Marion Lennox - City Surgeon, Small Town Miracle

© 2010

Dear Reader,

Sometimes reality meshes with the stories in my head. This year, a visit to a friend with a passion for ancient tractors was followed by a holiday to Coogee-one of Sydney, Australia’s fabulous beaches. While we were there the lights went out. No power! And what was worse, no breakfast coffee. Aagh ! So while the love of my life tried to read his morning paper in a café so dimly lit I could barely see the table, I was forced to sit over cold cereal and think up a story.

I noticed the couple at the next table as they were fussing over their sleeping baby. They looked to be older first-time parents, and their love for each other and their joyful adoration of their beautiful daughter shone out despite the gloom. That’ll do, I thought as I sulked over my orange juice. I named them Max and Maggie, and their lovely baby Rose. But there’s always an obstacle to a truly great romance, and suddenly those tractors sprang to mind. Sadly, that’s where my story stopped. There’s only so much a woman can do without caffeine!

Luckily the power came back on, and with it came coffee. Hooray, I thought as I headed home to start Chapter One. I’ve fallen in love with Maggie, Max and Rose-and tractors. I hope you do, too.

Happy reading,

Marion

With thanks to the fabulous Anne Gracie, whose friendship means the world to me.

THEroad was narrow, with a sheer cliff face on one side and a steep fall-away to the sea on the other. The scenery was fantastic, but Dr Max Ashton was in no mood to enjoy the view. He’d had enough of this bucolic setting. He’d had enough of holiday. All he wanted was to get back to Sydney, to work and to solitude.

Which wasn’t happening anytime soon. As he nosed his gorgeous, midnight-blue sports coupé around the fourth blind bend since town, a cattle truck veered around from the opposite direction. The small but ancient truck wasn’t travelling at speed, and neither was he, but the road was too narrow to let them both pass.

The truck jerked sideways into the cliff-face and the back of the tray swung out to meet him. Collision was inevitable, and collision was what happened.

He wasn’t hurt-his car was too well built for that-but it took moments to react to the shock, to see past his inflated airbags to assess the damage.

Mess, he thought grimly, but no smoke. The cab of the truck didn’t look badly damaged, and his own car looked bent but not broken. Hopefully this meant nothing but the hassle of a probably uninsured idiot who didn’t know enough to keep rust-buckets off the road.

But the accident 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.