She gave Ben and Barb the news. They were still waiting when Frank was allowed to go and sit with Cherry.
Finally, the surgeon appeared in the doorway. She could tell by the look on his face the news wasn’t all good. ‘Mr Permien has made it through the surgery and is in recovery. We’ve got him in an induced coma. The swelling on his brain was quite severe and there was a lot of haemorrhaging. We did the best we could, but there could be some brain damage. We won’t know until we wake him from his induced coma in a few days.’
Barb sat down with a plop and burst into tears. Ben stood there gaping, looking lost. Prita went and spoke to the surgeon and after getting the full details, went back and explained things to them properly. She stayed with them until they were allowed to go and see Mac, standing back. ‘He’s going to be okay,’ she said, as much to herself as to them.
‘He will be,’ Barb said. ‘He’s a strong old coot.’ Barb hugged her then turned to watch Ben as he stood staring down at his dad. ‘Why don’t you take my car and drive back to CoalCliff? There’s little point in all of us staying here and I know you must be desperate to get back to see Carter. And I know Flynn’s waiting for you.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure. We’ll be fine here. You go.’ She handed Prita her keys, told her where they’d parked and shooed her off.
She pulled up outside Barb’s house and didn’t have to go far to find Carter. He came bounding out of the house, Diarmuid hot on his heals, both of them smothering her in hugs and kisses. She let herself be dragged inside where Nat and the kids were—Flynn and Reid and other volunteers were busy with post fire clean up and wouldn’t be in until later. That was fine. She’d see him later. She reported on the injured and then helped Nat organise a roster to help Ben and Frank cope while their loved ones were in the hospital.
Prita couldn’t help but smile at how quickly it all got organised. With the CoalCliff mob backing her up, she was never going to be without help again. She loved the idea more than she ever thought she would.
She sat with Carter and Aaron, making certain they were settled and happy, but when Diarmuid came back from talking to his private investigator contact, she pulled him into the kitchen to find out what had been said. Keith Blake/Max Smith was mixed up with some bad people and despite what he’d said, the police had been looking at him for the fire that killed his stepmother.
‘If only we’d known he was a professional arsonist before now, we would have known it was him who was after you,’ Diarmuid said, gripping her hand. ‘We might have stopped all this.’
She cupped her papa’s face and kissed his cheek. ‘There’s no point wishing it different. It happened and we’re all safe. The police will find him and he’ll never get to me or Carter again. That’s all that matters.’
‘Yes. Yes it is, my aingeal.’ He pulled her in for a tight hug, and she held on, but then pulled back. ‘Why don’t you go and see your man?’
‘He’s busy with the fire clean up.’
‘He was, but I just saw him. He came in for a shower and then headed down in the direction of the cottage.’
‘Why didn’t he come in and let me know he was here?’ She tried not to feel hurt, but it was there, an ache in her chest. He’d said he loved her. But did he blame her for what happened?
Diarmuid took her shoulders and gave her a little shake. ‘Hold up with the worrying, aingeal. Your man wants to see you alone, is all. He asked me to send you down there. I was actually coming in to tell you when you pulled me in here and demanded to know what my buddy had to say. I’ll stay with Carter. You go be with your man, aingeal. He’s waiting for you.’
She didn’t need him to say that twice. She slipped out the back door, running down the hill towards the cottage. She pulled up short when she saw Flynn standing in front of the ruins, leaning on a crutch. She walked up to him tentatively, not wanting to shock him out of the deep thought he was in, noting the fresh change of clothes, the brace on his knee. At least he’d been smart enough to put that on. But despite her worry over the damage he’d done to his knee, she couldn’t keep her gaze from continuing to rove over him, drinking him in as if she’d been in the desert for fifty years and he was an oasis. How she loved the breadth of his shoulders, the upright way he held himself. He wasn’t wearing his usual Akubra and she couldn’t help but notice how his hair curled around his nape, still wet from the shower he’d taken not long ago, the dark red in it shining in the early evening sunlight. She watched him for signs of fear, of trauma, but the way his shoulders rose and fell, calm and sure, suggested he wasn’t fighting the demons that had tortured him ever since the day he’d lost Anna. God he was strong. She hoped that he’d started to see just how strong he was. That he could see past the damage done by
