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A Child To Heal Them
Louisa Heaton
Might saving a little girl...
...help mend their broken hearts?
When ex-doctor Tasha Kincaid escaped to Africa to teach, haunted by the loss of a young patient, she never expected to find now-widowed Quinn Shapiro—the doctor who once broke her heart. But a pupil is sick, and she needs his help! As they care for little Abeje, Tasha finds herself falling for Quinn again—could healing this child help them embrace a future together?
LOUISA HEATON lives on Hayling Island, Hampshire, with her husband, four children and a small zoo. She has worked in various roles in the health industry—most recently four years as a Community First Responder, answering 999 calls. When not writing Louisa enjoys other creative pursuits, including reading, quilting and patchwork—usually instead of the things she ought to be doing!
Also By Louisa Heaton
The Baby That Changed Her LifeHis Perfect Bride?A Father This Christmas?One Life-Changing NightSeven Nights with Her ExChristmas with the Single DadReunited by Their Pregnancy SurpriseTheir Double Baby GiftPregnant with His Royal Twins
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
A Child to Heal Them
Louisa Heaton
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-07496-4
A CHILD TO HEAL THEM
© 2018 Louisa Heaton
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For the real Tasha, Bonnie and Lucy.
Contents
Cover (#uf3e57288-dd6e-5e89-afd4-1fbe4b084374)
Back Cover Text (#u46b88353-7614-54b8-aafc-0dc7e330384d)
About the Author (#u23c1c9a1-8080-5129-8571-3e37153c94aa)
Booklist (#u98f10401-55c8-56f4-8740-23428a3bea11)
Title Page (#u9a1440f6-e63e-59cc-abeb-b155cbbeec85)
Copyright (#u91c99019-b90f-5d53-9682-4c44571f706a)
Dedication (#u6b007ccb-c259-5074-af6d-719999af7597)
CHAPTER ONE (#uedeab9ec-d26c-5d73-943e-3cf3675860aa)
CHAPTER TWO (#u67cbf7ee-98db-5e62-b242-29a4f3dc55c0)
CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#u51e8b19e-4b2f-5ef2-ba59-6f27268f222d)
SHE COULDN’T SEE the road. There were too many people criss-crossing in front of her. This way. That. Seemingly with no order to their lives.
Women were heading home from the market with goods balanced in baskets atop their heads, babies strapped to their backs in swathes of fabric. Cattle chewed the cud at the side of the road, as if bored with life, idling alongside market traders who were much more vibrant, calling out, selling their goods—brightly patterned fabrics, spices and vegetables—whilst loud pop music blared from speakers she couldn’t see.
Her nose was filled with the scents of food—fresh fish, caught that day, being the strongest.
Tasha Kincaid urged her off-roader forward, sounding the horn as much as she could. Thick, choking dust was being kicked up from the tyres as she revved the engine, desperate to get through the crowds, anxious to get back to the Serendipity, on the far side of town, because of her passenger, lying on the back seat, unmoving.
Children were not meant to be this still. This quiet.
The Serendipity had anchored just two days ago. She’d taken the children in her class to see it. The vast vessel, a floating hospital ship, sat there in the waters of the Mozambique Channel, waiting to give aid to those who needed it for free.
The children in her class had drawn pictures of the boat, and she’d used the lesson to teach them about kindness and giving. About helping others. They’d even been able to go on board briefly and talk to one or two of the nurses, who had generously given their time.
Maria and Rob were from Ireland and were volunteers, helping out on board for six months before returning to their paying jobs back home.
Back in class, she had pinned the children’s pictures to the peeling walls of the classroom, instantly brightening up the place with their happy colours. That had been the day she’d first found herself worrying about Abeje.
Abeje was Tasha’s star pupil. She tried not to have favourites. All the orphaned children in her class were special, brilliant and curious. But Abeje was different.
She had been orphaned at a young age after both her parents had died, and the only home she’d ever known was the Sunshine Children’s Centre. She’d never had a proper family, but she was bright and intelligent. A deep thinker. A philosopher. And she wanted to be a doctor.
The similarities between them had struck Tasha hard. She recognised that gleam in her eyes. That yearning and thirst for knowledge. To do well. She wanted to let Abeje know that she could be anything she chose to be—that Tasha would help give her that chance. That the whole world could be hers as long as she pursued a passion.
But on the day they’d visited the Serendipity—the day that Tasha would have expected Abeje to be at her most attentive, her most intrigued and excited—Abeje had seemed somehow off. A little listless. A little tired, and complaining of a headache.
All children got sick. It was inevitable. So when Abeje hadn’t come to school the next day Tasha had figured she was probably just taking a day to recuperate. Knowing that Abeje had no mother or father to soothe her brow, she’d thought it might be a nice gesture to go to the children’s centre and check on her, take her some pretty flowers to brighten her room. Just to let her know that she was being thought of and worried about.
But the second she’d seen Abeje, semi-conscious and sweating, Tasha had known that there was something to be worried about. With the matron’s blessing, she’d scooped Abeje up into her car and had screeched away in a trail of thick red dust in an effort to get to the hospital ship.
The vehicle hit a pothole and Abeje moaned as the car bounced them around in their seats. Tasha risked a quick glance. The poor girl was drenched through with sweat and the sun was glaring down at them, burning everything it cast its gaze upon.
‘Not far now, sweetie! We’re nearly there...just stay with me!’
Horrible thoughts were rushing through her head—meningitis, encephalitis. Maybe a waterborne infection? A slideshow of horrific images passed through her brain, courtesy of the books she’d once studied.
She could smell the docks as they inched closer. The heat, the brine, the dust. The fish caught during that morning’s outing were only now being brought back to port. Fruit, meat, chickens in cages were all piled high, the chickens squawking and flapping, the busy trade causing human traffic that she had to struggle to get through.
She cursed quietly, biting her lip, hitting the horn in frustration as the giant sides of the ship loomed over her—so near and yet so far. The car was surrounded by a thick crowd of people and she was making minimum progress.
Growling, she stopped the car, put her keys in her pocket, scooped Abeje into her arms and began to push her way through the throngs of people.
‘Excuse me! Sorry! Can I just squeeze through?’
Suddenly she was at the gangplank, Abeje heavy in her arms.
She ran up it, panting in the heat, sweat prickling her underarms, her back. The coolness of the ship’s interior was welcoming. The air-conditioning a blessing. For her, at least.
Desperately she tried to remember her way around the ship from the brief tour they’d taken a few days ago. The emergency clinic was down this corridor.
Hefting Abeje into a firmer grip, she ran down it and burst through the double doors into the clinic, where there was a twenty-bed ward. ‘I need help!’ she yelled at Maria and Rob, who were making up a bed with new sheets.
Tasha ran to a spare bed and laid Abeje down upon it as gently as she could. The two nurses moved towards the bed.
‘She’s sick! I don’t know what’s wrong, but I think it’s serious! Please help her!’
She stepped back as the two nurses rushed forward. It was hard to fight the urge to do something herself. To let go. To give her precious charge up into a stranger’s hands.
‘What’s going on?’
The male voice instantly cut through the haste. Authoritative. English. The sort of voice that made you turn around and pay attention to the speaker.
It was a voice she’d heard before. One that took her right back to her childhood.
To that moment.
Him.
It can’t be...
Surely she was wrong? Memories were fickle, and she’d done her level best to forget his very existence. How he looked. How he sounded. The voice that she had once closed her eyes to listen to.
Tasha glanced over her shoulder...
At the man that had once torn her heart in two.
Only now her heart was galloping, her head was pounding with incredulity and her mouth was dry, clogged with all the dust from the road. She was aware of sweat drenching her skin.
How can it be him?
How is he here? In this place?
They’d been children. She just thirteen years old. Him three years older. And it might have been an adolescent crush, something silly, but she remembered the pain and the humiliation all too well, even now. It was like being that teenage girl all over again.
‘Quinn?’
The doctor frowned at her briefly, clearly wondering how she knew his name, but then his attention was returned to Abeje, who lay still on the bed. ‘Tell me her symptoms. When it began.’
Tasha blinked hard, still not quite believing that he was here. Of all the places in the world he might have gone he was here. On this ship.
As if from a world away, unable to tear her gaze from his face, she began to relay Abeje’s symptoms, stunned into numbness and a creeping sense of hurt. The box she’d put him in, and all her feelings about him—the box that she’d locked and hidden away for all these years—was finally beginning to crack open, creating a canyon of a scar upon her heart.
* * *
There was something about the tall blonde who had just appeared in his clinic. Something weirdly familiar. But he didn’t have time to place her. He’d thought he knew most of the English people here in Ntembe, but obviously not.
Perhaps she was new? She had corkscrew honeyed curls, deep blue eyes and a mask of sun-kissed freckles across her nose. Cute.
But he didn’t have time to think about her, much as he would like to. She wasn’t the important one. The most important female at this point in time was the semi-conscious one lying on the bed—not the one who somehow knew his name.
Quinn examined the young girl, his stethoscope already in his ears, the metal diaphragm at its end already upon her clammy chest. She was about six years old, a little underweight, but not so much that it concerned him. She had a temperature of nearly one hundred and three degrees, sweats and chills. Drowsy. Flu-like symptoms.
His first concern was malaria. ‘Has she been vomiting?’
The blonde shook her head, curls shimmering. She looked terrified. Almost as if she were afraid to look at the little girl on the bed. As if she was shutting herself down.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Any family history I should know about?’
She shook her head, looking at him in apology, cheeks colouring.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Has she been given anything?’
There was a pained expression in those blue eyes of hers.
