CHAPTER ONE

      DR JAMES REMINGTON flipped open his visor as he sped down the arrow-straight highway. He revelled in the power of the vintage Harley engine growling between his legs, the air on his cheeks and the way the softening light of the encroaching dusk blanketed the thick bush in its ghostly splendour.

      He raised his face to the sky and let out a long joyous whoop, his gypsy heart singing. This was the life. The open road. The sun on your face. The wind at your back. Freedom. He felt a surge of pleasure rise in his chest as a familiar affinity with the environment enveloped him. He felt a part of the land.

      A solitary road sign appeared in the distance, announcing Skye, his destination, was only five kilometres away. It loomed large and then was gone in the blink of an eye. He felt anticipation heighten his senses. On a deeper level an unwanted thought intruded. Maybe this time he’d find what he was looking for. A place to hang up his helmet. A place to call home.

      He shook his head to quell the ridiculous childhood longing. The wind was on his face, he had freedom—why did he need roots? The township of Skye was just another outback stop in the many he’d made in the last few years. And after Skye there’d be another and then another until he reached the Cape and then he’d…figure out his next move then.

      The road started to twist and turn a little as it wended its way through thick stands of gumtrees and heavy bush. James eased back on his speed as he leant into the curves, enjoying the zigzag of the powerful bike.

      He rounded a bend and came face to face with his worst nightmare. His headlights caught the silhouettes of several cows meandering across the highway in the waning light. He had seconds to respond. He braked and swerved and in the split second before his bike slid out from underneath him and he was catapulted across the tar, James knew that, whatever happened next, it wasn’t going to be good.

      Helen Franklin was annoyed. It was nine p.m. She’d been hanging around for a couple of hours, waiting for the locum doctor to arrive. Had he arrived? No. His bags had arrived by courier earlier but he was still a no-show. The casserole she’d cooked for him sat uneaten in the fridge.

      She could be at the Drovers’ Arms, joining in the weekly trivia night. Her team was at the top of the table and she hated missing it. She’d tried phoning his mobile number the agency had furnished her with a few times but had had no response. Not that that necessarily meant anything. Mobile phone reception out here was dodgy at best between towns and only marginally better in them.

      An uneasy feeling bunched the muscles at her neck and she hoped some catastrophe hadn’t befallen him. But as he was only two hours late she doubted she’d manage to convince anyone to send out a search party for him. No, she just had to wait and hope that he showed or at least rang in to explain.

      He’d probably just changed his mind about coming to Skye and hadn’t bothered to tell anyone. Country towns were notoriously hard to attract medical staff to. She’d had a request in for a locum since Genevieve had announced her pregnancy and she was now thirty-six weeks gone.

      Well, damn it all, she wasn’t going to hang around all night, waiting, when the new doctor couldn’t even be bothered to let her know of his delay. He’d better be here by the start of business tomorrow, though. Genevieve should have given up work a month ago. Her blood pressure was borderline and her ankles were starting to swell. She needed the break. She’d admitted only yesterday that she was completely exhausted by lunchtime most days.

      Helen left a terse note on the dining-room table, gathered her stuff and left, pulling the door closed behind her. There was no need for a key. This was Skye. Nobody locked their doors. And when she saw him in the morning, she was going to give Dr James Remington