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‘Thank you,’ she said, breathlessly, sounding…scared? ‘I can take it from here.’
Scared? Was she feeling what he was feeling?
He didn’t know what he was feeling.
‘Not unless there’s someone through that door to give you a strong cup of tea, then carry you out to a nice, safe non-tractor-type car and get you to hospital,’ he said, making his voice stern. ‘Can you tell me that?’ Even though she was standing, he was blocking her way through the door.
‘I can’t,’ she admitted. ‘But I don’t have a choice. Please, I can’t leave Gran.’
‘Then I can’t leave you.’ Neither, he realised bluntly, did he want to.
‘Maggie, is that you?’ The high, querulous voice came from inside, and without waiting for permission Max pushed it open.
The first thing he saw as he opened the door was a vast open fireplace filled with glowing embers, a burgundy, blue and gold carpet, faded but magnificent, great squashy settees and a mantel with two ornate vases loaded with roses from the garden. And jasmine and honeysuckle. The room was an extension of the garden, and the perfume was fabulous. Then, as his eyes became accustomed to the different light, he saw Gran. She was a tiny wizened woman, bundled in blankets on the settee, looking toward the door with obvious anxiety.
‘I’m okay, Gran,’ Maggie said urgently from behind him, and made to push past, but she stumbled on her bad leg. He caught her and held her against him, and she didn’t fight.
But suddenly Gran was lurching to the hearth to grab the poker. She turned toward him, but then fell back on her pillows, waving the poker, fright and feistiness fighting for supremacy.
‘Let her go.’ Her voice came out as a terrified rasp and he felt Maggie flinch and struggle again to get free.
The two settees in the living room were opposite each other, forming a corridor to the fire. He ignored the poker—there wasn’t a lot of threat when Gran didn’t seem to be able to stand—and moved to set Maggie down. Gran’s head and the poker were at the fire end. He set Maggie the opposite way, so the poker was away from his head.
‘He’s helping, Gran. Put the poker down,’ Maggie muttered, and he felt her tension ease a little. She was back in familiar territory now, even if it was did seem crazy territory. A tractor museum, roses, roses and more roses, and a poker-waving Gran.
‘What’s he doing here?’
‘He’s Dr Ashton,’ Maggie said, flinching as she moved her leg. ‘A doctor. Imagine that. Right when we need him.’
There was a lot to ignore in that statement, too. He released her onto the cushions, aware once again of that weird stab of a sensation he didn’t understand. Something that had nothing to do with a doctor/patient relationship.
Something that had to be ignored at all costs.
‘You do need a doctor, but not me,’ he growled, moving instinctively to load more logs from the wood-box to the fire. Thankfully Gran kept her poker hand to herself. ‘Maggie, you need hospital.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Your baby needs to be checked.’
‘I can’t leave Gran. I’ll put my stethoscope on my tummy and lie here and listen to him,’ she said. ‘That’s all I can do.
‘You have a stethoscope?’ he demanded, while the old lady rubbed her poker longingly, like she might still need it.
‘Yes.’
‘You’re a nurse?’
‘I’m a doctor.’
‘A doctor?’
‘They don’t all come in white coats,’ she said bitterly. ‘Or Aston Martins and gorgeous leather jackets.’
‘Maggie, tell me what’s going on.’ Gran was trying again to heave herself to a sitting position, gasping as if breathing hurt, and the fear was still in her voice.
‘Dr Ashton crashed into our truck.’
‘The calves,’ Gran said in horror, but Max was playing triage in his head, and calves were somewhere near the bottom.
Maggie was a doctor. A doctor!
The personal side of him wanted to take that aside and think it through, for all sorts of reasons he didn’t fully understand, but the professional side of him had work to do and wasn’t giving him time to consider. ‘So you’re a doctor,’ he managed. And you have a stethoscope?’
‘The calves are okay, Gran,’ Maggie said, seeming to ignore him. ‘Bonnie’s looking after them.’ Then she turned back to him. ‘Yes, there’s a whole medical kit in the back of the wagon. Enough to cope with anything from typhoid to snakebite.’ She winced again and lay back on the cushions, her hands instinctively returning to her belly. ‘And, yes, I’d appreciate it if you could get my stethoscope.’
He stared at her and she stared back. Defiance and fear mixed.
‘I’ll take you both to hospital,’ he said.
‘Over my dead body,’ the old lady said from the other settee.
‘Mrs Croft?’
‘I’m Betty,’ she snapped.
‘Betty, then,’ he said, and softened his tone. ‘I’m not sure what’s wrong with you…’
‘I’m dying.’
‘So are we all,’ he said without changing his tone. If she wanted histrionics she wasn’t going to get them from him. ‘Some faster than others. I gather you’re ill and I’m sorry. I also know that your granddaughter—’
‘Maggie’s my granddaughter-in-law.’
‘Your granddaughter-in-law, then,’ he said evenly, glancing back at Maggie and knowing he was right. ‘Maggie’s been in an accident and her baby needs to be checked. If the placenta’s damaged, there could be internal bleeding. The only way she can be checked is to have an ultrasound. If she doesn’t have that ultrasound the baby could die, and she could be in trouble herself. Betty, I’m sorry that you’re ill, but it’s true I’m a doctor and I have to sort priorities. Is it right that we risk Maggie’s baby’s life because you won’t go to hospital?’
‘We’re not risking…’ Maggie said, and he turned back to face her. He had to ignore emotion here and speak the truth.
‘If you really are a doctor, you know that you really are putting your baby at risk.’
She was torn. He could see it—he saw fear behind her eyes and he knew that she was desperately trying to hide it. Why?
‘We don’t have time to mess around,’ he said. ‘I should have insisted at the start.’
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