them out the door.

  ‘Meningococcal—is that right?’ Madge asked, and Lauren nodded.

  ‘Just phone for an appointment any time,’ she said. ‘Janet will fix you up.’

  But even as she ushered her next patient through the door her thoughts remained with the pair who’d just departed.

  Madge and Maddie.

  She had to think of them. Had to think of the effect any gossip might have on them—and there would be gossip, no matter how careful she and Cam were.

  The memory of a local teenager who’d committed suicide some years earlier, unable to handle gossip about him being gay—which, as it happened, he hadn’t been—was still strong in her mind. Guilt that she hadn’t been able to help him still sneaked into her head when she least expected it.

  Her thoughts depressed her. This whole silly thing with Cam: dinner, a few kisses, sex—very good sex—had brought light and laughter, not to mention physical pleasure, into her life, and she really didn’t want to lose that.

  Not just yet.

  Not when simply thinking about losing it caused her pain, while thinking of him brought warmth flooding through her body and a bright lightness of spirit she hadn’t felt for a long time.

  But the idea of potentially hurtful gossip remained. Maddie was starting school soon, and Madge would begin to find interests in the area that would bring her into contact with the locals.

  ‘So, do you think I should make an appointment to see a specialist up in Riverview?’ her patient asked, and Lauren had to collect her scrambled wits and try to remember what they’d been discussing.

  Stomach pain—that was it.

  ‘A specialist would probably recommend an endoscopy—poking a tube down your throat to have a look at your stomach. But if you’re only getting the pains after eating oranges, you’d be better off not eating them for a while, to see if that stops the pain completely.’

  Mr March frowned at her, then lifted himself out of the chair and folded his arms across his chest. The frown turned into a f
ull glare. ‘But my tree is full of fruit,’ he said. ‘They’re my oranges!’

  Lauren flipped quickly through his notes—still on cards, as all the older patients’ notes had yet to be computerised. And there it was. Same time every year, Mr March presented with stomach pains. Her father had actually sent him to Riverview for an endoscopy at one stage, only to be told his stomach wall lining and small intestine were all clear.

  She made a new note, mentioning the oranges. She’d transfer Mr March’s file to the computer this afternoon, while his visit was fresh in her mind, but in the meantime...

  ‘Stop eating them for a few days and see how you feel,’ she suggested. ‘Then, if the pain disappears, try eating just one a day and see what happens.’

  She made another note, and then wondered if she was overdoing the paperwork in case her mind began to slip, as her father’s had—not that she’d seen the slightest sign of it in herself.

  Two more patients and she was done for the morning. And, it being Thursday, she had no afternoon session. She did have a late volunteering shift at the sanctuary—making sure all the animals were fed and the place locked up.

  Even thinking about proximity to Cam sent shivers through her body—which was stupid, given he would quite likely be out in the backblocks somewhere, tending a large animal.

  She concentrated on getting a lifetime’s worth of Mr March’s medical history on the computer, before tidying the house. She was putting off her trip across to the sanctuary. And the decision about what to wear was definitely a little more difficult than usual...

  Finally, forcing common-sense back into her head, she fixed some sandwiches for herself and the dog—he really needed a name—and headed over to the vet’s place.

  Henry, she decided. That would do nicely for the dog. Henry had been a fighter too—fighting for the environment, fighting against the destruction of the natural habitat—and it was far more suitable than Tramp, Scout, or any of the other names she’d considered.

  ‘Hello, Henry,’ she said to him as she entered the dim kennel.

  No spoken response this time, so at least she was on her own—and, no, that wasn’t a twinge of disappointment that ran through her body as she realised it.

  She settled herself beside Henry’s head, talking quietly, touching him gently, and to her surprise he responded by struggling to roll over, so he could almost sit up, one bandaged leg stuck stiffly out to the side.

  ‘Good boy,’ she said, and fed him a piece of sandwich, patting the unbandaged bits of him. ‘You should be getting most of those dressings off tomorrow,’ she told him, as she ate her own sandwich.

  He leaned cautiously to one side, and she lifted his water bowl, certain he’d fall back down if he tried to reach it himself.

  She held it to him while he drank greedily. ‘So maybe, while you’re up, you’d like some real food?’ she said, and reached for the bowl of dried food, holding it in front of him so he could sniff at it and nuzzle a few pieces before snaffling some into his mouth with his tongue.

  ‘Good for you!’ she said, so excited she’d have given him a hug if she hadn’t thought it would hurt him.

  But he must have got the message, because she was sure he smiled at her—a sloppy kind of smile, but definitely recognisable.

  ‘Oh, you darling!’ she said, and gave him a little more sandwich, feeling his tongue licking at her palm.

  ‘Haven’t you heard the expression about biting the hand that feeds you?’

  She turned to see Cam, stooping at the entrance to the kennel.

  ‘He just smiled at me,’ she told him, wanting to share her delight and also to cover her reaction to seeing him—equal delight!

  ‘Oh, yes...?’

  Polite disbelief, but there was a smile in his voice again, and she felt the tremor of desire fire her senses.

  Damn it all! She had to get over this reaction to his presence—it confused her senses, stopped her thinking sensibly, and she was reasonably sure that she had to think sensibly about their relationship.

  Cam certainly wasn’t!

  But the situation—gossip, her father, so many things that really should be considered... Or should have been considered before this went too far...

  And he was married...

  And the age thing...

  And, on that point, wasn’t she too old to be feeling such intensity of desire? Wasn’t that teenage stuff? First flush of love stuff? Not that she could remember feeling tremors of desire at the mere sound of David’s voice...

  Deep breath. Common sense.

  ‘When will the dressings come off, so we can see what he looks like?’ she asked, determined to sound sensible and practical and not like some teenager overcome by the enormity of first love.

  ‘I’ll redo them later,’ Cam said, coming to squat beside her. ‘Did you come over just to have lunch with the dog?’ he asked, nodding at the bundle of sandwiches she’d set on the floor.

  She turned and grinned at him. ‘No, I’m on duty at the sanctuary later this afternoon, so I called in to see him first. He ate a sandwich, then sat up and had water and some actual dog food. So I imagine once you unwrap him, and he has more freedom to move, he’ll probably prefer that to sandwiches.’

  She put her hand on the head that was now resting on her knee.

  ‘Won’t you, Henry?’

  ‘Henry? You’re going to call him Henry?’

  ‘I think it’s a great name for a noble dog like him,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ve told him our Henry was a fighter—especially for animal rights.’

  Cam settled beside her, slid a hand across her shoulders and gently brushed the skin beneath her hair. Then he pressed a kiss on the back of her neck...sending shivers all over her.

  She had no memory of ever reacting to a man like this, yet that single touch had relit the embers of desire that he could flame into fire so easily.

  Remember Maddie and Madge and gossip! And that he’s younger than you! And married!

  The mantra rang in her head even as she turned towards him and let his lips meet hers.

  Fat lot of good mantras did.

  At least they’d both have to get back to work before anything more could happen.

  * * *

  The late afternoon schedule at the sanctuary was always busy, as all the animals had to be checked to see if their wounds were healing, or if some other problem might have appeared.

  The wombats were the worst. Once old enough and brave enough to leave their hollow logs, they often injured their front digging paws by trying to build a burrow near a fence post that was concreted into the ground. They had to follow their instincts to dig before they could be taken back into the bush, where they’d have to dig their own protective burrows, so it was a no-win situation.

  ‘Poor baby,’ Lauren murmured to one, as she fed it the formula especially prepared for wombats.

  ‘Poor baby nothing,’ a voice growled from behind her. ‘Where’s my dog?’

  A man—a very large man—stood outside the sanctuary fence, a shotgun dangling casually from one hand.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but this is a wildlife sanctuary—we rescue wombats and koalas and such. We don’t have dogs.’

  She hoped she sounded a lot more confident than she felt.

  ‘That mad woman said she brought my dog here!’ the man said, moving the shotgun slightly.

  ‘I can’t let you in because the animals can pick up germs from outside, but please look around—there’s only me and the animals and that store cupboard over there. You can see right into it—nothing there. I’m sorry, but if your dog’s lost maybe you could put some notices up in the village?’

  ‘I won’t put up any damn notice in the village!’ the man roared. ‘I’ll be back!’

  He turned and strode away, and now Lauren saw the ute parked in the shade of a tree some
distance away. Cautiously parked, so it could barely be seen.

  She remained where she was, frozen in place, until he’d driven away—not around the house to where the kennels were, but back in the direction he’d come from.

  Get his number plate, some still functioning brain cell told her. But the ute was already disappearing, and all she noticed was a rusty dent in the passenger-side door.

  Some clue!

  She breathed deeply, realised she was holding the wee wombat far too tightly, and slowly set him down on the ground.

  Police.

  Aware that the one constable who was seeing out his last few years before retirement in the village wouldn’t be the best person to tackle an angry man with a shotgun, she phoned the larger police station, further up the lake.

  And although she’d felt tentative about phoning, wondering if it was too minor a matter to be reporting, she was greeted by reassurances that she’d done the right thing and then, to her surprise, she was transferred to someone called Brendan from ‘the cattle duffing squad’.

  ‘Cattle duffing squad?’ she echoed weakly, and he laughed.

  ‘It happens more often than you think,’ Brendan assured her. ‘Cattle go missing all the time, and although some have just wandered through a broken fence into a neighbour’s yard, many of them are stolen, moved interstate, or sold off before they cross a border.’

  ‘And dog-fighting?’ Lauren felt compelled to ask.

  ‘Oh, that’s really nasty—and although we’ve been aware of a gang operating somewhere near here, we’ve never been able to find them. You’re at the sanctuary at the end of the lake?’

  Lauren agreed and the man hung up—though when exactly he or anyone else would appear she had no idea.

  She’d better tell Cam he was coming, and mention the man with a gun. First, though, she would phone Helen, to let her know what was going on. Who knew what Brendan might suggest they do when he appeared. Remove all the animals?

  Helen refused to panic, saying simply that she’d get someone over there to spend the night just in case there was a disturbance.

  Helen’s calm rubbed off on Lauren, so phoning Cam was relatively easy—until he caught on to what had happened and reacted with protective anger, asking why she’d remained in the vicinity of a man with a gun.