Surprise, surprise! Connor rubbed his hands through his hair, kneading at his scalp in an effort to find the words he needed. Perhaps he could still dissuade her.
‘Added to which, anything genetic, to a parent, seems to imply parental blame,’ he said. ‘Have you considered the ructions that could cause? Husbands and wives sniping at each other because he or she carried a defective gene? Or taking it further, what about the implications to young people in love—will their marriage plans be thwarted by one of your errant genes?’
She nodded her agreement, but had an answer all ready for him.
‘There’s a town in the United States where a similar study was done on the incidence of Huntington’s chorea. Over there a social worker was available to counsel people who felt at all apprehensive or distressed. Your local counsellor has already been contacted and has agreed to work with me on this, and provide counselling if needed. And genetic counselling is becoming a more accepted part of people’s plans for the future. If some link is discovered, isn’t it better for a couple to be aware a danger could exist and have their children tested regularly? Children with some forms of leukaemia now have an eighty to ninety per cent chance of being completely cured—testing of children considered at risk could make those statistics even better.’
‘OK, I’ll grant you that round—although while genetic counselling might be discussed in some places, it’s hardly an everyday topic here in Turalla,’ he said, hating the fact that the medical Connor was swaying towards her arguments while the emotional man who shared the doctor’s skin still felt an inexplicable sense of dread about the whole idea. ‘But is there no other way than through the families?’
He didn’t say ‘all the families’ although the dread was finding focus in the child he hadn’t mentioned and the strange, religious, upright man who’d fathered him.
Ezra Neil, husband of the silent Mrs Neil.
The reason the silent Mrs Neil was so silent?
Connor didn’t know, but Mrs Neil’s behaviour suggested there was a problem somewhere in her life, and Connor couldn’t help linking it to Ezra rather than the loss of her son.
‘Does it have to be so personal?’ he persisted, the wedge of fear again prodding at his rib cage.
She looked into his eyes and he saw a plea in hers—and noticed how her knuckles had whitened again as she gripped the coffee-mug. Did it mean so much to her? Was her job, her livelihood, dependent on it? Why was she so determined? He watched her formulate her reply while his mind pondered those unspoken questions.
‘I know there could be problems, but genetic heritage is the obvious place to start because through DNA studies we can link chromosomal similarities to blood lines,’ she said quietly. ‘I do understand the human side of it, Connor, but is that excuse enough to ignore an opportunity of making a breakthrough in something that is the most common life-threatening disorder of childhood?’
Connor acknowledged her words with upraised hands of surrender and tried not to think about how his name had sounded—kind of husky—on her lips.
‘That was a low blow, Caitlin O’Shea, and you know it. I thought scientists shunned emotive arguments.’
She relaxed enough to smile and pushed the coffee-mug away as if she no longer needed its dubious support.
‘This scientist might be different,’ she said lightly.
Her gaze snagged his and held, and a spark in the depth of those dark, dark eyes suggested she was flirting with him.
He ignored a purely physical response he hadn’t felt for quite some time and refused the challenge, saying lightly, ‘Outwardly perhaps. You hardly meet the absent-minded, horn-rimmed-glasses image of a scientific nerd—but I’m not fooled by the front, Dr O’Shea. I’ll reserve my judgement. And I’ll be watching every move you make and whenever possible monitoring your consultations with the families. If this situation even hints at volatility, I’ll pull the plug on it and let my conscience cope with the consequences.’
She seemed startled and he wondered if her looks were usually enough to ensure she got exactly what she wanted.
‘Hardball, huh?’ she said, a smile lighting up her face once again.
‘Very hard,’ he assured her, rising to his feet as she stood up so they were eye to eye across the table.
‘Now, shall I walk you home? I took your car over earlier.’ He fished in his pocket and produced her keys, glancing at his watch as he handed them to her. ‘Hell, it’s after ten. I’m sorry I kept you here so late when you’ve got gear to unpack. Would you prefer to spend the night in my spare bedroom and get yourself settled in the morning?’
Caitlin replayed the words in her mind and realised there was no warmth in the casual invitation. The man had decided she was trouble and he wanted her to overnight in his house about as much as he wanted her staying on in this town.
‘I’ll go across to my new home,’ she told him. ‘But you don’t have to come. Just point the way.’
He walked back into the kitchen and she followed him, blinking in the brightness after the soft light on the veranda.
‘I’ll walk you home,’ he repeated. ‘I go over about this time each evening to do a ward round so I’ll show you through the hospital if you like and scrounge you some supplies from the kitchen so you don’t starve to death on your first morning in town.’
She found herself grinning at his words and, as he bent down and hefted her bag on to his shoulder, she said, ‘Mightn’t that be a good thing? It would rid you of your problem.’
He swung around and caught her smile, answering it with a one hundred watt effort of his own.
‘It’s a point, but think how bad it would look for the staff,’ he protested. ‘Visiting doctor wastes away on hospital doorstep! The town would never live it down.’
‘Give the locals something else to talk about,’ she replied, following him down the steps. ‘It might even divert them enough for the divisions you talk of to heal over.’
She spoke lightly, joking with him, more relaxed than she’d been all evening, so when he stopped and spun to face her, she was startled. His eyes, dark shadows in his face, seemed to peer into her soul, and the words, when he uttered them, were as bleak and hard as bullets—as cold as death itself.
‘The last death didn’t heal them.’
CHAPTER THREE
SO MUCH for relaxed! The words cast darker shadows than the moon, only these were in Caitlin’s heart. No matter how carefully one trod, research, once translated from laboratory to the ‘real’ world, intruded into people’s lives. It was a dilemma all scientists agonised over with depressing regularity.
She loitered by the swings, longing to sit on one of them, to push off with her legs and feel the rush of wind against her skin as she recaptured the careless abandonment of childhood, that total involvement in the physical delight of soaring through the air, all mental turbulence forgotten—if indeed it had ever been known.
‘I still do some of my best thinking on those swings. Very late at night when I’m reasonably certain no one will see the local doctor indulging in such a childish pursuit.’
Caitlin stared at him. This was the second time he’d locked unerringly onto her thoughts. Did he read minds, this Connor Clarke, or was the pristine country air transmitting her thoughts as sound waves?
‘Do you need a swing often?’ she asked, picking up her pace so she moved ahead of him.
‘Often enough,’ he replied, the tone of his voice slowing her steps. She waited until he came abreast of her so she could see his face to try to judge his mood. ‘Out here the roads are long and straight—open invitations for young daredevils to try the thrill of speed—and for all the perception of innocence, a small town is little more than a microcosm of the city. We have lonely people who no longer want to live, marriages where abuse occurs, children who suffer neglect of one kind or another.’
He spoke quietly, looking down into her eyes, then he reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear in a curi
ously gentle gesture.
‘Not in epidemic proportions, of course, but such problems in a community that prides itself on knowing what’s what almost before it happens can become magnified in importance.’ He shrugged and turned away, once again leading her towards the lights of the hospital. ‘For both the patients and the doctor, I guess.’
The final sentence drifted back to her and she knew it had been said for her benefit. There was something in the words she should consider, should try to understand. But tiredness had returned in an all-enveloping wave and she was pleased when he swung to the left, obviously forgetting his offer to show her around and bypassing the front door of the hospital. Instead, he guided her towards the rear of the building.
Her car was parked under an awning attached to one side of the small timber dwelling. Two tall eucalypts prevented the moonlight touching the exterior, so the house crouched like a dark animal seeking the protection of the shadows. From fear, or ready to spring?
It was tiredness prompting the fancies, Caitlin knew that, but it didn’t stop a shiver rippling down her spine, or a sense of relief when a flash of brightness dispelled the gloom.
‘Sensor lights. All the hospital outbuildings have them. We don’t run to night patrols or any other security, but Mike Nelson had these installed when he took over as DON. It’s a safety precaution as much as anything else. Staff moving from one building to another for any reason could trip and fall in the dark.’
‘Or tread on a snake!’ Caitlin muttered, as memories of her childhood, dashing from one building to the next in the dark, re-awoke her most primal fear.
‘Don’t fancy snakes?’ Connor teased, opening the front door of the cottage and flicking on an interior light.
‘Not even in picture books,’ she told him. ‘Oh, I know all the theories about them being more scared of humans than we are of them, but I’ve never seen a snake leap four feet into the air and stand trembling on a table, and until I do I’ll go on being the scaredest!’
She peered cautiously around the room, just the thought of the creatures setting her nerves on edge.
Connor noticed the tension in her neck and jaw. Fancy this beautiful and so very together woman admitting to such a fear.
‘I wouldn’t worry about the house,’ he said, hoping to reassure her. ‘The way Mrs Neil cleans and vacuums there wouldn’t be an ant remaining in residence, let alone a snake. And if you check the windows you’ll see they’re all screened and the doors, both front and back, fit tightly. That’s been done for the air-conditioning so, unless you leave a door open, you should be safe.’
She shrugged as if to ease the tension, and swung to face him, a tired smile playing about her lips.
Such lovely lips—eminently kissable…
Now, where had that thought sprung from? Better stick to snakes, old son. Practical, controllable stuff!
‘And if you need further assurance,’ he continued, although thoughts of lips—and lack of control—still occupied his mind, ‘we’ve a collection of four part-feral cats living under the veranda at the hospital. The cook feeds them to keep them away from the birds and small mammals but they keep the place free of mice and would soon warn off any snake or lizard foolish enough to venture into their territory.’
This time the smile was real and he read relief as well as humour in it.
‘Thanks!’ she said. ‘I’d actually forgotten all those night fears of snakes I used to have until the lights came on and I automatically looked for one. It’s a silly phobia, and maybe by now I’ve outgrown it, but I’d just as soon not put it to the test tonight.’ The smile reached her eyes which gleamed into his as she added, ‘Or any night, for that matter.’
Caitlin reached out to take the bag he was lifting off his shoulder.
‘Thank you for feeding me, and being so kind in spite of your misgivings about my presence in the town. I’ve some basic provisions in the car so don’t bother about supplies from the kitchen. I’ll unpack a few things from the boot and head for bed. In spite of the sleep this afternoon, it’s been a long day.’
It was an unmistakable dismissal yet Connor passed her the bag reluctantly. He could offer her a guided tour of the house, but as she could see the kitchen from where they stood, a small U-shaped space divided from this room by a breakfast bar, and the bathroom and bedroom doors were also visible, it might seem foolish. If he hadn’t already returned her car keys he could offer to unload the car…
Caitlin could feel his indecision. She could only assume it was because he had more to say on the subject of her research. Did he resent her intrusion so strongly? Had he meant it when he’d said he wanted to monitor her consultations? Was he going to fight her project every inch of the way?
She sighed, not wanting to be at odds with anyone—particularly not this man.
‘Haven’t you a hospital to visit?’ she reminded him, dropping the bag onto a sturdy armchair and propping her body against the back of it. ‘It will take me a couple of hours in the morning to set up my files and computer. Perhaps if you’ve some spare time tomorrow, I could explain how I’ve planned to do the research and you can point out what might or might not work.’
Her eyes studied his face, watching for any reaction, however slight, but all he did was dip his head as if in agreement, then he raised it and those mesmerising eyes looked into hers.
‘Leaving town could be the answer, but I guess that isn’t part of your plan. What if I drop in after my early ward round? You up and about by seven?’
He’s trying to rile you, she reminded herself, reining in the spark of anger his ‘leaving town’ remark had caused. Yet only moments ago he’d been kind, reassuring her about the snakes. Maybe if she wasn’t so tired she could fathom his mood swings.
Maybe she wouldn’t bother!
‘Seven’s fine by me!’ she answered sweetly, and added an equally saccharine smile. Tomorrow would be soon enough to consider Connor Clarke’s behaviour. Soon enough for everything!
He left abruptly and the house seemed empty for his going, but surely that was another manifestation of her tiredness. Forcing her attention to practical matters, she unpacked the car, first liberating her PC and setting it up on a table in the bedroom, then stacking all but what she’d need for the night in the living room of the small house. This done, she fell into bed, exhaustion finally grabbing her and dragging her down into a deep, deep sleep. Deep as a mine shaft…
She dreamt of snakes and death, represented not by the old man with a scythe but a kangaroo wearing a wristwatch. Yet she knew it was Death and the cold fear of the dream lingered when she woke to the lilting melody of the butcher birds’ morning chorus and weak, leaf-dappled sunlight beyond the window.
Her travelling alarm showed five-thirty. Hardly her usual wake-up time! If she leapt out of bed right now she could have everything in place before her colleague arrived.
Was ‘colleague’ the right word? Didn’t colleagues work together, not against each other? Would Connor work against her or simply not co-operate? And why was that thought so depressing?
Because he’s the first man you’ve looked at as a man in a long time, her honest self replied. As a man! Emotional, not scientific thinking.
Stick to science.
Lucy Cummings, Harry Jackson, Aaron Wilson and Annabel Laurence. She ran the names through her head like a litany to blot out thoughts of the man who might or might not be a colleague.
And the child who died? She pictured the coloured folder and tried to recall his name.
An incomplete file—thinner than the others—information missing, or never gathered? A biblical name—Isaiah? Jeremiah?
A loud knocking on the door, a voice calling her name. She sat up with a start, glancing automatically at the clock. Seven!
‘Come in!’ she called, the name Jonah popping into her head at the same time. ‘I woke early then must have drifted back to sleep. I’ll be out in a minute.’
She pulled on the shirt she’d worn the previo
us evening and dashed across the hall to the bathroom, not looking towards the front room where her visitor must be waiting. Cold water helped clear her head. She splashed her face, cleaned her teeth, dragged a brush through her hair then reversed her route across the narrow passage, catching a mouth-watering waft of bacon in the air.
Must be the hospital breakfast. Reaching for her jeans, she tugged them on and checked the clock again. Four minutes, not bad.
‘I’m sorry to keep you waiting,’ she said, then stopped and stared at the scene of domesticity. Connor was in the kitchen, calmly pouring boiling water into coffee-mugs, the breakfast bar set with knives and forks, and centred in front of them a platter containing heaped bacon, eggs, sausages, hash browns, beans and toast. ‘You don’t have to keep feeding me,’ she protested, while her stomach clenched in anticipatory delight and her legs propelled her towards the food.
‘It was no trouble—this is only a small portion of the food spread out in the kitchen, waiting to be eaten by patients, staff and possibly wandering minstrels as well. Nellie, our cook, believes in being prepared. I didn’t know what you liked apart from cereal so I brought a bit of everything she had on offer,’ he explained, waving a hand towards the platter. ‘Help yourself.’
‘Haven’t dieticians put a stop to this kind of breakfast in your hospital?’ Caitlin asked, battling her tantalised tastebuds as she chose a strip of bacon, an egg and two slices of toast. ‘I thought the nutrition police had banned this culinary bliss years ago.’
He set a mug of coffee in front of her, pulled out a stool and settled down beside her.
‘Not in Turalla,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Although Nellie has swung away from lard and butter. She now uses olive oil and assures me it’s doing me good. Actually, we’ve a number of elderly townspeople who’ve no family to care for them. One wing of the building has been divided into single rooms so they can use it as a hostel, taking their meals here but free to come and go as they like. They still like their traditional breakfasts and if I say anything against them, Nellie argues that the old folk have survived on this type of food for ninety years, so why change things now?’
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