candour that made him feel disconcerted.
She was
‘You’re not a local,’ she said, and he realised she’d been doing the same assessment as him.
‘I’m the local doctor.’
She’d been trying to stop the lamb from struggling as she ran her hands expertly over its body. She was doing an assessment for damage, he thought, but now her hand stopped in mid-stroke.
‘The local doctor’s dead.’
‘Old Doc Beaverstock died five years ago,’ he agreed. ‘The people who run the hospital seem to think they need a replacement. That’s me. Speaking of which, can you tell me-?’
‘You’re working here?’
‘As of yesterday, yes.’
Her eyes closed and when they opened again he saw a wash of pain. And something more. Relief?
‘Oh, thank God,’ she said. Then she set the lamb onto its feet and let it go.
The place where they were standing was deserted. To the west lay lush paddocks any self-respecting sheep would think were sheep paradise. To the west was the ewe. To the east was the cattle pit and dense bushland leading down to a lake formed by an ancient volcano.
West or east?
Some actions were no-brainers. The lamb turned and ducked through the woman’s legs, straight for the cattle pit.
‘Stop,’ she screamed, and not for nothing had Fergus played rugby for his university. He took a flying tackle and caught the creature by a back hoof as it hit the first rail.
Face down in the mud he lay, holding onto the leg for dear life.
‘Oh, well done.’ She was laughing, kneeling in the mud beside him, gathering the lamb back into her arms again, and he thought suddenly, She smells nice. Which was ridiculous. In truth, she smelt of lamb and mud with the odd spot of manure thrown in. How could she smell nice?
‘Don’t let him go again,’ he said weakly, wiping mud from his face as he shoved himself into a sitting position. He’d hit the ground hard and he was struggling to get his breath.
‘I’m so sorry.’ She rose and grinned down at him, and she didn’t look sorry at all.
She had a great grin.
‘Think nothing of it,’ he managed. ‘Take the damned thing away.’
‘I haven’t got a car.’ Holding the lamb in one arm, she offered a hand to help haul him to his feet. He took it and discovered she was surprisingly strong. She tugged, and he rose, and suddenly she was just…close. Nice, he thought inconsequentially. Really nice. ‘I’m about half a mile from where I live,’ she was saying, but suddenly he was having trouble hearing.
‘So?’ He was disconcerted. The feel of her hand… Yep, he was definitely disconcerted. She released him and he was aware of a pang of loss.
She didn’t seem to notice. She was looking up toward the ewe, brushing mud from her face and leaving more mud in its place. ‘It was dumb to let him go,’ she muttered. ‘He and his mum need to go in the house paddock until we’re sure he’s recovered.’
‘How do you get them to a house paddock?’ Fergus asked, and then thought maybe that was a question he shouldn’t have asked. It was tantamount to offering help.
And here it came. The request.
She bit her lip. ‘I don’t think I can herd a sheep and a lamb up to the house,’ she admitted. ‘Ewes aren’t like cows. They might or might not follow, even if I have the lamb.’ She looked at his Land Cruiser and he saw exactly what she was thinking. ‘Can you give me a lift to the Bentley place? That’s where these two belong.’
‘Oscar Bentley’s?’ he demanded, startled.
‘Yes.’ She handed him the lamb and he was so astounded that he took it. ‘Just stand there and don’t move,’ she told him. Then: ‘No,’ she corrected herself. ‘Joggle up and down a bit, so the ewe’s looking at you and not me.’
‘I need to go.’ He was remembering Oscar Bentley. Yes, the lamb’s needs were urgent, but a broken hip was more so.
‘Not until we have the ewe.’ She moved swiftly away, twenty, thirty yards up the slope, moving with an ease that was almost catlike. Then she disappeared behind a tree and he realised what she was doing.
He was being used as a distraction.
OK, he could do that. Obediently he held the lamb toward the ewe. The ewe stared wildly down at her lamb and took a tentative step forward.
The woman launched herself out from behind her tree in a rugby tackle that put Fergus’s efforts to shame. The ewe was big, but suddenly she was propped up on her rear legs, which prevented her from struggling, and the woman had her solidly and strongly in position.
It had been a really impressive manoeuvre. To say Fergus was impressed was an understatement.
‘Put the lamb in your truck and back it up to me,’ she told him, gasping with effort, and he blinked.
‘Um…’
‘I can’t stand here for ever.’ If she’d had a foot free, she would have stamped it. ‘Move.’
He moved.
He was about to put a sheep in the back of the hospital truck.
Fine. As of two days ago he was a country doctor. This was the sort of thing country doctors did. Wasn’t it?
It seemed it was. This country doctor had no choice.
He hauled open the back of the truck, shoved the medical equipment as far forward as it’d go and tossed a canvas over the lot. Miriam, his practice nurse, had set the truck up for emergencies and she had three canvases folded and ready at the side. For coping with sheep?
Maybe Miriam knew more about country practice than he did.
Anyone would know more about country practice than he did.
He put the lamb in the back and started closing the door, but as he did so the little creature wobbled. He hesitated.
He sighed and lifted the lamb out again. He climbed in behind the wheel and placed the lamb on his knee.
‘Don’t even think about doing anything wet,’ he told it. ‘House-training starts now.’
The woman was walking the sheep down the slope toward the track. He backed up as close as he could.
‘Mess my seat and you’re chops,’ he told the lamb in a further refinement of house-training. He closed the door firmly on one captive and went to collect another.
Getting the ewe into the truck was no easy task. The ewe took solid exception to being manhandled, but the woman seemed to have done this many times before. She pushed, they both heaved, and the creature was in. The door slammed, and Fergus headed for the driver’s door in relief.
The woman was already clambering into the passenger seat, lifting the lamb over onto her knee. Wherever they were going, it seemed she was going, too.
‘I can drop them at Bentley’s,’ he told her. ‘That’s where I’m going.’
‘You’re going to Bentley’s?’
‘That’s the plan.’ He hesitated. ‘But I’m a bit lost.’
‘Go back the way you came,’ she said, snapping her seat belt closed under the lamb. ‘I can walk home from there. It’s close. Take the second turn to the left after the ridge.’
‘That’s the second time I’ve been given that direction,’ he told her. ‘Only I’m facing the opposite way.’
‘You came from the O’Donell track to get to Oscar’s?’
‘I’m not a local,’ he said, exasperated.
‘You’re the local doctor.’
I’m here as a locum. I’ve been here since Thursday and I’ll be here for twelve weeks.’
She stared and he thought he could see calculations happening behind her eyes.
‘That might be long enough,’ she whispered, and he thought she was talking to the lamb. She was hugging it close-two muddy waifs.
He wasn’t exactly pristine himself.