don’t even know what’s different.’
‘Ginny, I want you.’
‘That’s lovely,’ she said. ‘I want you, too, Fergus. But I come with strings.’
‘Dogs.’
‘And a daughter.’
‘You’re not serious about Madison?’
‘I’ve never been more serious.’
‘She’s damaged. She needs specialist care.’
‘You think I can’t give her that?’
‘She needs two parents.’ He spoke more roughly than he’d intended and both of them turned to look at Richard’s bed. But Richard wasn’t moving.
‘I can’t help that,’ Ginny said apologetically. ‘I only know that when I woke up this morning she was mine. I went to sleep in your arms last night thinking I had no family at all and when I woke up I did have family and I’ll fight to the death to defend it.’
He stared at her, baffled. How could things have changed so fast? He’d driven out here thinking that his world was starting to make sense again-just a bit. That he could find a little joy.
But Ginny wasn’t content with a little joy. She wanted the whole catastrophe.
He stared out at the disreputable dogs and thought, Could he? Could he?
The screen door swung wide and out came Tony, who was carrying Madison, who was carrying a plate of cookies with exorbitant care.
‘I didn’t spill any of them,’ Madison said, and Ginny beamed and bounced up and took the biscuits.
‘That’s brilliant, poppet,’ she said, and Madison frowned.
‘My name’s Madison.’
‘Yes, but you’re also a poppet,’ Ginny said. ‘That’s because you look very, very cute. I had a little brother like you once and my mum used to call him poppet.’
‘Ginny,’ Fergus said, almost explosively.
‘Would you like a cookie, Dr Reynard?’
‘No.’ He took a grip-almost. The sight of Madison smiling was suddenly almost overwhelming. The pain…
Ginny saw it. Her face softened and she took a step toward him. ‘Fergus, I’m sorry,’ she murmured. ‘I know it’s much too soon.’
‘It’s never going to be any better,’ he muttered, backing off. ‘Is there anything else you need-medically?’
She saw it and responded immediately, as if she’d expected no less. ‘We need orders for an increase in morphine. Richard was unsettled last night and I promised him he needn’t be tonight.’
‘I’ll write it up now.’ He turned to Tony. ‘Tony…’
‘I’ll take Madison down to talk to the dogs while you sort out medical needs,’ Ginny told him, setting down the cookies and gathering her niece into her arms. ‘You look after the medicine. I’m looking after my family.
‘Ginny…’
‘That’s the way it has to be, Fergus,’ she said softly. ‘I knew when I figured it out last night that it wasn’t going to be easy. I don’t want to hurt you. But I know what I have to do.’
He couldn’t do it.
Fergus drove away from the farmhouse feeling sick. He’d driven out here with his heart full of Ginny, feeling like he was waking from some sick, grey trance.
But now…
Dogs maybe. But Madison?
A little girl.
Like Molly.
She wasn’t in the least like Molly, he thought savagely. She had all her chromosomes. She had a healthy heart. She could be a vibrant, happy little girl.
Ginny had no right to keep her. She needed two parents.
Molly had been OK with one parent. And the hospital community.
Madison was no Molly.
Molly.
The pain around his heart tightened, burned, threatened suddenly to almost overwhelm him. The thought of her small arms around his neck, the way she had of burrowing her nose into his shoulder and saying
Madison wasn’t burrowing her face into anyone’s neck yet, he thought, but if she had proper parents she would be. She should be.
But it wouldn’t be his.
No.
How could he lift a child and cuddle her and give her the love she deserved? He couldn’t. Hell, it was hard enough caring for patients. It had been hard enough last night caring for Stephanie Horace. Stephanie was eight years old. She’d had to be admitted, and her father had a bad back. Fergus had carried her out to the car and even that had hurt. Having a child’s body limp and warm against his chest.
What Ginny was asking was too much.
She wasn’t asking it of him.
‘Hell,’ he said into the silence, and then he thumped the steering-wheel so hard that he hurt the back of his hand. ‘Hell, hell, hell.’
Where were the answers?
There weren’t any.
‘Do you know what you’re doing?’
Fergus had been gone for ten minutes. Ginny and Tony and Madison had consumed milk and cookies-or coffee and cookies for the grown-ups-and then Tony and Madison had gone inside to wash up. Soon Miriam would be there for handover.
They really didn’t need a nurse here any more, Ginny thought as she sat on her veranda step and stared down over the lake. She’d agreed to a nurse being here because she hadn’t wanted to get close to Madison, but now…
‘He’ll run a mile,’ her brother whispered, and she turned to find Richard wide-eyed and watchful.
‘You’re awake.’
He managed a smile. ‘Sometimes I can be.’
‘How long have you been awake?’ she asked cautiously, and he shrugged.
‘Long enough to hear you scaring the good doctor into the middle of next week. He wants you, Ginny.’
‘Maybe he does. But…’
‘But what?’
‘He doesn’t want what comes with me.’
‘Yesterday you had nothing,’ Richard whispered. It was almost beyond him to speak now, and Ginny walked over and sat on his bed, taking his hand in hers, bending close so he didn’t have to strain to speak. ‘Yesterday you were running as fast as I have been.’
‘Maybe we’ve both come to the end of our running.’
‘I surely have,’ he whispered. ‘Hell, Ginny, you know it’s OK with me if you have Madison adopted. We’ve asked so much of you. Big sister to a family of tragedy.’
‘I loved you all,’ she whispered back, speaking almost to herself. ‘I loved Chris and Toby to bits. I loved Mum even when I knew she was drinking herself to death. I understood why you ran…’
‘I behaved so unfairly. I wasn’t so sick that I couldn’t have helped.’
‘No, but to watch what you’d have to go through yourself eventually…I understood.’
‘Everyone has to die some time. I was just a coward. Like Dad was a coward. But not you. You were always the bravest, Ginny, and I’ll not let you be taken advantage of. I’ll organise Madison into foster-care myself.’
‘You do so over my dead body,’ she said, and her sudden flash of anger startled them both. ‘She’s my
