she said, still with that same gentleness, a gentleness with a rod of inflexibility straight through the centre. ‘She was brought to you. If I didn’t think you were capable of caring then I’d step in—of course I would—and I’m here for consulting at any time. But this little one is yours.’
‘What are you talking about? You’re the midwife.’
‘It’s got nothing to do about me being a midwife,’ she said, and searched the settee until she found what she was looking for. ‘I found this when you were making the formula. It was tucked under her blanket.’
It was a note, hastily scribbled on the back of a torn envelope. She handed it to him wordlessly, and then stayed silent as he read.
Dear Big Brother
The old man’s dead. He never did anything for me in my life—nothing! You’re the legitimate kid, the one that gets everything. You get the farm. You get the kid.
This kid’s your father’s grandkid. My father’s grandkid. I don’t want it—just take a look at its feet—they make Sam and me sick. I called it Ruby after my Mum’s mum—my grandma—she was the only one ever did anything for me—but that was before I figured how awful the feet were. So it’s deformed and we don’t want it. Change the name if you like. Get it adopted. Do what you want. Sam and me are heading for Perth so if you need anything signed for adoption or anything stick an ad in the Margaret River paper. If I see it I’ll get in touch. Maybe.
Wendy
Silence. A long, long silence.
‘Wendy?’ Maggie said gently at last.
‘My … my half-sister.’ He was struggling to take it in. ‘Result of one of my father’s affairs.’
‘Surname?’
‘I don’t even know that.’
‘Whew.’ She looked at him, still with that calmness, sympathetic but implacable. ‘That’s a shock.’
‘I … Yes.’
‘I think she’ll sleep,’ Maggie said. ‘I suspect she’ll sleep for hours. She’s not too heavy for you to carry. If you need help, I’m right through the door.’
‘This baby isn’t mine.’ It was said with such vehemence that the little girl—Ruby?—opened her eyes and gazed up at him. And then she closed them again, settling. She was dry, warm and fed. She was in Blake’s arms. All was right with her world.
‘She’s not mine,’ Blake repeated, but even he heard the uselessness of his words. Someone had to take responsibility for this baby.
‘I’m a nurse, Blake,’ Maggie said, inexorably. ‘I’m not a parent. Neither are you but you’re an uncle. Your sister’s left her baby with you. You’re family. Let me know if you’re in trouble.’ She walked across to the porch and opened the door. ‘But for now … You have everything you need for the night. I’ll pop in in the morning and see how you’re going.’
‘But I know nothing about babies.’
‘You’re a doctor,’ she said cordially. ‘Of course you do.’
‘Looking after them?’
‘If fifteen-year-old girls can manage it, you can. It’s not brain surgery.’
‘I’m not a fifteen-year-old.’ He was grasping at straws here. ‘And I’ve just had my appendix out.’
‘Fifteen-year-olds who’ve just had Caesareans manage it. How big are babies compared to an appendix? Toughen up.’
He stared at her and she stared right back. She smiled. He thought he sensed sympathy behind her smile, but her smile was still … implacable.
She’d given him his marching orders.
He was holding his niece. His.
Maggie was holding the door open; she was still smiling but she was giving him no choice.
With one more despairing glance at this hard-hearted nurse, at the crackling fire, at the sleeping dogs, at a domesticity he hardly recognised, he accepted he had no choice.
He walked out into the night.
With … his baby?
She shouldn’t have done it.
The door closed behind him and Maggie stared at it like it was a prosecutor in a criminal court.
Maggie stands accused of abandoning one defenceless baby …
To her uncle. To a doctor. To her landlord.
To a guy recovering from an appendectomy.
To a guy who was capable of driving from Sydney to the valley, to someone who was well on the way to recovery, to someone who was more than capable of looking after his baby.
His baby. Not hers.
This was not her problem. She was a professional. She cared for babies when they needed her medical intervention, and she handed them right back.
She’d done enough of the personal caring to last a lifetime.
She gazed down into the glowing embers of the fire and thought, My fire.
It had taken so much courage, so much resolution, so much desperation to find a house of her own. Corella Valley had practically no rental properties. She had so little money. It had taken all the courage and hope she possessed to gird her loins, approach Blake at the funeral and say, ‘I’m looking after your dad’s dogs; why don’t you let me take care of your house until you put it on the market? I’ll live in the housekeeper’s residence and I’ll keep the place tidy so if you need to use it it’ll be ready for you.’
The feeling she’d had when he’d said yes …
Her family still lived less than a mile away, on this side of the river. She was still here for them when they needed her—but she wasn’t here for everyone when they needed her. She was not ‘good old Maggie’ for Blake. This baby was Blake’s problem. Blake’s niece. Blake’s baby, to love or to organise another future for.
If she’d responded to the desperation in his eyes, she’d have a baby here, right now. A baby to twist her heart as it had been twisted all her life.
Eight brothers and sisters. Parents who couldn’t give a toss. Maggie, who spent her life having her heart twisted.
‘Of course you’ll stay home today and look after your brother. Yes, he’s ill, but your father and I are heading for Nimbin for a couple of days for the festival … You’re a good girl, Maggie.’
Two guitar-toting layabouts with nine kids between them, and Maggie, the oldest, the one who had cared for them all.
She did not need any more responsibility, not in a million years. She had two dogs. She had her own apartment, even if it was only until Blake sold the property.
She was not taking Blake’s baby.
And on the other side of the wall, Blake settled the sleeping baby into a cocoon of bedding he’d made in a tugged-out bureau drawer, then stood and stared down at her for a very long time.
Even in two hours she’d changed. Her face had filled out a little, and the signs of dehydration were fading. She’d been stressed since birth, he thought. She was sleeping as if she was intent on staying asleep, because being awake was frightening and lonely and hard.
He was reading too much into the expression of one sleeping baby. How did he know what she’d been through? How could he possibly guess?
This little one was nothing to do with him. As soon as the river went down he’d hand her over to the appropriate authorities and let them deal with her. But until