The Doctor, His Daughter and Me

by Leonie Knight

  He opened the borrowed vehicle and went to reach across his companion to open the door, but she beat him to it. In what he guessed were less than a couple of minutes she’d shifted from her chair to the dusty, work-battered seat and was in the process of buckling her seat-belt. He paused to admire her and she looked up with a nervous smile.

  ‘What’s up? Is everything okay?’

  ‘Yes, fine.’ He certainly wasn’t about to tell her that everything was far from being okay. That his mind was becoming increasingly scrambled with feelings he didn’t understand. And it had nothing to do with the tiredness that hung heavy like early-morning mist. He fumbled to release the brake on her chair and finally managed to move it to Tara’s vehicle.

  ‘You remember the way home, don’t you?’ Tara asked as he positioned himself behind the wheel.

  Home? Of course her home was the farm, and had been since her discharge from the rehabilitation hospital. That had been several months after their divorce and was a part of her life he knew nothing about.

  He remembered when home had been a shabby two-bedroom flat near the university that he and Tara had shared with another couple who were also struggling students. He recalled the excitement when they’d moved into a smart townhouse by the river after they were married, and the joy they’d shared in choosing furniture, in packing the small courtyard garden haphazardly with dozens of plants, and filling their lives with dreams and plans for a future—a future that had been cruelly stolen from them.

  ‘You do remember the way to the farm?’ she repeated.

  Ryan had been so swept up in his own thoughts he’d not answered.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he said, a little more brusquely than he’d planned, and his terse response put an end to their conversation until he turned onto the gravel road leading to the homestead. ‘I made my own way here a few weeks ago, didn’t I?’

  He pulled up as close as he could to the ramp without getting in Tara’s way, and was grateful someone had had the forethought to leave an outside light on. There were also several rooms bathed in a welcoming golden glow.

  Tara was again handing him her keys. This time she’d separated a brass door key from the rest.

  ‘My other wheelchair is in my bedroom. Do you remember where that is?’

  Of course he did. How could he forget those stolen moments of tantalising intimacy on the few occasions they’d visited the farm when they’d been students, uninhibited with their affections and so much in love.

  ‘Vaguely.’

  He had a sudden idea, and the words were out of his mouth before he had time to think of the implications.

  ‘Look, why don’t I just carry you inside? If you need the chair I can find it when you’re settled.’ He paused, waiting for her reply, but it didn’t happen. Her face was in shadow, so he couldn’t see her expression. He figured he had nothing to lose. She hadn’t agreed, but she also hadn’t refused. ‘And I don’t mind putting you to bed. It’s been a long day and I’m feeling dead on my feet.’

  Dead on my feet…

  How insensitive was that?

  Tara turned towards him and he could now see the icy look on her face, the steely defiance in her eyes. He’d hit a raw nerve and he braced himself for the consequences.

  ‘I’m not a child, Ryan,’ she said quietly. ‘I don’t want to be carried, let alone put to bed like a helpless baby. I’m quite capable of putting myself to bed, on my own, just like I’ve been doing for the past eight years.’

  Despite the gloom Ryan could see her red cheeks and the veins standing out on her temples. He suspected her rosy complexion was more to do with anger than embarrassment.

  His heart filled with regret. He certainly hadn’t planned to hurt her.

  ‘I’m sorry, Tara. I didn’t think…’ he said meekly. He took the offered key and climbed out of his car. ‘I won’t be long,’ he added as he strode towards the house, wondering how he could have got it so wrong.

  * * *

  Tara had become used to her predictable life with its strictly regimented routine. That wasn’t to say she was completely happy with it, but at least she knew there would be few surprises.

  The first shock had been Ryan appearing on her doorstep and telling her he was about to edge his way back into a part of her life she’d thought she had control of. Then, even scarier, had come the revelation he was divorced with a child, and that information was all tangled up with the realisation she still found her ex-husband attractive. Up until now she hadn’t believed that to be a problem, because all she had to do was have as little contact with him as possible.

  But now!

  She’d shared a meal with him at his motel, he was the treating specialist for her stubborn and hostile father, and he was about to spend what was left of the night with her.

  Oh, God.

  Her privacy, her independence, her fragile self-confidence was crumbling around her.

  She was grateful Ryan had gone inside to get her wheelchair as it gave her a few moments to rein back her emotions and think about how she was going to handle the next five or six hours. Had she been too harsh with him when he’d offered to carry her inside?

  Carry her!

  She wasn’t ready for that kind of close physical contact and didn’t trust how her body would respond to being cradled in his arms. Better she just keep her distance—both physical and emotional. Ryan would be heading back to the city after his operating session and then they’d be in a better position to know how long her father would be out of action. The crisis at the farm would be over, or at least reduced to a manageable drama by the end of the weekend. She looked forward to some semblance of normality being restored.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the window. Ryan stood sheepishly behind her chair. She opened the car door. ‘I’m sorry—’

  ‘There’s no need to apologise.’ He had a tentative smile on his face, as if waiting for permission to go on. ‘You’re tired and have had an incredibly stressful night. I understand.’

  Tara’s first reaction was to recoil from words that could be interpreted as condescending. But he was right. Stressed and tired was exactly how she felt. Add a handful of guilt at not being home for her parents when her father had been injured, and it wasn’t surprising her judgement was skewed.

  ‘That still doesn’t excuse my…er…grouchiness.’

  His smile morphed into a grin.

  ‘You always had a quick temper.’ He paused and rubbed his forehead. ‘But it never lasted for long. And I like a woman with spirit.’

  ‘Enough,’ she said quietly, feeling the edginess coming back. Ryan seemed to understand, and busied himself with positioning the chair as close to the car as he could.

  She pulled herself into her chair and headed towards the open front door of the house, leaving Ryan to lock up the ute and follow her. The first thing she did when she got inside was to check there was fresh linen in the guest room. She also glanced in the bathroom and noted there were towels, fresh soap and a new toothbrush. She gave a silent cheer for her mother’s efficiency, and as she turned to come out of the room nearly bumped into Ryan.

  ‘Whoops,’ he said as he moved aside. ‘I just seem to keep getting in your way.’

  She ignored his comment and stifled a yawn. ‘We should try to get a few hours’ sleep. I’ll set my alarm for five, because we need to be in the milking shed by six at the latest. What time does your theatre session start?’

  ‘Half past eight.’

  The yawn she’d tried to suppress a minute ago returned but she ignored it.

  ‘Good. If you’re a fast learner…’ which she doubted—he’d always shied away from any manual work involving more energy than moving the occasional plant pot ‘… you might have time to grab a bite to eat before you go back to the hospital.’

  She thought of apologising for volunteering him for pre-dawn hard labour, but she was too tired and would think about an appropriate way to thank him in the morning. He obviously hadn�
��t missed her yawn, and she harboured the thought that she didn’t look her best after a long hard day, let alone one which had turned into an even longer and demanding night.

  ‘To bed, then.’ A cheeky smile appeared on his face and he added, ‘You must be exhausted.’

  ‘I think you’re familiar with the guest room,’ Tara muttered. and waved her arm in the direction of the room they’d just left. ‘You should have everything you need—feel free to raid the kitchen if you’re hungry.’

  ‘Thanks.’ They both hesitated, Ryan appearing as uncomfortable as Tara felt. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

  He started off towards his room, but then stopped and turned. Two strides and he was back at Tara’s side, and before she had time to stop him he’d leaned over and planted a warm, firm kiss on her lips.

  Ryan had kissed her!

  It was brief enough to be simply a goodnight kiss between friends but long enough to hold the promise of more. If she wanted it.

  Did she? But Ryan didn’t give her the opportunity to decide.

  ‘Sweet dreams,’ he said as he closed his door.

  When Tara finally fell into a restless sleep she dreamed of Ryan’s arms around her, his mouth on hers, his lips caressing. It was the sweetest dream—until he began to undress her and saw her injured legs. Then the sweetness evaporated and all she was left with was the same empty loneliness she’d endured for the last eight years.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  WHEN the loud buzz of Tara’s alarm jolted her into consciousness the following morning it felt as if she’d only just gone to sleep. She stretched, rubbed her eyes and looked at the clock on her bedside table. Yes, it was just after five a.m. Time to get up. Her mother’s words echoed in her mind—the cows aren’t going to wait.

  By the time she’d hauled herself out of bed, washed and attended to her usual morning ablutions, it was close to half past and she hoped Ryan wasn’t still a heavy sleeper. When she knocked on his door he opened it with a wide-awake, cheerful smile. He’d obviously showered as he was towelling his still-damp hair and droplets of water trickled down his chest.

  His bare, lean, muscular chest.

  The noise that involuntarily emitted from Tara’s suddenly tight throat was a cross between a moan and a gasp. All he wore was a pair of navy boxer shorts and a mischievous grin.

  ‘It’s not as if you haven’t seen it all before.’ He discarded the towel and pulled on jeans and a shirt.

  By this time Tara’s cheeks were burning, but she couldn’t bring herself to look away. Memories flooded back. Bittersweet memories of carefree times when she’d felt no embarrassment over nakedness—hers or Ryan’s.

  Back then she’d been comfortable with her body. She’d revelled in the sensuousness of just looking at Ryan naked; in the warm pleasure of unexpected arousal and lovemaking—in the shower, on the floor, leaned up against the front door, breathless and impatient, or lazily in bed on Sunday mornings.

  But now? The thought of revealing her damaged body to Ryan—or any man—made her stomach turn.

  Another blow to her fragile self esteem.

  And why should Ryan be any different? A feral thought entered her mind associated with a vivid image of a very young, very energetic, nubile and sexy Shannay. The other ex-wife, who seemed much more real now she had a name. How could she compete with that?

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you to be awake.’ She managed to salvage a morsel of control.

  ‘You said we had an appointment at six with a herd of impatient cows. I don’t want to keep the ladies waiting.’

  He then had the audacity to wink. He was flirting with her. And she liked it.

  She glanced at his bare feet in an effort to take her mind off the rest of his body.

  ‘There’ll be a pair of spare wellies in the dairy and I’ll lend you some thick socks,’ she said. His designer running shoes would be ruined within five minutes in the milking shed.

  ‘Thanks.’ He slipped on his shoes without bothering with socks. ‘Anything else we need to do before we go?’

  ‘I’ll need a couple of cushions—’

  ‘So you can relax and watch me do all the work?’ He laughed and, surprisingly, seemed to be enjoying the novelty of helping out.

  She didn’t want to burst the bubble and tell him he was in for at least an hour of unremitting hard toil. Tara ignored his remark as she reversed out of the doorway, Ryan not far behind. She did a quick detour to get the socks and cushions, which she piled on her lap.

  ‘I’ll take the quad bike. It’s parked in the tractor shed. Then if you could put my chair in the truck…’ She grabbed a set of keys from a hook near the back door and threw them at Ryan, who caught them clumsily. ‘Then follow me to the dairy.’

  * * *

  There was something exhilarating about driving an old, beat-up farm truck along a potholed dirt track in the milky pre-dawn light. Ryan could make out the silhouettes of scattered trees on the blurry horizon, and he inhaled the heady smell of livestock and wet grass while he battled to keep up with the jolting tail-lights glowing just ahead.

  He followed Tara around a broad bend, and in the sweep of his headlights witnessed an amazing sight.

  The rising sun back-lit the dairy shed and bathed it in a golden glow. Behind the shed the ground in the paddock sloped up to a backdrop of gently rolling hills. In the distance he could see an army of cattle making their way towards them, a small brown dog running from one side of the herd to the other.

  He parked the truck next to Tara, and as the cows moved closer he was embraced by the noise of them clomping and mooing in the otherwise quiet dawn. He glanced at his watch. Five forty-five. They’d arrived in good time.

  Tara looked impatient to get started, so he lifted her chair out of the tray of the truck, unfolded it, positioned what seemed like a mountain of cushions on the seat and wheeled it over to the quad bike.

  ‘If you could just help me onto the cushions?’ she said.

  Once she was on her chair, the cushions added an extra twenty centimetres to her height and when she turned the lights on in the dairy he understood why.

  All the equipment, as well as the cattle stalls, was raised nearly a metre above ground level—he presumed so that the farmer and his helpers didn’t have to constantly bend. Unfortunately the design didn’t take into account the height disadvantage of a paraplegic worker. Hence the cushions.

  ‘Why did you bring the bike?’ Surely Tara could have just as easily travelled with him.

  ‘Sometimes Jacko sleeps late—’

  ‘Jacko?’ he said. Who the hell was Jacko? Was Tara expecting hired help to arrive at any minute? A jolt of something very like jealousy surprised him.

  Tara chuckled. ‘The dog. Didn’t you see him in the paddock when you pulled in?’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course.’ It made sense now. Farmers used motorbikes to round up stock. Tara used the quad bike if and when the energetic little Kelpie overslept—which he doubted happened very often.

  After he was kitted out in wellies, rubber gloves, a plastic apron and disposable cap, Ryan followed Tara into the shed. It was like entering a different world, full of stainless steel surfaces, machinery for milking, pipes seeming to go in all directions and a huge tank at the end of the run.

  Tara seemed to know what she was doing, though.

  ‘What can I do to help?’ he said as she spun wheels, checked dials and wheeled up the work area that ran between the stalls where the cows would be milked.

  ‘I’ve just done a flush of the system to clean it, and the cows will start coming through soon. Then it’ll be nonstop.’

  ‘Until we finish?’

  ‘That’s right. When one hundred and twenty-three cows are milked and back in the paddock.’

  ‘You count them?’

  ‘Every day. But it’s done electronically nowadays. It’s a way of keeping track of them. If they’re not all accounted for it can mean trouble.’

  She sighed, but Ryan could te
ll she was experiencing a buzz from being up to her ears in hard physical work. Somehow he couldn’t imagine Graham Fielding letting Tara have free rein in the dairy, even if she’d been able-bodied. Her father had been protective of her all the years he and Tara had been together. It had been easy for her to move away to go to university, but the wheel had turned full circle.

  He could only envisage what it must be like for her now, and had a new respect for how she was coping.

  He felt her tugging at his sleeve and turned to see what she wanted. The cows were patiently waiting outside the shed so he assumed the milking was about to start.

  ‘We’ll take a side each. Your inexperience should balance with my being in the chair, so hopefully we’ll synchronise.’ She pointed to a gate on his side. ‘Time to open up. I’ll show you what to do with the first cow and then you’re on your own.’ She smiled. ‘Watch closely, learn and then do it yourself, as my grandpa used to say.’

  The next hour flew by in a blur of teats, milking cups, feed bins, cow excrement and noise. There wasn’t time to talk even if Ryan had wanted to. Tara had been right—they got into a rhythm of sorts that they both could manage.

  When the last half-dozen cows were released he felt as if he’d worked a twelve-hour shift moving rocks up a mountain. He’d discovered muscles he never knew he had and hoped he’d not have to use again any time soon. He stretched, wiped hot sweat from his throbbing forehead and groaned. Tara manoeuvred to face him.