From Bachelor to Daddy

by Meredith Webber

She hoped she sounded calm and efficient but inwardly she was a mess. Had she made a promise she couldn’t keep; would all be well for Izzy and the baby? And what had she been doing, fiddling around with a pigtail hat when she should have been putting an emergency bag of drugs in the car?

  Mac arrived, his face tense and strained, although he was so gentle and loving with Izzy, Emma felt like crying.

  ‘Possible pre-eclampsia?’ he asked, touching his wife’s face where fluid had collected.

  Emma nodded.

  ‘I’ll get Marty to drive your car, you can sit in the front, and I’ll sit in the back with Izzy and do whatever I can to make her comfortable.’

  ‘I could do that,’ Mac protested. ‘I’m a doctor, too.’

  ‘And she’s your wife—that’s enough pressure for you. And Marty knows these roads better than anyone, but you’ll still have your car in Braxton when you need it.’

  As she could see Marty beckoning from the door, she got the party moving, Mac lifting Izzy into his arms as though she were a featherweight and striding urgently towards the door.

  The music had stopped and people were stepping back—leaving room for him to carry her swiftly to the car. Ned caught up with Emma.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked, and she smiled and gave him a quick hug, aware he, too, was remembering what had happened to her.

  ‘Right as rain,’ she told him. ‘You’ll take Marty’s car back to town—and Carrie?’

  Her father nodded.

  ‘Get going, and good luck,’ he said, pacing beside her as far as the door.

  Mac had settled Izzy into the rear seat, her feet up and a pillow collected from somewhere placed behind her back.

  Emma scrambled into the footwell, where she would be close to Izzy and able to keep an eye on her condition. She had to focus on Izzy now—to the exclusion of all else. The past was the past.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she said, and Marty needed no second telling.

  The drive, along winding mountain roads, seemed endless, although they must have made it to the hospital in record time. Marty had given Mac the relevant phone numbers to call so by the time they pulled up at the emergency doors, they had not only a trolley and staff waiting but Izzy’s obstetrician.

  Emma hung back as Izzy was wheeled away, to be examined, treated, and have decisions made about her condition and the safety of both her and the baby. There were so many variables—and so many risks—connected to the condition, Emma found herself shivering as she followed the parade into the ED.

  ‘I think I should go and get Nikki.’

  Just when Marty had caught up with her, Emma wasn’t sure, but when he materialised beside her she wasn’t altogether surprised. He made a habit of it, the materialising thing...

  She turned to him and nodded.

  ‘You’re right, I think she’d like to be here. You’ll be, what, a couple of hours? I can explain to Mac—’

  ‘Couple of hours be damned, I’ll fly over. I’ll phone Hallie to let her know I’m coming and what’s going on, and she’ll track Nikki down.’

  He paused, then smiled—the kind of smile that Emma wished had been for her.

  ‘Come to think of it, Hallie will want to be here too, and I think Izzy might need her.’

  He really was a special person, Emma thought as Marty dashed off. Always thinking of others, thinking ahead then working out the best way he could help.

  As special as Simon?

  The thought was so startling she stopped in her tracks, shook off her straying thoughts and walked swiftly into the emergency room, where Izzy was being examined.

  Except she wasn’t there. Mac met her at the door.

  ‘They’ve decided to deliver the baby, she’s been wheeled up to theatre for a Caesar,’ he said, his voice tight with strain. ‘She’s only thirty-one weeks, but the foetal heartbeat isn’t that great. She’s had anticonvulsant medication and steroids to help the baby’s lungs develop more quickly, but her obstetrician doesn’t want to wait.’

  ‘Thirty-one weeks? Braxton PICU won’t be able to keep the baby. He or she—’

  ‘He,’ Mac put in. ‘We only decided at the last scan that we wanted to know, and, yes, I’d been thinking the same thing. Where will they send them?’

  ‘I haven’t been here long enough to know,’ Emma told him. ‘But I’d say Retford. It’s the major hospital in the region and as it’s attached to the regional university I would think they’d have a top-class PICU.’

  Mac gave a huff of laughter.

  ‘I actually know that, having sent a baby there myself. Shows the state I’m in.’

  ‘As does the fact you’re standing here chatting with me. I know they’ll have to prep Izzy for the op, but shouldn’t you be up in Theatre, waiting for her?’

  Mac’s face paled.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, his voice so hoarse Emma could read the fear he felt for his wife.

  ‘They’ll both be fine, so go,’ she said to him, giving him a little push in the direction of the theatre.

  Should she follow?

  Could she follow?

  She’d been battling to keep focussed from the moment she’d crossed the barn to sit beside Izzy, battling to keep away the memories that were threatening to flood her brain and render her totally useless. Thinking about Marty to distract herself?

  But they could no longer be pushed back, and as she walked along the corridor towards the theatre she remembered being wheeled in, still numb from Simon’s death, not really aware of anything that was happening around her, let alone within her body.

  She turned, seeking privacy in the ER tea-room, quiet at night with only a skeleton staff on duty. She fiddled with the kettle so if anyone came in she’d have her back to them and at least look busy.

  And now she let the memories flood in. The mad dash to the hospital, pre-eclampsia—the dreaded word—being muttered somewhere outside the fog that was in her head.

  Decisions being made by experts because this had been one shock too many for her. Bed rest not helping, and a Caesar the only option.

  But her baby, Simon’s baby, hadn’t lived and now the tears she hadn’t been able to shed then because Simon’s death had left her empty—now those tears, the tears for her baby, rolled down her cheeks.

  ‘Has something happened? Izzy? The baby?’

  Once again Marty was there, behind her this time. She swiped away the tears, aware she must have been staring at the kettle for at least an hour.

  Probably longer...

  ‘They’re fine, as far as I know,’ she said, turning to find not only Marty in the room but a teenager Emma assumed must be Nikki, with Hallie close behind her.

  ‘We should hear soon,’ she told them. ‘I was thinking tea if anyone wants one. You might like coffee, Marty. Or is Matt on duty? Because the baby will be too premmie for Braxton so they’ll all have to be flown to Retford.’

  He didn’t answer, too busy studying her face, so many questions in his eyes she had to turn away and wipe her face again before greeting Hallie.

  ‘And you must be Nikki,’ she said, holding out her hand to the teenager. ‘I’ve got some clothes of yours I should have returned earlier.’

  ‘Keep them,’ Nikki told her. ‘Mum bought me new ones anyway.’

  She spoke brightly but her face clouded over at the thought of her mother.

  ‘How is she? Will she be all right? And the baby?’

  ‘Everyone will be fine,’ Hallie announced, and the certainty in her voice not only made Emma smile but also eased some of the hard edges of the grief that had struck her so suddenly.

  ‘I’ll organise the chopper to take them both to Retford,’ Marty said. ‘We’ll take a PICU nurse and can take Mac too.’

  He looked at Hallie.

  ‘Good idea,’ she said. ‘We’ll wait until we’ve s
een Izzy then Nikki and I can take Mac’s car to Carrie’s, spend the night there, and drive down to Retford in the morning.’

  Emma shook her head.

  ‘You’re some organised family, aren’t you?’ she said, and Hallie laughed.

  ‘We had to be,’ she said. ‘We had eight kids with us at one stage. How many with your lot, Marty?’

  He counted them off on his fingers.

  ‘Steve, me, Izzy, Lila and Liane—that’s five, hardly any at all.’

  ‘And more trouble than all the rest put together,’ Hallie said sternly, but Emma saw the twinkle in her eyes and wondered if that group—her last lot of foster children—had maybe been her favourite.

  * * *

  Marty knew he had to leave, but the sadness and the sheen of tears he’d caught on Emma’s face made him want to comfort her—to hold her, even, though that could never be. If ever there was a woman who needed commitment it was Emma.

  ‘Let’s get up to Theatre. Both mother and baby should be cleaned up by now and we can all say hello before I have to fly them away.’

  He led the way, hoping Emma would follow and he’d have a chance to speak to her while Hallie and Nikki spent a few moments with Izzy.

  But it was not to be.

  When they all trooped into the small recovery room where Izzy lay pale but smiling, and Mac was hovering protectively over a humidicrib inhabited by quite a robust-looking baby, Emma was nowhere to be seen.

  He left the family there, knowing he had work to do, knowing too that a PICU nurse would be accompanying them on the flight so there’d be no need for Emma.

  Yet wanting to see her, find out about that awful sadness he’d read in her lovely eyes...

  It’s none of your business, he reminded himself as he headed for the base. An ambulance would bring his passengers out there, and he had to be fully prepared for the flight.

  Extra fully prepared for he’d be carrying precious cargo—family cargo.

  Family...

  * * *

  Emma had watched them all go off to see Izzy and the baby but she couldn’t follow, because, although her tears no longer flowed, she didn’t want the misery she’d been feeling to taint the delight of a new birth—even if it was a premmie one.

  So she walked home, and even found a smile when she saw the light burning at the top of the front steps, welcoming her back.

  Home.

  She nodded to herself, aware that this old house, with its high ceilings and large airy rooms, the warm family kitchen and the untidy garden with its mango trees, had become just that—a home.

  And that being the case, she decided as she climbed the steps, she had to stop thinking about Marty Graham. He wasn’t for her, they both knew that, so if she wanted a man in her life—for the boys’ sake and to free up her father—she’d have to start sifting through the available men in the town.

  She walked inside, checked the boys in their beds, and read the note her father had left on the kitchen table. Carrie had driven him home and taken Molly and Mandy home with her. Boys quiet all night, had fun at the barn dance, talk in the morning.

  It was a comforting note, but the fact that he’d had fun then had had to come home to mind her children, drove home the need for her to find a man—or a housekeeper.

  A housekeeper who could kick a football maybe?

  She made a cup of tea, having failed to make one at the hospital, and took it with her to the front veranda, where she settled on the top step to look out at the sleeping town.

  So far she’d met three available men, the meetings engineered by helpful friends or colleagues. There was the engineer, Rob Armstrong—a nice enough guy but she kind of suspected he might be holding a torch for Joss, and although Joss was happily married, he’d shown absolutely no interest in her, Emma.

  Neil didn’t need consideration, although maybe she was being a trifle unkind. There’d be some woman somewhere out there who’d love to know how many tons per acre a good mung bean crop should produce, he just wasn’t Emma’s cup of tea.

  She drained the real cup of tea and sighed. She was fairly certain they’d done their winch practice on Shane’s property so Marty could engineer a meeting between her and Shane.

  Shane who?

  Had she ever heard his surname?

  Not that it mattered, just thinking of their possible wedding photos—hers and Shane’s—with her looking like a midget beside him, was enough for her to know he wasn’t worth pursuing.

  This was ridiculous. None of these men had shown the slightest interest in her, and even if one had, how fair would it be to use any one of them as a distraction from Marty?

  Marty, whose smile warmed her heart, whose touch sent shivers down her spine, and who was definitely not available...

  She sighed, stood up, and made her way to bed.

  At least all those ‘man thoughts’ had helped her shut away the feelings of loss that had hit her so hard at the hospital.

  And she didn’t really need a man. A housekeeper would be far better. The boys could kick footballs at kindy and school, and, anyway, she’d been quite good at soccer at school herself.

  She’d kick footballs with them!

  * * *

  And just to prove she could, next morning saw her at the park down at the bottom of the hill, where children of all ages congregated to play—football kicking being only one of the activities.

  She’d pushed the boys down in their stroller, although they’d both protested they were big enough to walk. Which they were, but she’d doubted they’d be happy walking back up the hill when they were tired from their play.

  A cone-shaped, spider-web climbing frame soon became a favourite, and they were carefully negotiating their separate ways across the ropes when Marty turned up, sent on from the house by Ned.

  ‘I just called in to give you an update on Izzy and George,’ he said, smiling and waving at the two boys as he spoke.

  ‘George?’ echoed Emma.

  Marty turned to grin at her.

  ‘Exactly what I said, but I’m assured old-fashioned names are coming back,’ Marty told her. ‘I suppose we should be glad it wasn’t Alfred.’

  Emma laughed, although when she thought about it...

  ‘Actually, I don’t mind Alfie.’

  ‘You can’t be serious!’ Marty said, then he dived forward to scoop up Xavier as he fell towards the soft sand beneath the climbing frame.

  Emma watched as he set a far from worried little boy back on the ropes, then stood back as another adult rushed towards his child.

  An older child, a boy of about seven, was trying to push his sister off her perch above him, and as Emma watched the girl fell and the man hauled what was presumably his son off the ropes and smacked him, yelling at him for his actions at the same time.

  Marty stepped forward, fists clenched, but Emma caught his arm.

  He shook her off, but her touch must have calmed him down for he walked away, but not before Emma had seen his face, ashen with shock.

  Or memories?

  She gathered up her boys, who’d stopped climbing to look at the sobbing child, and followed Marty to where he’d dropped down onto a bench under a shady tree.

  Should she say something?

  Ask why it had upset him so badly?

  Or did she need to ask?

  He’d been a foster child, presumably taken from his family.

  Because of an abusive father?

  ‘I should have stepped in,’ he said.

  ‘And done what? Punched the man in front of his children? Met violence with violence in front of a dozen children?’

  She sat beside him and rested her hand on his knee.

  ‘I think he smacked the boy more out of shock than anger. He saw the girl fall and reacted. He was comforting both children when we left.�
�

  Marty nodded, then moved his shoulders as if to shift a burden.

  ‘I know no one likes to see a child being smacked, but why did you react to it like that?’ she asked, though she doubted she’d get an answer. For all his outgoing, friendly manner, he was a very private man.

  He didn’t answer for so long she thought he wouldn’t, but then he said, very quietly, ‘There was violence in my home—my birth home. My father had an uncontrollable temper and flew into rages at the slightest provocation.’

  He’d been looking into the distance but now he turned to her.

  ‘It’s in me, too, Emma, that rage. It’s in me too.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she said calmly, but he was already on his feet.

  ‘Who’s for ice cream?’ he called to the two little boys, who were back on the climbing frame.

  He got the response he wanted when they ran towards him, and he took a hand of each to lead them to the ice-cream van that was parked, almost permanently, on the other side of the park.

  ‘I’ll bring them back safely,’ he said to Emma.

  She smiled at him and said, ‘I didn’t doubt it for a minute—there’s no one I’d rather trust my boys to than you, Marty Graham.’

  But as she watched them walk away, she sighed.

  Was friendship always so complicated?

  Or was this friendship more complicated than usual because, deep down, she’d have liked it to be more than that?

  Of course, it was, but her feelings towards Marty were so tangled up with who they both were—she remembering the pain of a lost love and he, now she understood, fearing his own genetic heritage.

  Could love flourish when they both had the darkness of the past to contend with?

  Could she take the risk...?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  GOING TO WORK seemed something of an anticlimax after the excitements of the weekend, but once there Emma found it soothing to be back in a familiar environment, and even welcomed the rush of the busy morning—patients who hadn’t wanted to waste their own precious time over the weekend in the local A and E came rolling in with a variety of complaints.

  ‘Half these people should be visiting their GP,’ Helen, no doubt suffering broken sleep patterns given her advanced pregnancy, grumbled.