wasn’t over yet. There was a bang, like a minor explosion, and the back of the truck jerked sideways. A tyre had just decided to burst. As he stared out past his airbags, the steel crate on the rear of the truck lurched in sympathy—and didn’t stop. It slewed off the truck and crashed sideways down onto the edge of the road.
It was as if a bucket of legs was suddenly upended. A cluster of calves, a soft toffee colour, with huge eyes, white faces and white feet, was tumbling out onto the road. He couldn’t count them for sure. They were too entwined.
The tangle of calves, all legs, tails and wide, scared eyes, was scrambling for collective purchase, failing and pushing itself further toward the edge of the cliff. Before Max could react, the calves disappeared from view, and from the cabin of the truck came a woman’s frantic scream.
‘No-o-o!’
Shock and the airbags had kept him still for all of thirty seconds, but the scream jolted him out of his stupor. He was out of the car before the scream had ended, heading for the cab.
The truck’s passenger side was crumpled into the cliff but the driver’s side looked okay. As he reached it, the cab door swung open and a woman staggered out. A blur of black and white flashed past her. A collie?
‘Stop them,’ she yelled, shoving past him as if he wasn’t there. ‘Bonnie, go. Fetch them back.’
And the black and white blur was gone.
She was bleeding. All he noticed in that first brief glance was a slight figure in faded jeans, blood streaming down her face, but it was enough.
He grabbed her arm as she headed past, and tugged her towards him. She wrenched back, fighting to be free, but she was small enough that he could stop her. He reeled her in against him, an armful of distressed woman intent on following her calves over the edge of the cliff.
‘Let me go,’ she yelled. ‘They’re Gran’s calves. Stop them.’
In answer he held her tighter. No matter how bad his weekend had been up to now, no matter that this woman had just made it worse, he was feeling a certain obligation to stop her self-destructing.
‘You’re hurt.’
She was. There was blood oozing from a cut on the side of her head, and she was staggering, as if one of her legs wasn’t doing what it was supposed to.
She was also pregnant. Seven months or so. Apart from the pregnancy she looked like a kid, scruffy, dressed in worn jeans, a blood-spattered windcheater and ancient leather boots. What else? He was doing a lightning assessment as she struggled. Her carrot-red hair was tied roughly into two bright plaits. She had a cute snub nose, freckles and wide green eyes, currently filled with fear.
She was hurt. There was no way he could let her chase calves.
‘Sit,’ he said, and tried to propel her to the edge of the road, but she wasn’t about to be propelled.
‘Gran’s calves.’ She was practically weeping. ‘She has to see them before…Please, let me go!’ She made to shove past him again, but he wasn’t moving.
‘Not until I see how badly you’re injured. You’ve cut your head.’
She swiped blood from her face with her sleeve and glared up at him, and he was astonished at the strength of her glare. ‘It’s not arterial,’ she gasped. ‘If I’m bleeding out then I’m not bleeding in so there’s nothing to worry about. I’m not about to drop dead from raised intracranial pressure, so let me go.’
Too focussed to note her unexpected knowledge, Max settled for a calm ‘No.’
‘Yes.’ Then before he could react she kicked out. Her boot hit his shin. Hard.
He was so astounded he let her go, and she was over the cliff like the hounds of hell were after her.
Luckily the cliff wasn’t sheer. It was a steep incline, sloping sharply twenty feet down to the beach, so the calves—he could count four now they’d disentangled themselves—hadn’t fallen. They looked essentially unhurt, and were heading north along the sand, with the collie tearing after them.
The woman was presumably wanting to tear after them as well, and for a fraction of a second he was tempted to let her go.
That wasn’t exactly heroic, he thought ruefully. Neither was it possible. She was battered and torn and pregnant, and she was heading off to rescue calves that he’d been in part responsible for releasing. So he groaned and headed down the cliff after her.
He had no trouble catching up to her, but as he reached her she swiped out at him and kept on going. She lurched as she put weight on what presumably was an injured leg. He grabbed her again—and she kicked him again.
Why was he doing this? Her rust-bucket of a truck had caused this mess. She’d kicked him and her boots packed a painful punch. Women, he thought bitterly. Since his wife’s death he’d carefully constructed a solid and impervious armour, and once again his desire to retreat behind it came to the fore. Why worry? She could head off after her calves and her dog, and he could ring a tow truck and wait for her to come to her senses.
But she was bleeding, and she was pregnant.
Personal choice didn’t come into this. Doctors didn’t sign the Hippocratic oath anymore, but conscience was insidious. Besides, he wasn’t at all sure she was bright enough to stop before she passed out from shock or blood loss, and an unconscious woman would complicate his life so much he didn’t want to think about it.
So he groaned and headed off again, and snagged her just as she hit the beach. This time he grabbed her by the back of her jeans. She swung back to face him, already lashing out, but he was ready for her. He reeled her in by the waist and swung her up into his arms, tugging her so close she couldn’t struggle.
‘Let me go. I’ll bleed on you,’ she snapped, and she had a point. He’d bought this jacket in Italy and he liked it. Ruining it for a woman who didn’t have a grain of sense to bless herself with seemed a waste. But it was unavoidable.
‘Go right ahead, I’ll send you the cleaning bill.’
‘Blood doesn’t come out of leather.’
‘No, it comes out of torn skin, which is why you have to shut up, keep still and let me put something on your head to stop the bleeding.’
‘I can fix it myself—when I’ve got the calves. Do you have any idea how I’m going to tell Gran where her cows are?’
‘You could say, “Gran, they’re on the beach,”’ he said mildly, ignoring her struggles and starting to climb the cliff again. ‘Okay, they’re important but your dog seems to have their measure. They look unhurt. The cliff gets steeper in either direction so my guess is that they’ll stay on the beach until you can organise a muster, or whatever you do with cows. Meanwhile my car’s in the middle of the road on a blind bend, blocking traffic, and I don’t want what’s left of it squashed.’
She glared up at him. ‘That’s a bit inequitable,’ she said, and suddenly he saw a hint of humour in her wide eyes. ‘What about my truck?’
‘I’ll save your truck too,’ he growled. ‘If you’ll let me.’
‘Thank
