Marion Lennox
A Special Kind Of Family
© 2009
Dear Reader,
A few months back I watched a romantic movie, saw the heroine sink into the hero’s arms at the end and thought: the script writers got it wrong. Sure the hero had great pecs. Sure he was rich and drop-dead gorgeous. But underneath the surface polish I had a bad feeling he’d spend the rest of their marriage gazing fondly into the mirror. At himself. Which got me thinking…What if the perfect man proposes. Everyone tells you you’re the luckiest woman alive, and yet you know deep in your heart that you’re not.
That’s how I came to write
I thoroughly enjoy writing warm, loving stories where my hero and heroine take part of their strength from the community around them. In my favorite stories, healing takes all forms, and love reaches out and embraces in ways we can’t begin to expect.
Love conquers all! I believe that absolutely, and by the time you finish reading
To my Number One Marion,
my Number One Reader, my Number One Mum.
Love you for ever.
CHAPTER ONE
THE doorbell rang at one in the morning. Dominic Spencer, Doc to the locals, swore and thumped his basin of dough into the trash. The locals knew he couldn’t go out tonight. Was a patient coming to him?
Happy Easter, he thought, and tried not to glower as he stomped through the hall to the front door. It had better be serious.
It was.
The girl standing on his veranda was a bedraggled, muddy mess. Age? Somewhere between twenty and thirty. It was hard to be more precise. She was five feet six or so, slightly built, and wearing jeans and a windcheater, both coated with mud, and with blood. One leg of her jeans was ripped to the knee, and there was blood on her bare shin.
What else? She was wearing one filthy shoe, but only one. The other foot was partly covered by a sock, but the sock had long abandoned the idea of being footwear.
Her brown-black curls were drooping in sodden tendrils to her shoulders. Her eyes were huge. Scared. A long scratch ran from her left eyebrow almost to her chin, bleeding sluggishly.
She was carrying one of the ugliest dogs he’d ever seen. Maybe an English bulldog? Fat to the point of grotesque, it lay limply in her arms-a dead weight.
‘Oh, thank God,’ the girl managed before he had a chance to speak. She shoved the dog forward, lurching like she was drunk. He grabbed the dog, then watched in dismay as she sank onto the veranda, put her head between her knees and held her head down with both hands.
Triage, he thought, his arms full of dog. Woman first, dog second.
Get rid of the dog.
Rain was blasting in from the east, reaching almost to the door, so he turned and laid the dog on the mat inside the hall. The dog sagged like a rag doll, but the girl was his priority.
‘What’s wrong?’ He caught her wrist. Her pulse was racing. She was sweating, and as he knelt beside her she started to retch.
‘H-help me,’ she stuttered, and couldn’t manage more.
A child’s sand bucket was lying on the veranda. He hauled it forward but she didn’t need it. This hadn’t been the first time she’d vomited tonight, then.
Now wasn’t the time for questions. He did a more careful visual examination as he waited for the nasty little interlude to be over.
She was kneeling, which meant the damage to her leg must be superficial. The scratch on her face wasn’t deep either. She was moving her arms freely. There didn’t seem to be any major injury.
Maybe she was retching from exhaustion. If he’d had to carry that lump of a dog far, he might be retching, too.
This afternoon had been sultry before the change, and the kids had set up their paddling pool by the sandpit. A house-proud man might have tidied the place as soon as the colder weather hit, but housework was well down Dominic’s list of priorities. So towels still lay on the veranda, albeit damp ones. As she ceased retching, he used one to wipe the worst of the mud and blood from her face. She submitted without reaction and he thought again, This is exhaustion.
‘Let’s get you inside.’
She looked up then, as if seeing him for the first time. ‘Where…where…?’ She was almost incoherent.
‘I’m the local doctor,’ he said, smiling at her in what he hoped was his best bedside manner. ‘I assume you know that from the sign on the front gate. My name’s Dominic Spencer. Dom for short.’
‘Dominic,’ she managed.
‘Dom will do fine. And your name?
‘Erin Carmody.’
It wasn’t a comprehensive patient history but it’d do for now. ‘What hurts?’
‘Everything.’ It was practically a wail and he relaxed a little. In his experience, patients who were deathly ill didn’t wail.
‘Anything specific?’
‘N-no.’
‘What happened?’
‘I crashed my car.’
Where? The roads round here would be deserted at this time of night. Where had she walked from?
‘Is anyone else hurt?’ he asked, and she managed to shake her head.
‘So there’s no one else at the car.’
‘N-no. I was by myself.’
‘Is the car obstructing the road? Do I need to call the police?’
‘No.’
‘Okay. Let’s get you out of the rain where I can take a look at you.’
‘I shouldn’t be here,’ she managed. ‘It’s really late.’ She stared blindly up at him and he thought he saw fear.
