As soon as the paramedics arrived, Brooke told them what treatment she had given and watched as they strapped Millie to the stretcher.
Jean stood back from the group of onlookers, doing what she liked to do best: observing people. Gino was in a state again because he would be flying in the helicopter; he was scared it would make him sick. Vince Gersbach’s usually olive complexion was decidedly pale, and Jill from the supermarket looked as if she were ready to ask the boss for the afternoon off. However, Brooke interested her the most. When the drama had occurred, everyone had stood back and let Brooke take charge—herself included—as if they knew that she knew what needed to be done. She chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully. Amazingly enough, Brooke had! It was as if the doctor’s wife might attend to such emergencies every other week. Remarkable. And it deepened her growing opinion that there was more to Brooke d’Winters than met the eye.
After the helicopter had taken off and Bindi Creek returned to normal, Brooke and Jean walked back to Jason’s surgery.
‘The one day Jason has off in ages, and look what happens.’ Brooke shook her head, but she didn’t smile because her mood was serious.
Jean gave her a sideways glance, but then curiosity got the better of her. ‘How did you know what to do? I wouldn’t have been so confident about doing the right thing by Millie.’
‘Oh, a combination of things, I guess. What I learned in the hospital, for one. I spent a month in a burns unit at Royal Hobart. Then, seeing Travis in hospital and remembering how they tended him. That helped too.’ She looked at Jean as they stopped at her gate. ‘I think we need a strong cup of coffee.’
Jean looked at her watch, it was 11.15 a.m. ‘Still morning, more’s the pity. I think we both need something stronger than coffee, and I reckon old Vince will be having a dram or two—you know he keeps a bottle of whisky back where he does the prescriptions.’
‘I didn’t know that.’ Brooke thought for a moment. ‘We could put a dram of whisky in to make it Irish coffee.’
Jean beamed at her. ‘Now you’re talking my language, girl.’
Brooke’s nightmares started again two nights later. Attending to Millie Fasanella had disturbed the memories and the scars she had thought long healed. But the wound opened again and for almost two weeks Brooke’s rest was intermittently disturbed by harrowing dreams.
Travis’s face would merge with Millie’s, and then she would revisit in horrific detail how her mother and brother had died. And there were other, equally frightening dreams. Faces she didn’t recognise—angry, mean men and women. They’d shout at her and point accusing fingers, their words a garble of unintelligible noise. Bang, bang, bang! Someone would be hammering and it would echo through her subconscious and be followed by the sound of timber slapping against timber. More banging, a man holding a hammer and ramming nails into the lid of a coffin which was then lowered into a deep, dark hole—the occupant’s resting place forever.
Small hands, children’s, throwing handfuls of dirt, which thudded dully on the polished timber, spraying over a carpet of flowers. Then came a misty greyness and a deafening silence, broken only by the accelerated beat of her heart and the nervous pumping of blood through her veins as she fell into a bottomless void.
The sequence of events in the nightmare might differ but other than that it was always the same. Only Jason’s strong arms, his soothing words as she woke from the nightmares, helped to ease her mental anguish. And, gradually, over several weeks, the nightmares lost their intensity and finally stopped.
‘Where are you off to, love?’ Brooke asked as Jason came through to the kitchen, his medical bag in his hand.
‘Had a call from Angie Stephanos. She’s worried about the baby. Deanna has a temperature and is having problems breathing. You know Angie, she’s an anxious mother hen at the best of times. Thought I’d better check the bub out.’
Brooke finished trussing the chicken and put it with the vegetables. ‘You want me to delay dinner?’
‘No, the kids will be starving by six. I should be home about seven.’ He kissed her on the forehead, stood back to look at her and grinned. ‘You look very fetching with a smudge of stuffing on your cheek.’ He kissed her on the lips, gave her a hug and walked out the back door.
Brooke grinned as she wiped the stuffing off. She heard him gun his motorbike and take off. She knew him so well. He could have taken the car because it looked like rain, but no, the road leading to the Stephanos property was studded with a variety of curves—some sharp, some graduated—and she knew he’d enjoy the ride more on his bike. He was a big kid sometimes, with that bike. What had Jean said once, she wondered as she put the dinner into the oven. ‘Men were men but a part of them never grew up.’ That adage certainly applied to Jason. In almost every way he was a mature individual but, when it came to his motorbike, he was like a kid with a new toy, fiddling with the motor, tuning it, polishing it whenever he got the chance to.
She tried not to worry when he was out on the bike, but she did, especially when the weather was foul. Looking out the kitchen window, she saw the twins playing with Domino. They were getting too big for the Shetland and would soon need fully grown horses of their own. That would suit Sheridan because she would inherit Domino, whom she adored.
Beyond the creek and over the valley towards the foothills, a line of dark clouds were gathering. A storm was on the way, but at least its direction was south of the Stephanoses’s property, so with luck Jason wouldn’t even get wet.
Her reverie was interrupted by the ringing phone.
‘Hello, it’s Wes.’
‘Hi, Wes, how are things at Sindalee?’
‘Busy, as usual. Jason around?’
‘No, he’s out on a call, to the Stephanoses’s place.’
‘Oh.’ There was silence on Wes’s end of the line.
‘Was it important?’
‘Not really. I had planned to invite him and the twins to go shooting. We’ve got a plague of rabbits here and the twins haven’t done any hunting yet. I thought they might be ready to.’
Brooke stiffened. The mental picture she conjured up of Adam and Luke hunting, killing rabbits, wasn’t pleasant. The boys had .22 calibre rifles, which they fired at selected targets under strict supervision from Jason. But hunting live animals! She shuddered at the thought. ‘Don’t you think they’re a little young for that sort of thing?’
‘Well, no.’ His tone was matter-of-fact. ‘I first took Drew and Fleece shooting when they were the same age as your boys.’ A tense pause ensued, then he added in a more conciliatory tone, ‘Perhaps its something you and Jason should discuss first.’
‘Yes. We will. As soon as he comes home.’
They said goodbye rather stiffly and, as Brooke replaced the receiver, a thoughtful expression flitted across her face. Was she being overprotective of the twins? Wes’s tone suggested that she was. They lived in the country and the twins were growing up here. Should she deny them new experiences because she personally believed that shooting rabbits was an abhorrent act? Oh, yes, she knew Jason would say that rabbits were pests, that they multiplied rapidly, that they ate both the seed and crops, and their burrows caused soil erosion, but even so…
Yes, she and Jason would certainly discuss it later on.
Jason unlocked the last gate which led to the Stephanos property, drove through, then went back to close it before he hopped on his bike again. Ric and Angie’s property was neatly kept and was located high in the foothills where the surrounding countryside was very picturesque. Their three-bedroom timber home stood on a slight rise and beyond he could see a dam and a range of outlying sheds for various farm equipment.
A few hectares were planted with vines, they had a small peach orchard and ran about two hundred or so head of sheep. That wasn’t enough to provide the Stephanoses with a full income, so Ric worked part-time at a winery on the other side of Cowra and Angie, who was artistic, sold her pottery at various fairs and local markets.
Ric
met him as he parked the bike under the carport and, carrying his backpack and medical bag, he walked up onto the verandah.
‘Hi! Glad you could come, Jason. Angie’s worrying herself sick about Deanna. She’s had a bad cold but now she’s got this barking cough and when she starts to cough she seems to choke.’ Ric greeted him with a run-down on the baby’s condition.
‘How old is Deanna now?’ Jason asked.
‘Four and a half months. She’s a wonderful baby and we haven’t had a moment’s worry over her, until now.’
Angie and the baby were in the living room, waiting for them.
‘She’s just woken from a nap,’ Angie said, smiling at the small miracle in her middle age. ‘She’s not too bad in the daytime—doesn’t cough much—but at night, when the air cools down, the coughing’s awful. It’s thick but sharp, and after a while she gets so choked up she can hardly breathe.’ She looked at Jason, who had taken Deanna in his arms. ‘Scared the dickens out of us last night, she did, she got so distressed. We have to hold her, sitting straight up on our chest. Poor little thing, she gets frightened and cries, which makes the coughing worse.’
‘Let’s see then,’ Jason said as he lay the baby on the lounge and gave her a thorough examination. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, Deanna was a pretty baby, whose development in height and weight seemed normal. He sounded her chest and back thoroughly, then put the stethoscope aside and used the thermoscan to take her temperature.
‘One and a half degrees above normal,’ he told them. ‘She has an infection. It’s in the larynx and, from your description of her symptoms, it sounds like croup. I brought a vaporiser with me just in case it was needed. We used it when Adam was young and suffered from bronchitis.’
‘What’s croup?’ Ric asked, shaking his head as if he’d never heard of the complaint.
‘Sometimes young children and babies get it after a severe cold. It’s an acute respiratory infection which can affect the larynx, trachea and bronchi. Because she’s small, her airways don’t cope very well and that makes Deanna cough. Then the bronchial tubes narrow even more, making it hard for her to breathe. I’ll prescribe dexamethasone syrup—I brought a bottle with me, so you don’t have to go all the way to the chemist. I want you to use the vaporiser, too, mostly at night or when you think it’s necessary.’ He pointed to the box he’d taken out of his backpack. ‘The instructions on how to use it are in the box.’
A rolling clap of thunder, followed by a flash of lightning, halted Jason’s words.
‘The storm must have moved around. Thought we were going to miss out on it,’ Ric said as he walked to the window to check the weather.
Jason held the baby for a moment or two before passing her to Angie. ‘She’s going to have a few uncomfortable nights until the medication takes effect. The vaporiser will help.’ He noted the dark circles under the mother’s eyes and shook his head. ‘Angie, you’re going to have to rest whenever Deanna does, or you’ll be the next one I visit professionally.’
‘I keep telling her that,’ Ric complained, ‘but she says the house needs this or that doing to it. Bugger the house, I say. Her health and Deanna’s health is more important than keeping the place tidy.’
‘Where’s Nathan?’ Jason asked. He was about to add that he may be able to help out around the house when Ric said:
‘He’s staying over with a basketball mate of his in Cowra. You know he’s a pretty good basketball player, don’t you?’ Ric said proudly. ‘He might make the State team, so his coach reckons.’
‘I’ve seen his name in the local paper several times,’ Jason replied as he organised the medicine for the baby, then explained the dosage and frequency with which it was to be given.
Another thunder clap boomed, so hard and close the cut-glass goblets in the Stephanos’s glassed-door cabinet rattled. Seconds later it began to rain—not just an ordinary shower, but a torrential downpour. Everyone moved to the window to watch it come down.
‘Shit, that’s heavy,’ Ric said, and gave an awed whistle. ‘Good for the dam but not so good for the vines. Hope it ends soon.’
‘Me too. Brooke’s cooking my favourite dinner and for once I’d like to eat it with the family rather than later on.’
‘You’re not going to ride back in the rain, are you?’ Angie asked, her tone concerned as she transferred the baby to her left hip.
‘It’s a cloudburst, love. They never last,’ Ric assured her, then suggested something to keep her occupied so he and Jason could talk. ‘How about a cup of tea? I bet Jason could do with one.’
‘Love one,’ Jason said obligingly, with a wink at Ric.
Small talk about family, about crops, about Ric’s younger brother coming for a visit, accompanied by tea and freshly made biscuits, took up the next fifteen minutes. By then the rain had eased, though Jason noted that the clouds were moving off the foothills towards Bindi Creek. Once under the carport, Jason shrugged into his wet-weather gear: bright yellow plastic pants and a yellow zip-up jacket. He strapped his medical bag to the back of the bike, pulled the backpack over his shoulders, donned his gloves and helmet then kick-started the motor.
Over the noise he called to both Stephanoses. ‘In the morning, let me know how Deanna spent the night. You’ll find the vaporiser makes a difference to her level of comfort.’ He slipped into first gear and, after a wave, was off.
A substantial amount of rain had been dumped and the previously dry dirt had instantly turned to mud. The back wheel spun once or twice and Jason lost traction. He braked, skidded and slowed down around the curves. No point in coming a cropper just to get home for a hot meal, he rationalised as he negotiated a bendy stretch. Daylight was dimming fast so he turned the headlight to high beam. Now he could see even the small rivulets from the higher slopes as they found their way across the dirt road to form pools of water several centimetres deep. Droplets of rain slipped under his collar and down the neck of his shirt. He grunted as the front wheel lost traction in the mud, and his grip on the handlebars tightened for greater control.
If it rains again this won’t be pleasant! No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than the rain started to come down again, not as heavily as before, but heavy enough to make the going tougher. He forded a stream which had been dry on the way up but now held nearly a third of a metre of fast-flowing water.
Any deeper and he couldn’t have got through without the risk of wetting the spark plugs and conking out.
His jaw clenched into a grim line at the unpleasantness of the conditions, but he continued on, slowing to a snail’s pace for safety around the curves. Twilight was darkening the bush around him and blurring the conditions. Halfway down the last of the foothills the road straightened out, so he felt it was safe to open the throttle a little. His headlight picked up a pool of water; it looked inky black in the near darkness. Another rivulet, he supposed. Without slowing, he made for the centre of it and, in doing so, misjudged it completely. Under the water lay a deep pothole, and, at speed, the front tyre caught on the edge of it, the wheel swerved and Jason momentarily lost his grip. The back wheel began to slide sideways as the bike and rider lost speed and balance. Jason tried to correct the angle with his foot but all it did was slip uncontrollably in the mud.
He came off the bike sideways, sliding on the surface of the road until he reached the grassy verge. The momentum carried him over the edge and suddenly he was sommersaulting down the slope, hitting small trees, knocking against rocks, unable to stop or save himself. He could hear the bike’s motor racing and, jerking his head up, saw it come over the edge, following him down the hill.
Christ, if it hits me I’m done for! He tried desperately to grasp some kind of foot- or hand-hold as he fell about five metres. His left hand caught around a sapling and he jerked to a stop. His helmet came off—the catch had worked loose with all the bumping—and rolled away into the darkness. But the sapling couldn’t hold his weight and, with the soil softened from the rain, the roots came out and he w
as tumbling again. Down another two metres or so, but more slowly. His back impacted with a large boulder, knocking the breath out of him in a moaning, whooshing sound. He watched in horror as the bike, spinning crazily, then sliding, came closer and closer.
He held up his hands and elbows to shield himself as it hit. Part of the engine caught him square on the top of his forehead, cracking his head back against the boulder. He heard the crunch of bones breaking in his skull…and pain, lots of pain. The weight of the bike almost wrenched his right arm out of the socket and then his hand went numb.
Darting, indescribable pain shot through his body, making him yell out into the empty, silent bush. He tried to move but the bike had pinned him against the boulder. He could feel and smell the stickiness of his own blood. It poured down his forehead, across his eyes, almost blinding him. It hurt, he hurt…everywhere…but especially his head—he thought it was going to explode.
The last thing Jason remembered before he lapsed into unconsciousness was that the rain had stopped and, through a curtain of blood and the trees above, the clouds broke to expose the first twinkle of the evening star.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Eight o’clock. Brooke looked at the kitchen clock for the umpteenth time. She had just tucked Sheridan into bed, read her a story. The twins, who were watching a movie, would be off to their beds in the next half hour or so. Where was Jason? There had been rain in town, but nothing extraordinary, so unless he and Ric had got talking, he should have been home ages ago.
She waited until the boys were in bed and then she rang the Stephanoses only to learn that Jason had left before sunset—more than two hours ago! Where could he be?
‘We had some pretty heavy rain here, Brooke. Maybe he came off his bike somewhere on the road, or it conked out on him,’ Ric said in his matter-of-fact manner.
‘He had his mobile, Ric, he could phone me or you,’ she said, and then thought, if he was able to. Her anxiety level rose another notch. What if he’d been knocked unconscious? What if he was lying in a ditch somewhere—hurt? No. She shook her head. Don’t think that.
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