CHAPTER ONE

       OXYGEN stats are dropping! Tube him!

       More blood, he’s bleeding out!

       Flatlining. Stand clear, now!

      A lone kookaburra’s raucous laugh vibrated the hot, torpid summer afternoon air, mocking Nick Dennison’s thoughts. Thoughts that were firmly fixed in the past, over one and half years ago before everything in his life had gone pear-shaped. Back in a time when being a doctor had defined him and life had been work, and work had been his life.

      Resting back on his haunches after being bent over pulling weeds, he pushed against the trowel and stood up, stretching his back. Sweat ran down his cheeks and he wiped his face against the tight sleeve of his T-shirt, leaving a trail of rich black earth against the soft cotton.

      Through the shimmer of the eucalypt-oil heat haze he could see in the distance the small fishing town of Port Bathurst, affectionately known by the locals as Port. Snuggled into the curve of white sand and turquoise water, protected on one side by a treacherous reef and on the other side by a granite-flecked mountain, Port was a glorious work of nature and far from the man-made inner-city life he’d always known.

      A wet nose nuzzled his ankle as a ball dropped next to his foot. He glanced down at the intelligent and loving eyes of his blue heeler. ‘Have you rounded up the chooks yet, Turbo?’

      The dog cocked his head to the side, picked up the ball and sat down, hope and expectation clear in his expression.

      Nick rubbed the cattle dog’s black ears. ‘I take it that’s a yes.’ He accepted the saliva-covered ball and hurled it off into the bracken, watching the dog tear after it. He had once talked to a hundred people a day—now he was conversing with a dog and talking to his vegetables. He’d craved solitude and simplicity for a long time. Now he finally had it.

      He heard the phone ringing through the open window of his cottage and instinctively glanced at his watch. Tuesday. Five o’clock. His mother would have just got in from her midweek ladies’ tennis match. He let the phone ring out. Being asked a hundred questions about his health and his lack of future plans wasn’t conversation.

      He grabbed a shovel and started spreading manure, losing himself in the joy of being able to do physical work again, closing his mind to everything except the rhythm of the movement.

      Dr Kirby Atherton jogged down the long Port Bathurst pier just as the last tinges of orange faded from the cloud-studded sky. Another hot day was on its way, which would make the holidaymakers visiting town happy, but distress many of her elderly patients. She’d only been in town a few weeks but her early morning run was part of her routine. She lacked control over many things in her life, but keeping fit—that she could control. Running both exhausted and exhilarated her and helped keep the demons at bay.

      ‘Morning, Doc.’ A wide grin sliced across a weather-beaten face.

      Kirby jogged on the spot next to a stack of crayfish pots and looked down at Garry Braithwaite, sluicing his fishing boat. ‘Morning, Garry.’

      ‘Everyone calls me Gaz, love.’

      She noted his request for next time she greeted him. Acclimatising to Port was a lesson in letting go of city ways and shortening every long name and lengthening every short one. ‘Good catch?’

      ‘Not bad.’ He indicated a large white plastic trough filled with crawling crustaceans. ‘These beauties will be in Japan before you’re in bed tonight.’

      ‘That’s amazing.’ She glanced behind her at the fish co-op which was ablaze with lights. This was its busiest time of day as it accepted the catches of the local fleet. She turned back, a wistful tone in her voice. ‘Are they all going to Japan? Not even a few to the farmers’ market?’

      ‘Just the ones the co-op rejects. I’ve got about five.’ He started to wind up the hose, his expression cheeky. ‘Do you have a special dinner guest tonight, Doc? Perhaps you should talk to Deano and get some abalone.’

      Kirby ignored the inference. In some ways coming to Port had been like stepping back in time. It appeared to be the small town’s opinion that no matter how qualified, successful or independent a woman was, if she was young and single she must be looking for a husband. A few months ago Kirby might have agreed. ‘Save me a small cray, Gaz, and I’ll catch you at the market in half an hour.’

      She turned and switched on her MP3 player, and with her feet matching the thumping bass beat she ran toward the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, the sweet smell of fruit muffins straight out of the oven