‘For tonight,’ she whispered.
‘For now, let’s accept that’s all either of us can ask.’
‘Oh, Hugh,’ she said, and he felt the strength drain out of her. Her shoulders slumped and that fierce, determined courage seemed to drain away.
He tugged her closer, held her tight, feeling as if he was holding her up.
‘Gina, for tonight...let me take care of you,’ he said gently, and she put her face up to be kissed, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
As it was.
This was his woman.
He’d come home.
* * *
She woke and she was in his arms. She was cradled against him, spooned against his chest. She was being held as if she was the most precious thing in the world.
Outside the sounds of the storm persisted, but the intensity had faded. There was water dripping down her bedroom wall. That’d be from the loss of the roofing iron. This old house was on its last days.
It didn’t need to last any longer.
She should think about her aunt, whose body lay in the big, cold bedroom at the far end of the house. Of Babs, who’d slipped away to somewhere where she needed no one.
Of Babs, who’d sworn to need no one. As Gina had.
She should think of her own future. Of what she’d do now.
But right now, her mind wouldn’t go there. It was as if something inside her had given her this place of peace. Instead of thinking of trouble, of emptiness, of grief, she lay in Hugh’s arms and let herself savour this moment of peace. Of safety. Of warmth.
Of love?
No. This man was as independent as she was, she thought. He was trained in the same way. You did what you needed to do to stay independent. You never let your hard-won armour open, you never allowed anything to pierce your self-sufficiency.
He’d held her all night. Just...held her.
But for a moment she lay and let herself dream, of what life could be like if she turned within his arms and held him and told him...
What?
That she’d fallen in love?
She didn’t fall in love. That was for movies and story books. Real life was practical. Real life was for holding on to your defences, to prevent pain ripping in. You could be fond, you could enjoy, you could find warmth and laughter and friendship. But you held that armour closed.
And with that thought, reality returned. When Hugh stirred and his arms tightened, when she turned into him and saw his eyes, gravely questioning, her heart twisted—as if there were a loss here that was too great to bear?
She hadn’t lost, she told herself fiercely. She’d never taken in the first place.
‘Love?’ he said, and there it was again, that twist, sharp as a knife.
‘Hey,’ she whispered, shoving down unwanted emotion with every inch of her being. ‘Good...good morning.’
Keep it light, her inner self was screaming, and something in her gaze must have got through to him.
‘Good morning to you, too, love,’ he told her. ‘I guess it’s not, but we can hold to this calm for a while longer.’
He smiled at her, a warm, embracing smile that was a declaration all by itself, and she had to fight to keep the surge of stupid hope at bay. She knew this man now.He operated on the same basis as she did. A hard shell deep within, armour to be protected at all costs. But caring was still there.
This was all this night had been. Caring.
Love must be different.
He hauled his arm out from underneath her and glanced at his watch. ‘Five a.m. The world’s not awake. There’s nothing we can do yet. Can you sleep again, love?’ His arms tightened. ‘You know, this bed really is too small.’
It definitely was. It was the bed she’d slept in when she was fifteen. The bed of so many nightmares.
She’d hated this bed. She’d hated this bedroom.
She lay squashed now, in her too small bed, and she thought it had its advantages. Hugh was holding her close. He had no choice, but close was good.
Unless she let herself believe that close could cure anything.
‘Gina, you can’t stay here.’ Hugh was awake now, and he must be aware of the water dripping down her wall. Of the broken shutters. Of the knowledge that this was the end of her time here. ‘You’ll need to stay at my place.’ His arms tightened around her again—possessive? ‘Hoppy and I have a king-sized bed, and I suspect he’ll be as happy to share as I would be.’ He hesitated. ‘As I...will be?’
‘Hugh...’
‘I know,’ he said, softly, against her ear. ‘It’s too soon to think of anything past today, and today will be bleak. I just need you to know that you’re not alone. That at the end of the day Hoppy and I will be here. Love, you won’t be facing this by yourself.’
‘I can cope.’
‘I’m sure you can,’ he told her. ‘You’re one amazing woman.’
‘Yeah,’ she said dryly, fighting down something that felt like panic. That line...you’re not alone...it felt like a siren song. She needed to block it out.
She was thinking suddenly, stupidly, of her aunt, all those years ago, greeting her from the ferry. Of a hug. Of the overwhelming sense that she was no longer alone. That she had a home to go to.
And then the next morning, the brick...
‘Gina...’ Hugh was watching her face, troubled. ‘Love...’
‘Please...don’t call me love.’
‘What, never?’
‘I don’t... I can’t...’
‘I didn’t think I could either,’ he told her. ‘But right now—’
‘Right now I might get up and start...’
‘Start what?’
‘I...’ She was flailing for answers. ‘I’m not sure. Where’s Hoppy?’ she managed.
‘Hoppy’s out by the fire stove,’ he told her. ‘Sleeping as the world’s sleeping. And Babs is gone. You’ve done everything she allowed you to do to keep her last days secure, and there’s nothing more you can do for her. The world will break in soon enough—it has to—but for now...’ Those dark eyes were so gentle, so loving that she felt as if she could drown. ‘For now, my love, my beautiful Gina, let me hold you close. For these next few hours...maybe let’s both believe that what we have right now might be for ever?’
* * *
Hugh slept again but Gina didn’t. She lay awake, cocooned in his arms, maybe even half asleep, but she was in some dream of a twilight world. She should feel safe in his hold, but Babs’s death was raw, the storm was still blowing, and in this twilight world Hugh’s arms couldn’t keep her from the nightmares she’d had over and over. Nightmares that had their basis in reality.
The loneliness of a childhood being passed from one carer to another. Of having no control of when and how goodbyes would occur.
The night on the mountain with her parents.
Babs’s hugs and then the certainty of yet another goodbye.
In her dreams she felt as if she was swirling, the sensation leaving her breathless with fear. Of having no control. Of clinging and being torn again.
Hugh’s arms still held her, but as the morning light finally filtered through the broken shutters the nightmare was still with her. Hugh’s arms couldn’t keep her safe. No one could except herself.
So somehow, she had to stay in control. She couldn’t allow herself to hope.
Somehow, she had to be the one who said goodbye.
* * *
At nine o’clock Hugh hit the phones. Trees and power lines had come down over the track leading to this side of the island and they needed to be cleared before the outside world could break in. Hugh bullied Gina into eating some breakfast and then went to help.
When he finally returned, Gina was on the roof, hammering down a sheet of roofing iron. The wind hadn’t died completely. She look
ed a tiny figure, up there banging in nails.
A convoy was behind Hugh’s truck, consisting of the island’s policewoman, the island’s funeral director, a couple of other burly islanders and a truck full of chainsaws.
As they arrived, Gina clambered down her ladder and the look she gave him as he headed towards her was closed. It was as if their time apart had cemented what she knew she had to say. What she had to believe. She folded her arms defensively, a gesture that said back off.
‘Gina, stay off the roof.’ It was the policewoman who snapped it, not him. ‘The boys here’ll make the place watertight.’
‘I will,’ Hugh growled, but she shook her head.
‘There’s no need. I can do it.’
And then bureaucracy took over. The funeral director—a local farmer with a double role—was officious, dotting every ‘i’, crossing every ‘t’. He was intent on treating Babs’s death as unexpected, which would have meant an autopsy and a coroner’s report, so Hugh had to once more switch to doctor mode. Yes, he’d been treating Babs, yes, this was a pre-condition, her death was very much expected. When finally Babs’s body was carried out to the funeral director’s van, when finally the guys on the roof finished nailing—they hadn’t taken no for an answer—when the policewoman left with her pile of forms, Gina retreated still further.
‘Come home with me,’ he told her, but she shook her head.
‘I can’t,’ she said simply. ‘Hugh, you’ve been wonderful, but I need to be alone.’
‘Gina...’
‘Please, Hugh, I mean it. Please leave me be.’
And that was that.
CHAPTER TWELVE
BABS’S FUNERAL TOOK PLACE four days later, in the island’s only chapel, at the edge of town, on a headland where mourners could gaze through the stained-glass windows and see the glimmer of the ocean beyond.
Gina sat alone.
There were any number of islanders who would have sat with her. In the weeks she’d been on the island she’d been accepted as ‘one of them’. She’d accepted their condolences with gratitude and warmth, but she’d stayed in Babs’s house and she’d refused all offers of company.
Including Hugh’s.
Hugh had offered to be with her during the service, but she’d simply said, ‘Hugh, thank you but I need to do this by myself.’ When he’d arrived, she’d welcomed him at the chapel door as she’d welcomed everyone who attended. She’d smiled at him and held his hand for just a touch too long—but then she’d shaken her head, as if recalling something she should have known.
Then she’d walked to the front pew and sat, solitary, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Plain navy trousers and white shirt. Her hair tied in a plain navy scarf. Part of her uniform? Part of the Gina who was moving on.
The Gina he knew had been tucked back inside some tight, hard shell. Something had happened to her the night Babs had died.
Or was it the night he’d called her love?
Babs’s body was to be taken to Gannet to be cremated, her ashes then to be scattered on the beach she loved, so there was to be no burial. He watched Gina’s face as the hearse disappeared and saw a pain so deep she couldn’t hide it. He wanted to hug her. He wanted to take her pain into him.
He couldn’t. He wasn’t wanted.
It was the height of irony, he thought savagely. He’d held himself to himself for so long and now, when a woman had come into his life and broken through his barriers, her own armour was holding them apart.
The hall next to the chapel was being used to serve refreshments. The sight of Gina’s strained face was killing him, but he couldn’t leave. He stood and drank insipid tea and talked inanities to the islanders—and, okay, sometimes they weren’t even inanities. She’d done this to him, this woman. She’d drawn him into a place where he felt himself caring for the whole damned island.
But her face... He watched her deflect sympathy and he thought, She’s withdrawing, as he watched.
Would she leave? The thought made him feel ice cold, but what was there to make her stay?
And then his phone, turned off during the service, rang into life again. He excused himself to the fisherman who’d been explaining the complexities of his bunions to him and headed outside.
‘Yes?’
‘Doc?’ And from the phone he heard terror.
‘What’s happened?’
‘It’s... Doc, this is Harry... Harry Whitecross. My wife, my Jenny, she’s thirty-four weeks pregnant. We were heading over to Gannet next week to stay with her mum until bub’s born, but half an hour ago she started bleeding. A lot.’
He stood on the hall steps and his mind stilled. The emotions playing in his head faded into the background as medicine took over. He was no obstetrician, but in years of working with overseas aid, he’d seen plenty. Bleeding in late pregnancy... A lot of bleeding...
‘Is she in labour? Is she having pains?’
‘No. No pain, Doc, but the bleeding’s getting worse. More’n a period. Much more. We rang Doc Ellen, the obstetrician on Gannet, but the doc who answered said she’s gone to a family wedding in Sydney. They said they’ll send the chopper with help as soon as it’s available, but meanwhile to ring you. Doc, she’s scared. Will you come?’
This much bleeding...this close to term... Scenarios were playing in his mind, none of them good. He was already looking out at the car park, figuring how he could get his truck from behind the bank of parked cars. Being blocked in was the price he’d paid for coming early.
But he’d have to go. A significant bleed in late pregnancy... There was no way they could wait for the chopper, for evacuation to Gannet, to technology, to surgeons, to a hospital facility.
‘Tell me where you are.’ He mentally gave up on his truck—it’d take twenty minutes and a public announcement to get it out. But Gina’s—or, truthfully, Babs’s—Mini was free. As chief mourner she’d parked in the reserved spot.
‘A farm two K south of town,’ the guy on the end of the line was saying. ‘The gate on the left at the end of Blainey’s Road. Doc, can you ask Gina...? I know it’s her aunt’s funeral, but Jenny’s terrified and at least she knows Gina. She’s almost an islander.’
He glanced back in at Gina, surrounded by mourners, white-faced, stressed. Almost an islander? She wasn’t, he thought, knowing she’d reject the label.
But even if Harry hadn’t asked for her to come, Hugh knew he needed her. In every one of the scenarios in his head, he knew he couldn’t do this alone. He was about to stress her even more.
‘Tell Jenny to lie still,’ he told Harry. ‘Keep calm and see if you can keep Jenny that way, too. Tell her we’re on our way.’
He was already heading inside. Heading for Gina.
* * *
The elderly farmer in front of her was balancing tea and scones with jam and cream in one hand, wringing her hand with the other.
‘She didn’t mix much but she was one of us,’ he was saying. ‘She must have been so pleased when you got home. I’m so sorry for your loss.’
It was pretty much what she’d been hearing over and over, any time these last few days. She was so tired she wanted to sleep for a week.
She wanted to leave.
At least she could. In her purse she had a slip of paper with details written after a call yesterday. An escape route. It didn’t make her feel any less empty, but at least it was there.
And then Hugh was at her shoulder, touching her lightly on her arm. ‘Gina?’
She turned, almost bracing. What was she expecting? That he’d put his arm around her, that he’d support her, that he’d declare to the islanders that he cared?
She didn’t want it. She couldn’t want it. But instead she saw his face and knew that whatever he was here for, it wasn’t that.
‘Emergency,’ he said curtly. ‘Jenny Whitecross. Late-term preg
nancy, bleeding. Sorry, Gina, but I need you.’ He turned to the farmer she’d been talking to. ‘Mate, could you spread the word that we’ve been called away? No drama but we’re needed in a hurry.’
‘Yeah, of course,’ the farmer said quickly, and then patted Gina on the arm. ‘You go where you’re needed. Aren’t we all lucky you came home?’
Home? Gina thought bleakly as she turned—with something of relief.
Not so much.
* * *
Hugh told her fast what was happening. They grabbed gear from his truck, shifted it to Babs’s Mini and then headed to the Whitecrosses’. Gina drove as fast as Babs’s ancient Mini allowed.
Feeling desolate.
She wanted to get off this island. She wanted to stop grieving for an aunt who’d never loved her. She wanted to stop caring for islanders, when this island wasn’t her home.
She wanted not to feel...what she was feeling...for the man by her side.
But for now, everything had to be put aside in the face of Jenny Whitecross’s need.
And then they were turning into the farmyard. Harry was bursting outside to greet them, and medical need took over.
Jenny was in the main bedroom. She was lying super-still. She looked young, not much more than a teenager, fair-haired, pale, swollen with pregnancy. Obviously terrified. Her eyes were wide with fear, and the towels under her told their own story.
Gina took one look at the blood, and her heart sank. This was way beyond her.
Since she’d finished her training, she’d been working on expedition ships. In that role, she’d coped with everything that a team of fit young men and women doing crazy things could throw at her.
Complications of late pregnancy, not so much.
But Hugh had dumped his bag by the bed and was holding Jenny’s wrist, stooping so his face was at her level. He at least was exuding an air of calm.
‘It’s okay, Jenny. We’re here now. You know that I’m a doctor and Gina’s a nurse. We have all the skills you need to see this through. Harry tells me you’re thirty-four weeks pregnant. Is that right?’
Healing Her Brooding Island Hero Page 14