The Australian's Desire: Their Lost-and-Found Family / Long-Lost Son: Brand-New Family / A Proposal Worth Waiting For. Lilian Darcy
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your stilettos?’
‘I dressed up. I thought it was important to make a good impression.’
‘Georgie, go fetch him.’
‘Won’t,’ Georgie said, but she grinned. OK, she’d made her point. She supposed the toad could be fetched. ‘Oh, all right.’
‘In the car,’ Gina added.
‘If I have to.’
‘You have to. Tell him Cal and I will be back at dinnertime.’
‘Sure,’ Georgie said, and grimaced. ‘He’ll be really relieved to hear that higher civilisation is on its way.’
The kid was sitting in the middle of the bridge. He’d be blocking traffic if there was any traffic, but Crocodile Creek must hunker down for a midday siesta. Alistair hadn’t passed so much as a pushbike for the last mile.
He’d abandoned his jacket, slinging it over his shoulder and considering losing it altogether. It was so hot if he’d really been wearing a toupee he’d have left it behind a mile ago. He was thirsty. He was jet-lagged to hell and he was angry.
There was a kid in the middle of the bridge. A little boy.
‘Hi,’ he said as he approached, but the child didn’t respond. He was staring down at the river, his face devoid of expression. It was a dreadful look, Alistair thought. It wasn’t bored. It wasn’t sad. It was simply … empty.
He was about six years old. Indigenous Australian? Maybe, but mixed with something else.
‘Are you OK?’ Alistair asked, doing a fast scan of the riverbank, searching for someone who might belong to this waif.
There was no one else in sight. There was no answer.
‘Where’s Mum or Dad?’
‘Dad’s fishing,’ the child said, breaking his silence to speak in little more than a quavering whisper. Alistair’s impression of hopelessness intensified.
‘And you’re waiting for him to come home?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Maybe you could wait somewhere cooler,’ Alistair suggested. The middle of the bridge was so hot there was shimmer rising from the timbers.
‘I’m OK here.’
Alistair hesitated. This kid had dark skin. Maybe he wouldn’t burn like Alistair was starting to. If his dad was coming soon …
No. The child was square in the middle of the bridge and his face said he was expecting the wait to be a long one.
He squatted down beside the boy. ‘What’s your name?’
‘I’m not allowed to talk to people I don’t know.’
‘I’m a doctor,’ Alistair said. ‘I’m here to visit the doctors at the Crocodile Creek Hospital. I know them all. Dr Gina Lopez. Dr Charles Wetherby. Dr Georgie Turner.’
The kid’s eyes flew to meet his.
‘Georgie?’
‘You know Georgie?’
‘She helps my mum.’
‘She’s a friend of mine,’ Alistair said gently, knowing he had to stretch the truth to gain trust. ‘She’ll be at the hospital now and that’s where I’m going. If I take you there, maybe she could take you home on the back of her motorbike.’
The child’s eyes fixed on his, unwavering.
‘You’re a doctor?’
‘I am.’
‘You fix people?’
‘Yes.’
‘Will you fix my mum?’
His heart sank. This was getting trickier. The sun was searing the back of his neck. He could feel beads of sweat trickling downward. ‘What’s wrong with your mother?’
The child’s expression had changed to one of wary hope. ‘She’s sick. She’s in bed.’
What was he getting himself into? But he had no choice. ‘Can you take me to your mum?’
‘Yes,’ the little boy said, defeat turning to determination. He climbed to his feet, grabbed Alistair’s hand and tugged. ‘It’s along the river.’
‘Right,’ Alistair said. He definitely had no choice. ‘Let’s go.’
SHE nearly missed him. She drove slowly back toward the airport, starting to feel really guilty. It was unseasonably hot even for here, she thought. The wind was starting to feel like they were in for a major storm, even though the sky was clear.
There was a cyclone out to sea—Cyclone Willie—but it was so far out it should never come near them. The weather guys on the radio were saying the winds they were feeling now were from the edge of the cyclone.
Just don’t rain for Mike and Em’s wedding tomorrow, she told the weather gods. Or for Gina’s the Saturday after.
Right. Back to worrying about Alistair. She’d gone two miles now and was starting to be concerned. Surely he should have walked further than this. But it was so hot. She should never have let her temper hold sway. He wouldn’t have realised how hot it was.
Maybe he’d left the road to find some shade. She slowed down and started studying the verges. Here was the bridge …
She nearly didn’t see them. A path ran by the river, meandering down to a shanty town further on. Here were huts built by itinerant fishermen, or squatters who spent a few months camping here and then moved on. Periodically the council cleared them but they came back again and again.
There was a man in the distance, just as the track disappeared into trees. Holding a child’s hand.
Even from this distance she could pick the neat business suit and jacket slung over his shoulder. Not Crocodile Creek wear. Alistair.
What the hell was he doing? She pulled onto the verge and hit the horn. Loudly. Then she climbed out and waved.
In the distance Alistair paused and turned. And waved back.
Who was he with?
She stood and waited. He’d have talked one of the local kids into taking him to shelter, she thought, expecting him to leave the child and come back to the road. He didn’t. He simply stood there, holding the child’s hand, as if he expected her to come to him.
Really! It was hot. She was wearing leather pants. OK, maybe they weren’t the most practical gear in this heat. She’d put them on to make a statement.
She’d also put her stilettos back on before bringing the car out. Her nice sensible trainers were back at the hospital.
He expected her to walk?
He wasn’t moving. He simply stood by the riverbank and waited.
Didn’t he know you didn’t stand near the river? Not for long. There were crocs in this river. It was safe enough to walk on the bank as long as you walked briskly, but to stand in the one spot for a while was asking for trouble.
OK. She gave a mental snort and stalked down the path toward them. Dratted stilettos …
Davy Price.
She recognised the child before she’d reached the riverbank. Immediately her personal discomfort was forgotten. What the hell was Alistair doing, holding Davy’s hand? Davy was six years old. He was the eldest of four children, the last of whom she’d delivered four days earlier. They lived in the worst of this motley collection of shacks.
While