OFF DUTY FOR the day, Marty drove carefully back to his little house on the top of the hill.
From the day, aged fourteen, when he’d started work at the local Wetherby surf shop, he’d banked every penny he’d earned—drawing out what he needed for gifts for family members at Christmas or birthdays or sometimes a bunch of flowers for Hallie, but squirrelling the rest away with one aim in mind.
Eventually he’d have enough for a deposit on a house—his house, his home.
He’d once joked to Mac that he’d learned more maths working out how to get the best interest on his money than he ever had at school.
So why, as he dumped the rubbish bag from Ken’s shack into his wheelie bin and walked into his house, did he not feel the usual thrill of possession—the pride of ownership—that the house usually gave him?
Because it was empty?
Ridiculous. He was here, wasn’t he?
Was it because the air retained a faint scent of Emma?
He shook away that memory. It had been something they’d both needed, an affirmation of life—nothing more…
No, it was the house itself that bothered him. It seemed to echo with the same kind of…not exactly sadness but definitely emptiness as Ken’s shack had.
He touched the walls he’d painted with such care, walked through to the kitchen where appliances he’d chosen himself stood neatly on their shelves.
Maybe it was because he was hungry.
He pulled some bacon from the refrigerator and set it under the grill, turning the heat up high so it wouldn’t take forever. Made himself a pot of tea—not for him a tea-bag in a cup—he had enough of that at work. No, Hallie had instilled in him that tea came from a pot, pointing out that you could always pour a second cup, or even a third, if you felt like it.
Hallie…
Was Emma right when she talked about nature and nurture?
Hallie and Pop had certainly nurtured him, and taught him not only the skills he’d need to live a successful life but the values to lead a good life.
Which he had—in his own way, right up until Emma Crawford had walked into the picture and everything had become so convoluted in his mind he didn’t know where to start thinking about it.
And desperately wanting to make love to her again—to make love, not just have sex—was not the answer.
More a problem that he’d just have to ignore and hope it would go away.
Because, for all the nurturing he’d received, he knew that, in a flash, nature could take over. It hadn’t happened for years but it had happened, the first time when he’d been at high school and an older boy had been teasing Liane.
He hadn’t seen the red mist that he’d read about in books, hadn’t seen or heard anything, although he knew there’d been shouting. He’d simply charged in, fists flailing, more missing than connecting but throwing enough lucky ones for the boy to end up with a black eye and a broken nose.
During the weeks he’d been suspended from school, he’d gone to work with Pop, too young to drive the big rig then but keeping him company, and Pop had never once spoken of the incident, just chatted on as Pop did when he was driving, pointing out places of interest, taking Marty to towns he’d never visited before.
But Pop was basically a quiet man, so there had been plenty of silence for Marty’s head to think about what had happened, and about his reaction. To think about his father, and worry that he was like him…
And at the end of the two weeks’ banishment, Hallie had packed his lunch and put it in his backpack, kissed his cheek, and sent him off with the others as if nothing had ever happened.
Their attitude had confused him and it was only years later that he’d spoken to them about it.
‘What could we say that you weren’t learning for yourself? You were bright enough to work out you had to find other ways to react, and better ways to protect your family and friends.’
She’d looked at him across the table with its teapot full of endless cups of tea and smiled.
‘And you did, didn’t you?’
She’d been right. He’d learned to walk away, taking a sibling or friend with him—to turn his back on bullies instead of becoming a bully himself.
Which had been fine until girlfriends had entered his life—and one had left his life for another bloke and—
What had he been?
Eighteen?
And yet he hadn’t actually hurt the bloke for all he’d wanted to…
* * *
Emma woke at midday, surprised she’d slept at all, until she read the note Christine had left on the kitchen table.
‘We’ve all gone to Wetherby for the day. Hallie and Pop are cleaning out the attics and have found some toys the boys might like.’
And in a different hand, ‘Might make a day of it and bring you back fish and chips for dinner. Love Dad.’
Disappointment shafted through her, though maybe, her practical self told her, it was hunger. But as she made and ate some toast and drank a morning coffee, she did feel a little disappointed that she couldn’t talk to her father about the photo and the portrait on her wall.
She’d checked it again when she’d got up—holding the two close together—and she was sure they were images of the same woman.
But who?
The great-aunt she’d never met?
She phoned Carrie, but got an answering-machine and assumed she’d probably gone on the jaunt to Wetherby as well. The people carrier she and Dad had bought when she’d been expecting the twins would certainly hold everyone.
And leave room for toys.
Anyway, Carrie would be too young to know much. Someone’s grandmother, that’s who she’d need to find.
Joss?
Joss’s mother had produced Christine, and Emma still had the phone number.
But what to say?
Do you know the woman in this photo?
Surely that would be far too personal—and too intrusive because, dead or not, she’d still be meddling in Ken Irvine’s affairs.
She sighed, deciding to give up thinking about the photo at least until she’d talked to her father…
But not thinking about the photo created a vacuum in her mind and, naturally enough, into it rushed the other revelations of the night.
If she thought only about Marty’s story—about his mother’s death—and his determination not to risk hurting anyone he loved, maybe she’d forget what had happened later.
Hardly possible as her body tingled just not remembering it.
She’d go to work. That would stop her thinking about anything outside the job at hand. And although she had no idea just how her work roster stood at the moment, never having worked out how the rescue helicopter hours fitted into the general work timetable, there’d always be something she could do, even if it meant attacking the mountains of paperwork that multiplied on her desk in the small office she shared with the other ED doctors.
Except Marty was the first person she saw when she walked in.
‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded, before realising he was surrounded by young men and women and she’d embarrassed herself far more than she’d embarrassed him.
‘Ah, Emma, just the person we needed,’ he said, with such a bland smile she wanted to hit him. ‘These are a group of medical students from Retford university. We always take some for work experience so they can see a smaller hospital in action, and although we don’t wish for accidents it’s an opportunity for them to see how the search and rescue team operates.’
Emma smiled feebly at the four young women and two young men who made up the group.
‘Emma,’ Marty continued, ‘usually joins the rescue team when we have a callout that requires a doctor.’
‘And is she trained the way you say you’re trained?’ one of the young women asked, flashing such a dazzling smile at Marty Emma wanted to hit her.
Or him, for he was smiling right back at the questioner, all daring charm.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘We had a training day only last week. Every member of the team has to update their skills twice a year.’
The young woman looked as if she’d have liked to have been at the training day, and Marty’s smile suggested he wouldn’t have minded at all, but one of the men was now asking, ‘Don’t most SAR teams have their own doctors on staff? Wouldn’t it be better carrying a doctor who knows what he’s doing?’
He realised what he’d said, blushed, and turned to Emma.
‘Sorry, ma’am, that came out wrong.’
‘Indeed it did,’ Marty replied, not bothering to hide his delight at both Emma’s and the young man’s embarrassment. ‘But we’re a very small operation, situated at a small country hospital because from here we can cover a far wider range than we would flying out of Retford, for example. Originally this service was connected to the Lifesaver’s movement with sponsorship from big business, and we still get that sponsorship, although we get some government help as well.’
‘So all doctors here at Braxton can be on call?’ the young man persisted, and Emma took pity on him.
‘In areas where there are no doctors employed by search and rescue operations the local doctors, usually from the emergency department, are used. I think one of the reasons I got this job was because I’d been trained for SAR missions, and had done winch training, underwater rescue, which is great fun if ever you want to get into SAR, rescues off moving targets like ships at sea, the lot.’
The young man looked at her in admiration.
‘I wish we’d been here for that training day you had, it sounds like fun.’
Emma’s eyes met Marty’s across the young heads, and the slight nod he gave told her that he, too, was thinking of Ken. But they were young and idealistic, these students, and didn’t really need to know about sitting by someone’s bed waiting for them to die when all your years of training and experience had been about helping people live…
A wave of tiredness swept over her and she knew she’d have been better off staying at home and trying to sleep, no matter what thoughts would have run in circles through her head.
‘Will you join us for lunch? We’re just off to continue this discussion in the canteen then we’re taking the hospital bus out to the base to show them around.’
Emma would have loved to say no, but there’d been the hint of a plea in Marty’s voice, and if he felt as tired as she was feeling, he would need help to field the students’ questions.
The young man who’d asked the question—Alex, she’d discovered—made sure he sat next to her at the long table, and Emma smiled to herself as she saw the young women crowd around Marty.
Like moths to a flame, she thought, and realised that, quite apart from his commitment problems, he would be a dangerous man to know well because he was kind and interesting and always willing to help, but anyone who loved him would live in a constant state of jealousy which would surely eat away at the strongest relationship.
Anyone who loved him?
No, no, she definitely didn’t.
Couldn’t!
So why was she probably turning green as he patted a beautiful young blonde on the hand?
Why did her stomach scrunch when he smiled at the hot brunette?
Damn the man! He’d bewitched her. He’d made it quite clear right from the start—and had definitely confirmed it last night—that he wasn’t available for any kind of commitment, then he’d taken her with a passion that had imprinted him not only in her mind but on her body.
The problem was that she’d responded with equal intensity and although she had known full well it had been nothing more than just sex, her body tingled even thinking about it.