started rotating like a miniature-or maybe not so miniature-helicopter. ‘Forget it, kid,’ she told the dog. ‘You need vitamins. Not fat.’
‘Why can’t you stay here?’ Harry looked interested-no more-and the urge to throw the plate of leftovers right at his unfeeling head was almost overwhelming. ‘Because you kissed me?’
‘You kissed me. And no!’
‘Then why?’
‘Because I’m engaged to be married,’ she told him. ‘Just like you. You have your Emily right here in Birrini and I have my Edward. In Queensland. As soon as Phoebe’s pups are born, that’s where I’m heading. Where I belong. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have things to do.’
There was a long silence. Her words had changed things. The silence was almost overwhelming.
But why had her words changed things? she thought sadly. All she’d done had been to put things on an equal footing. Harry was engaged. So was she. He could take it and lump it. At least it gave her some pride. At least it let her meet his gaze and tilt her chin and not feel as if she was melting…
Who was she kidding? She was definitely melting.
Maybe he could see it. His eyes were speculative. His eyes saw too much for their own good.
‘The hospital’s quiet,’ he said at last. ‘There’s no work. What do you have to do?’
‘Lots of things.’
‘Like?’
This was crazy. She’d had enough. ‘I need to go into my bedroom and watch my toenails grow,’ she snapped. ‘Anything. But I’m not staying here with you a moment longer than I need to.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
IT WAS an interminable two weeks.
Given any other circumstances, Lizzie could have enjoyed herself enormously. She loved this little hospital. The locals had adopted her as their own. They pampered her already pampered pooch. They brought her gifts. They showed in every way they could that she was entirely welcome, and that Harry’s suggestion that she should stay wasn’t his plan alone. Everyone in the town thought it was a great idea.
She should tell everyone that she was engaged to Edward, she thought. She’d been surprised that Harry had kept it to himself. But he’d never mentioned it. He’d never asked her why she didn’t wear a ring. Even when the phone went late at night and it was obviously Edward, he made no comment. He’d hand the phone to her, his face expressionless, and find some reason to leave the room.
She should tell him…
She should tell Edward…
Tell them what? She didn’t know. All she knew was that she was increasingly confused. All Harry had to do was walk into the room and her confusion levels rose to fever pitch, where she couldn’t think logically at all.
She loved this place.
She loved…Harry?
Nonsense. That was nonsense. Emily was out there house-hunting or doing whatever women did when their wedding was delayed, but soon she’d be back and the bridesmaids would take their place and Harry would be married.
So she had no business even thinking of Harry like that.
So instead she tried her best to concentrate on the other parts of Birrini life that she was growing to love. Which was easy enough as Birrini was wrapping itself around her heart, insidious in its sweetness.
Lillian was growing healthier by the minute. She still hated to eat-that was going to take months to cure. She still couldn’t be trusted not to bring the food straight up again. It had become such a habit now that the sensation of a full stomach was completely alien to her.
But Harry had her working now-gently, though, and not with the frenetic over-activity she’d been building up to for the last couple of years. Every morning she’d do schoolwork set by her teachers, and in the afternoons either her mother or one of a roster of hospital volunteers drove her to the local kindergarten where she gave art lessons.
Harry’s suggestion to work at the kindergarten had been met with joy. The only stipulation was that if she needed to go to the bathroom, someone had to bring her back to the hospital. To be accompanied by a nurse. She hated the stipulation, but she was starting to accept her condition enough not to rail against it.
And her art lessons were fantastic. She put her heart and her soul into them. For two hours every afternoon she forgot all about her stomach or her looks or food. She simply was. Even her father was grudgingly beginning to concede that maybe Harry’s and Lizzie’s combined treatment was starting to work. Maybe he could be proud of his kid if she turned into an art teacher.
And every evening Joey wandered past, and the two heads bent over the lesson plans she had for her littlies the next day.
It was deeply satisfying-country medicine at its best.
And Amy… The little girl who’d been a cowering mess two weeks ago was practically transformed. Every afternoon after school a gaggle of little girls with Amy at their centre arrived to visit Lizzie’s great basset.
‘When are the puppies due?’ Lizzie was asked over and over, and the vet was consulted as well. The dates on the calendar were being ticked off and never had babies been more anticipated.
Amy was radiant.
Whenever she saw her, Lizzie looked at her with pleasure, and then she caught Harry looking at her looking at Amy-and tried hard to school her face into some sort of dispassionate doctor-patient assessment.
It didn’t work. She loved what was happening here and she couldn’t disguise it.
It didn’t make one whit of difference, though. She had to leave. She had to move on.
‘So have these babies and we’ll get out of here,’ she told Phoebe, and the big dog heaved her pregnant self into a position where she could nuzzle her mistress’s nose. Lizzie hugged her and thought, At least I have Phoebe.
There was no sign of Emily.
‘She’s taken leave,’ Harry said shortly when she ventured to ask, and Lizzie knew better than to push further. May might have helped-May was never backward about asking questions-but May was still preoccupied, shadowed and worried.
‘I’ve pushed May’s husband but I’m still worried,’ Harry admitted during one of those moments that Lizzie worked so hard to prevent. Times when they were alone. But this one had been unavoidable. Lizzie, on instructions from the orthopaedic surgeons, was removing the staples from his wound and preparing to put a fibreglass cast on his leg.
It felt so strange. Wrong. Too intimate for words. There was no way she could keep professional detachment here. Since that first night when she’d rubbed his leg she’d had one of the nurses do it for her. It seemed too intensely personal. It seemed too intensely personal now-to be working on his leg while he lay on the bed and looked up at her-but there was no way they could avoid it. To send him to Melbourne to get a cast fitted was ridiculous when she had all the skills.
‘You’ve pushed Tom?’ She was concentrating-really hard-on the staples. They were lifting cleanly away, dropping with a clink, clink, clink into the kidney dish under her hand.
‘He says he’s not gambling,’ Harry told her, and she could tell by the tension in his voice that he was finding this situation as difficult as she was. But he was focusing on Tom. There was no choice.
‘Most problem gamblers deny it.’
