Patricia Forsythe - At Odds With The Midwife

Title Page At Odds with the Midwife Patricia Forsythe www.millsandboon.co.uk

About the Author PATRICIA FORSYTHE probably would never have become a writer if a seventh-grade teacher hadn’t said that Patricia’s story characters were, well, crazy. Patricia didn’t think that was such a bad thing. After all, she has a large extended family of decidedly interesting and unusual people who provide ideas and inspiration for her books. In Patricia’s opinion, that only makes them more lovable and worthy of a place in literature. A native Arizonan, Patricia has no concept of what a real winter is like, but she is very familiar with summer. She has held a number of jobs, including teaching school, working as a librarian and as a secretary, and operating a care home for developmentally disabled children. Her favorite occupation, though, is writing novels in which the characters get into challenging situations and then work their way out. Each situation and set of characters is different, so sometimes the finished book is as much of a surprise to her as it is to the readers. She is the author of many romance novels with many more to come.

Dedication This book is dedicated to my beloved little sister, Betty Forsythe. Even though she never had an easy life, she brought endless joy to everyone else’s.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

FEET SLAPPING THE PAVEMENT—right, left, right, left—Nathan Smith pounded down High Street, turned west onto Main Street and took the hill that led out of town. He hadn’t been this way yet on his thrice-weekly runs, but there had been a time, when he was eighteen, that he couldn’t seem to take this hill fast enough. Driving the new SUV his dad had bought him for graduating as valedictorian, he’d gunned the engine, eager to leave Reston behind. Waiting for his university classes to start in the fall hadn’t even been an option. He’d enrolled in some summer courses so he’d have an excuse to leave days after graduation. He’d sped down Main Street until it became Highway 6 and, since then, had kept his subsequent visits home both rare and short.

He couldn’t quite believe he was back. His return to Reston had been challenging, not to mention exhausting. There were times he questioned why he’d come back, but he knew the answer. Guilt was at the top of the list, followed closely by its companion, shame.

He forced his mind to veer away from that. Even though it was the truth, if he focused on it for too long, he would never move ahead. In the project he’d started it was critical to keep going forward. There were more problems than solutions, many issues he didn’t yet know how to solve. Somehow, his nighttime runs on the quiet streets helped him see his way forward. Something about the rhythm of his feet, the focus on his breathing as he ran through the cool spring evenings, helped him make sense of the daily complications of his life and the Herculean task he’d taken on.

The full moon lit his way as he ran along the pavement, then he swerved to the edge when a car came by. He waved, not because he knew the driver, but because it was expected in this rural pocket of the world. Some bred-in-the-bone habits never died.

Half a mile out of town, he crossed the bridge over the Kinnick River and slowed to a walk as he caught his breath. He’d given up his running schedule when he’d sprained his ankle a few months ago and now, when it started to ache, he knew it was time to slow down or take a break.

As he fast walked past the old Kinnick Campground, he glanced to the left and saw a light. Pausing, Nathan stood, panting lightly and using the tail of his white T-shirt to wipe away sweat as he gazed into the darkness. The camp was deserted. The Whitmires, who had owned it during his growing-up years, had left town. He’d heard they’d come in to some money. The camp, with its private, well-stocked lake, where they had once hosted hikers, birders and fishermen, had been abandoned for the past fifteen years, though he was sure the local citizenry fished the lake as if it was public property.

Nate frowned at the overgrown bar ditches on each side of the road. He wasn’t sure he’d take the chance of fishing in the small lake. Weeds that had been beaten back for decades while the Whitmires were in residence had eagerly taken over the property, providing hiding places for field mice, bobwhite quail and the snakes that fed on them.

Whoever was at the campground now wasn’t of the four-legged variety, though.

“Squatters,” he murmured. He knew they camped out anyplace they could find, usually tucked back in these mountains, where they could grow marijuana, operate stills or cook meth. If that’s what these squatters were up to, he couldn’t imagine why they’d want to be this close to the highway. Of course, it was entirely possible that they were either crazy or desperate. He reached for his cell phone to call the police, but quickly realized the signal, always spotty in this area, was nonexistent tonight. He was going to have to find a better cell-phone service. It was critical for people to be able to get in touch with him.

Annoyed, he started to run again, but had taken only a few steps when he cursed under his breath and turned down the rutted lane instead. He couldn’t walk away from this situation—another lifelong Reston habit. Approaching slowly, he glanced around. In the glow from the full moon, he could see that someone had been working on this place. He stopped and sniffed the air. Fresh paint. That wasn’t something squatters would do, so maybe new owners had taken residence. That conclusion didn’t turn him around, though, but drew him forward.

He’d always thought there was something about the smell of fresh paint that promised a new beginning, a positive change. Change was something desperately needed in this town.

The Whitmires had lived in a small century-old log cabin that Ben Whitmire—who’d renamed himself Wolfchild—had updated and renovated by hand. Nate had never been inside, but his mother had described it as “primitive.” He also remembered an old tale about the place being haunted but didn’t know what form that haunting took.

Someone had cleared the weeds and brush that had no doubt grown up around the door and piled it into a massive stack for burning, or maybe to be picked up by the county and turned into mulch. Abandoned tires had been repurposed into planters with some kind of spiky plants growing in them. He applauded the use of the tires. It was better than having them end up in the landfill.

“Home improvement squatters?” he questioned, even though he was quickly talking himself out of the idea that unauthorized people were on the property. He followed the path around the cabin to the back, where the light was coming from. When he turned the corner, he could hear music that sounded like some kind of wind instrument caught in an endless loop. It was as though the same few bars were playing over and over, with an occasional flat note thrown in for variety.

Wincing at the repetitive sound, he glanced around to see a floor lamp set up outside the back door with the cord snaking inside. It cast a soft glow on the surroundings—and on what looked like a woman digging a grave.

The sight rocked him to a stop, and although she hadn’t seen him, Nate stepped behind a blossoming crape myrtle to see what she was doing.

A large, rectangular patch of sod had been turned over and she was busily breaking up the chunks of dirt, smashing into them with the side of the shovel blade. Too shallow for a grave. He shook his head at his own morbid thoughts.