Healing Her Brooding Island Hero

by Marion Lennox

  It must have taken a small army to have cleared Henry’s rubbish, she thought, blinking. In its place were vegetable beds, a herb garden, a small greenhouse.

  She stood, too astonished to move, and then a little fox terrier came tearing around from the back of the house, as fast as his three legs could take him. His yapping could have woken the dead, and with visions of the last dogs Gina had seen here she braced.

  But the little dog reached her and crouched and rolled, fawning, his big eyes an unspoken plea of pat me, pat me, rub my tummy. He wiggled and wiggled, then, as she reached down to pat him, he smelt the pie in her basket.

  She rose fast, but who knew a dog with three legs could jump so high?

  ‘Hoppy!’

  And here he was, limping around the side of the house. He was wearing a ripped T-shirt, stained trousers and heavy, scuffed army boots. The scar on his face looked almost menacing.

  He was carrying an axe.

  Whoa.

  ‘I’ve brought you a pie,’ she said, and for the life of her she couldn’t prevent her voice wobbling.

  He stopped dead, eyeing her as if she were some sort of alien.

  Maybe she was, she thought. She’d certainly felt like that when she’d last lived here.

  Sandpiper Islanders were...conservative to say the least. She remembered at fifteen, going into the general store with her aunt for the first time. The whole store had stopped, staring at her as if they were seeing some strange species.

  Okay, she had been going through her punk period. She’d arrived on the island wearing black leathers, goth make-up and her huge Doc Marten boots. Her fiery hair had been cut boy-short, and dyed deep, deep black. At fifteen she’d been in full rebellion mode, and no one had warned her that her parents weren’t planning to stick around to rebel against.

  She’d even had a pet ferret, though by the time her aunt took her shopping Arsenic was...deceased.

  Hit by a brick.

  Fourteen years later she was almost past rebelling—she was even almost over Arsenic’s death—but on board the ship she wore tough, expeditioner gear.

  Her off duty clothes were pretty much the opposite.

  So now she stood in what was, for her, fairly tame clothing. Sky-blue capri pants with glitter stars down the sides. An oversized windcheater, pink, with the same glitter stars. Purple, open-toed sandals. She’d caught her riot of copper curls back with purple ribbon—almost demure—and she’d kept her make-up to a minimum.

  There was no need for this guy to be staring as if he were seeing a Martian.

  ‘Babs made you a pie,’ she said, her second statement coming out almost defiant.

  He was still motionless, just looking.

  Well. A cat can look at a king, she thought, anger coming to her rescue. While the little dog—Hoppy?—continued to leap for the pie, she did her own perusing.

  The impressions she’d gained last night solidified. This guy was seriously big. Tough. Weathered. He was holding the axe in one hand and it looked as if it were almost an extension of himself. His grey, deep-set eyes were narrowed against the morning sun, and a scar marred the left side of his face. A laceration, but burns as well, she thought.

  ‘Haven’t you been told it’s rude to stare?’ he demanded, and she blinked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You were staring.’

  And that settled her. What was it with this guy?

  ‘For some reason I always stare at guys who come at me with an axe,’ she retorted. ‘Stupid, I know, when what I should do is turn and run. So what’s your excuse for staring? You think my pie is loaded?’

  There was a silence at that. He’d be used to people staring at the scar, she thought, but, dammit, he’d spent almost a minute inspecting her from the toes up.

  ‘Touché,’ he said at last, but still he didn’t move. His face was grim, unwelcoming.

  ‘So what do you want me to do?’ she asked, beginning to feel seriously fed up. ‘Put the pie down and flee? I warn you, Hoppy’ll take his share before you even reach it.’

  ‘Hoppy!’ he said, and the little dog ceased trying to leap for the pie, looked uncertainly back at his master and reluctantly made his way back to his side.

  He was still staring. The silence was starting to seriously unnerve her.

  ‘So now what?’ she demanded. ‘I put the pie on the ground and back away with hands raised?’ She was starting to think Old Man Jefferson had nothing on this guy.

  And finally, he pulled himself together. ‘I...sorry. Your hair looks amazing.’

  ‘And your axe looks sharp.’

  ‘You were looking at my face.’

  ‘I admit, I was stunned by your mesmeric grey eyes, but, believe it or not, the axe took precedence.’

  There was another moment’s silence and then, finally, his face relaxed and his mouth twisted into a trace of a reluctant grin.

  ‘I was chopping wood.’

  ‘Right,’ she said slowly. ‘So you heard a visitor arrive and thought, Fine, I’m already armed.’

  She got a long stare for that, but then he wheeled away and laid the axe on the veranda. ‘Satisfied?’

  ‘The warmth of your welcome is almost overwhelming. Come and get this stupid pie so I can leave. Believe it or not, it’s a thank you for last night. Babs made it though, not me, so there’s not the least need for you to feel grateful to me.’

  ‘Babs’s beef and mushroom pie.’

  ‘Yeah, legendary.’ She couldn’t quite suppress a smile. Babs’s pies had been one of her very few ways of comforting. She’d laid one on when Gina had first arrived on the island. Before Arsenic...

  Don’t go there. Instead she tilted her chin and met this unwelcoming toerag’s look head-on. ‘Luckily, she’s made two. I’m going to head home and eat the other one right now.’

  ‘What’s she got to be grateful to you for?’

  And that took her breath away. She went right back to staring at him, astonishment and anger doing this weird mix inside her.

  He gazed calmly back. He might have been St Peter, she thought, grimly telling her she’d been judged and found wanting.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she managed at last, and his expression didn’t change.

  ‘You know she has end-stage heart disease.’

  ‘As a matter of fact I do.’ Anger was superseding surprise now. Anger in spades.

  ‘So she had a massive heart attack four months ago, and there’s little left to repair. She shouldn’t be living alone, but four months ago she told me her you were coming. “My great-niece stands to inherit this house and land,” she told me. “Of course she’ll come.” So what kept you? You figure wait four months and you’ll be that much closer to inheriting?’

  Whoa.

  There was so much in that to stun her. So much...it was almost unbelievable.

  She could, though, believe that Babs would say such a thing. She remembered the phone call to the hospital, a nurse holding the phone for her aunt.

  Gina had been on the ship, off the coast of Cuba. The cardiologist had just told her what Babs’s outlook was.

  ‘I’m coming home, Babs,’ she’d told her. ‘It might be complicated—with all this stuff going on I don’t know how long it’ll take to reach you—but I’ll get to you as soon as humanly possible. Don’t you dare die before I get there. Do what you have to do to stay alive. I... I love you.’

  And she supposed she did. Babs was, after all, the only family she had, the only family she ever intended to have.

  You were supposed to love family, weren’t you? Gina had learned the hard way that such loving got you nothing but pain. Babs would be the end of it, but for now, like it or not, the tugs of affection were still there.

  And maybe deep down, Babs felt the same. For Babs, who didn’t do emotion, who was an
acerbic old lady who’d decided long ago that she needed no one in her life, who never accepted help from anyone, had choked on a sob. And then she’d pulled herself together.

  ‘Good,’ she’d said. ‘With this pandemic I suppose you need a place to stay for a while.’

  That was her way of saying Gina was welcome. The idea of Gina coming home because she loved her could never be admitted. That Gina was coming for practical reasons was something the unemotional Babs could handle.

  And she could almost see Babs saying it to her seemingly also aloof neighbour—if they ever talked. ‘My great-niece stands to inherit this house and land. Of course she’ll come.’

  They made a great pair, she thought bitterly, and looked down at the pie in the basket she was carrying and had an almost irresistible urge to toss it straight at him.

  Get over it, she told herself. She’d found herself loving Babs regardless of the lack of human connection, but it hurt, and she didn’t need to feel anything for this guy.

  ‘Here’s the pie,’ she told him and put the basket down on the ground. ‘Thank you for last night. Goodbye.’

  He was still watching her, his face now expressionless. ‘You didn’t ask about the wombat.’

  Another judgement? She huffed. ‘Babs told me it’ll live.’

  ‘Would you like to see it?’

  And that caught her. She should stalk off, dignity intact, but she did, sort of, want to see the wombat.

  Okay, she badly wanted to see it. She’d woken this morning remembering its beady little eyes.

  It had also looked accusing, she thought. Who needed St Peter when she had Babs, this toerag and a dumb wombat with poor road skills, all three in judgement mode?

  But seeing the little creature upright and healing... It might help.

  ‘Yes,’ she said grudgingly. And then, because she couldn’t help herself, because she was weak and needful and she was totally pathetic, she added a rider. ‘You wouldn’t have coffee, would you?’

  ‘Coffee.’

  ‘Babs only has herbal tea,’ she told him. ‘Sorry, I know you think I’m beneath pond scum, but if you were to make me a coffee, I might even be prepared to forgive you for making stupid, cruel judgements about something you know nothing about. And will you stop staring at me? I know you have a scar on your face, and I know that’s what you thought I was staring at, but I don’t know what you’re staring at and it’s giving me the heebie-jeebies.’

  ‘Your toes,’ he said promptly, and she looked down at her toes and her world settled a little. She actually quite liked her toes.

  ‘Ballerinas,’ she tossed back at him and he blinked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve had two weeks’ quarantine in Sydney. Two weeks stuck in a hotel room with only my computer and a kit full of nail polish to keep me company. Every toe has a dancer in a different ballet pose. Cute, don’t you think? Arabesque, attitude, croisé, turn-out... They might be a bit wobbly—I had to plead to be allowed to order tiny paintbrushes online—but they’re a work of art, even if I do say so myself.’

  And she lifted one foot and held it out, inviting inspection.

  He didn’t move. He stared at her as if she were an alien. She put her foot down, tucking her cute little ballerinas away for a more appreciative audience. Though where she’d find one on this island...

  He was still staring.

  ‘Stop it,’ she said at last. He’d lifted Hoppy—probably to stop him heading for the pie—and was cradling him loosely in his arms. He was stroking the little dog behind his ears, a gesture totally at odds with the size, strength and coldness of the man. ‘Whether or not you’re impressed with my artistic skills, I need to move on,’ she told him. ‘Yes, I’d like to see my...the wombat but I have more pressing needs. Give me coffee or tell me to go away.’

  He sighed. He put the dog down and then had to make a lunge to reach the basket before Hoppy did.

  ‘I’ll give you coffee.’

  ‘Gee, thanks. You are so neighbourly.’

  ‘I am and all,’ he told her. And then his face softened—just a little. ‘But you’re right, I am judging when it’s none of my business. So, judgement aside, I’ll give you coffee and show you the wombat.’

  ‘You’re all heart.’

  ‘I’m not the least bit heart,’ he told her. ‘But I can show you a wombat and make coffee.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  HE DIDN’T WANT her here. He hadn’t wanted to go to her rescue last night and he surely didn’t want her sticking around here, drinking his coffee, checking his first-aid handiwork.

  He had no choice. He took the pie inside—some things took precedence—then led her around the back of the house. She followed meekly. She probably would have liked a coffee first, he thought, but this was his place, his rules. He was wishing he had disposable cups—that way he could hand her coffee and say goodbye.

  But wombat first. He led her to where he’d homed the wombat in a hastily made wire enclosure. He’d lined a wooden box with moss to provide bedding. The wombat, though, was currently not sleeping. He was lazily munching. He glanced up at them as they neared, gave them a beady little glare, as if to say, ‘Back off, this is mine,’ and then went back to his meal.

  ‘What’s he eating?’ She stopped a few feet from the enclosure, and he gave her credit for knowing this was a wild creature and her presence would stress it.

  Or was she scared of it? With those toenails, that was definitely a possibility.

  He thought suddenly of a kid he’d had to sit next to in grade school. She was pretty and pink, and a total airhead. ‘She’s just a bimbo,’ his parents’ chauffeur had decreed, driving them home after he and his nanny had answered the summons to the principal’s office because ‘one of these children is obviously cheating’. It seemed their arithmetic tests had been found to be identical. From the arms of her adoring parents, Pretty and Pink had tearfully confessed—and Hugh had been given a serve for ‘aiding and abetting’.

  ‘Don’t teach him that word,’ his nanny had scolded as they’d driven back to the family mansion. ‘She’s a muppet, Hugh. Cute on the outside but nothing but cotton wool inside. She can’t help it—you just need to learn to stay clear. We’ll ask your parents to sign a request to have you sit by someone else.’

  They both knew that wouldn’t happen—when were either of his parents around long enough to attend to such trivia?—but it was meant to console.

  So yes, this woman was definitely muppet material, he decided, hauling his thoughts back to the present, but at least she seemed one with spirit. He was starting to figure she gave as good as she got.

  ‘Sweet potato,’ he told her. ‘I checked the Internet. They eat native grasses and roots but foraging for them this morning seemed a bit hard. Wildlife rescuers drop sweet potato into bushfire areas and it’s deemed safe. He seems to like it.’

  ‘It’s definitely male?’

  ‘Didn’t you notice last night? He’s young, masculine and has attitude. He was still enough while I brought him here, but then he recovered enough to fight. It was a bit of a struggle to get that leg cleaned and disinfected.’

  ‘Without an anaesthetist?’

  ‘I wrapped him in a heavy blanket.’

  ‘Much less risky than an anaesthetic,’ she approved. ‘But he’s big. That’s impressive.’

  That was a strange statement for a muppet to make, he thought. He cast her a curious glance, but she’d crouched down, eye level to the wombat, who looked too busy munching to react. ‘Hey, I’m sorry I knocked you over last night,’ she told him.

  The wombat glared and went on munching.

  ‘He’s not much of a conversationalist,’ she mused and looked up at him. ‘Does he have a name?’

  ‘He’s a wombat.’

  ‘Yeah. So, does he have a name?’

  ‘No
.’ He stared down at the wombat, who decided to stare up at him, almost accusingly. He thought of all the stray animals he’d met in war zones over the years, then he looked at Hoppy. You named an animal, you lived with the consequences.

  ‘Then it’s Hubert,’ she said as the silence extended.

  He thought, Please don’t do that, but the thing was already done. Hubert went back to munching. ‘Hi, Hubert.’ Then to Hugh: ‘So you decided not to send him to Gannet?’

  ‘No need. His leg’s not broken. I’ll keep him quiet for a few days until I’m sure he’s safe from infection, and then take him back to where you found him. The only people who use that track are Babs and me—and you. Babs and I don’t hit animals. It’ll be hoped you don’t either.’

  ‘You really don’t like me, do you?’

  ‘I don’t like people. You want that coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ she said and stood, abruptly. ‘Thank you. I should stalk away now, but my need for caffeine is overriding my desire for dignity.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ He headed back to the house and she followed.

  Hoppy tagged behind—with her. Usually Hoppy stayed at his heels. The fact that he’d fallen back to trail along beside this woman seemed almost traitorous.

  Though she did have interesting toenails. Hoppy was almost at toenail level. If he was honest, he wouldn’t mind a closer look at those toenails himself.

  And that was where those thoughts had to stop. He practically stomped into the house, angry with himself for having his equanimity upset. He lived in his own solitary world and he liked it that way. He liked that Babs was the only other resident on this side of the island, and he didn’t like that this woman was likely to be staying for a while.

  Or was she?

  ‘How long do you intend staying?’ he demanded as he flicked on the coffee maker and put a couple of cups into the microwave to heat them.

  But she was distracted. She’d reached the door but hadn’t come in—he hadn’t actually said come in, nor did he intend to. He’d take the coffee onto the veranda. But she was staring through the open door, looking at his state-of-the-art coffee maker with what looked like hunger.