She watched the scrawny bronze-coloured chickens pecking at the sun-baked earth, ever hopeful of finding some seed. Fanning herself with her hat, she was taking a five-minute breather from unpacking the medical supplies Tom had brought with them.
The bone-shaking four-wheel-drive journey to get to this small village, snuggled deep into the valley between towering rugged mountains, had taken five hours. The flight in the tiny plane to Lai Chau yesterday had been luxurious in comparison.
Her hand still ached from gripping the grab-handle above the window of the vehicle, trying to avoid being thrown against Tom or into his lap. Terror lanced her at the secret knowledge that it might not have been an awful experience if she had landed there.
But it would have been bad. Really bad. She couldn’t trust her instincts when it came to men. She got it so wrong every time. First her father and then Nick. Both of them had only given pain, not love. She rubbed the ache in her leg. She carried the legacy of her time spent with both of them every day.
She avoided men as much as she could, both professionally and personally. Keep a safe distance. That had been her mode of operation since she was twenty. Anxiety-generated sweat broke out on her brow as the reality of what she’d done—was doing—hit her.
For the first time in forever she’d broken her own rule.
First she’d travelled alone with an unknown man. Now she was in a village where she didn’t speak the dialect and her only back-up was Tom. A man she knew little about other than that he was a respected doctor.
She’d used all her street smarts to coerce him to bring her here, her need to do something for the children of Vietnam overriding the safety net she always cast about herself.
She hated the fact he’d correctly challenged her. She’d let her enthusiasm cloud her vision. How could she really help unless she truly understood the country? As much as she considered her inheritance ‘tainted’ money, she wanted to put it to good use. By the end of this trip she’d have a much clearer direction.
Since they’d left Hanoi, Tom had been polite, considerate and aloof. He’d arranged a lovely room for her when they’d overnighted in Lai Chau. Granted, it had been as far away from his as possible with a grove of trees between them, but that had suited her perfectly. Even at that distance he’d managed to feature in her dreams.
That morning Tom had introduced her to their interpreter, Hin, and with an appropriate professional manner and much bowing he’d made sure she’d been welcomed by the local health care worker.
She knew Tom really didn’t want her here and merely tolerated her presence. Perhaps she’d allowed for a safety net after all.
‘Drink?’ Tom appeared behind her, offering her a bottle of water.
She turned and smiled, surprise snaking through her at his unexpected thoughtfulness. ‘Thanks.’ She twisted off the blue cap. ‘Now, this sort of heat I can cope with. The humidity of the lowlands is almost too much for a girl from Perth.’
‘At least you grew up in heat. Growing up on a dairy farm in the rainbelt of southern Victoria was no preparation at all.’ He tipped his head back and gulped his drink down.
She tried to look away but her gaze was transfixed on the movement of his Adam’s apple against his corded, muscular neck.
‘That view’s pretty amazing isn’t it?’
She coughed, choking on her water while her cheeks flared with heat. Had he seen her blatant staring?
He swept his arm out at the panorama of green and grey mountains that ringed the village, their lower aspects carved and defined by terraces of emerald-green rice paddies. ‘It looks so stunning and yet it makes life so damn hard for the locals.’
‘Floods?’ She’d seen debris, evidence that the Song Da River had in the past broken its banks.
‘Floods and mudslides are one problem. The narrow valley means the river becomes a raging torrent and there’s little room to escape. Add in the remoteness of the area, not being on a trade route and the government rightly cracking down on the opium-growing and it all means money is tight and so are ways to earn it.’
‘What about tourism?’ A thirst for knowledge gripped her.
‘That’s helped Lai Chau but it’s only the really intrepid tourists that come out here.’ He sighed. ‘We even have trouble attracting local health workers. Sung, who you met when we arrived, could earn a lot more further south.’
‘But she’s here because she loves the place.’
His gaze intensified, as if he was really looking at her for the first time. ‘How did you work that out so quickly?’
She shrugged, feeling slightly uncomfortable at his scrutiny and yet energised. This was the first sign he’d shown that he didn’t think she was as flaky as his snap judgement had deemed her to be. ‘You don’t have to speak the language to understand. Observation is a telling tool.’
‘True.’ He recapped his water bottle.
‘So what brought you here?’ She’d wanted to ask that question since they’d met, but as he’d spent most of their travelling time listening to his MP3 player or avoiding her at the hotel, the opportunity hadn’t arisen.
‘Work.’ The single word snapped out quickly. ‘Are you ready for work?’
His abruptness startled her. ‘Absolutely.’
He raised his brows. ‘That’s a favourite word of yours.’
‘Is it? Have I used it before?’
He laughed, a deep, melodious sound that wrapped around her like a blanket on a cold night, comforting and secure.
Scaring her down to her core.
No man had ever meant security in her world—only tyranny and fear. She created her own security. Keeping a distance from people meant keeping safe. She had no intention of changing.
His face became more serious. ‘We’re starting with a mother and baby clinic. You’re on weighing and measuring babies. Then Sung can take you gardening. I hope you’ve got a green thumb. The home garden is one of the keys in battling child malnutrition.’ He grinned, a wide smile, his almond-shaped eyes crinkling around the edges.
For the first time she caught a glimpse of Asia in his face, around his eyes and cheeks. Nah, you’re imagining that. Surely people called him Dr Thông because that name was as close to Tom as the language allowed. A farm boy from Victoria, Dr Tom Bracken was as Aussie as they came.
He walked in front of her, his strong brown legs striding quickly over the short distance to the clinic. She suddenly realised he’d neatly steered the conversation away from himself. He hadn’t answered her question at all.
A line of women dressed in colourful clothing snaked around the thatched clinic, their heads covered in fabric that looked strikingly similar to Scottish tartan. Long dresses of green, red, blue and black were covered in intricate embroidered patterns—a collage of colour. Babies almost rigid from being overdressed, sat upright in their papooses, nestled against their mothers’ backs.
The first time Tom
