Christmas Knight

by Meredith Webber

  ‘Sorry!’ he said, more abruptly than he’d intended. ‘I know you don’t like being interrupted but I wanted to tell you I’m just popping over to the surgery. I meant to phone Linda this morning, then didn’t get a chance. I’d use my mobile but the battery’s flat and it’s on the charger. I’ll pay for the call, of course.’

  He walked away, hoping he’d sounded sufficiently impersonal to undo any closeness that might have been developing between them. The Linda thing had been a masterstroke—if only he didn’t keep forgetting to use it. He had to bring her up more often. And though he’d invented her originally to reassure Katie he was harmless—as far as being a man was concerned, Linda could now act as a suit of armour for himself.

  Kate watched the door close behind him, and told herself she should be pleased he had a Linda. She also reminded herself it had been her own choice to go the single-mother route.

  But enough of her brain was working for her to not believe a word of it. Far from not wanting him with her while she fed the baby, she’d positively ached to ask him to come in, to sit with her and chat, while Cassie—yes, that was the name—had her afternoon tea.

  This was dangerous ground, and having Grant here for another however many weeks—she kept forgetting to ask Vi what arrangements she’d made with him—was asking for trouble.

  She lifted the sleeping baby to her shoulder, patted her half-heartedly in the hope she might burp, reminded herself of something she’d once read that said burping was useless anyway and put the little one—Cassie—down.

  On the way through to the kitchen she grabbed a phone book and the notepad and pen she kept by the phone. She put on the kettle for a cup of tea, set the notepad on the kitchen table with the pen beside it and made a new resolution, though it was still three weeks to New Year.

  ‘I will become organised and if that means becoming a list-maker, then so be it.’

  Said out loud, the resolution sounded pathetic, but as no one was around to hear it didn’t matter. Once her tea was made, she settled at the table and opened the phone directory at the Yellow Pages.

  Would there be a listing for bathrooms, or would she have to get separate people in—a carpenter and a plumber, and possibly an electrician because the nanny would probably want a power-point for her hair-dryer? She wrote these trades down on her list, one beneath the other, and marvelled at how neat it looked and how proud of herself she felt.

  And she’d need a painter—added painter to the list—although perhaps she could do that part herself. Keep her busy and out of Grant’s way when he was home.

  Crossed the painter off.

  She checked the index, found bathrooms and turned to the right page, but most of the so-called ‘bathroom renovations our specialty’ ads had addresses in the city, and bringing them all this way would be expensive.

  Perhaps if she phoned the nanny agency and checked on the bathroom thing first.

  Wrote ‘Phone agency’ on the list.

  She’d sound like a twit but it might save some money.

  Money! She’d spent her savings and practically mortgaged her soul to get the house and practice.

  Phone bank manager.

  Somehow the thought of asking Brian for a loan made her feel queasy. It wouldn’t feel right—having to admit to a patient you had so little in the way of financial stability you had to borrow for a bathroom.

  She drew a line through the last item, then leafed through the book in search of finance companies.

  Unfortunately for that idea, she could remember her bank manager father explaining how families like the Bells, who’d been on the land for generations, had been consumed by financial difficulties because they’d overextended themselves and borrowed through finance companies to stay afloat.

  ‘It only prolongs the inevitable,’ her father had said, as he’d tried to stem her rage and despair by explaining the bank’s decision was unavoidable—and not his sole responsibility!

  She wrote ‘Phone Brian’ on the list, because banks knew how far you could extend yourself without getting into serious trouble.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re writing a list!’

  Grant’s voice made her turn towards the back door, where he was standing regarding her, a teasing smile playing around the lips which had become the focus of her nightly dreams.

  ‘I’m getting my life in order,’ she told him. ‘Kettle’s boiled if you want a cup of tea. And Cassie’s just gone off to sleep so she should be all right for an hour. If you’ve got nothing you want to do, could I leave her with you while I pop over to see Vi?’

  His blue eyes narrowed with what looked like suspicion.

  ‘I want to ask her who might be able to do the bathroom,’ she added, though she didn’t really need to explain to Grant why she was going.

  ‘Fair enough,’ he said, then he grinned at her. ‘Just tell me. Is Cassie it, or are we just trying it on for a week?’

  She had to smile—impossible not to.

  ‘I think it’s it,’ she told him, while telling herself that, of course, it was possible to not smile back. ‘But I guess we’ll have to wait and see.’

  She fled past him, out the door, because every minute she was near him she was at the mercy of her unreliable hormones—the ones with a direct line to her even more unreliable mouth which was likely to come out with something outrageous like, Let’s go to bed—should she remain in his vicinity.

  Grant watched her departure, telling himself this was good, then he saw the list and realised, if she was getting serious about a spare bathroom, she must be equally serious about a live-in nanny.

  The thought depressed him for reasons he didn’t want to consider, and the last name on the list— ‘Brian’ —underneath ‘Bank Manager’, which she’d crossed out, obviously feeling it was too impersonal—well, that just made him angry.

  Was she going there now? Was the Vi story just a ruse?

  He peered out the window, but couldn’t see her, though if she’d gone uptown, rather than to Vi’s, she’d have walked across the back paddock.

  Wouldn’t she?

  He threw the cup of tea he’d made down the sink and went into the living room to brood.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  BROODING produced no answers—mainly because Grant wasn’t sure of the questions. Not all of them.

  Maybe he’d cook instead.

  But that didn’t help because, after only three weeks in the house, he felt at home in Katie’s kitchen, and feeling at home there was a dangerous concept—something he didn’t want to consider, let alone brood over.

  He was stirring his simmering stock when she returned, accompanied by an elderly man who greeted him with great affection.

  ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ the stranger said, ‘but you were the best little builder’s labourer I’ve ever had. Back when you were about four—before you went to school—and I put in the new shearers’ quarters for your dad.’

  ‘Mr McConagle? I do remember. Well, I remember a very kind and patient man who let me think I was helping. I had a great time and for years after was certain I was going to be a builder.’

  ‘More a handyman than a builder,’ Mr McConagle said. ‘That’s what people need out here. Someone who can turn his hand to anything. I suppose doctors in the country are a bit the same.’

  ‘Or should be,’ Katie said darkly.

  ‘Well, let’s have a look at the job,’ Mr McConagle suggested, and Katie, after a quick ‘Is it OK if we go into your room?’ to Grant, led the handyman through the house.

  Grant fell in behind then realised it was nothing to do with him so went back to stirring his stock, which didn’t need stirring. The task also lacked any degree of job satisfaction as he kept wanting to know what was happening and wondering why he was getting uptight about a live-in nanny for Cassie.

  ‘Mr McConagle says he can do it before Christmas,’ Katie announced, beaming with pleasure as she returned, alone, to the kitchen to impart her news.

&nbs
p; Then some of the delight faded, and her eyes took on the concern which seemed to be an almost permanent fixture.

  ‘Though it will mean you moving into the smaller bedroom next to mine, and there’ll be sawdust and stuff around. Do you mind? Do you think the sawdust will harm the baby? Oh, dear! How can one small baby cause disruption that’s way out of proportion for its size?’

  You don’t know the half of it, and I pray you never do, Grant thought, but as he couldn’t say it, he concentrated on practical matters.

  ‘It shouldn’t harm her, if you keep the bedroom door shut. You can take her over to the surgery or out somewhere else while Mr McConagle is doing noisy things.’

  He pretended the stock required his attention, though it needed only to be left simmering and later strained.

  ‘You didn’t answer about moving into the smaller bedroom.’

  ‘Only because I was thinking it might be easier if I move to Vi’s. After all, you’re going to be wanting the small bedroom for the baby soon, and while Mr McConagle’s working here, you could start decorating it.’

  ‘Decorating it?’

  ‘The baby’s room—ready for the baby to move into.’ She looked so stunned by this concept he found himself adding, ‘I’ll give you a hand if you like.’

  But he doubted Katie had heard. She was still staring at him—well, in his direction—but a blankness in her eyes suggested she wasn’t seeing him.

  ‘Why hadn’t I thought of that? I haven’t even bought a mobile. She’s got fluffy toys patients brought as gifts, but she’ll need colour, stimulation.’

  Now the eyes which still had the power to mesmerise him regained focus—him—and she stepped towards him.

  ‘Grant, what’s wrong with me? Why am I making such a hash of all this mother-thing? Am I just not cut out for it? Will I always be this way? Will Cassie suffer because of it?’

  She was literally shaking with the fears her imagination was feeding her, and instinct made it impossible for Grant not to step forward and take her in his arms.

  ‘Will you stop upsetting yourself with such nonsense?’ he said, drawing her soft, still trembly body close against his, hoping to warm as well as reassure her. ‘You’d have got to decorating the baby’s room in time—just as you’ll sort out the nanny thing eventually. There’s no hurry—not while I’m here. Right now, your main concern is getting to know young Cassie and allowing her time to get to know you. And staying calm. That’s another big job you have to do, so she feels secure and gets plenty of tucker.’

  The trembling had stopped, and her warmth fed into his until he found it hard to tell where her body stopped and his began—except that his was the one now feeling more than comfort and responding to hers in ways that went far beyond friendship.

  But he couldn’t draw away too abruptly and hurt her feelings, so he kind of edged away, far enough to take her chin in his hand and tilt her head up towards him.

  ‘Feeling better?’

  A slight nod answered his question, but the doubtful expression lingering in her green eyes suggested she was still worrying.

  ‘So smile for me,’ he ordered, knowing he had to move farther away—and soon.

  The smile was his undoing. It trembled, as her body had earlier, and failed to remove the apprehension in her eyes, so it occurred to him he might have to kiss the worries away.

  As in ‘kiss it better’.

  This final excuse flitted through his mind as his lips closed on hers, then his mind fogged over and his body, held in check for so long, took over.

  Kate felt his fingers slide into her hair as his hands framed her face. She felt gentleness in the lips touching hers, and understood it was a gesture—kindness—but her body, so long given over to carrying, then bearing and feeding the baby, wanted more, so she forgot about all the consequences—forgot where kissing Grant had led before—and kissed him back.

  A big mistake, as the kissing reminded her body of other things it had been missing, and it pressed closer to his, demanding some of the attention her lips were currently giving and receiving. As if in answer to her silent demands, Grant’s hands caressed her back, tucked her buttocks closer to his body, then he slid a hand between their bodies and gently grazed his fingers across her breast.

  Someone, she suspected it might have been her, moaned with a mix of need and sensual delight, and as Grant tipped her back across the kitchen table and began to unbutton her shirt, she wanted him so badly she began to shake again.

  Then, as suddenly as the kiss had started, it stopped, Grant pulling them both upright, setting her gently away from him, steadying her with his hands on her shoulders.

  ‘Noises off!’ he said by way of explanation, then he added grimly, ‘Which is just as well!’

  As he stepped towards the stove to rescue a pot that had boiled over and sent stock spluttering onto the hot-plate, Kate became aware of both the phone ringing and the baby crying.

  Guilt slammed into her, and she ignored the phone, knowing Grant would answer it, and hurried to the bedroom. She was changing Cassie when he poked his head around the bedroom door.

  ‘Tractor accident out at Nevertire, the driver’s pinned by the legs. I’m on my way. You’re OK to do the evening surgery?’

  She nodded, but he hesitated, and Kate wondered if he was going to mention the kiss, but in the end he shook his head then said, ‘Katie, it’s no wonder you didn’t have time to get ready for the baby. This practice might have the occasional lull but, if the last few weeks are any indication, I’m surprised you’ve managed as well as you have since the hospital doctor took off.’

  Thinking about the necessity for a second doctor in town was infinitely preferable to thinking about the kiss, but it wasn’t a problem she could solve.

  And the kiss, or her reaction to it, kept intruding so it was only with an enormous effort of will she stopped herself dreaming of things that couldn’t be.

  She’d contact the Health Department again—hospital appointments usually began in January so surely they’d have someone lined up by now.

  Inevitably, she thought of Grant, but he had Linda stashed away in Sydney and some job awaiting him there. Quite what job, Kate hadn’t yet managed to fathom, though from time to time she’d led the conversation close enough for him to say.

  Which was strange, now she considered it. Grant had always talked about his plans and dreams. Growing grass that could withstand drought, turning around the rivers which wasted their water by flowing into the sea so they flowed inland to the thirsty land. They were ideas Australians had played with for generations, but still seductive enough for an enthusiastic teenager, always brimful of plans for the future.

  Now, although she sensed a purpose in him—knew there was a deadline to his stay in Testament so there had to be a job of some kind waiting for him—he certainly wasn’t talking about it.

  Because it meant a lot to him?

  She nodded to herself. Yes, that fitted. It was probably also why he rarely mentioned Linda.

  She meant too much to him.

  The idea was so depressing she sighed as she rocked Cassie’s crib, though she had no right to be getting maudlin over Grant Bell’s future career or personal relationships.

  It was the kiss that had done it—made her think things she shouldn’t think about the man who was helping her out of a very difficult situation. A man who’d given up his holidays to come to her rescue. And what did she know of relationships anyway? She’d made a mess of the only serious one she’d had, and hadn’t she come out here determined to make a secure and happy life for herself and Cassie? Wasn’t that her goal? Hadn’t she committed herself to be the best single mother she possibly could be?

  So why was she lusting over the first man who’d crossed her path? A man already engaged to someone else?

  How responsible was that behaviour for a committed single mother?

  She continued to scold herself even after Cassie dropped off to sleep, but as she wandered back to the
kitchen she wondered if even committed single mothers might not be allowed a little daydream now and then…

  Not if they involve Grant Bell, she answered herself firmly as she fixed a snack to eat before evening surgery.

  When Grant still hadn’t returned by the time she finished work, she had jam on toast for dinner, then went to bed, knowing he could be late and one of them should be getting some sleep.

  But the question of what Grant planned to do after he left Testament lingered in her mind, so at breakfast next morning, when he’d filled her in on Kevin Cockburn’s accident—crush fractures to both legs—and despatch to Craigtown where he was then airlifted to Brisbane, she asked, ‘I know you worked in A and E for three years. Was that leading somewhere? Are you going to specialise? Become an intensivist perhaps? Aren’t they the newest “big thing”?’

  He grinned at her but his eyes were shuttered, hiding whatever expression they might hold.

  ‘They are, but it’s not my career of choice.’

  He continued eating his cereal as if he’d answered all her questions—not just the final one.

  ‘Well?’ she demanded.

  This time he let her see his eyes, but there was something in the blueness she couldn’t understand, though it did send a shivery sliver of ice along her veins.

  ‘I’m going to specialise, yes. I start in the middle of January and, as I hadn’t had a break for a few years, took a holiday rather than take a short contract somewhere. Which explains why I was at the beach and available for the summons from Aunt Vi.’

  Which told Kate a lot she had known, some she hadn’t and had avoided the main question quite neatly.

  But she wasn’t going to be put off.

  ‘In what?’ she demanded, pique at his evasion adding to her curiosity.

  He sent her a puzzled look, so blatantly false she gritted her teeth so she wouldn’t yell. ‘What specialty?’

  ‘Oncology. Paediatric oncology.’

  He stood up as he said the first word, and crossed to the sink and was rinsing his cereal bowl as he added the further explanation.

  Kate stared at him, aware of a shift in the balance between them, of a change in the atmosphere, more noticeable than a sudden drop in air temperature. Then Grant wiped his hands and walked out the back door, but whether he was heading for the hospital or the surgery, or even uptown, she had no idea.