who do we phone to come and get you?’
She blinked. She hadn’t thought that far ahead.
Charles. Her parents. Charles’s parents. Of course she should ring them. But it was, what, three in the morning, and they were angry with her already.
‘Family?’ he asked, and she nodded. Her parents were with Charles and Charles’s parents. The whole domestic catastrophe—except the one element that was supposed to complete the whole.
The pig in the middle. A small, rebellious pig.
‘You know, if you were heading to your parents’ for Easter and don’t want to wake them—if you’re sure they won’t be worrying—you’re welcome to sleep here,’ he said gently, watching her face. ‘I don’t want to move your dog until morning anyway. The settee’s as big as a bed and the fire’s comforting.’
She thought of the alternative. Ringing Charles. Waking Charles’s parents and her parents; scaring them with the news of another accident. They’d send Charles to fetch her. He’d be kind and supportive and not offer a word of reproach until she was over her shock. And… Taking Marilyn?
Aaagh.
Dom must be reading her face. He placed a last piece of dressing on her foot and touched her lightly on her ankle. It was a feather touch of reassurance, and why it had the capacity to make her feel reassured she had no idea. But, unaccountably, it did.
‘Hey, no drama,’ he said. ‘Your settee’s practically made for you anyway. But I do need a guarantee that no one will be looking for you.’
‘Not…my family. They’ll assume I stayed in Melbourne until the morning.’ They might even assume she’d decided not to come at all, she thought ruefully. She darn near hadn’t. ‘But if those yahoos saw me go over the cliff…’
‘They may have reported it. It’s unlikely, or you’d have been found before this. I’ll ring the local police and tell them if anyone reports a crashed car I have the driver safe. Okay. All sorted. And now the driver needs to sleep.’
And before she knew it, once again she was in his arms. Was this how country doctors transported patients? The thought made her feel silly again.
‘What?’ he asked as he carried her through the silent house.
The man was percipient, she thought. She’d allowed herself a tiny smile, meant only for herself, but he’d picked up on it.
‘I’m just thinking most hospitals have trolleys.’
‘Yeah, and hospital orderlies,’ he said with wry humour. ‘And nurses and regulations about lifting and role demarcation. But orderlies are in short supply around here. So lie back, pretend to be a really light suitcase and let me do my job.’
The man was seriously efficient. He set her in an armchair for a couple of minutes, disappeared and came back with linen, pillows and blankets. She watched as he made up her bed—faster than she’d thought possible. The man had real domestic skills. Except in making Easter buns.
‘Um…doesn’t your wife cook?’ she asked, but the idea didn’t last. She almost forgot the question before it was out of her mouth. The heat of the fire, the morphine and the events of the night were catching up with her. Her words were slurring.
He smiled back at her. ‘You want to concentrate on staying awake till your bed’s made.’
She tried. But as he lifted her over onto the fresh sheets, as he drew the blankets over her, she felt her lids drooping and no amount of effort could keep them from closing.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured. It seemed enormously important to say it. ‘Thank you for everything.’
‘My pleasure,’ he said in an odd, thoughtful voice. ‘It’s all my pleasure, Dr Carmody. You go to sleep and don’t worry about a thing.’
He touched her face. There it was again—this…strangeness. It was a tiny gesture and why it should seem so personal…so right…
There was no figuring it out. She was too tired to try.
‘G’nigh’…’ she whispered.
She slept.
He should start Easter buns again. It was not much after three in the morning after all.
Yeah, right. Sod the buns.
He crouched by Marilyn for a bit, watching her breathe in, breathe out.
‘You keep on doing that,’ he told her, and she opened her big eyes. She looked up at him, and amazingly her tail moved, just a fraction.
‘You’re wonderful,’ he told her. ‘Just like your mistress.’
Her tail moved again.
‘Hey, that’s enough effort,’ he told her. ‘Go to sleep.’
He watched as she did just that. She was a wreck, he thought, a disaster washed up on the jagged rocks of human cruelty. Like so many disasters. He had two of them sleeping upstairs right now.
Could he keep Marilyn as well? Could he keep three pups?
Not and keep working, he thought bleakly. But, hey, they all might find homes. Scrubbed and cared for, Marilyn might look quite…attractive?
Um…no. This dog couldn’t look attractive in a million years. No matter what the care.
Would Erin take her?
But he’d watched Erin’s face as he’d said she shouldn’t move the dog tonight, the inference being when she moved so would the dog. He’d seen dismay.
‘So it’s up to me again,’ he told Marilyn, but then he gave himself a mental swipe to the side of the head. ‘Hey, that’s me being despondent. There’ll be all sorts of people just aching to give you a good home. A nice brick bungalow with room to romp, a couple of dog-loving kids, balls to chase, a pile of dog food so high you can’t see the top…’
He glanced into the sitting room toward the sleeping Erin. Was she the girl to provide it?
Maybe not. But, then, he thought, still hopeful, he’d really liked what he’d seen. For now he’d indulge his very own personal philosophy. Which was to worry about tomorrow tomorrow.
Finding homes for puppies was for tomorrow. Flat Easter buns were for tomorrow. Tonight—or what was left of it—was for sleep.
And maybe for letting himself think just a little bit about what sort of woman carried an injured dog so far…
CHAPTER THREE
SHE woke and she was being watched. She opened one eye, looked sideways at the door and two small heads ducked for cover.
She closed her eyes and waited for a bit. Testing herself out. She wiggled everything, really cautiously. Various protests started up in response, but compared to the pain of last night they were minor.
