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The bleeding had slowed to a sluggish trickle. Quickly cleaning the wound and surrounding skin, Rebecca contemplated the evidence proving a little blood could go such a long way. Several smears marred the pale blue skirt of her uniform where his leg had brushed against it, but it was neither here nor there at this stage of the day. She’d be changing into jeans and a warm jacket to go home, once the clinic closed. Responding to Craig’s chatter, she assured the boy he’d soon be mended as good as new.
As if on cue, a noise at the door told her help had arrived but she kept her eyes on what she was doing.
‘Karen? Could you tell the doctor we’ll need some stitches in treatment room two? Then you can finish with Mrs Cordery’s dressing and we’ll be done for the day. Barring another emergency.’ There was a pause and she was about to repeat herself, when a voice spoke from the doorway. Most definitely not Karen.
‘I think we can do better than stitches.’
Rebecca stiffened, then straightened, preparing to turn and face the intruder. There was something heart-stoppingly familiar in the low tones and for a few seconds she’d had a déjà vu moment. But this voice was deeper and rougher than the one she remembered.
‘I beg your pardon?’ It was him. Morgan Cavanaugh, two weeks early, and larger than life. If you could call six foot four of skin and bones in a loose grey sweater and faded jeans larger than life. His red hair was a beacon above the paleness of his skin, cut severely short, the slight curl hardly visible. Her eyes wanted to drink him in but she couldn’t, wouldn’t, give in to the urge, so she turned back to the boy. ‘This is Doctor Cavanaugh, Craig. He’s taking over here when Doctor Farrell goes to live on the Gold Coast, near his daughter.’
***
‘Becca? Becca Bujold?’ Morgan couldn’t believe his eyes as he took in the petite figure in the neat blue uniform with navy trims. Where was the wild child with the long, dark mahogany hair and bewitching smile? Where were the sparkling brown eyes, the colour of his mother’s best sherry? This uptight looking woman with the severely cropped hair looked like her, but not quite. The primly pursed mouth in a thin tanned face, eyes hidden behind narrow glasses, seemed like a woman with all life and joy sucked out of her.
‘Rebecca Walters.’
Her voice came out flat and businesslike without the musical lilt he remembered.Walters.She must have married Dan and this was presumably what life with him had made of her. In those early years when the bitterness had eaten at him, he’d speculated on revenge, but it seemed fate had taken care of it for him. He wouldn’t wish this result on his worst enemy, and whatever the past, Becca was too important to him to be considered an enemy.
She raised an eyebrow. ‘You said something about doing better than stitches? Doctor Farrell usually puts a couple of stitches in a cut like this.’ She was all business and he moved forward to look closely at the injury, thrusting aside his discomfort.
As he thought, it was a neat slicing cut, and not deep. ‘I’ve been using a skin glue I find works well on this kind of wound. It’s more expensive but will give a cleaner result. If you don’t have any in stock I’ve a few samples in the car.’
‘We do have some. We had a young locum the last time Doctor Farrell was on holiday, and she liked to use it for children. They use it all the time at the Mater Hospital apparently, but Doctor Farrell doesn’t like it. Says he’s too old to learn new tricks.’
Was there a slight twitch to her mouth at her last comment? He wasn’t sure, but he wasn’t given an opportunity to study her. She stepped briskly past him to open the cabinet, retrieving the Dermabond and selecting a fresh, disposable dressing tray. Watching her set up for the treatment, he had to admire her economical movements and neat manner of working. When she finished setting up, she stood aside to allow him room to manoeuvre, remaining within easy reach.
With a smile and quick word with the child, he pulled on the gloves laid out for him. After swabbing and drying the wound, he guided Becca’s gloved hands into place to hold the sides of the cut together. He released them rather abruptly, oddly affected by the contact, and she looked up at him, brows wrinkling at his action. Morgan ignored the look, preparing the glue, but out of the corner of his eye he saw her shake her head slightly, as if clearing it. Almost immediately she focused on her job, watching carefully as he pinned the neatly joined skin with the glue.
Instructing her and the boy to hold still for a minute, he pulled off the gloves and disposed of them. ‘When did you finish your RN training, Becca?’ It was a courteous enough question so why did she flush scarlet under his glance? She’d always planned to become a nurse so it was hardly something new.
With a quick look at the child, who was studying the glued portion of his anatomy with great interest, she shook her head. ‘I didn’t do RN training. Just my Cert IV in Aged Care at the nursing home. Later on, I did business studies externally.’
‘So why are you working as a clinic nurse?’
‘I’m not. Karen’s the clinic nurse. I help her out when it’s busy.’
‘You’re a casual?’
‘No. I work here full-time.’ She seemed, if anything, more embarrassed. ‘I’m the practice manager.’
He knew he was staring. Practice manager. Doc Farrell had mentioned how lucky he was with his staff. It hadn’t occurred to him it would be Becca. He’d have to work closely with her every day. He’d go insane. Totally, mind bogglingly, insane.
Morgan stretched his legs out as he settled into the armchair in Doctor Farrell’s office. It was good to relax, half the relief produced by the absence of Becca from the room. He was still stiff from the journey and standing hunched over the child while fixing the cut had made it worse. Or had it been the proximity to Becca tensing his neck and shoulders? He rubbed them, conscious of the intent look from the older man.
‘Getting right into it already, Morgan.’
The rich rolling tone with the faintly Scottish accent was so familiar. Donald Farrell had delivered him, and most of the locals born in Maiden’s Landing over the last forty years. Doc Barrell, he’d been called irreverently by the young people in sly reference to his shape, but with a fondness that recalled his patience and the store of sweets he kept in a jar on his desk. The jar was still there, but with stickers instead of the sugary treats. Becca’s doing?
‘It seemed logical when everyone was busy. I hope you didn’t consider it encroaching.’
The other man laughed. ‘I’m not likely to complain if it means I get to sit at my desk instead of chasing after newfangled glue to put the lad together.’ He sobered. ‘Seriously, I’m glad of it. I’m seventy next month and more than ready to retire.’
Morgan was aware of the doctor’s upcoming knee surgery, but he respected his reticence. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t get here sooner.’
‘The important thing is you’re here now. Still not looking fit, but I suppose it will come.’ The shrewd eyes rested benevolently on Morgan’s face, seeing more than Morgan wanted him to see.
‘I’ll be settling in over the next week or two, but I would like to come in each morning to familiarise myself with the practice.’
