CHAPTER ONE

      IT WAS Polly’s favourite time of day, and she curled up on the window-seat overlooking the valley and cuddled her steaming mug of coffee. Her breath was misting on the window, and she scrubbed at it with her sleeve. It was cold in the sitting-room in the mornings, but the view was so spectacular that she didn’t mind.

      The little window was set in the thickness of the cob walls, and the seat tucked into the little nook was fast becoming Polly’s favourite place. Admittedly it wasn’t very comfortable, but the view was something else. In front of the tiny rented cottage ran a narrow, winding lane, hedged with hawthorn and dog-rose, with occasional wild cherries standing like sentinels along the route.

      Beyond the lane was a field, dipping away into the distance, with neat lines of plough showing tiny tips of green as the winter wheat broke the surface of the soil. Beyond that, a river wound lazily along the valley floor before the land rose steeply on the other side in a heavily wooded slope. As it rose, the willows and poplars gave way to other trees, beech and oak and sycamore, with the occasional white trunk of a silver birch gleaming in the distance. The autumn colours in the old wood were at their best on this early November day, and the morning sun slanting low across the hill behind her caught the leaves and turned them to flame.

      It was an isolated spot, but that didn’t worry Polly. She wasn’t afraid of her own company, and she wasn’t afraid of her fellow man, either. In her experience the vast majority of people were good and decent, and the media’s exaggeration had led a great many people to believe otherwise. Polly thought it was a tremendous shame.

      Take this man, for instance, she mused. He jogged along the lane every morning—at least he had in the week Polly had been living here. Anybody could see that he was harmless, for all that he was big. He just looked reliable, honest and solid and trustworthy. It didn’t occur to Polly that she was being fanciful, or that she was making judgements based on speculation and not fact. She just knew, without any question, that she could trust him with her life.

      He was earlier today, she thought. Last week it had been about eight-fifteen, and she had even passed him one morning in her car on the way to work.

      Today it was barely half-past seven, and Polly was only up and dressed because she wanted to get to work early to sort out her surgery shelves and rearrange her supplies before the clinics started.

      The man drew level with her cottage, jogging steadily across from left to right. The sun was shining on his back, highlighting the breadth of his shoulders and the glint of gold in his neat brown hair. The boy-next-door grown up, Polly thought, and smiled to herself as she watched him.

      There was a car coming towards him now, and Polly frowned as she saw it bearing down on him with no attempt to reduce speed. She saw a greasy sheen on the windscreen, and realised in horror that the driver was momentarily blinded by the sun.

      She heard the man shout, and at the last second the car swerved, sliding out of control on the wet leaves that covered the lane. With the car headed straight for him, the man threw himself out of its path, crashing into the hedge as the car slewed past him and ground into the bank on the other side.

      Polly didn’t hesitate. Grabbing her coat off the peg by the door, she ran out into the lane and towards the jogger. He was picking himself up by the time she got there, and looked at her in surprise.

      ‘Are you all right?’ she asked anxiously.

      ‘Yes, I’m fine. How about the people in the car?’

      ‘I’ll check them.’ She turned on her heel and ran over to the car just as the passenger door opened and the driver struggled out.

      ‘Sorry, mate!’ he called. ‘Didn’t see you—damn sun got in my eyes. You OK?’

      ‘Fine,’ he repeated. ‘What about you?’

      His voice was warm and deep, Polly noted with detachment. Just what she would have expected. The jogger had every right to be angry, having nearly been mown down. Many people would have been, she thought, but his first concern had been for the occupants of the car; that just reinforced her opinion of him.

      Now they were shaking hands, and the driver was returning to his car and pulling away, considerably more slowly than before. She turned back to the jogger.

      ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

      He nodded. ‘Just a bit shaken up. I’ll be OK.’ He frowned at the lane. ‘Where did you spring from?’

      The cottage. I’m renting it. I’d better get on, if you’re sure——?’

      He grinned. Tine—see?’ He turned to jog away from her, and his left leg collapsed under him. Making a grab for Polly, he swore softly under his breath and bent to explore his left calf.

      His right hand was gripping her shoulder firmly, and Polly tucked her left arm around his waist to support him. He felt lean and solid, without an ounce of fat. He was also shaking slightly, probably with shock.

      ‘What’s the problem?’

      He shook his head and straightened, frowning at his left hand. It was streaked with blood and he glanced down at his leg again.

      ‘Don’t know. It hurts, though. It didn’t a minute ago.’

      ‘That often happens,’ Polly hastened to reassure him. ‘Often we don’t feel an injury until it’s safe to do so. I suppose it’s a safety mechanism. Let’s get you inside and have a closer look.’

      Still supporting him around his waist, she changed sides so that his injured leg was next to her and she could give him better support, and they made their way slowly into the cottage. The top of her head came up to his chin, and his arm rested comfortably across her shoulders. They fitted well together, she thought