that ringed the village, their lower aspects carved and defined by terraces of emerald-green rice paddies. ‘It looks so stunning and yet it makes life so damn hard for the locals.’
‘Floods?’ She’d seen debris, evidence that the Song Da River had in the past broken its banks.
‘Floods and mudslides are one problem. The narrow valley means the river becomes a raging torrent and there’s little room to escape. Add in the remoteness of the area, not being on a trade route and the government rightly cracking down on the opium-growing and it all means money is tight and so are ways to earn it.’
‘What about tourism?’ A thirst for knowledge gripped her.
‘That’s helped Lai Chau but it’s only the really intrepid tourists that come out here.’ He sighed. ‘We even have trouble attracting local health workers. Sung, who you met when we arrived, could earn a lot more further south.’
‘But she’s here because she loves the place.’
His gaze intensified, as if he was really looking at her for the first time. ‘How did you work that out so quickly?’
She shrugged, feeling slightly uncomfortable at his scrutiny and yet energised. This was the first sign he’d shown that he didn’t think she was as flaky as his snap judgement had deemed her to be. ‘You don’t have to speak the language to understand. Observation is a telling tool.’
‘True.’ He recapped his water bottle.
‘So what brought you here?’ She’d wanted to ask that question since they’d met, but as he’d spent most of their travelling time listening to his MP3 player or avoiding her at the hotel, the opportunity hadn’t arisen.
‘Work.’ The single word snapped out quickly. ‘Are you ready for work?’
His abruptness startled her. ‘Absolutely.’
He raised his brows. ‘That’s a favourite word of yours.’
‘Is it? Have I used it before?’
He laughed, a deep, melodious sound that wrapped around her like a blanket on a cold night, comforting and secure.
Scaring her down to her core.
No man had ever meant security in her world—only tyranny and fear. She created her own security. Keeping a distance from people meant keeping safe. She had no intention of changing.
His face became more serious. ‘We’re starting with a mother and baby clinic. You’re on weighing and measuring babies. Then Sung can take you gardening. I hope you’ve got a green thumb. The home garden is one of the keys in battling child malnutrition.’ He grinned, a wide smile, his almond-shaped eyes crinkling around the edges.
For the first time she caught a glimpse of Asia in his face, around his eyes and cheeks. Nah, you’re imagining that. Surely people called him Dr Thông because that name was as close to Tom as the language allowed. A farm boy from Victoria, Dr Tom Bracken was as Aussie as they came.
He walked in front of her, his strong brown legs striding quickly over the short distance to the clinic. She suddenly realised he’d neatly steered the conversation away from himself. He hadn’t answered her question at all.
A line of women dressed in colourful clothing snaked around the thatched clinic, their heads covered in fabric that looked strikingly similar to Scottish tartan. Long dresses of green, red, blue and black were covered in intricate embroidered patterns—a collage of colour. Babies almost rigid from being overdressed, sat upright in their papooses, nestled against their mothers’ backs.
The first time Tom had come to this region he’d thought he’d left Vietnam. The hill tribe minorities were very different from the coastal people and not much was familiar.
He glanced over at Bec, observing her reaction. Her tanned oval face was flushed with heat and loose strands of hair clung to her temples, glued there by sweat. But curiosity danced on her face, melding with respect as she bowed to the mothers, cooed to the babies and gently coaxed the toddlers away from their mothers’ legs. And she achieved it all with hand signals and smiles.
She’s done this before. Grudging admiration surfaced, which he quickly tempered. It’s early days. ‘Remember to use Hin.’
‘Yes, Doctor.’ Her eyes twinkled for an instant, their animation suddenly fading to match her almost blank expression. As if it was wrong to enjoy some light-hearted banter.
He couldn’t work her out. For a woman who’d been so determined to come with him on this trip she’d been extremely tense around him. She was far more relaxed with the patients.
But he didn’t have time to think about that. They were there to work. ‘Any child who falls into the red zone when you put the mid upper arm circumference bracelet on them is cause for concern.’
She nodded, her face now serious, all traces of teasing gone. ‘Right, I give them a swing in the weigh sling and I measure them on this.’ She rolled out a bamboo mat and placed the measuring stick next to it. ‘Any children needing supplemental feeding I’ll keep here with their mothers. Between Hin, Sung and me, we’ll have it sorted.’ She washed her hands with quick-dry antibacterial solution. ‘You’d better skedaddle and see the men.’
She’d just dismissed him. He tried to suppress the rising indignation sweeping through him. He should be pleased she was competent and he could get on with what he needed to do. Hell, he wasn’t there to hold her hand.
He shook off the mantle of reluctance to leave her and headed over to greet the men.
Three hours later, drenched in sweat, and fighting visions of sliding into a clear, cool stream and lying under a waterfall, Bec examined her fiftieth child. She knew the stats about child malnutrition in Vietnam, and this village unfortunately skewed the average upwards.
And yet some children thrived. Were the families better off? Or did they just do things differently? She scribbled a note to herself. This was the sort of stuff she had to find out. She planned to question Sung closely when they went on their village vegetable garden tour. She had to maximise every moment of working there.
Her snap decision to come to the village was turning out to be the right thing after all. She hugged the knowledge to herself. It wasn’t like she and Tom were spending any real time together anyway.
Tom had happily left her alone to run this clinic while he did his work. A plan rolled out in her head. They’d spend their days here involved in their own projects. She could work and learn, and still stick to her rule of keeping a safe distance. It was a win-win situation.
She glanced up to the next person in line. A woman stepped forward, her face impassive, carrying a toddler who lay limp and listless in her arms.
Dehydration. Bec’s radar kicked in the moment she saw the sunken eyes in the child’s small face. ‘Hin, I need you. Can you, please, ask this mother how long her child has been sick and what the symptoms are?’
The interpreter, an easygoing young man in his twenties, spoke rapidly to the mother who responded and looked beseechingly at Bec as she sank to the ground, laying the child on the mat.
Bec knew why. This little girl was desperately ill. And she’d stake a bet the mother was pretty sick, too.
‘She says the child has water coming from her bottom and she has been vomiting,’ Hin succinctly translated.
‘Has anyone else in the family been sick?’
More rapid-fire dialect spun around Bec. She desperately wished she could understand the words. But she could understand the emotions behind the words.
‘This woman has been sick today. She has been vomiting and has had pains in her legs.’
‘Tell her we can help.’ Diarrhoea and vomiting were pretty common out here but Bec was worried by the complaint about pains in the legs.
Hin relayed Bec’s words and then listened. ‘She