A Special Kind of Family. Marion Lennox
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take her?
But he’d watched Erin’s face as he’d said she shouldn’t move the dog tonight, the inference being when she moved so would the dog. He’d seen dismay.
‘So it’s up to me again,’ he told Marilyn, but then he gave himself a mental swipe to the side of the head. ‘Hey, that’s me being despondent. There’ll be all sorts of people just aching to give you a good home. A nice brick bungalow with room to romp, a couple of dog-loving kids, balls to chase, a pile of dog food so high you can’t see the top…’
He glanced into the sitting room toward the sleeping Erin. Was she the girl to provide it?
Maybe not. But, then, he thought, still hopeful, he’d really liked what he’d seen. For now he’d indulge his very own personal philosophy. Which was to worry about tomorrow tomorrow.
Finding homes for puppies was for tomorrow. Flat Easter buns were for tomorrow. Tonight—or what was left of it—was for sleep.
And maybe for letting himself think just a little bit about what sort of woman carried an injured dog so far…
CHAPTER THREE
SHE woke and she was being watched. She opened one eye, looked sideways at the door and two small heads ducked for cover.
She closed her eyes and waited for a bit. Testing herself out. She wiggled everything, really cautiously. Various protests started up in response, but compared to the pain of last night they were minor.
Then she wiggled her left foot and thought, no, not minor.
She opened her eyes again. Once more, two heads, but this time they didn’t withdraw.
One head was bright, carrot red, really curly. The other was mousy brown, dead straight.
Five or six years old, she guessed, and then she thought they didn’t look one bit like the man who’d helped her last night.
‘Hi,’ she said, and the redhead gave a nervous smile. He was the oldest. The younger one ducked back behind the door.
‘Dom said we’re not to wake you,’ Red-head said.
Dom. Hmm.
‘Dom’s your dad?’
‘Sort of,’ Red-head said, most unsatisfactorily. ‘He’s in the kitchen making breakfast. The buns didn’t work.’ This sounded like a tragedy of epic proportions.
‘But we’ve got puppies,’ the other little boy said from the anonymity of behind the door. ‘Only Dom said we’re not allowed to wake them, either.’
‘Well, I’m awake,’ Erin said, swinging her feet off the settee. Putting her right foot cautiously to the floor. Wondering if she dared do anything with her left foot. ‘Did your dad tell you I hurt my feet last night?’
‘He said you crashed your car off the cliff and you saved the dog by carrying her for miles and miles.’ Red-head was looking at her like he might look at Superman.
‘It was nothing,’ she said modestly. And then… ‘Um…if you guys got on either side of me I might be able to make it to the kitchen.’
‘You want us to help?’ Red-head said.
‘I do.’
They thought about it. Finally Red-head nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Come on, Nathan. We gotta help. I’m Martin,’ he added.
‘I’m pleased to meet you, Martin,’ she said. ‘And Nathan. Can you help me hop?’
Nathan’s head appeared again. ‘Sometimes I help my mum go to the bathroom,’ he said, sounding wise far beyond his years. ‘Do you want us to help you to the bathroom?’
He was a child in a million.
‘Yes, please,’ she said gratefully, and a minute later she had a small, living crutch at each side. She was on her way, via the bathroom, to meet the doctor’s family.
They’d be ready at lunchtime. Maybe.
What sort of father forgot to buy Easter buns? Well, okay, he hadn’t forgotten, but he had forgotten to put in an order, he hadn’t reached the shops until three and they’d been sold out. So he’d thought, no problem, he’d buy yeast and make ’em. Piece of cake.
Not quite. Not even on this, his second try. And he ought to check on Erin.
The door swung open. Erin. And boys. The kids were standing on either side of her, acting as walking sticks. She’d arranged the cashmere throw like a sarong, tucking it into itself so it hung from just above her breasts. Her curls were cascading in a tumbled mess around her shoulders.
She looked…fabulous, he thought, so suddenly that he felt a jab of what might even be described as heart pain. Or heart panic?
Two deep breaths. Professional. She was a patient. Nothing more.
He’d been over the idea of heart pain a long time ago.
‘Hey, welcome to the world of up,’ he said, and managed a smile he hoped was detached and clinically appropriate. ‘I hope you’re not weight bearing on that foot.’
‘I have two great crutches,’ she said, and smiled. ‘One called Nathan and one called Martin.’
‘Great job, boys,’ he said, and nodded, and both little boys flushed with pleasure. Which gave him another jolt. It was hard to get these kids to smile.
Dammit, why had he forgotten the buns?
‘Are they ready yet?’ Martin asked, almost as the thought entered his head.
‘Easter buns are for this afternoon,’ he said, and he knew he sounded desperate.
‘You said we could have them for breakfast,’ Nathan said. ‘The kids at school say they eat buns on Good Friday morning.’
‘I’ve been eating them all week,’ Erin chipped in, and he cast her a look that he hoped put her right back in her place. Talk about helpful… Not.
‘Dom says Easter buns are for Easter and not before,’ Martin told her. ‘Like Easter eggs. He says if the bunny sees us eat an egg before Sunday he’ll know he doesn’t have to deliver eggs to our place.’
‘So if he sees you eat a bun before this morning you won’t get any?’ Erin ventured, eyeing Dom with caution. ‘Your dad’s a stickler for rules, then.’
‘Rules are good,’ Martin said, though he sounded doubtful.
‘They are good,’ Erin agreed. ‘As long as there aren’t interruptions, like dogs having puppies and ladies crashing their car to take a man’s mind off his baking.’
‘Actually, the buns flopped before…’ Dom started, but Erin shook her head.
‘One good deed deserves another,’ she said, smiling at him from the doorway with a smile that said she knew exactly how disconcerted he was. ‘You’re starting another batch now?’
‘I started an hour ago but the instructions say it takes five hours.’
‘At least,’ she said. ‘So your buns will have to be Buns Batch Two.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Do you have self-raising flour?’
‘Um…yes.’
‘Butter?’
‘Yes.’
‘And dried fruit, of course?’
‘Yes. Look, you can’t—’
‘Do very much at all,’ she agreed cheerfully. ‘Marilyn and her puppies are asleep. There’s no job for me there. I’m just hanging around at a loose end in my very fetching sarong. But my foot does hurt. So what say you give me a chair and a bowl and all the ingredients I listed—oh,