she couldn’t just ignore the fact he’d broken his leg. Not at his age. The doctor in her knew that only too well. Acknowledging it smoothed out her tangled thoughts.
‘I’ll take some annual leave, fly up to Bulla Creek for a quick visit and check that William’s receiving the correct medical care. Then I’ll come back here, find a new place to live and sort out the rest of my life, which won’t include disloyal friends and cheating, bastard men.’
You do realise there isn’t anyone here listening except me and I don’t need to hear you talk to know exactly what you’re thinking.
‘Shut-up.’ The yell propelled Lucy to her feet and she brushed down her white coat. Her life was in tatters, but at least she had a plan. One she was clinging to like a floating log in a choppy sea.
The red dust of Bulla Creek was covered in a layer of green, courtesy of a record-setting wet winter followed by a sunny spring. The sheep wore thick fleeces, lambs gambolled on fat legs and the farmers smiled, which was almost as uncommon as the weather. Dr Marco Rodriguez returned a farmer’s hat tip and grin as he strode down the main street toward the Bulla Creek Medical Centre. It wasn’t the first time he’d reflected on the fact that, in general, farmers in Western Australia shared a taciturn approach to life that was very similar to that of the farmers of his homeland of Argentina. Life on the land was tough and a good season was cause for celebration.
He turned left at the rust-and-sand-coloured church, which stood diagonally opposite the pub. Both buildings had been built over a hundred years ago from local rocks quarried when veins of lead in the nearby hills had guaranteed prosperity. Bulla Creek today was not as affluent as it had been back then, but the legacy of heritage buildings not only reminded residents of its wealthy past, but more importantly it brought in tourists with money to spend. People paid a lot to step back in time and spend a weekend or longer imagining simpler times.
Marco knew it was just an illusion. There’d been nothing simple about living without running water and basic hygiene in a time when a broken leg had often resulted in amputation, when the birth of a child could easily take the life of a mother and a secondary infection after a common cold could kill. Even today, childbirth had its risks and he was far too intimate with the dangers.
Pulling open the door of the modern medical clinic, which also fronted a small hospital annexe of five acute-care beds and ten nursing-home beds, he walked into a packed waiting room. Just as he’d done every day for the last few weeks since his medical partner had fallen ill. He was worried about William who’d been adamant he didn’t want his daughter told about his accident, although when he spoke of her his eyes lit up before sadness filled them.
William was not his usual, upbeat self and he was taking longer to return to work than expected. With the death of his wife earlier in the year and now the fracture, Marco believed he needed cheering up.
He pressed down on the ripple of unease that had been trickling through him ever since he’d overridden the other doctor’s request and written to William’s daughter. He’d needed to do something because he really believed William needed time with family so he could re-find his spark. With one doctor down, Marco’s days ran together in a long blur of work with snatches of fatherhood wedged in between. This wasn’t what he’d envisaged when he’d made the decision to come to Bulla Creek. It was supposed to have meant more time for Ignacio, not less. He needed William back at work yesterday.
He swallowed a sigh and mustered up a smile for his waiting patients because his problems were not theirs and they deserved his complete attention. ‘Buenos días. Good morning, everyone. I am at your service in just a few moments.’
‘We have an empty waiting room and I’m off home. You should go too while you can.’
Marco looked up from reading pathology reports to see Sue Hogarth, practice nurse, farmer’s wife and soon-to-be grandmother, standing in the doorway of his office. ‘Ten minutes more.’
She nodded slowly. ‘I’ll lock up the front doors then and all you have to do is go out the back and make sure it’s locked behind you.’
‘Sure. Thank you for your help today.’
‘Ah, Marco, that all Australian men could be so polite. See you tomorrow when we get to do it all again.’ She grinned and pushed off the architrave preparing to leave, but turned back suddenly. ‘Oh, Ignacio’s appointment’s been changed to Tuesday. I’ve put it directly into your electronic calendar. Night.’
‘Goodnight.’ He heard her fading footsteps and the door slam shut. He waited a moment and then smiled as he soaked up the peace of a closed clinic—silent phones, still rooms and the blissful quiet of absolutely no interruptions. He finished reading the reports, methodically listing the names of the patients that Sue needed to call tomorrow to schedule review appointments, and as he reached the last one he let out a breath. Thankfully there were no sinister results in this batch and he was spared the need to make the hard phone call and give someone seriously bad news. He hated doing that as it reminded him of the time he’d received it and the powerlessness that came with it.
He texted Heather—his housekeeper and Ignacio’s afterschool caregiver—telling her he’d be home in ten minutes and then he packed up his desk. Grabbing his bag, he entered the corridor and headed toward the back door, flicking off the hall lights as he reached the switch. The expected darkness didn’t come. With a sigh, he realised that Sue had left the office light on and he spun on his heel, walking the length of the corridor to turn it off.
As he slid his hand up the doorway to reach the switch, something made him glance into the room. A round and pert, jeans-clad bottom stared straight at him. ‘Querido Dios.’ Shocked surprise sent his English scurrying and it took a moment for him to find the correct words. ‘What are you doing?’
A young woman turned abruptly from the computer, her chin-length, chestnut-red hair swinging wildly around her guilt-streaked face. Round eyes, the colour of an Argentine summer sky just before the descent of a storm, stared at him, brimming with a thousand emotions. A heartbeat later they cleared as if she was practised in forcing her feelings to retreat until only defiance remained. She stood less than tall despite the boost of high wedge heels and then her chin tilted up, her shoulders rolled back and her breasts rose, straining against the free-flowing pink halter top that draped itself around her curves and ended by softly caressing her hips.
A jolt of heat whipped him—heat that hadn’t flared in his veins for a long time—and for the briefest of moments his eyes followed the tantalising fall of the soft material as if they hoped to glimpse what nestled behind it. Thankfully, common sense shot in to rescue him and he quickly hauled his gaze back to her face.
At that precise moment he knew the words he should have spoken were ‘Who are you?’
As if reading his mind she stepped forward, extending her hand. ‘You must be Marco Rodriguez. I’m Lucy.’
The overly wide smile gave her away. From the age of fourteen girls had flirted with him, and it had taken him almost as long to learn that the flirting wasn’t always about wanting him. Often it was about wanting something else entirely—a bitter lesson that Bianca had taught him too well. Now at thirty-three, his radar was pretty well tuned. She spoke as if he should recognise her, using his name as a bridge to connect them with a familiarity that didn’t exist. He had an excellent memory and he knew they’d not met before.
You would have remembered those breasts.
He shrugged away the inconvenient awakening of his libido and focused on the facts. He might not know her but he did know that
