Rescued by the Single Dad Doc

by Marion Lennox

  He’d crossed his already, he thought. Would she?

  ‘Safety was one thing,’ she said. ‘Plus...accepting responsibility.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘That’s what medicine means to me. Safety.’

  ‘You mean you’ll never be without a job? Never without an income?’

  She shook her head, closing her eyes for a moment, and he thought, She’s going to pull back.

  ‘Fair’s fair,’ he told her. ‘If you really don’t want to tell me...’

  And he watched her hesitate and then decide to let it out.

  ‘Medicine did mean safety,’ she said in a voice that was little more than a whisper. ‘But not economic. Mine’s a childhood memory too. My mother...she wasn’t the best. Social welfare was called often when I was little. They came once after... Well, it’d been a bad time for Mum and I was obviously in a bit of a state. So they picked me up and took me to the hospital. I stayed there for a week. I remember doctors and nurses, staff who stayed when Mum came, who told her they’d be watching us, that if I came to them in that condition again, I’d be taken away and she could even go to jail. They were people who accepted responsibility for my welfare. And after that things got better.

  ‘Then my stepfather arrived on the scene and it was awful again. The doctor who examined me when the teachers called the police... She did it again—she accepted responsibility for my safety. She moved heaven and earth to get my stepfather jailed. Me into foster care.

  ‘It still wasn’t over, though. There was always trouble. I told you Mum supported my stepfather when he went to jail? Well, she blamed me for that. She’d find me, yell invectives, make a scene. I was trouble for any foster parent who’d take me on. It messed with the other kids they had responsibility for, and I always had to move. In the end I fended for myself. But once... I cut my foot and it was infected. In the end I was scared enough to go to a medical clinic and the doctor there... She didn’t just treat my foot. She gave me the number for crisis accommodation, the address of food vans. She let me use her phone. Then she said whenever I was in trouble to come to her, and she meant it. She accepted responsibility for me, and you can’t begin to understand how that feels.’ Her voice trailed off. ‘And I thought then... To be like her... I couldn’t, of course, but I’d get as close as I could.’

  He was cringing inside. What she’d gone through... Yet there were still questions. ‘Rachel, what she did...what all those people did...that’s personal,’ he said gently. ‘You want to do radiology? Surely that’s one of the most impersonal of medical careers.’

  ‘So I’m not asking for miracles,’ she said bluntly. ‘I want to be a doctor. I want to accept responsibility for outcomes. But I can’t feel like...well, like you seem to do. Accepting responsibility is one thing. Caring, though... Gut caring... That’s something that’s been wrung out of me long ago, if it ever existed in the first place.’

  ‘So when you touched me last night...’

  ‘An aberration,’ she said briskly. ‘A primeval urge, probably inherited from some dumb ancestor who owned a dog with all four legs and the ability to look cute. Anyway, that’s that. Time to get on with the morning.’

  Confidence ended. She gave a decisive nod and walked up the steps and past him. The steps were narrow and he felt the faint brush of her body as she passed.

  He wanted to reach out.

  No! This woman was complicated, needy, wounded. Surely the last thing he needed in his life was anything or anyone else who was complicated, needy or wounded.

  And she didn’t want or need to be rescued. She’d rescued herself.

  Rose would be waiting to go home. Henry and Marcus would be waiting. He had to collect Kit. Hell, even Tuffy would be needing a walk. Why had he ever agreed to take on a rescue dog? He had enough problems.

  So back off, he told himself. Rachel Tilding had scars that must be bone-deep, but she had them in hand. He needed to take a lesson from her attitude to life. Rachel had accepted some of his responsibility and he was grateful. That didn’t mean he needed to feel anything else.

  Feeling...anything else...might make life very complicated indeed.

  * * *

  Her ward round was brisk, businesslike, professional, because that was how she needed to be. But she didn’t feel like that inside. The time on the veranda had left her totally discombobulated.

  How had they got so personal? Why had she told him so much about her past? It surely would have been enough to tell him she wanted the most secure profession she could find.

  Except Tom had told her his story, and somehow she knew those feelings were usually protected as tightly as her own. Somehow his level of honesty had demanded the same of her.

  And now she’d promised to take on three kids for the afternoon. When she’d planned to paint her bedroom.

  She’d always planned her time off meticulously, knowing from past experience that idleness left room for depression. This weekend was for painting. Her little cottage was only her home for two years, but someone had once hung paintings in her bedroom, the marks were still there and it was annoying her.

  Kids and beach instead?

  It was okay. She needed to do ward rounds now and then house calls and shopping and preparation. Then she needed to collect the boys and supervise.

  Which was okay because, for some reason, she didn’t want time to think, to remember Tom’s face as he’d told her his story. And also...she didn’t want to think of his face as she’d told hers.

  The man cared.

  She didn’t want his care. She didn’t want anyone’s care and she didn’t want to care back. Hadn’t she learned the hard way where care led? She accepted responsibility when she needed to, because that was what good people did, but that was as far as it went.

  So. Work. Now. She could hear Roscoe Junior starting a lusty protest. Maybe there was a problem. Had Tom had time for a full examination?

  A baby crying as lustily as this could scarcely have problems, but Roscoe and Lizzy might be worried. A full medical examination could reassure them, and she would hardly have time to think about Tom when she was focused on a newborn and his anxious parents.

  And that was what she needed. No time to remember the look of compassion on Tom’s face. No time to think about the way his hand had reached out to her as she’d finished her story. And the way he’d looked down at his hand and then carefully pulled it back.

  He’d made a decision, and she concurred.

  There’d been enough emotion in both their pasts to last a lifetime. The last thing either of them needed was...to care.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  WORK WAS NEVER a problem for Rachel. Work was Rachel Tilding’s safe place, her time for blocking out the problems of the world.

  She moved swiftly through the ward rounds and then made two house calls just as efficiently. Yes, Edith Carey wanted to show Rachel her entire collection of woolly caps she’d knitted for next winter’s charity drive but admiring three—and agreeing on a cash donation for more wool—was enough.

  Entertaining small boys and thus ensuring Tom had some sleep was a medical priority. She had no use for a colleague who was asleep on his feet. So she swept through the morning’s work with speed. She did a fast shop, an even faster cook and then went to collect the boys.

  Tom greeted her when she arrived, but his greeting was wary. As was her response. She backed away fast, and he seemed relieved to see her go.

  ‘Enjoy yourselves,’ he told the boys and his smile encompassed her, but briefly. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Think nothing of it,’ she told him, turning away as the boys zoomed out of the door and made a fast track to the beach. They might be wary of her but the beach was like a siren song, not to be resisted, even if it meant a childminder they were unsure of.

  ‘I appreciate this,’ Tom told her, but she didn’t respond.
She’d moved on to childminding mode and Tom was no longer on her radar.

  Or he shouldn’t be. He needed sleep. That was the only reason she was doing this. Medical need. Once the boys—and Tuffy—were heading down the track with her towards the beach, she closed her mental door firmly behind him.

  She was here to do a job.

  And, as far as jobs went, what followed was satisfactory, her planning more than paying off.

  She sat on the beach and supervised while the boys and Tuffy whooped in the shallows, explored the rock pools, acted as if they hadn’t seen the beach for years. They devoured her cupcakes and sausage rolls in two swoops on the picnic basket. They had little need of her, which was just the way she liked it.

  And then, when things started to lag a little, when they started playing nearer to her, when she sensed they were starting to feel a bit needy, she produced her pièce de résistance.

  During the time she’d been here, Shallow Bay’s General Store had had a beach display in the window, buckets and spades, things kids could mess around with on the beach. Included were plastic figures seemingly welded onto miniature surf boards, characters about a hand-span high. The figures were labelled with names like Surfer Sue or Hang-Ten Ted or Rip-Tide Roger. She’d seen a family using these on the beach a few days back and this morning, on impulse, she’d bought three.

  As backup. Which she now produced.

  Their function was to be thrown out into the shallows. Internal weights righted them as soon as an incoming wave hit. The little figures then rode gamely in, standing tall. The boys pounced on them with glee as they hit the beach, then threw them out again, searching for waves that’d provide a longer ride. Great. She could retreat to caretaker mode again.

  Tom could have a little more sleep.

  Except he couldn’t, because suddenly he was standing right behind her. She hadn’t seen him approach. The boys were in the water and all her attention was on them.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Tom asked and the unexpectedness of his voice made her jump. It was simply a startle reflex, she told herself. Her heart rate should settle again.

  Except it didn’t.

  ‘F-fine,’ she managed. ‘You should be asleep.’

  ‘I’ve had three hours. Luxury,’ he told her. He was watching the boys, who hadn’t noticed him. ‘What are they doing?’

  ‘Competing. Plastic surfers. Wipe-Out Wally. Tip-Off Tony. Grommet Georgie. They’re trying to see whose goes furthest. Sadly, Henry’s too little and Kit is one-handed. Marcus can throw further so he’s winning by a country mile. They don’t mind, though. They seem to be having fun.’

  ‘You bought them plastic surfers?’ he asked in a strange voice, still watching them.

  ‘It gives me space to read.’ She motioned to the medical journal beside her, which she’d been glancing at when the boys were out of the water. ‘I know hardly anything about diseases animals can give you, and I’m thinking if I’m in the country for two years I should find out more. Did you know bats carry lyssavirus? They can give it to livestock, horses in particular, and it can be passed on. Symptoms...’

  ‘I know the symptoms,’ he told her. ‘I read up on it when I got here. No case so far, touch wood.’

  ‘When do you get time for reading?’

  ‘When the boys are asleep. Or when my very kind neighbour takes them to the beach. Thank you for buying...what did you say?’

  ‘Wipe-Out Wally. Tip-Off Tony. Grommet Georgie. They were the last on the shelf,’ she admitted. ‘Hang-Ten Ted and Surfer Sue must have been sold as soon as they arrived. These guys are the losers.’

  ‘They’re not losing now,’ Tom said, watching the little figures wobbling in on the waves and the boys whooping encouragement as they neared the shore. ‘You want to come down and see if we can beat Marcus?’

  ‘They’re busy,’ she said shortly. ‘They don’t need us.’

  ‘They might like us.’

  ‘If you’re taking over childminding, I’ll read this.’

  ‘Let’s assume that one Shallow Bay doctor has a good grip on lyssavirus and the other now knows the basics. Surely that’s enough?’ He stooped and snagged a cupcake from her picnic basket. ‘Wow, these are excellent. Well done, Dr Tilding. But work’s done. Surely now it’s time to have fun yourself. Let’s see if we can outdo Marcus.’

  ‘Why, when they’re happy?’ she asked. ‘You should be sleeping some more, or reading, or taking the time to catch up on what needs doing.’

  ‘But what needs doing most?’ he asked gently. ‘Sleeping, reading, working—or forging a relationship with kids who need it?’

  She looked up at him curiously. His eyes were challenging. Why?

  ‘Surely these kids don’t need more relationships,’ she said, feeling puzzled. What was he on about? Making the kids dependent on him? ‘Haven’t they already learned that? A father who’s deserted them? A mother who’s dead? Why try and build more bonds that’ll eventually break and cause heartache?’

  ‘Because I want to?’ He turned to watch the boys again, talking almost to himself. ‘Yeah, weird, but the thing is... I’ve learned to love these guys. Without love, this whole set-up would be a disaster but, as it is, I get home and they greet me with what’s starting to be just normal kid acceptance of a parent. Like I’m their foundation. Isn’t that the most important thing I can give them?’

  ‘There’s no such thing as foundations,’ she said shortly. ‘Soon enough they’ll have to launch themselves out into a world that doesn’t give a toss. They need to be resilient, not reliant on pseudo-foundations that can crumble at any moment.’

  ‘Hey!’ Tom said, sounding startled. He turned back and looked down at her. ‘That sounds like Life for Beginners, when right now you should be immersed in Beach for Beginners. You’re overthinking. Bottom line is that I might enjoy whipping Marcus in the surfing game. So... I’m inviting you to watch. Take off those sandals, Dr Tilding, and come paddle.’

  ‘I don’t need...’

  ‘This isn’t about need. This is about fun. No strings attached.’

  ‘I don’t want...’

  ‘How do you know what you want unless you try?’

  ‘Tom...’

  ‘Just come,’ he said gently and then, even more gently, ‘I dare you.’

  His eyes met hers, a challenge, a hint of laughter. A hint of understanding.

  Oh, those eyes. She should run. She should...

  ‘Fine,’ she snapped before she could stop herself. She tugged off her sandals, almost angrily. ‘But just for a few minutes. Now you’re here to take over, I’ll go home.’

  ‘Back to work.’

  ‘I need to finish this journal.’

  ‘Lyssavirus waits for no man,’ he said solemnly. ‘But Rachel, I haven’t seen a single bat in the entire time I’ve spent in Shallow Bay so I’m assuming we might be safe this afternoon. Come and play.’

  Play. The idea was so foreign to her that it scared her.

  ‘You might even want to take that shirt off,’ he said and that was more than enough. She’d worn her swimsuit to the beach, with a shirt over the top. After all, she was here in care capacity. Beach lifesaver.

  She could still be a beach lifesaver with this shirt on, though, and she could also stand in the shallows and watch the kids throwing plastic surfboards. Tom had seen her scars once. She had no intention of exposing them again.

  ‘The boys probably won’t even notice,’ he told her, still watching her face. ‘Or if they do then it’s a ten-second explanation that they’re old scars, the same as Kit will have on his hand, and it’s done and dusted. Rachel, once they see them once, you won’t have to hide any more.’

  ‘But I need to hide.’ It was out before she even thought about it. A sweeping statement. A statement that covered her whole life? The words hung in the stillness like an upraised s
word, threatening. Stupid, stupid, stupid. What was it with this man that made her feel so exposed?

  And his eyes were still on hers, holding. Understanding? How could he understand?

  ‘Rachel, you don’t need to do any such thing,’ he said. ‘You’re far too beautiful to hide for the rest of your life. It’s time to have fun.’ And, before she knew what he was about, he reached down and took her hands, tugging her to her feet.

  And once she stood, he didn’t let go.

  What was happening? She stood facing him, her hands in his, and the wash of vulnerability that hit her was so overwhelming she almost needed his hands to hold her up.

  But she didn’t need his hands. She didn’t need anything. She had to leave.

  ‘I need to go home,’ she stammered.

  ‘Liar,’ he said. ‘You weren’t exactly packing up when I arrived.’

  ‘That was because I thought you still needed to sleep. I thought you needed me to be here.’

  ‘I still need you.’

  ‘No!’ It was almost panic. ‘You don’t.’

  ‘I do,’ he said placatingly. ‘But not in a way that threatens you. I need you to see me whup Marcus in the...what did you say?...the Wipe-Out Wally, Tip-Off Tony and Grommet Georgie competition. I need an audience for my prowess and you’re elected. You can keep your shirt on, Dr Tilding. This isn’t scary. You might even enjoy yourself.’

  ‘I don’t...’

  ‘Enjoy yourself. I can see that and that’s why I’m asking. You prescribed me rest this afternoon because I needed it so now I’m returning the favour. Fun, Dr Tilding. You might even have a go, too. Let’s see if the boys will share.’

  Share... For some reason the word sounded terrifying.

  But he was tugging her down to the water and she didn’t have a choice.

  Tom was intent on having fun, and it seemed Rachel Tilding had to follow.

  * * *

  How seldom was it that Tom Lavery enjoyed himself nowadays? Really enjoyed himself, without the constant niggles of worry that continued to surface?