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The Surgeon's Doorstep Baby
Marion Lennox
Midwife Maggie’s temporary neighbour, surgeon Blake Samford, is a complication that she really doesn’t need.Not only is she caring for her isolated community, she’s juggling the needs of her younger siblings. But when Blake knocks on her door one dark and stormy night, cradling an abandoned infant in his arms, Maggie suddenly feels her resolve and her heart begin to crack…
About the Author
MARION LENNOX is a country girl, born on an Australian dairy farm. She moved on—mostly because the cows just weren’t interested in her stories! Married to a ‘very special doctor’, Marion writes Medical Romances™, as well as Mills & Boon
Romances. (She used a different name for each category for a while—if you’re looking for her Romances, search for author Trisha David as well.) She’s now had well over 90 romance novels accepted for publication.
In her non-writing life Marion cares for kids, cats, dogs, chooks and goldfish. She travels, she fights her rampant garden (she’s losing) and her house dust (she’s lost). Having spun in circles for the first part of her life, she’s now stepped back from her ‘other’ career, which was teaching statistics at her local university. Finally she’s reprioritised her life, figured out what’s important, and discovered the joys of deep baths, romance and chocolate. Preferably all at the same time!
Recent titles by Marion Lennox:
SYDNEY HARBOUR HOSPITAL: LILY’S SCANDAL† (#ulink_c941be56-9d68-5929-ab2c-bbdde9491241)
DYNAMITE DOC OR CHRISTMAS DAD?* (#ulink_8e484c2c-c592-52dd-93ae-95060cbea05a)
THE DOCTOR AND THE RUNAWAY HEIRESS* (#ulink_8e484c2c-c592-52dd-93ae-95060cbea05a)
NIKKI AND THE LONE WOLF** (#ulink_59d67279-2460-5397-abae-641efc8bfde0)
MARDIE AND THE CITY SURGEON** (#ulink_59d67279-2460-5397-abae-641efc8bfde0)
† (#ulink_3081425f-34c1-5c95-aa12-5658c6319404)Sydney Harbour Hospital
* (#ulink_f060b64d-afbd-5f5f-823a-24944803e380)Mills & Boon
Medical™ Romance
** (#ulink_1b8e0976-c64b-52f9-9b8b-2e94dcc271b1)Mills & Boon
Romance Banksia Bay miniseries
These books are also available in eBook format from www.millsandboon.co.uk
The Surgeon’s
Doorstep Baby
Marion Lennox
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Dear Reader
This year our family farm is to be leased out as my brother retires from farming. One of the next generation may well decide farming’s the life for them, but it needs to be a decision they make in the future, when the time’s right for them. Thus, for now, more than a hundred years of farming history is pausing.
For me this is a sadness. Although I’ve long left behind the reality of twice-daily milking, our family farm has never lost its power, its warmth, its pull. Happily, though, I can still disappear into a farming community in my books.
As you might have read in my introduction to MARDIE AND THE CITY SURGEON, recently the farm was flooded. At midnight a neighbour rang my brother to say the river had broken its banks, and a paddock full of calves was disappearing under water. My brother and sister-in-law thus spent the night in their kids’ ancient canoe, saving every one of their calves.
The story was a fun one, with a happy ending, and the half-grown calves reacted like excited kids when they were finally rescued. The story made me smile—and, as always, it made me think, What if …? What if I threw my city surgeon hero into such a scene? What if my heroine had to depend on him? What if … what if I even threw a wounded baby into the mix?
I love my writing, where reality and fantasy can mingle to become pure fun. As you read this, however, know that the calves are real, the happy ending is true and each rescued calf is now a safe and cared-for member of a magnificent herd. Our farm—our heritage—stays alive in the hearts of every one of our family members, and hopefully in the warmth and fun my writing enables me to share.
Warm wishes from a bit of an emotional
Marion
Dedication:
To Cobrico. To Mayfield. To my beloved family who form the bedrock of who I am.
CHAPTER ONE
As CHIEF orthopaedic surgeon for one of Sydney’s most prestigious teaching hospitals, Blake Samford was used to being woken in the middle of the night for emergencies.
Right now, however, he was recuperating at his father’s farm, two hundred miles from Sydney.
He wasn’t expecting an emergency.
He wasn’t expecting a baby.
Maggie Tilden loved lying in the dark, listening to rain on the corrugated-iron roof. She especially liked lying alone to listen.
She had a whole king-sized bed to herself. Hers, all hers. She’d been renting this apartment—a section of the grandest homestead in Corella Valley—for six months now, and she was savouring every silent moment of it.
Oh, she loved being free. She loved being here. The elements could throw what they liked at her; she was gloriously happy. She wriggled her toes luxuriously against her cotton sheets and thought, Bring it on, let it rain.
She wasn’t even worried about the floods.
This afternoon the bridge had been deemed unsafe. Debris from the flooded country to the north was being slammed against the ancient timbers, and the authorities were worried the whole thing would go. As of that afternoon, the bridge was roped off and the entire valley was isolated.
Residents had been advised to evacuate and many had, but a lot of the old-time farmers wouldn’t move if you put a bulldozer under them. They’d seen floods before. They’d stocked up with provisions, they’d made sure their stock was on high ground and they were sitting it out.
Maggie was doing the same.
A clap of thunder split the night and Tip, the younger Border collie, whined and edged closer to the bed.
‘It’s okay, guys,’ she told them, as the ancient Blackie moved in for comfort as well. ‘We’re safe and dry, and we have a whole month’s supply of dog food. What else could we want?’
And then she paused.
Over the sound of the driving rain she could hear a car. Gunned, fast. Driving over the bridge?
It must have gone right around the roadblock.
Were they crazy? The volume of water powering down the valley was a risk all by itself. There were huge warning signs saying the bridge was unsafe.
But the bridge was still intact, and the car made it without mishap. She heard the change in noise as it reached the bitumen on this side, and she relaxed, expecting the car’s noise to fade as it headed inland.
But it didn’t. She heard it turn into her driveway—okay, not hers, but the driveway of the Corella View Homestead.
If the car had come from this side of the river she’d be out of bed straight away, expecting drama. As district nurse, she was the only person with medical training on this side of the river—but the car had come from the other side, where there was a hospital and decent medical help.
She’d also be worrying about her brother. Pete was in the middle of teenage rebellion, and lately he’d been hanging out with some dubious mates. The way that car was being driven … danger didn’t begin to describe it.
But this was someone from the other side. Not Pete. Not a medical emergency. Regardless, she swung her feet out of bed and reached for her robe.
And then she paused.
Maybe this was a visitor for her landlord.
A visitor at midnight?
Who knew? She hardly knew her landlord.
Blake Samford was the only son of the local squattocracy—squattocracies being the slang term for families who’d been granted huge tracts of land when Australia had first been opened to settlers and had steadily increased their fortunes since. The Corella Valley holding was impressive, but deserted. Blake had lived here as a baby but his mother had taken him away when he was six. The district had hardly seen him since.
This, however, was his longest visit for years. He’d arrived three days ago. He was getting over appendicitis, he’d told her, taking the opportunity to get the farm ready for sale. His father had been dead for six months. It was time to sell.
She’d warned him the river was rising. He’d shrugged.
‘If I’m trapped, I might as well be truly trapped.’
If he was having visitors at midnight, they’d be trapped with him.
Maybe it’s a woman, she thought, sinking back into bed as the car stopped and footsteps headed for Blake’s side of the house—the grand entrance. Maybe he’d decided if he was to be trapped he needed company. Was this a woman ready to risk all to reach her lover?
Who knew? Who knew anything about Blake Samford?
Blake was a local yet not a local. She’d seen him sporadically as a kid—making compulsory access visits to his bully of a father, the locals thought—but as far as she knew he hadn’t come near when his father had been ill. Given his father’s reputation, no one blamed him. Finally she’d met him at the funeral.
She’d gone to the funeral because she’d been making daily medical checks on the old man for the last few months of his life. His reputation had been appalling, but he’d loved his dogs so she’d tried to convince herself he hadn’t been all bad. Also, she’d needed to talk to his son about the dogs. And her idea.
She hadn’t even been certain Blake would come but he’d been there—Blake Samford, all grown up. And stunning. The old ladies whispered that he’d inherited his mother’s looks. Maggie had never known his mother, but she was definitely impressed by the guy’s appearance—strong, dark, riveting. But not friendly. He’d stood aloof from the few locals present, expressionless, looking as if he was there simply to get things over with.
She could understand that. With Bob Samford as a father, it had been a wonder he’d been there at all.
But Maggie had an idea that needed his agreement. It had taken courage to approach him when the service had ended, to hand over her references and ask him about the housekeeper’s apartment at the back of the homestead. To offer to keep an eye on the place as well as continuing caring for the dogs his dad had loved. Harold Stubbs, the next-door landowner, had been looking after Bob’s cattle. The cattle still needed to be there to keep the grass down, but Harold was getting too old to take care of two herds plus the house and the dogs. Until Blake sold, would he like a caretaker?
Three days later a rental contract had arrived. She’d moved in but she hadn’t heard from him since.
Until now. He was home to put the place on the market.
She’d expected nothing less. She knew it’d be sold eventually and she was trying to come up with alternative accommodation. She did not want to go home.
But right now her attention was all on the stupidity of his visitors driving over the bridge. Were they out of their minds?
She was tempted to pull back the drapes and look.
She heard heavy footsteps running across the veranda, and the knocker sounded so loudly it reverberated right through the house. The dogs went crazy. She hauled them back from the door, but as she did she heard the footsteps recede back across the veranda, back down the steps.
The car’s motor hadn’t been cut. A car door slammed, the engine was gunned—and it headed off the way it had come.
She held her breath as it rumbled back across the bridge. Reaching the other side. Safe.
Gone.
What on earth …?
Kids, playing the fool?
It was not her business. It was Blake’s business, she told herself. He was home now and she was only caring for her little bit of the house.
Hers. Until Blake sold the house.
It didn’t matter. For now it was hers, and she was soaking up every minute of it.
She snuggled back down under the covers—alone.
If there was one thing Maggie Tilden craved above everything else, it was being alone.
Bliss.
On the other side of the wall, Blake was listening, too. He heard the car roar over the bridge. He heard the thumps on his front door, the running footsteps of someone leaving in a hurry, and the car retreating back over the bridge.
He also thought whoever it was must be crazy.
He and his tenant—Maggie Tilden—had inspected the bridge yesterday. The storm water had been pounding the aged timbers; things were being swept fast downstream—logs, debris, some of it big. It was battering the piles.
‘If you want to get out, you should go now,’ Maggie had said. ‘The authorities are about to close it.’
Did it matter? He’d been ordered to take three weeks off work to recuperate from appendicitis. He needed to sort his father’s possessions, so what difference did it make if he was stranded while he did it?
‘It’s up to you,’ Maggie had said, as if she didn’t mind either way, and she’d headed back to her part of the house with his father’s dogs.
She kept to herself, for which he was profoundly grateful, but now … A knock at midnight. A car going back and forth over the bridge.
Was this some friend of hers, playing the fool? Leaving something for her at the wrong door?
Whoever they were, they’d gone.
On Maggie’s side of the house he’d heard the dogs go crazy. He imagined her settling them. Part of him expected her to come across to check what had just happened.
She didn’t.
Forget it, he told himself. Go back to bed.
