and dry—but first they needed to get fluids in and if it was possible, the best way was by mouth.
‘Tell me where, tell me how,’ he said, and she shot him a grateful glance and proceeded to do just that. Five minutes later he had a sterilised bottle filled with formula, he offered it to Maggie, she offered it to one tiny baby—who latched on like a leech and proceeded to suck like there was no tomorrow.
The sudden silence was deafening. Even the dogs seemed to sigh in relief.
Maggie’s wide, expressive mouth curved into a smile. ‘Hey,’ she said softly. ‘You’ve just saved yourself from evacuation, hospital and IV drips. Now, let’s see what we have here.’ She glanced up at Blake. ‘Are you man enough to cope with the nappy? I’d normally not try and change a baby in mid-feed but this one’s practically walking on its own and I hate to imagine what it’s doing to the skin. It needs to be off but I don’t want to disturb the baby more than necessary. While the bottle’s doing the comforting we might see what we’re dealing with.’
He understood. Sort of. There was a medical imperative.
What he’d really like to do was offer to take over the holding and feeding while she coped with the other end, but he’d missed his opportunity. There was no way they should interrupt established feeding when it was so important. This baby needed fluids fast, and Maggie was the one providing them.
So … the other end.
He was a surgeon. He was used to stomach-churning sights.
He’d never actually changed a baby’s nappy.
‘You’ll need a big bowl of warm, soapy water,’ she told him. ‘The bowl’s in the left-hand cupboard by the stove. Get a couple of clean towels from the bathroom and fetch the blue bottle on the top of my bag with the picture of a baby’s bottom on the front.’
‘Right,’ he said faintly, and went to get what he needed, with not nearly the enthusiasm he’d used to make the formula.
Baby changing. He had to learn some time, he supposed. At some stage in the far distant future he and Miriam might have babies. He thought about it as he filled the bucket with skin-temperature water. He and Miriam were professional colleagues having a somewhat tepid relationship on the side. Miriam was dubious about attachment. He was even more dubious.
He suspected what he was facing tonight might make him more so.
‘Oi,’ Maggie called from the living room. ‘Water. Nappy. Stat.’
‘Yes, Nurse,’ he called back, and went to do her bidding.
CHAPTER TWO
BLAKE removed the nappy and under all that mess… ‘She doesn’t look like she’s been changed for days,’ Maggie said, horrified … they found a little girl.
They also found something else. As he tugged her growsuit free from her legs and unwrapped her fully, he drew in a deep breath.
Talipes equinovarus. Club feet. The little girl’s feet were pointed inwards, almost at right angles to where they should be.
Severe.
He didn’t comment but he felt ill, and it wasn’t the contents of the nappy that was doing it. That someone could desert such a child … To neglect her and then just toss her on his doorstep …
How did they know Maggie would be home? Maggie had dogs. How did they know the dogs wouldn’t be free to hurt her?
Seeing the extent of the nappy rash, the dehydration—and the dreadful angle of her feet—he had his answer.
Whoever had done this didn’t care. This was an imperfect baby, something to be tossed aside, brought to the local midwife, but whether she was home or not didn’t matter.
Returning damaged goods, like it or not.
He glanced up at Maggie and saw her face and saw what he was thinking reflected straight back at him. Anger, disgust, horror—and not at the tiny twisted feet. At the moron who’d gunned the car across the bridge, so desperate to dump the baby that he’d take risks. Or she’d take risks.
‘Surely it was a guy driving that car?’ Maggie whispered.
Sexist statement or not? He let it drift as he cleaned the tiny body. The little girl was relaxed now, almost soporific, sucking gently and close to sleep. She wasn’t responding to his touch—he could do anything he liked and it was a good opportunity to do a gentle, careful examination.
Maggie was letting him touch now. She was watching as he carefully manipulated the tiny feet, gently testing. As he felt her pulse. As he checked every inch of her and then suggested they lower her into the warm water.
She’d had enough of the bottle on board now to be safe. He doubted she’d respond—as some babies did—to immersion—and it was the easiest and fastest way to get her skin clean.
‘You’re a medic,’ Maggie said, because from the way he was examining her he knew it was obvious. And he knew, instinctively, that this was one smart woman.
‘Orthopaedic surgeon.’
She nodded as if he was confirming what she’d suspected. ‘Not a lot of babies, then?’
‘Um … no.’
‘But a lot of feet?’
‘I guess,’ he agreed, and she smiled at him, an odd little smile that he kind of … liked.
Restful, he thought. She was a restful woman. And then he thought suddenly, strongly, that she was the kind of woman he’d want around in a crisis.
He was very glad she was there.
But the priority wasn’t this woman’s smile. The priority was one abandoned baby. While Maggie held the bottle—the little girl was still peacefully sucking—he scooped her gently from her arms and lowered her into the warm water.
She hardly reacted, or if she did it was simply to relax even more. This little one had been fighting for survival, he thought. Fighting and losing. Now she was fed and the filth removed. She was in a warm bath in front of Maggie’s fire and she was safe. He glanced at Maggie and saw that faint smile again, and he thought that if he was in trouble, he might think of this woman as safety.
If this baby was to be dumped, there was no better place to dump her. Maggie would take care of her. He knew it. This was not a woman who walked away from responsibility.
He glanced around at the dogs on either side of the fire. His father’s dogs. When his father had gone into hospital for the last time he’d come down and seen them. They were cattle dogs, Border collies, born and raised on the farm. The last time he’d seen them—six months before his father had died—they’d been scrawny and neglected and he’d thought of the impossibility of taking them back to the city, of giving them any sort of life there.
His father hadn’t wanted him here—he’d practically yelled at him to get out. And he’d told him the dogs were none of his business.
Despite the old man’s opposition, he’d contacted
