He pushed her out of the way, told her to sit and went back to his digging, while she sat poised, riveted by what he was doing, desperate to join in but waiting for the treat she knew was in his pocket.
Tatty was lying on her back in the sun, playing with a raggy toy, and Ryan lifted his head and glanced back at his family.
His wife, their three-month-old baby boy, and Reg, surrogate grandfather to Raoul, named after the boy he still felt he’d failed, the boy whose face he saw in his dreams, but not as often now.
They’d been married ten months, and since then they’d extended the house, making a beautiful kitchen/dining/living space that opened to the garden but with spectacular views from the front of the river and the stile where he’d kissed her at the start of their journey.
They’d added another bedroom, to allow for their family to grow, and although they’d rehomed three of the puppies, one to Ed and Annie, one to James and Connie, and another to the farmer whose black Lab, his gun dog, had turned out to be the father, they’d kept Muddle, the puppy they’d nearly lost, and of course Tatty, who’d brought them all together.
He gave both the dogs a treat, settled the rose into the hole he’d dug for it, and stood back.
‘How’s that?’
‘Perfect,’ Beth and Reg said in unison, and he smiled.
‘I thought so, too. Better fill it in, then, before Muddle digs it up again.’
He knelt down, pressed the soil in around the root ball and touched the tiny bud just starting to form with the tip of his earthy finger. ‘There you go, Grace,’ he murmured softly. ‘You can grow now. Happy birthday.’
He straightened up, dusted off his hands and went over to Beth, putting an arm around her and the baby. ‘OK?’
She nodded. ‘Lovely. Look, Raoul. Daddy’s planted a rose for Grace. It’s going to be so pretty.’
The baby gave her a gummy smile, and she dropped a kiss on his head.
‘Happy?’ he murmured.
She looked up at him, her eyes a little bright, and nodded.
‘Very. Thank you. For everything.’
‘Don’t thank me. Just having you and Raoul here with me is all I need, all I’ll ever need.’
‘And Reg and the dogs.’
He smiled. ‘Of course. That goes without saying—Muddle, no! Leave it!’
He dived at the dog, and behind him he heard Beth and Reg laughing, the happy sound filling the garden with joy.
He turned back to them with a rueful grin. ‘Well, maybe not the dogs...!’
* * *
If you enjoyed this story, check out these other great reads from Caroline Anderson
A Single Dad to Heal Her Heart
One Night, One Unexpected Miracle
Their Own Little Miracle
Bound by their Babies
All available now!
Keep reading for an excerpt from Melting the Trauma Doc’s Heart by Alison Roberts.
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Melting the Trauma Doc’s Heart
by Alison Roberts
CHAPTER ONE
OH, MAN...
He shouldn’t have done that.
Isaac Cameron stared at the phone in his hand. He could hear the echoes of that angry edge in his own voice. Should he ring back and leave another voicemail to apologise? To admit that it was actually none of his business?
He thought about that for a moment as he tipped his head back and took a deep breath of the clean, crisp air around him. The snow-covered, craggy peaks of the mountains that bordered this small, Central Otago township in New Zealand caught his gaze and held it as he opened his eyes again. It hadn’t got old yet, this view, despite the fact that he’d been living and working here for nearly a year. If anything, it had got into his blood. And, okay, he might have come here as a last resort, to lie low and find out if there was anything left of the man he used to be, but it didn’t feel like an escape any more.
He cared about this place. About the hardworking farming community that surrounded Cutler’s Creek. About the small, rural hospital he worked in. About Don Donaldson—the man who’d kept this hospital up and running for decades, like his father before him, in the face of repeated threats of closure.
That was why he’d made that call.
And he wasn’t going to call back and apologise. Because he wasn’t sorry.
Because tapping back into the ability to care again was precisely the reason Isaac had come to this quiet corner of the world in the first place. Not to care too much, mind you, because he knew only too well how that could leave devastation and burn-out in its wake. But caring enough for something to really matter—like the situation that had prompted him to make that phone call—was part of what made a life meaningful, wasn’t it? It was making Isaac feel human again. To hope, albeit cautiously, for a future that could provide contentment, if not happiness.
He slipped the phone into the pocket of the unbuttoned white coat he was wearing over his jeans and open-necked shirt. Would the woman he’d never met respond to that message? Did she care about any of the things that had become important to him in the last year? Probably not, so maybe it would do her good to hear what he had said. Everybody needed a wake-up call once in a while, didn’t they? Like the one he’d had that had prompted him to apply for the rural hospital job he’d found advertised in a tiny country at the bottom of the world that he’d barely heard about.
The senior doctor and medical director of Cutler’s Creek Hospital hadn’t been that pleased to see him when he’d turned up, mind you.
‘You’re over-qualified. Why the hell would we need a trauma surgeon with your kind of experience in a place like this? Why would you even want to live here? You’ll be bored stiff.’
‘I’m over big cities and war zones. I need a break from patching people up when what’s wrong with them wouldn’t have happened if people could be a bit kinder to each other. I can do general medicine along with trauma. I’ve been in plenty of situations where there’s been nobody but me to provide what’s needed.’
Maybe it had been due to the remnants of that kind of autonomy that had prompted him to take matters into his own hands and make that regrettable phone call. Well, it was too late to worry about any repercussions now and it was time he headed back inside. There was a chill in the air that suggested the forecasters hadn’t been wrong in predicting a storm that would usher in the first of the winter weather.
Isaac turned back towards the rambling, low-slung, wooden building that was Cutler’s Creek Community Hospital. They had a ten-bed capacit
y here, including maternity and geriatrics, an outpatients’ department, a main operating theatre that hadn’t been used for years, and a smaller one that was used for minor procedures and as their equivalent of an emergency department where they could assess and deal with accidents and medical emergencies with resources like ultrasound, ECG, X-ray and ventilation equipment. It was by no means a large hospital but it was more than enough to keep two doctors busy as the medical hub for a community of several thousand people.
The man who had kept this hospital going—thriving even, given that the community had raised the funds for their new ultrasound equipment only recently—was walking towards Isaac as he headed back inside. Don Donaldson was scowling but that was nothing new. He’d been scowling just like this the first day Isaac had met him when he couldn’t understand why he’d even applied for the job here. He knew a lot more about his boss now and, like everybody else, he accepted that this man’s heart of gold was well covered by grumpiness that could border on being plain rude, but who could blame him, given the cards that life had already dealt? He’d never remarried after his wife had walked out on him decades ago, taking his only child with her to the other side of the globe. He’d come home to find his father was terminally ill and there was nothing he could do to help, had then devoted his life—often single-handedly—to giving Cutler’s Creek a medical service to be proud of and now...
Well, now things might have just become a whole lot worse. It seemed that history was about to repeat itself.
‘Zac... Good. You’re still here.’
‘I wasn’t planning on heading home any time soon. I’m going to do another ward round while I’m waiting for Faye Morris to come in. Sounds like it’s not a false alarm for her labour this time. Debbie’s coming in with her so I’ll just be available if she needs backup. Given her experience and skills as a midwife, I’ll probably just be catching up on some reading.’
‘Right...’ The older man cleared his throat. ‘Well, I just wanted to make sure you’re not going to say anything. To anyone. You know how fast word gets around in a place this size and I do not want my mother upset—especially not now when she’s got a big celebration coming up. This is nobody’s business but mine and it’s up to me who I tell. And when.’
Too late, Isaac thought. He lifted his gaze to the mountains to avoid eye contact that might reveal his discomfort over the fact that he’d already betrayed what he’d known was a confidence, even if it hadn’t been stipulated as such at the time.
‘I still don’t agree with you, Don. You can’t just diagnose yourself with something like pancreatic cancer and then give up. Have you even thought about a differential diagnosis? You wouldn’t treat your patients like this so why do it to yourself?’
‘Because I watched my own father do exactly what you think I should do. He went and got a formal diagnosis. He got persuaded to get the surgery, and chemo and radiation and, okay, maybe he got a few extra months from that but what good were they to anyone, especially him? He was mostly bedridden and suffering, dying by inches...’ Don cleared his throat again but his voice still sounded raw, even after all these years. ‘I’m not going like that, thanks very much. I’ve got unfinished business here and I intend to do whatever I can for as long as I can.’
‘But you don’t even know that you’re right. Let me have a look at you and run a few tests. At the very least, let me do an ultrasound.’
‘I’ve got exactly the same symptoms my dad had. You know as well as I do that inherited gene mutations can get passed from parent to child. That as many as ten percent of pancreatic cancers are genetic. Look... I just know, okay? I’ve known for quite a while now. I’ve been diagnosing illnesses for the best part of half a century. Are you trying to tell me I’m no good at my job?’
‘Of course not.’ Zac suppressed a sigh. ‘And I’ll support you in whatever way I can, you know that.’
He wasn’t about to give up on this but he knew that continuing to push right now would only lead to Don shutting himself off completely. He was a private man and Zac could respect that better than most people, given that he was one himself.
‘I just need to know that you’ll keep this to yourself. I shouldn’t have said anything. I wouldn’t have, if you hadn’t come barging into my office like that. Without the courtesy of even knocking...’
‘Hmm...’ A sideways glance showed him that Don was now the one avoiding eye contact and he understood why. He still felt uncomfortable that he’d seen too much. He’d be just as embarrassed as his boss if the tables had been turned.
‘You caught me in a low moment, that’s all it was. It won’t happen again.’
A low moment? The man had been in tears. Trying to cover that up in the face of Zac’s unexpected appearance, he had dropped the archive filing box that he had been stretching to replace on a high shelf. Despite being told to get out, Zac had automatically stooped to help pick up the contents of the box, which appeared to be a collection of unopened letters and parcels. Not Known at This Address and Return to Sender had been stamped all over them in red ink.
‘Who’s Olivia Donaldson?’
‘Nobody. Just get out, Zac.’
‘Not until you tell me what’s going on. She’s your daughter, isn’t she?’
‘Was...’
‘She’s dead?’
‘As good as... We haven’t had contact in more than twenty years. It doesn’t matter now, anyway... Or it won’t soon enough...’
The power of the internet meant that it had taken very little time to track down the woman who’d never opened those parcels or letters. A call to someone he knew in Auckland had given him access to a personal phone number. And, okay, he shouldn’t have made that last call but what was done was done and it was highly unlikely that this Olivia Donaldson would take the slightest notice of what he’d said.
‘Let’s get back inside, Don. This wind feels like it’s coming straight off the top of one of those mountains.’
‘Yep...there’s a storm brewing, all right.’
Isaac shook off the double meaning in those words that only he was aware of. It was a waste of energy to try crossing bridges before they were even visible. He had learned long ago to live in the present and deal with whatever came at you from left field. And he might be more than a bit of a lone wolf, but he was also definitely a survivor. He wasn’t worried...
* * *
Stiletto heels made a very satisfying clicking sound on the gleaming floors of one of Auckland’s most prestigious private hospitals. Along with the sleek, fitted skirt and matching jacket and the equally sleek hairstyle Olivia Donaldson had perfected long ago, she knew she looked the part of an up-and-coming plastic surgeon who was well on the way to being exactly where she wanted to be—at the top of the field in reconstructive microsurgery.
She’d had doubts about the value of providing cosmetic surgery to people who were wealthy enough to chase the illusion of perfection but she’d decided to view purely aesthetic surgery a stepping stone when she’d decided to apply for this job. Elective procedures like a facelift needed the same skills as reconstructive microsurgery and the hours and pay of this new job gave Olivia the freedom to do any further postgraduate study she would need.
Auckland’s Plastic Surgery Institute had its own ward in this private hospital and Olivia’s patients had had their surgery this morning. She had been pushed to get through all her cases today and they had all been breasts. A breast lift and augmentation for a mother of three in her forties, a breast lift and reduction for a woman in her fifties, and an implant removal for someone the same age as Olivia, who’d experienced hardened scar tissue from silicone material leaking from her implants. The lift and augmentation had been her first case this morning and Olivia could see no reason for her not to go home now.
‘Sleep as upright as possible for the next forty-eight hours,’ she advised. ‘Prop yourself up on lots of pill
ows, or use a recliner chair if you’ve got one.’
‘It hurts more than I expected.’
‘We’ll give you something for that but you can expect your breasts to be swollen and sore for the next few days, I’m afraid.’
‘This instruction sheet says I have to avoid any strenuous activity for two to three weeks. That’s not going to be easy when I’ve got three small children, is it?’
Olivia made an effort to keep her smile sympathetic. ‘I’m sure it won’t be, but it is very important. Especially not to lift them. You’ll risk tearing stitches and other problems if you do.’
At least her breast reduction patient was more thrilled with the new shape of her body beneath the support bandaging and surgical bra.
‘I can’t think why I didn’t do this years ago. I just wish I’d got you to do a tummy tuck at the same time, Dr Donaldson.’
‘We can talk about that another time. It wasn’t a minor procedure that you had today, you know. How’s the pain level now?’
‘I’ve been too excited to notice it much. How soon can I go back to work and show it all off?’
‘Once you no longer need your prescription pain medication. In a week or so, I expect, but we can let you know when you come for your first outpatient appointment at the Institute in a few days.’
‘Will I be seeing you then?’
‘Of course.’ Olivia’s smile felt slightly forced. A lot of her time these days was spent in the luxurious consultation rooms of the Plastic Surgery Institute. Initial consultations to discuss desired procedures. Assessment and detailed planning in conjunction with the patients and then the follow-up appointments to track recovery and deal with any complications. And, even during the six months that Olivia had become immersed in the world of private cosmetic surgery, she was already seeing patients returning for their next procedure. It was flattering that they demanded to see her but it was a little disturbing, as well.
From Heartache to Forever Page 16