From Bachelor to Daddy Page 13

  Had it been Mark’s offer to drive Emma home that had lit the touch-paper?

  Or had it happened earlier when he’d walked back to the chopper and seen her sitting in the doorway—watching him. Something he couldn’t read in her eyes. Something he couldn’t read yet still excited him.

  Then she’d told him about her husband—about Simon’s death—had poured out her heart to him and he’d...

  What?

  Whatever, he’d stopped the car to cool down—to get his head together—and the damn woman had kissed him.

  Not just kissed him but responded to his kisses with white-hot fire that had burned through his body like a fever.

  Which left him where exactly?

  Apart from frustrated as hell...

  He’d just have to avoid her whenever possible, quite easy, really, a lot of his flights didn’t involve a doctor...

  He remembered her little boys, their hands placed so trustingly in his when they’d gone for ice cream, and he thought his heart might break.

  But his sudden surge of temper just before that happy moment had reminded him genetics ruled.

  Okay, so he probably wouldn’t have hit the bloke for smacking his kid, even without Emma’s touch on his arm, but he’d wanted to...

  Yet hadn’t Emma said, even after seeing that, that she’d trust him more than anyone with her boys?

  Could he get past the so hated, yet still so vivid image of his father’s raised arm, his mother falling with the baby...

  Could he deny his genes?

  * * *

  Refusing to think about what had happened in the car and adamant not to dwell on her reaction to Marty’s kiss, Emma had marched into the house determined on action.

  ‘You’re home early,’ her father called to her. ‘The boys are still asleep.’

  ‘That’s great,’ she said, joining him in the kitchen where the sight of him, ironing board out, carefully ironing small T-shirts strengthened her resolve.

  ‘What afternoons does the bridge club meet?’ she asked.

  ‘And why would you want to know?’ he asked, not looking at her as he folded the now ironed shirt into a neat square.

  He was so much better at this housework stuff than she was!

  ‘Because I’m about to employ a housekeeper,’ she announced. ‘I’ve been thinking it over for a while, and now we’ve settled in up here, it’s time I made a move. Not full time, I wouldn’t think, but a few days a week, and, no, it’s not for your sake but for mine.’

  ‘I’m not good enough?’ her father teased.

  ‘You’re too damned good,’ Emma retorted. ‘So much so I’ve taken you for granted for far too long. I know I would never have coped alone when Simon died, let alone even thought of having children, but I’m fine now, and you need your life back.’

  ‘But—’

  Emma held up her hand.

  ‘No, don’t tell me how much you’ve loved doing it or any other nonsense. I know you love the kids and me, but we can’t be your whole life, not anymore. You deserve better than that, Dad, and it’s your turn now.’

  Her father picked up another tiny shirt, smoothed it flat on the ironing board, and carefully pushed the iron across it, and only when it was done and folded, sitting on top of the small pile, did he look at her again.

  ‘I have enjoyed it,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘Every last minute of it, although we’ve had some hairy times, haven’t we?’

  Emma smiled at him, thinking of the night Xavier had had croup, and her father had been on a rare night out and she’d driven to the house where he’d been having dinner with friends to leave Hamish with him before taking Xavier to the hospital.

  ‘Some,’ she admitted.

  She made herself a sandwich and a cup of tea then retired to the room they’d allocated as an office in the big, rambling, old house. Setting the snack down on the desk, she pulled out the book where they kept phone numbers, knowing Carrie’s number would be in it.

  But Carrie was in Retford, and possibly in the PICU where no phones were allowed...

  Would Joss be home? She’d be off duty by now, and as she’d grown up in Braxton she’d be sure to know someone who’d know someone who might be able to help.

  Joss put her on to her mother, Mrs Carstairs, who was only too happy to recommend a couple of women, giving Emma the names and numbers, and adding, ‘Christine, the first one, probably needs the money most,’ she said, ‘and she’s wonderful with children. She used to work at the childcare centre until the new regulations came in about all helpers needing at least six months at a training course before they could work there. All nonsense, of course, because six months at a college doesn’t help you comfort a child who’s not feeling well, or tell you when a child needs a cuddle.’

  Emma smiled at the woman’s disgust but she understood what she was saying, although she was pretty sure these days the college courses for early childhood education would include a fair amount of work in kindergartens, spending hands-on time with children.

  As predicted, Christine was delighted at the idea and, yes, she could call around at Emma’s house in an hour, by which time the boys would certainly be awake, and hopefully in good moods after their sleeps.

  Research time...

  Emma opened her laptop and searched for childcare wages. She’d known for some time she’d have to get a local accountant but had been putting it off. If she was going to become an employer, she’d need him to work out things like superannuation. But at least that could wait until Carrie got back, or she could ask the nurses at work. Right now, she had to pin her father down to what day the bridge club met, and whether he wanted to take up bowls again.

  And if, at the back of her mind, there was a whispered suggestion that employing a housekeeper could also free her up to have more of a life outside work and childcare, she ignored it.

  Although that Andy Richards had seemed a nice guy...

  And wouldn’t finding someone else, even on a temporary basis, help her ignore her futile feelings for Marty?

  Probably not, but at least she could try...

  * * *

  Marty flew back to Retford a few days later in his own chopper to collect Hallie and Nikki, delivering them safely to Wetherby and deciding to stay the night.

  Sometimes a bit of time with Pop in the shed, a night in his old bedroom, and a chat about nothing in particular with Hallie got his head straightened out. But it was not to be. Although he felt relaxed and happy in his old home, he also realised the problem that was Emma would never straighten out.

  The best strategy, as he’d decided after the fateful kiss, was avoidance and although he dismissed moving to another base—he’s miss his family too much—if he kept busy, and found another woman to squire around town, then surely he wouldn’t see too much of her and that would be that.

  But fate conspired against him.

  He thought Carrie’s birthday celebration, on a Saturday night, would be okay because the girls were throwing the party for her. Marty knew Carrie was seeing a bit of Ned so he would be there for sure, and without the girls to babysit, Emma would be stuck at home.

  Of course, that was before he’d heard about Christine, or learned that she was always happy to do extra hours, babysitting.

  Neither had he heard about Andy.

  Well, he knew Andy, had been at school with him, and although they didn’t see much of each other these days, they were still quite friendly.

  Until his old school-mate arrived at the party with Emma, so it was a double shock. Seeing Emma, and, what was worse, seeing her with another man—particularly a man he liked and respected...

  He prayed for a callout, because there was no other way he’d get out of his sister’s birthday party. But no matter how many times he checked that his phone was turned on and, no, there’d been no missed messa
ges, no call came.

  So he made himself useful, filling people’s glasses, passing around the canapes the girls had prepared, chatting to Pop and Hallie, and Carrie’s friends from school. Avoiding Emma and Andy and the group of locals who would normally have been his chosen company at any party.

  But there were only so many glasses to be filled, and the canapés ran out so he sought refuge on the back veranda, only to back away through the door when he saw one of his nieces out there in the passionate embrace of what was probably a spotty youth.

  He could leave.

  He’d done his duty.

  He found Mandy—so it was Molly on the veranda—in the kitchen and was about to say goodbye when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

  He dug it out and positively beamed at it.

  ‘Have to go, pet,’ he said. ‘Lovely party, say goodbye to your mum for me.’

  He kissed her cheek and slipped away, hurrying out the back way, so it wasn’t until he reached the gate that he realised someone was coming down the steps behind him.

  ‘Can you give me a lift?’

  Of course, it was Emma!

  ‘Isn’t anyone else ever on callout duty at that hospital?’ he demanded, as heat and despair battled in his body.

  ‘Nope,’ she said, far too cheerfully. ‘You’re going to be stuck with me for a couple more months, at least while Paul’s still having chemo.’

  The reminder made him feel terrible. Paul Robbins, father of four, had been diagnosed with lymphoma and although it was one of the less aggressive forms of the disease, he still had to undergo some treatment.

  ‘What have you heard?’ he asked, as he opened the vehicle door for her.

  She turned to look at him as the interior lights came on, her face a little pale.

  ‘Possible heart attack, maybe stroke. It was a very confused call, out on some road I’ve never heard of where there’s no ambulance access. An old man in pain—a hermit of some kind? Somewhere between here and Wetherby, is it?’

  He nodded, shutting the door as she settled in and hurrying around to the driver’s side.

  ‘Ken Irvine, he’s an old timber cutter who lives out in the bush.’

  * * *

  Emma had squashed herself as close to the door as possible in case the urge to touch Marty—just to feel the warmth of him—was made harder by an accidental brush of clothing. She’d been watching him—surreptitiously, she hoped—all evening, whilst keeping up with the conversation between Andy and the people he knew.

  After all, she’d invited Andy, bumping into him down town where she’d been shopping for some new jeans. Thinking, hoping, needing a distraction from the man she couldn’t have...

  Yet the minute Marty had walked in, she’d known it wasn’t going to work—that no matter who she saw, or met, they wouldn’t ever banish the memories of that kiss.

  Which was ridiculous, because that’s all it had been—a kiss!

  ‘Do you know the place?’ she asked as the silence stretching between them reached snapping point.

  ‘From when I was a kid,’ he said. ‘I remember going out there the first time with Pop. You could only drive to within about six miles of his hut, then walked in the rest of the way. He had a horse and cart, would you believe, and would drive you back to the car in that. He’d once felled huge cedars in the forest, but now he pulls out old fallen timber and cuts it for firewood. Nowadays, the track gets you to within about two miles of the hut, but he still has the horse and cart to haul the cut wood to your car.’

  ‘How does he exist?’ Emma asked. ‘What does he do for food? Does he take the horse and cart to town?’

  ‘Until recently he did, although I’ve a feeling he’s stopped coming—maybe his horse died. One of the home care people goes out from time to time to check on him, and he’s had a phone connected so he can order anything he needs and someone in town will always take it out. I’ve sometimes taken my little chopper in there—actually took it in with a couple of friends a year or two ago to clear a space big enough for the rescue helicopter—but on the whole, he’d far rather people stayed away.’

  They’d pulled up at the base, where Dave was waiting for them.

  ‘As far as I can make out, they don’t know what happened but he’ll probably need to be brought back to town for checking,’ Dave said. ‘He should be kept in town now. He’s far too old to be out there on his own.’

  Dave looked from Marty to Emma.

  ‘If you’ve got Emma, do you need me?’ he asked. ‘It’s only that I’ve left my eldest looking after the younger kids and the baby’s not that well.’

  Emma looked at Marty—he was the boss in these situations.

  ‘It’s fine with me,’ she said, and he shrugged.

  ‘Me, too,’ he said, but Emma guessed it wasn’t all that fine.

  Was he wanting to spend as little time with her as she was with him?

  Dave had brought her bag from the hospital so she climbed in, settling in Mark’s seat, and wondering if Marty would suggest she move up front.

  He didn’t, which really didn’t bother her, although as they flew through the night she realised she wouldn’t have minded seeing the forest at night, looking for animals the searchlight might pick out.

  It was a short flight, and they landed not far from a small shack, where a light flickered uncertainly.

  An old kerosene lantern, Emma realised when she followed Marty into the shack.

  Ken had managed to crawl to where the phone stood on a small table, but once there had obviously collapsed. She knelt beside the old man’s body while Marty held the lamp a little closer for her.

  ‘This light won’t do,’ he said, setting the lamp down on the table where the phone must have been. ‘I’ll see what I can find.’

  But Emma knew it wasn’t necessary to have more light. Ken was barely conscious, his pulse thready and his breathing raspy and shallow.

  Yet he had the strength to grasp her wrist.

  ‘Don’ take me from me home,’ he whispered. ‘Le’ me die in me own bed.’

  ‘Marty,’ she called softly. ‘Can you help me lift him onto his bed?’

  He appeared beside her.

  ‘Surely we should be lifting him onto a stretcher?’ he asked, and she shook her head.

  ‘He called for help,’ Marty persisted.

  ‘I’ll take his legs,’ Emma said, ignoring his protest.

  She leant down towards Ken.

  ‘We’ll lift you onto the bed, it shouldn’t hurt.’

  For a moment, she thought Marty would argue, but in the end he knelt and gently lifted the man into his arms, dispensing with Emma’s services and carrying him to the old bed in a corner of the room, wrapping a faded quilt around him to keep him warm.

  Emma followed, bending to examine him, seeing the distortion of his face that told of a stroke, the blue colour of his lips, and the old man’s struggle to breathe.

  She took Ken’s hand in both of hers, and held it tightly.

  ‘This is a beautiful, peaceful place,’ she said quietly.

  Ken smiled.

  ‘Built it all meself,’ he told her, and she could still hear pride in the weak, quavery voice.

  ‘Found the clearing when I was cutting big stuff, saw the creek nearby, and knew it was for me.’

  The words took a long time to come out, and were indistinct at best, yet Emma knew the old man wanted her—or them—to understand.

  ‘Been a good home,’ he said. ‘Good life.’

  His eyes closed and it seemed as if he dozed, then the hand Emma still held squeezed her fingers.

  ‘You won’t leave me?’

  Emma gently returned the pressure.

  ‘No way, Ken. Marty and I will be right here.’

  The rheumy eyes opened and he looked at her and smiled, a tr
emulous spread of blueish lips over tobacco-stained teeth.

  ‘Never thought I’d ’ave a pretty girl with me when I died,’ he joked, and Emma had to fight to hold back tears.

  Had Marty sensed her distress that he joined the conversation?

  ‘Every bloke deserves a pretty girl to be with him at the end,’ he told Ken. ‘Really, it’s the only way to go.’

  But although Ken smiled, Emma had heard the tremor in Marty’s voice, and knew he, too, was affected.

  Marty had found a stool and he’d pulled it over so he sat close to Emma by the bed, and he talked softly, reminding Ken about his visits here. And now and then Ken added memories of his own, about the bush around his hut, the animals who’d shared his life here, deep in the forest.

  ‘You were lucky the bushfire missed you,’ Emma said at one stage, and the old man, whose breathing had become raspy and uneven, shook his head.

  ‘Gullies east of range don’t burn,’ he managed between faltering breaths. ‘Worked it out.’

  And he smiled...

  He was breathing still, deep breaths followed by a pause...

  ‘Cheyne-Stokes,’ Marty whispered, and Emma nodded.

  In the past it had been known as the death rattle but, whatever its name, they both knew it meant the end was in sight.

  The crackle of Marty’s radio broke the silence, and as he stood to go outside to answer the call, Emma said, ‘I can’t leave him.’

  ‘As if we would,’ Marty retorted softly, before disappearing into the darkness.

  He was back within minutes, sitting down again beside Emma.

  ‘If there’s a call I’ll have to go,’ he said quietly, and she nodded.

  ‘I suppose me too if I’m needed.’

  Marty didn’t answer, but he slid his arm around her waist and they sat together, keeping vigil over the old man, both praying they could stay so he had company on his last night on earth.

  ‘So talk to me,’ Emma murmured to Marty when the old man had drifted into a deep coma. ‘Tell me why no commitment? You’re a warm, loving person, you’re good with kids, why the rule?’

  He was silent for so long she began to think he wouldn’t answer, then he took his arm from around her waist and held her free hand instead, moving his stool just a little away from her and Ken.