woman was a problem-solver. She’d solve this little one’s problems, too.
The baby had fallen asleep. Maggie removed the bottle, then took over from him, expertly bathing, carefully checking every inch of the baby’s skin, wincing at the extent of the nappy rash, checking arm and leg movement, frowning at a bruise on the baby’s shoulder. A bruise at this age … Put down hard? Dropped?
Hit?
‘There are basic baby clothes at the bottom of my bag,’ she said absently, all her attention on the baby. ‘And nappies. Will you fetch them?’
He did, thinking again that no matter who the lowlife was that had cared for the baby until now, at least they’d had the sense to bring her to the right place.
He brought the clothes back as Maggie scooped the baby out of the water, towelled her dry and anointed the sores. Looked again at her feet.
‘They should be being realigned now,’ he growled, watching as Maggie fingered the tiny toes. ‘Three weeks after birth … We’re missing the opportunity when the tissue is soft and malleable. The longer we leave it, the longer the treatment period.’
‘I’ve only seen this once before,’ Maggie said. ‘And not as severe as this.’
‘It’s severe,’ he said. ‘But fixable.’
‘We have basic X-ray facilities set up at my clinic—at the church hall,’ she said tentatively. ‘We’ve brought them in so I can see the difference between greenstick fractures and fractures where I need evacuation.’
‘We don’t need X-rays tonight. This is long-haul medical treatment.’
‘I don’t want to call out emergency services unless I have to.’ Maggie was still looking worried. ‘They have their hands full evacuating people who are being inundated, and in this rain there’s no safe place for the chopper to land.’
‘There’s no urgency.’
‘Then we’ll worry about tomorrow tomorrow,’ she said, her face clearing, and she dressed the little one so gently he thought the dressing was almost a caress in itself. The baby hardly stirred. It was like she’d fought every inch of the way to survive and now she knew she was safe. She knew she was with Maggie.
Maggie wrapped her in her soft cashmere rug—the one she’d tugged from her settee—and handed her over to Blake. He took her without thinking, then sat by the fire with the sleeping baby in his arms as Maggie cleared up the mess.
She was a restful woman, he thought again. Methodical. Calm. How many women would take a child like this and simply sort what was needed? Taking her from peril to safe in an hour?
She was a midwife, he told himself. This was what she did.
This baby was her job.
She was gathering bottles, formula, nappies. Placing them in a basket.
A basket. He’d been drifting off in the warmth but suddenly he was wide awake. What the …?
‘Are you thinking we should take her to hospital?’ he asked. ‘I’m not driving over that bridge.’
‘Neither am I,’ she said, and brought the basket back to him. ‘She looks fine—okay, not fine, neglected, underweight, but nothing so urgent to warrant the risks of crossing the river again. I think she’ll be fine with you. I’m just packing what you need.’
‘Me?’
‘You,’ she said, gently but firmly. ‘Your baby tonight.’
‘I don’t want a baby,’ he said, stunned.
‘You think I do?’
‘She was brought to you.’
‘No,’ she said, still with that same gentleness, a gentleness with a rod of inflexibility straight through the centre. ‘She was brought to you. If I didn’t think you were capable of caring then I’d step in—of course I would—and I’m here for consulting at any time. But this little one is yours.’
‘What are you talking about? You’re the midwife.’
‘It’s got nothing to do about me being a midwife,’ she said, and searched the settee until she found what she was looking for. ‘I found this when you were making the formula. It was tucked under her blanket.’
It was a note, hastily scribbled on the back of a torn envelope. She handed it to him wordlessly, and then stayed silent as he read.
Dear Big Brother
The old man’s dead. He never did anything for me in my life—nothing! You’re the legitimate kid, the one that gets everything. You get the farm. You get the kid.
This kid’s your father’s grandkid. My father’s grandkid. I don’t want it—just take a look at its feet—they make Sam and me sick. I called it Ruby after my Mum’s mum—my grandma—she was the only one ever did anything for me—but that was before I figured how awful the feet were. So it’s deformed and we don’t want it. Change the name if you like. Get it adopted. Do what you want. Sam and me are heading for Perth so if you need anything signed for adoption or anything stick an ad in the Margaret River paper. If I see it I’ll get in touch. Maybe.
Wendy
Silence. A long, long silence.
‘Wendy?’ Maggie said gently at last.
‘My … my half-sister.’ He was struggling to take it in. ‘Result of one of my father’s affairs.’
‘Surname?’
‘I don’t even know that.’
‘Whew.’ She looked at him, still with that calmness, sympathetic but implacable. ‘That’s a shock.’
‘I … Yes.’
‘I think she’ll sleep,’ Maggie said. ‘I suspect she’ll sleep for hours. She’s not too heavy for you to carry. If you need help, I’m right through the door.’
‘This baby isn’t mine.’ It was said with such vehemence that the little girl—Ruby?—opened her eyes and gazed up at him. And then she closed them again, settling. She was dry, warm and fed. She was in Blake’s arms. All was right with her world.
‘She’s not mine,’ Blake repeated, but even he heard the uselessness of his words. Someone had to take responsibility for this baby.
‘I’m a nurse, Blake,’ Maggie said, inexorably. ‘I’m not a parent. Neither are you but you’re an uncle. Your sister’s left her baby with you. You’re family. Let me know if you’re in trouble.’ She walked across to the porch and opened the door. ‘But for now … You have everything you need for the night. I’ll pop in in the morning and see how you’re going.’
‘But I know nothing about babies.’
‘You’re
