‘Tired?’
Cal’s voice was seductively soft.
‘I guess so,’ Blythe said, huffing out a sigh. ‘Jenny wanted me to talk to you.’
As soon as the words were out of her mouth she realised she’d said the wrong thing, but it was too late to suck them back in because Cal had already taken exception to them.
‘Jenny asked you to talk to me? Why, may I ask? I’ve flown to Brisbane, I’ve brought her back—against my better judgement, I might add—I’ve taken her around with me, sat and watched television with her, tried to work out what’s upsetting her, with very little help from the young madam, now she’s appointed you as a go-between. I’m her father, for heaven’s sake! Why can’t she talk to me!’
Blythe heard pain behind the anger, and because of that she bit back the angry response that sprang to her lips, breathed deeply—then once more when that didn’t work—and finally answered.
‘Perhaps because you are her father,’ she said gently. ‘Because of that, more than anything in the world, she wants to please you. And for that reason she’s stayed all year at a school she hates.’
‘That’s ridiculous. If she hated it from the beginning, why didn’t she say something? She was here in the Easter break and I saw her at the wedding. When I asked her about school, it was fine!’
Blythe dropped her feet back down and pushed her chair closer to his, knowing he was hurting and wanting to touch him—though touching him was as risky as running barefoot through a bushfire…
‘She managed, and it probably was fine, but I imagine things came to a head with end-of-year exams,’ she said, resting her hand on his arm. ‘Apparently she’s a clever girl, your Jenny, and she likes to study, but the group she was in with—the trendy girls—think studying’s for the birds and they tease the kids who want to do well in exams.’
She felt rather than saw Cal turn towards her.
‘Is this something to do with nerds?’ he demanded. ‘She said something about not wanting to be a nerd and I told her that was stupid. You have to be your own person, and do what you want to do, no matter what other people think.’
Blythe sighed again.
‘That’s OK when you’re older,’ she said, ‘but at Jenny’s age, standing out in any way is anathema. If the in group had pink and purple spots, she’d want them, too. It’s natural. And quite apart from not wanting to stand out, there’s the fact that kids of that age can be cruel to anyone they perceive to be different.’
‘But the school has an excellent scholastic record. There must be clever girls there she can befriend.’
Cal knew this was important, but he was missing something here—was it secret women’s business? Stuff men would never understand?
What he did understand were the sensations Blythe’s hand, resting innocently on his arm, was causing.
‘The clever girls are either day girls or Asian boarders who, no doubt because of language, have their own group. I’m sure in time Jenny would fit in there, but is it really necessary, Cal? Is there no way you could keep her here?’
‘I could if I was married,’ he said, then straightened in his chair and turned to Blythe, clasping the hand that rested on his arm. ‘But that’s the answer. If you married me it would solve all our problems. There’d always be someone at home for Jenny, and even if Mark doesn’t leave, we could share the work at the practice.’
He was about to list other advantages, not least of which was a satisfactory sex life, when she pulled her hand away, stood up and said, ‘Go boil your head.’ And walked away.
Not the most encouraging of replies, he realised, but she was tired. Frustration with his temporary disability ground within him, but there was nothing he could do about it right now, any more than he could follow Blythe to her room right now, so he set it aside and went back through the conversation to the bits about Jenny.
Surely that was something he could fix.
Blythe was up early. She’d have breakfast and go across to the surgery and hide out down there because the one thing she knew for sure and certain was that she couldn’t face Cal right now.
So finding him in the kitchen when she tiptoed in to grab some cereal was a setback.
‘What are you doing up so early?’ she demanded.
‘Getting you some breakfast,’ he said, so calmly she peered suspiciously at him. He was beating eggs in a bowl, awkwardly left-handed but getting the job done. And now she’d woken up a bit more, she could smell bacon grilling. ‘I thought it would give us a chance to talk.’
‘Huh!’ Blythe muttered. ‘As if we haven’t done enough of that, though you weren’t so keen yesterday.’
‘I know,’ he said, sounding suspiciously penitent. ‘But I talked to Jenny later last night and she really does want to come and live here.’
He tipped the eggs into a pan before continuing.
‘Actually, the more I thought about it, the better it seemed.’
He gave a huge grin that weakened Blythe’s knees so she had to grip the back of a chair to remain upright.
‘I’m pleased to think she’d want to live with me, but more pleased for myself, Blythe. I hadn’t thought about it before, but it’s as if someone’s given me a special present—a share in a few years of my child’s life. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Obviously, if Mark decides to stay in Creamunna, I won’t stay on in this house. I’ve kind of known that all along, and now, with Jenny, it’s definitely out of the question. I’ve seen a house—well, a property out of town but with a great house on it—and if I shift out there and get a housekeeper—’
‘You won’t need a wife.’
Blythe wasn’t sure where that had come from, but she couldn’t stop the words popping out.
Cal looked startled, as if he’d forgotten ever bringing up the marriage idea.
‘Well, no,’ he said, stirring the eggs. ‘I wouldn’t need one, but I might still want one.’
‘And what am I supposed to make of that?’ Blythe demanded, talking to his back as he turned to drop bread into the toaster.
‘Whatever you like,’ he said cheerfully. ‘After being told to go boil my head last time I proposed to you, I’m not about to do it again.’
Disappointment squirmed through Blythe’s intestines, but this teasing, almost light-hearted mood was a side of Cal she’d never seen before and she had no idea what he was thinking.
Or where she stood…
If anywhere!
He walked across to the table and set down a plate with crisp bacon and soft scrambled eggs.
‘Eat!’ he ordered. ‘Big day ahead. I told Jenny we’d go out and look at the house when you finish work. We’d both like you to come.’
Blythe dropped into a chair and looked at the food he’d set in front of her.
‘I didn’t know you could cook,’ she mumbled, pushing egg onto a fork, then realising she wasn’t the least bit hungry.
‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me,’ he said, putting a pot of coffee on the table and slipping into the chair opposite hers.
‘And a lot you don’t know about me,’ Blythe reminded him, becoming aggravated by the overwhelming good cheer. ‘Which hasn’t stopped you making ridiculous proposals.’
‘Ridiculous? I thought they were practical.’ Grey eyes gleamed with laughter, and to avoid them Blythe looked back down at her breakfast.
She cut a piece of bacon and shoved her fork through it. ‘Oh, they were that all right,’ she snapped. ‘Marry you to help the practice—marry you to babysit Jenny.’
‘Ah!’
She was jamming the bacon into her mouth so couldn’t immediately respond, but once it was chewed and swallowed, she glared at him.
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ She paused then read the innocent expression on his face and forestalled his next comment. ‘And don’t ask what’s what supposed to mean. That ‘‘ah’’ you said—that’s what.’
Now he grinned, and tiny little butterflies starte
d flitting around inside her chest, making breathing difficult.
‘I was wondering what might make you agree—to marry at all, not necessarily me. The way you talked about David, I thought a practical arrangement might appeal to you, but I must have been wrong. So, tell me, Blythe Jones, what kind of proposal would you accept?’
He was teasing her and she knew it, but the stress of the last few weeks had worn her down to the stage where she could no longer deny what she was feeling.
She put down her knife and fork and looked directly at him.
‘A proposal that involved love,’ she said. ‘A proposal that was more a commitment to caring and sharing than a contract of any kind. I know I talked big about not getting involved, but I’ve realised I’m not that kind of person, Cal. I need to be involved—with my work, with the people I care about. I need to love and be loved in return, to give myself wholeheartedly to whatever I take on. Marrying you for the practice, or for Jenny’s sake, would be a halfway thing and I don’t think I’m a halfway kind of person.’
He stood up and came around the table, resting his good hand on her shoulder.
‘I don’t think you are either,’ he said quietly. ‘I think you’re the most wholehearted person I’ve ever met—throwing herself into whatever’s happening with total commitment.’
Now he’s going to walk away, Blythe thought, staring down at congealing scrambled eggs through a mist of tears, while her heart broke in two.
But he didn’t, though he moved, pulling out the chair beside her and dropping into it.
‘Look at me,’ he ordered, and she sniffed and turned towards him, intending to focus on the tip of his right ear.
‘No, right at me, Blythe, because this is important. This is so important I might not be able to get it right, but I need to try.’
Cal lifted his hand and brushed one finger across her cheek, then lifted the gleaming tear to his lips and sucked it off.
‘Heaven forbid I should ever make you cry, my love,’ he said gently. ‘Or hurt you in any way…’ He drew in a deep breath before continuing, ‘Because hurting you would hurt me—would devastate me. You came into my life—a tetchy, snippy woman with an attitude problem. But you made me laugh and then you stayed, helping me out, and you poked and prodded at my defences, which, I might add, have taken years to build up, until I didn’t know whether to murder you or marry you. Having to live with you didn’t help either. Here was this incredibly sexy woman, in the same house but not in the same bed.’
He took Blythe’s hand and lifted it to his lips, kissing each finger in turn.
‘Except for that one exceptional night!’
His eyes gleamed with memories, and Blythe held her breath, wanting to hear more yet still uncertain where Cal might be going with this.
‘I’d denied love for so long, I didn’t recognise it when it came along, so of course I made every mistake in the book.’
Now he took both her hands and kissed each palm in turn.
‘But even an idiot catches on eventually.’
He looked directly at her, his expression wary.
‘I love you, Blythe, and I can’t see that ever changing because the more I get to know of you the more there is to love.’
His smile was kind of tortured as he added, ‘Is that good enough? Would you marry me for love?’
Blythe hesitated then leaned towards him and kissed him on the lips, then snuggled her head against his chest—carefully!
‘So I won’t have to work in the practice, or be there for Jenny or do any of the other stuff you might want from a wife?’ she teased, and felt his arm tighten around her back.
‘Some of the other stuff I might want from a wife would be fun, don’t you think?’ he whispered, sending flares of desire through her blood. ‘And I can just see you not being there for Jenny—as if you could help yourself!’
He eased her away from his body so he could look into her face.
‘That’s what I love about you—the way you care. The way you go that extra yard to help—whether it’s an injured pilot out in the bush, or a schoolgirl who needs a friendly ear. Jenny’s blessed and so am I—that’s if you’re actually going to say yes.’
She saw his uncertainty and for a moment considered teasing him, but she’d be teasing herself as well, so she answered him.
‘Yes,’ she said, then smiled. ‘Third time lucky, eh?’
‘Forever lucky, now you’re going to be mine,’ Cal said, his voice husky with the love that shone in his eyes.
OUTBACK ENCOUNTER
Meredith Webber
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
CHAPTER ONE
‘CAITLIN O’SHEA? Wait till Mother hears I’ve a visitor with such a grand Irish name. She’ll have wedding bells ringing for sure. Do you see this, Mrs Neil? I’m to provide all help and support to a Dr O’Shea by order of the government who pays both our wages.’
Connor ignored the tiny prick of fear the fax had caused and waved the flimsy piece of fax paper towards the woman who came in once a week to clean his house. He didn’t pass it to her, being reasonably certain reading was one of the things Mrs Neil ‘preferred not to do’. Instead, he read on.
‘It says she’ll be here four to six weeks—do you suppose that means I have to house her as well?’ He spoke lightly, hoping the fear would dissipate if he pretended it wasn’t there.
Mrs Neil continued to push the vacuum cleaner across the carpet square in the centre of the room she called the lounge. Talking was another thing she preferred not to do.
‘Perhaps she could use that small house at the back of the hospital,’ Connor continued, undeterred by both the one-sidedness of the conversation and his own unwelcome reaction—now fading to a vague uneasiness.
‘That’s Matron’s house,’ Mrs Neil objected, forced into speech to defend the proprieties.
‘But Matron doesn’t live there,’ Connor pointed out. OK, so he’d overreacted to the thought of a new woman doctor in the town. Now all he had to contend with was regret that he’d felt the urge to force Mrs Neil into speech. Why couldn’t he learn to let well alone, to allow Mrs Neil to come and go without a word spoken between them?
Actually, he knew why.
When he’d first arrived in Turalla two years earlier he’d been anxious and uncertain, hiding wounds he’d hoped the locals would never guess at. Mrs Neil had been introduced as one of the hospital staff he would be seeing on a regular basis so it had seemed natural to him to develop some kind of relationship with the woman. For a start, she’d known Angie.
Two years later, ‘develop’ seemed optimistic, the ‘relationship’ was still a dream, while Angie’s name had never passed her lips. Yet every Tuesday morning he made the effort to be sociable. And every Tuesday morning was rebuffed.
He continued, ‘Matron—’ Mrs Neil hadn’t moved with the times as far as staff titles were concerned ‘—lives in a house with four bedrooms and a pool on a hill on the edge of town, which is where I should live if I had a scrap of sense.’
He muttered the last sentence to himself as he walked back to the room he called his office. He had an official office at the hospital but, as every inhabitant of the town seemed to wander at will through the building, he’d taken to keeping most of his correspondence at home.
Home was an old wooden house built high to catch the breeze. Part of the hospital complex, it was a three-minute walk—across the parking lot and through a dried-out park, with paint-chipped swings and tired-looking acacia trees—from the main building.
It was no good suggesting Mrs Neil clean the vacant house in preparation for the visitor. Mrs Neil’s chain of command began and ended with ‘Matron’, alth
ough how someone as set in her ways as his domestic help had accepted a male in this role, Connor often wondered.
Lifting the phone, he pressed the button that would put him through to Mike’s office.
He explained the situation, received assurances that the house would be made ready for a visitor, then rebuffed Mike’s final comment with, ‘No, Mike, I doubt she’ll be blonde and shapely. When did I ever get that lucky?’
The shapely blonde was, at that very moment, forcing her gritty eyes to stay open and promising her sleep-deprived body it couldn’t possibly be much further.
Both the blonde hair and the shapeliness were natural—a genetic curse, she’d decided when her effect on people had first become apparent. Women tended to label her a Barbie doll and steer clear of her company, while the word ‘bimbo’ seemed to hover in men’s heads when they first met her. The image reduced their conversation to such mundane levels that she rarely bothered to reply, so had gained a reputation for aloofness—even rudeness. Pushy, too! But women had to be pushy to climb ladders usually reserved for men.
She sighed, hating the label as much as she hated the politics and infighting in the money-starved research unit where she held her precarious tenure.
‘Another thirty minutes, and there’ll be a hot shower and a real bed somewhere in Turalla. If the hospital can’t provide them I’ll book into a motel.’
It was a pledge she’d been making to herself for the past five hundred kilometres. Ever since she’d repacked her overnight gear at three-thirty this morning and stormed out of the hotel next to the cattle yards where the mournful lowing of the unhappy beasts had added a deep counterpoint to a train engine shunting back and forth beyond her window.
At five, she’d refuelled at a truck stop, intending to grab a cup of coffee and some food. Suggestive remarks from the all-male clientele had moved her on without the food and drink, so now the end of her journey was taking on mythical proportions—the thought of that shower and a comfortable bed luring her on as surely as the sirens’ songs had lured sailors onto rocks.
Outback Doctors/Outback Engagement/Outback Marriage/Outback Encounter Page 34