Nikki And The Lone Wolf / Mardie And The City Surgeon. Marion Lennox
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half expecting the starved pup to growl or snap, but she’d turned and licked his face with her disgusting tongue—and sealed a friendship for life.
She passed away in her sleep, three months back. He still put his hand down, expecting the warmth of her rough coat. Expecting her to be … there.
The howl cut across his thoughts. Impossible to ignore.
He swore.
Okay, he didn’t want to get involved—when had he ever?—but he couldn’t bear this. The howl was coming from the beach. If a dog was trapped down there … The tide was on its way in.
Why would a dog be trapped on the beach?
Why would a dog be on the beach?
The howl … again.
He sighed. Abandoned his book. Hauled on the battered sou’wester that, as a professional fisherman, was his second skin. Tugged on his boots and headed for the door.
There wasn’t a lot of use staring at the fire anyway. He’d made a conscious decision when his wife walked away to never live with anyone again. Emotional connection spelled disaster.
That didn’t mean he had to like his solitary life. With Jem it had been just okay. Not any more.
Her silk pyjamas were laid out on her pretty pink quilt, waiting for her to climb into her brand new single bed. But the howling went on.
She couldn’t bear it.
She might not be a country girl but she’d figured whatever was out there was distressed, not threatening. The howl contained all the misery in the world.
Her landlord lived next door. He should fix it, but would he?
The first day she’d been here she’d worried about pipes gurgling in her antiquated bathroom. The bathroom was vast, the bathtub was huge, and the plumbing looked as if it had come from a medieval castle. The gurgling had her thinking there was no way she was using the bath.
Gabe had been outside, chopping wood. She’d hesitated to approach, intimidated by his gruffness—and also the size, the sense of innate power, the sheer masculinity of the man. Chopping wood … he’d looked quite something.
Actually … he’d been stripped to the waist and he’d looked really something.
She was being stupid. Hormonal. Dumb. She’d plucked up courage and approached, feeling like Oliver Twist asking for more gruel. ‘Please sir, could you fix my pipes?’
‘See Joe,’ he’d muttered and promptly disappeared.
She’d been disconcerted for days.
She’d seethed for a bit, tried to ignore the gurgling for a few days, had showers, and finally gone to find Joe.
Joe was an ancient ex-fisherman living on a dilapidated schooner that looked as if it hadn’t been to sea for years. He’d promised to fix the gurgling that afternoon. He did—sort of—thumping the pipes with a spanner—but while she’d been explaining the problem, a fishing boat swept past. Huge. Freshly painted. Gleaming clean and white. The deck was stacked with cray-pots. The superstructure was strung with scores of lanterns that Joe explained were to attract squid.
Her landlord had been at the wheel.
Still disconcerting. Big, weathered, powerful.
Still capable of doing things to her hormones just by … being.
‘Turns his hand to anything, that one,’ Joe told her as they watched Gabe go past. ‘Some of the guys here just fish for squid. Or crays. Or tuna. Then there’s a drop in numbers, or sales go off and they’re in trouble. I’ve been a fisherman all my life and I’ve seen so many go to the wall. Gabe just buys ‘em out and keeps going. He went away for a while, but came back when things got bad. Bailed us out. Six of the boats here are his.’
At the wheel of his boat, Gabe looked an imposing figure. His sou’wester might have once been yellow, but that time was long past. He wore oversized waterproof trousers with braces, rubber boots and a faded checked shirt rolled up to reveal arms maybe four times the width of hers. His eyes were creased against the elements, and his face looked almost grim.
After days at sea, his stubble was almost a beard. His thick black hair—in need of a cut—was stiff with salt.
His boat passed within yards of Joe’s, and he gave Joe a salute. No smile, though.
He didn’t look as if he ever smiled.
He bought up other fishermen when they went broke? He made money out of other people’s misery?
Her hormones needed to find someone else to fantasise about, fast.
‘I’d guess he’s not popular,’ she’d ventured, but Joe had looked at her as if she was crazy.
‘Are you kidding? Without Gabe, the fishing industry here’d be bust. He buys out the guys who go broke, gives ‘em a fair price, then employs ‘em to keep working. He’s got thirty men and women working for him now, all making a better living than they ever did solo, and there’s not one but who’d lay down their lives for him. Not that he’d ask. Never asks anything of anyone. Never lets anyone close. If anyone’s in trouble Gabe’s first on hand, doing what needs doing, whatever the cost. But he doesn’t want thanks. Backs off a mile if you try and give it. He keeps to himself, our Gabe. Apart from that one disaster of a marriage, he always has and he always will. The town respects that. We’d be nuts not to.’
He paused, watching as Gabe expertly manoeuvred his boat into a berth that seemed way too small to take her. He did it as if he was parking a Mini Minor in a paddock, as if he had all the room in the world. ‘But now his dog’s died,’ Joe said slowly, reflectively. ‘I dunno … We’ve never seen him without her; not since he was a lad, and how he’s handling it …’ He broke off and shook his head. ‘Yeah, well, about those pipes …’
That was two weeks ago.
Another howl jerked her back to the present. A dog in trouble.
Desolation?
She had to do something.
There was nothing she could do. This was something her landlord had to cope with.
The howl came again, long, low and dreadful.
She’d tugged on her pyjama top. Almost defiantly.
Another howl.
She paused, torn.
What if her landlord wasn’t at home? What if he’d left the light on and was gone?
There was a dog out there in trouble.
Not your problem. NYP. NYP. NYP.
She closed her eyes.
Another howl.
She hauled off her pyjamas and tugged on jeans. Designer jeans. She should do something about her clothes.
She should do something about a dog.
Where was a torch?
What if it was a dingo?
She grabbed her mobile phone. Checked reception. Checked she had the emergency services number on speed dial.
There was a heavy metal poker by the fireside. So far she hadn’t lit the fire—or she had once but it had smoked and what did you do about a fire that smoked?
You bought a nice clean electric fire.
Another howl—they were now almost continuous.
Enough.
Poker in one hand, torch in the other, country-girl Nikki—or not—went to see.
The beach beneath the headland was bushland almost to the water’s edge. Gabe strode down the darkened track with ease. He’d lived here all his life—he practically knew each twig. He didn’t need a torch. In