The Doctor Claims His Bride

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She gave a curt nod, the shadows in her eyes suddenly looming large. She shoved the pad into her pocket as if the fact it was out of sight meant it no longer existed. ‘Thanks for the coffee. Help yourself to toast.’

Her reaction to the notepad puzzled him but the delicious smell of the toast distracted him and he bit into it, enjoying the combination of seeds and grains. He hadn’t tasted bread like this on any of the islands. ‘This tastes sensational. Where did you order it from?’

She looked coy. ‘I baked it?’

‘You made this? No wonder Jimmy virtually inhaled it. He’s probably never tasted bread like it. We only get the mass-produced loaves sent over from Darwin.’

She gave a wry smile. ‘And that’s why I brought my bread-maker.’

An idea struck him. ‘This would be fabulous bread for the diabetics due to its low-glycaemic index. Is there any way you could work out how to cook it on a campfire?’

Disbelief swept across her face. ‘A campfire? Why a campfire? I’ve seen ovens in houses.’

He shrugged. ‘Many Kirri people prefer to cook on open fires.’

‘I thought they’d only cook on a fire when they’re out bush, hunting or collecting bush tucker.’

‘They do that too but there’s a campfire in every yard. It’s an easier way to cook when you never know how many people are going to be eating with you.’

She sighed. ‘There are so many unexpected things. For instance, I didn’t realise that English would be the second or third language. It’s all so very different, but different in a good way.’

He nodded as an unexpected sensation of shared companionship streaked through him. ‘And that is what most southerners just don’t get.’

She reached for her pocket but caught his gaze, which had followed her movement. She let her hand fall back onto the table and fiddled with the mug handle, anxiety scudding across her eyes. ‘I’ll practise and see how the bread comes out unleavened, kind of like a wholemeal damper.’ He saw the thought travel across her high cheeks as her mouth curved into a smile. ‘If it doesn’t work, the kids could use it as a football.’

He laughed. ‘Either way, they’d be happy. Football is the second religion on the island.’ He knew she wanted to write ‘Damper’ down in that notebook of hers but had deliberately stopped herself. Why, he didn’t know and he really shouldn’t care. He should be thinking about getting out of here and going fishing.

A strained and unexpected silence expanded between them, vanquishing the companionable conversation that had existed when they’d been talking about work.

Mia pushed her chair back, her shoulders suddenly rigid with tension. ‘I’ll get the dressing trolley ready and give those antibiotics. See you when you’ve finished your coffee.’ She walked out of the room, her three-quarter-length pants moving seductively across a pert behind.

A wave of heat hit him hard and hot, and he stood up abruptly, trying to stall it. It didn’t work. All that happened was that he knocked over his chair. What the hell was going on with him?

He’d specifically chosen this remote region to avoid women and the nightmare of relationships. It had been working really well for two years. He’d carved out a life of work and sport and he was content with his lot. He didn’t want or need anything else.

His life was just as he wanted it.

So his reaction to Mia made no sense at all. He’d mark it down as an aberration.

A tall and curvaceous aberration.

He nuked the traitorous thought with an undisputable fact. Conversation between them died once they’d exhausted talking about work. Given the strained silence that had built between them once they’d finished talking shop, they obviously had nothing in common.

At least he’d worked that out quickly. That would kill this insane attraction dead in its tracks. Today he was going fishing and by the time Monday came around he would have got over whatever it was that was making him feel like a randy seventeen-year-old and Mia would be just another RAN.

‘Flynn?’

He turned from the sink. ‘Hi, Walter. Good news. Jimmy can go home today but he has to rest. Is Ruby with you?’

‘Yeah. She’s with Mia.’ Walter continued to stand in the doorway, his head down, avoiding eye contact in the traditional way.

Flynn had learned over time that just standing often meant the person wanted to say more. He turned back to the sink so he wasn’t looking straight at Walter and he waited. The two hardest lessons he’d learned since arriving on Kirra had been waiting and listening.

‘Mia did good with Jimmy.’

Flynn washed the coffee-mugs. ‘She did. She knows her stuff.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Any of your mob going fishing today?’ Flynn flicked the teatowel off the silver rail.

‘No.’ Walter moved his foot in circles against the lino.

The brevity of answers was another thing he’d got used to. ‘I thought I’d go. I fancy some barramundi for dinner.’

Walter shook his head. ‘No fishing today, Flynn. We got a ceremony.’

Surprise rushed through him. Usually he knew about the ceremonies and often he was invited to be part of them. ‘OK, well, I guess I’ll have to chance the fishing on my own, then.’

‘The ceremony is for Mia so you have to come, and bring her with you.’ Walter turned and left, walking outside to wait for Ruby and Jimmy.

Flynn’s chest tightened as the reality of Walter’s request hit him. He had no choice—he had to go to the ceremony. He couldn’t refuse Walter’s request. As an elder on Kirra, Walter had made Flynn a ‘brother’, teaching him many of the Kirri ways. It was a relationship that was very special to him and one that helped with his work on the island.

Images of his quiet day fishing, his day of relaxation and regrouping, burst like a balloon.

Mia.

Instead of fishing, he would have to spend the day with Mia at the ceremony. Mia, who was wound so tight she threatened to implode at any moment. And without work to talk about, there’d be those long, anguished silences.

It was going to be a really long day.

* * *

Mia silently chanted some important details in her head while she walked alongside Flynn, his long strides sending tiny whirls of dust up into the air. The sun was rising high in the sky, promising even more heat later in the day, and already she could feel the familiar trickle of perspiration down her back.

She ached to write up her daily report and a note to herself about the bread, but Flynn had unexpectedly but firmly insisted she lock up the clinic and come with him straight away.

She supposed she could have asked him to wait five minutes but the inquisitive and bemused look he’d given her earlier that morning when she’d pulled out her notebook had made her hesitate. She didn’t want to have to justify why she kept notes on almost everything. Unless someone had lived with a parent who had slowly and insidiously lost their memory, they just didn’t understand.

Lists had become part of her life. Initially they had been there to help her mother. Now they were her lifelines, her attempt to stave off the inevitable.

Working with Flynn had been very different from what she’d expected. They’d managed a co-operative approach, which had been a pleasant surprise. And he’d taken the time to help her decipher the ultrasound. He was a natural teacher and she planned to drain his brain while he was on the island to her advantage. The faster she learned and the more she knew meant her position at Kirra was secure.

And thinking of Flynn in terms of a teacher was a lot less disturbing to her equilibrium than thinking of him as a man. She glanced up at him from under her straw hat. He radiated such boundless energy despite his apparently laid-back approach to life. Bright board shorts had replaced yesterday’s pleated shorts, and today he wore a pink and black shirt with a local design reminiscent of the palm leaf. He looked like he belonged on a beach or riding a wave.

An image of salt water running in rivulets over a broad chest slammed into her, sucking the air from her lungs and causing her to stumble.

A large hand firmly closed around her elbow, sending ribbons of sensation spiralling through her.

His eyes flickered with amber lights as he looked down at her. ‘You have to keep an eye out for rocks and potholes. The roads here aren’t in the best condition.’

‘Thanks.’ She smiled, trying to act relaxed and calm despite the fact she’d never felt so unnerved around a man in her life. Her body seemed to go into a ‘hyper-awareness zone’ whenever they were together. It completely drained her of energy.

Yesterday, as they’d dealt with Jimmy’s accident, she’d lurched between clear-cut professional admiration and straight-up, bone-melting desire. The combination made her head spin. ‘So, are we doing a home visit?’

‘No.’ He dropped his hand from her arm and pointed to a gathering of people. ‘We’re going to a ceremony.’

‘Cool.’ She stopped walking as a thought struck her. ‘Is it culturally sensitive for us to go?’

He smiled, dimples carving into his cheeks. ‘It’s very OK for us to go. You’re the guest of honour.’

She stared at him, her mind emptying of everything as his smile shone above her, driving out the darkness that cloaked her soul. Then his words echoed in her head, forcing her to speak. ‘Me?’ She struggled to think past the black hole that was her stalled and uncooperative brain. ‘But why me?’

‘For helping Jimmy.’

Amazement flooded her that the community would do something like this. She’d never had such an acknowledgment in her working life. ‘But I only did my job.’

‘And the locals want to say thank you.’ He stood waiting for her to move, a patient smile on his face as if he dealt with stunned women every day of the week. ‘Come on, I’ll introduce you to people.’

Men and women were sitting around, some on upturned milk crates, some on chairs, and a few on the ground. At their feet yellow and red ochre and white chalk was being mixed with water on large, flat rocks. A couple of old mirrors were passing around the circle so they could see their faces to paint them.

‘Hey, Mia, we dance for you.’ Walter waved to her, his eyes ringed with red ochre, edged with chalk.

She waved back before turning to Flynn. ‘What can you tell me about the face painting? The designs look pretty intricate.’

He tilted back his hat. ‘It’s really body painting. Today they’ll decorate their faces and arms but in a full ceremony they’d paint all their bodies. It’s been practised for thousands of years and the design is passed down from generation to generation, from father to son.’

She watched fascinated as the dancers prepared themselves. ‘The dots on their faces and the fine crossed lines on their arms—I saw that design on their carving and on your shirt yesterday.’

Flynn nodded. ‘That’s right—it’s called cross-hatching. Their traditional body art and the decoration on their traditional carving form the basis of today’s screen-printing and artwork. It’s all connected with their creation story.’ He spoke warmly, his enthusiasm for the topic obvious. ‘Their dreaming dance is handed down from their fathers too and it can be naturally occurring things like a crocodile, shark or wind, but some have a sailing boat.’

She glanced at him in surprise. ‘A sailing boat?’

He spread his hands out in front of him. ‘Probably from the first time the Europeans sailed past.’

She loved learning about these sorts of things. ‘What about mothers? Is anything passed on from the mothers?’

He grinned. ‘Your feminist side will be thrilled to know that they inherit their skin group and totemic dance from their mothers. This is often an animal like the magpie goose or brolga, but it could be scaly mullet fish.’

‘I’ve been amazed at the number of geese. Their honking keeps me company at night.’ As do thoughts of you.

He chuckled. ‘The locals love that sound as it means there is plenty of good hunting.’

She walked over to the shade and sat down on the ground. She was immediately struck by how quickly she was losing the expectation that to sit required a chair. ‘I’m slowly getting a handle on the skin-group issue. Who can talk to whom and who can’t talk to each other.’ She grimaced, suddenly remembering her forgetfulness.

He tilted his head, taking in her expression. ‘Problem?’

She traced her finger through the fine dirt. ‘Oh, it’s just that I had a lapse the other day when I made the mistake of asking a fourteen-year-old boy to give a message to his mother, forgetting he can’t talk to her. I’ve now put up the skin group compass on my wall so I always remember.’

Understanding wove across his face. ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself. It seems complicated at first because it’s so foreign to us. But this law has served them well for thousands of years and has avoided inbreeding and the genetic disaster that brings.’

She knew too well the damage a faulty gene could inflict. Picking up a fallen palm leaf, she fanned herself. ‘The separate men and women’s entrances to the clinic are a great idea. It must have been a lot harder to deliver culturally appropriate health care when you only had one waiting room and one examination room.’

His keen gaze suddenly intensified, hooking with hers as if he was seeing her for the very first time. Seeing her as herself rather than a RAN.

A shimmer of wondrous pleasure streaked through her, immediately chased by thundering unease. Remember, no man can be a part of your life