Village Midwife, Blushing Bride

Book 23: Medical Romances

by Gill Sanderson

Genres: Romance; Contemporary Romance; Medical Romance; Workplace Romance

Synopsis

A heartwarming medical romance by best-selling author Gill Sanderson. Midwife Zoe Hilton was starting a new life away from the city. A small Derbyshire town,  old friends in the practice she was joining, perhaps best of all a cottage that suited her perfectly. Here, she and her  son Jamie could be happy. The owner of the cottage was Dr Connor Maitland, who lived in the large house next door. He was a partner in the practice. Because of an illness Dr Maitland has been forced to give up his work as a  surgeon and become a GP. He is an unusual neighbour, Zoe can't work out whether he is unfriendly or shy. But he does seem to get on well with Jamie. In time Connor and Zoe get close. But both have ghosts to lay before they can move on.

Release date: November 26, 2015

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 145

Sample

PROLOGUE.

Dr Connor Maitland lay on the examination couch. He was pretty sure he knew what the verdict would be. He just needed to hear the neurologist—his friend, Mick Baxter—confirm it. ‘Well?’

Mick gave a regretful sigh. ‘I’m afraid you’re right, Connor. It looks as though you are well and truly on the mend.’

Relief coursed through Connor, swift and invigorating. ‘Excellent. It’ll be nice to have my life back. Although I am, of course, sorry to curtail your source of future research.’

Mick grinned. ‘I should think so too. What sort of friend contracts the worst case of Lyme disease I’ve ever come across—the neurological complication were phenomenal—and then makes such a rapid recovery?’

‘You call twelve months rapid?’

‘Compared to what I was originally expecting, yes. Still, I should get a nice paper out of you for the next symposium.’

Connor frowned as his friend continued to check him over. There had been times this last year when he’d wondered why he was striving to get better, but it had never occurred to him that he might not make it eventually. ‘I was that bad?’ he said.

Mick placed cool fingers on the pulse point in his wrist. ‘You were. Did I forget to mention it?’

‘You know you did! You told me every gloomy possibility in the book, bar that. It beats me how someone with such an appalling bedside manner can be one of the best men in his field.’

‘Lucky for you that I am. If you and Francine hadn’t been having dinner with me when you—’ He broke off, frowning slightly.

‘Yes, yes,’ said Connor impatiently. ‘Only Dr Mick Baxter would have spotted that my bout of flu, following a climbing weekend in the Lake District where I picked up a rogue tick the size of a pinhead, was actually undiagnosed Lyme disease. I’m not ungrateful, Mick. What I want to know is how soon I can start work again.’

Mick made a note, his face troubled. ‘I said you were on the mend, not fully recovered. You went untreated for a significant period, which means problems with the nervous system are more likely to recur than if you’d been caught early. We’ve discussed this. You’re never going to be the topflight surgeon you were a year ago. I can understand your frustration, but you need to take it easy to begin with. Assist, perhaps. Or teach.’

‘I hate teaching and I refuse to be a second-string anything. I know exactly what I want to do. All those months lying on my back staring out of hospital windows gave me plenty of time to think. I’m going to pick up my GP training again. I’m going to be the best damn GP in the country.’

‘Now that’s an interesting idea,’ said Mick, sounding thoughtful as he scribbled another note. ‘I’d forgotten you started off in that direction before deciding to specialise in surgery. But it’s stressful, mate.’

Connor smiled. ‘I’ve held a man’s heart in my hand, knowing if my scalpel slipped a quarter of an inch he’d be dead. That’s stress.’

‘Which you never used to feel. You were the coolest man in Theatre I’ve ever seen and that was great. Things are different now.’

Mick’s hand moved to assess the blood flow in the throat artery. After a year of such examinations, Connor hardly noticed any more. He had thought it all out. After finishing GP training he would buy into a practice in the countryside. Somewhere he could climb and walk whenever he felt hemmed in. Somewhere with a day surgery unit, perhaps, so he could still put his skills to good use. And a big enough practice where there would always be other doctors to cover his duties if he had a relapse. Which Mick had told him months ago would remain a possibility.

‘Do you ever hear from Francine, by the way?’ said Mick.

Despite the warmth of the day, Connor felt suddenly chilly. ‘No.’

‘Oh, I thought she might have kept in touch. She does with quite a lot of the crowd.’

‘Not with me.’

‘Pity. You used to be a golden couple.’

‘We were a golden couple when I was a top rank surgeon and she was being head-hunted by medical institutions all down the West Coast of America. My transfer to the long-term sick list rather took the shine off our relationship.’

‘Go on,’ murmured Mick.

‘I don’t need to. You know it all. She couldn’t face the thought that I might be permanently ill. We’d split up even before she shook the UK dust off her boots and took the job in San Francisco. Mick, you were the one who sat up all night with me preventing me from drowning my sorrows with illicit booze and doing my disaster area of a nervous system even more damage. Why are you dragging it up again now?’

‘Because when I so much as mention her name your pulse speeds up, your breathing gets faster and I’ll bet your blood pressure is up too.’

‘That’s normal, isn’t it? We were together for two years. I’d have to be made of concrete not to feel anything at all.’

Mick was silent for a moment. Connor could sense him working out exactly what he needed to say. ‘Listen, Connor. For you as a surgeon, the patient is a body—the mind plays very little part in what you do to it. I’m a neurologist. My patients are mostly awake. And I’m conscious of just how much the mind and the body interact.’

‘So?’ Connor was aware that his voice sounded harsh.

‘You’re over the initial shock of contracting the illness at all. You’re making astounding progress physically. You’ve accepted the need for a change in career—and for the record, by the way, I think you’ll be a terrific GP—but the thought of Francine still stresses you.’

That again. Mick was like a terrier with a rat. Connor could admire him as a colleague even while he wished he’d give up where he himself was concerned.

‘Stop right there,’ he said. ‘Francine herself doesn’t upset me. I have no feelings for her at all. It’s what she did that still rankles.’

‘You mean leaving you when you were a helpless invalid?’ Mick leaned back, considering him. ‘I get the feeling there’s more to it, Connor. And you’ll never be as good a doctor as you can be until you’ve come to terms with whatever that was.’

Connor gave a short laugh. ‘It’ll pass. And don’t worry—I’ll take care not to get into the same situation again.’

‘If you say so.’ Mick’s phone rang and he frowned as he picked up the receiver. ‘My secretary knows I’m busy with you; she usually doesn’t interrupt for—Pardon?... About time too. I’ll come and get them.’ He replaced the phone. ‘Start getting dressed, Connor. I’ll be right back.’

Connor wondered what was important enough to interrupt a consultation. Something serious, evidently. It was fifteen minutes before Mick returned and when he did his face was troubled.

‘Bad news?’ said Connor.

‘I’m afraid so. I’ve just phoned the path lab, asked if there was any chance they’d made a mistake, but they said no. I did warn you about this, mate. I told you it was a remote possibility, but you’ve made such a good recovery that I hoped...’

Connor was getting a nasty feeling about whatever was coming. ‘Mick! Just tell me. Don’t wrap it up; just tell me.’

His friend took a deep breath. The report on the last set of samples I sent along to the lab has come in. Everything’s in remission, all your stats are fine except...’

‘Except?’

‘There’s no easy way to say this. Connor, you’re infertile. The chances of you fathering children from now on are negligible.’

Connor stared at Mick, unable to speak. He felt as if he’d just been dropped into a wasteland. Yes, he had his life back, he would regain his strength and go on to make a new career—but for what? All his dreams for the future had included a large, boisterous family. Sons and daughters who would grow up to make him proud.

The silence between them stretched on. Eventually Mick said, ‘I’m so sorry. But it’s not the end of the world. There’s always a chance that some future treatment will become available or...’

‘Don’t bother, Mick. I’m a doctor; I know the statistics. I’ve just got to live with it.’ He couldn’t avoid the bitter addition. ‘Somehow.’

‘I know you will. Anyone less strong wouldn’t have made the progress that you already have.’ But Mick’s eyes were still concerned. ‘I wish I could do more, Connor, but I can’t. You know I’m off to Patagonia next week to start this new neurological unit? It could be years before I come back. I’ve handed your case over to Dr Evan Price. He’s a first-rate man. He’ll want to see you every six months or so, and you can call on him any time.’

‘You introduced us at my last appointment.’ An older, distant man, Connor remembered. He had an excellent reputation—but he’d never be a friend. Well, he didn’t need friends. Not now.

***

Connor walked out of the hospital grounds not feeling the warmth of the sun on his back. Around him were hurrying visitors, importantly-striding medical staff. You could tell the difference between them and the patients who’d come out of the building for fresh air, for a change from the sanitised life of the wards. The patients moved slowly—as he had done himself until he’d made the conscious decision to reclaim his life. He was a doctor—he refused to be a patient any more.

He thought about what Mick had said before the path lab report had arrived. Essentially that he had to let go of the past in order to move forward. Easier said than done, especially now. Connor had a vivid memory of the weekend before everything started to fall apart. He and Francine had spent it climbing. They’d tested each other on the challenging stretches, laughed and made plans for the future. But some time during those forty-eight hours he’d contracted Lyme disease, and his life had changed for ever.

He’d told the truth when he said Francine was no longer anything to him emotionally. The rational part of him didn’t blame her for taking her splendid new job and heading for new and more magnificent slopes. There had been no guarantee back then that he would ever get better.

Her legacy, however, was something else. The irrational part of him was still immeasurably hurt by the emptiness of her previous declarations of undying love. That was what had tormented his mind during those terrible days when he couldn’t even move his body. He’d vowed then that it would never happen again. He would never again let anyone get close enough to betray him. And, once he’d decided that, he’d locked all the feelings away. Including the shock of her last careless, unthinking act.

Now, the consequences of that act, combined with this final stroke of the whip, threatened to unlock all those feelings again. Connor set his jaw. He wouldn’t let it happen. Stone. That was what he would be—stone.

CHAPTER ONE

Enough, decided Zoe.

The boxes holding their immediate necessities had been unpacked. Jamie’s bedroom looked as much as possible like the one they had said goodbye to this morning, because she thought he needed that reassurance. Now he wanted to play in the garden and the adrenalin that had been carrying Zoe through the day had just run out. She took a mug of tea to the patio and sat on the wooden bench, breathing in the heavy scent of honeysuckle and turning her face to the early evening sun.

Please let this be the right decision.

Tomorrow she would be back to work as a midwife but this was a new world, as different as it could be from their London flat with the busy streets outside. She wondered if she would fit in.

Here the sky was clear, trees stirred gently above the shrubs, and in the distance she could see the tip of a green hill with the faint tracery of grey limestone walls across it. And it was quiet! Just Jamie murmuring to himself as he pottered about and the chirping of birds settling down for the night. For a moment Zoe felt very alone.

Their new home was a converted coach house, small but perfect for the two of them. Zoe hoped it was a place where she could settle, could come to terms with the past, where Jamie could grow up, where the pain they had both suffered would be absorbed by the building of a new life.

Not quite new. The coach house had only been part furnished: if Zoe turned her head she could see her own sofa in the living room. The furniture she had brought with her dovetailed with what was already here, the new and the old combined. That was as it should be—you shouldn’t ever entirely forget the past. But she would learn to live with it, learn to distance herself from Neil’s progression from happy-go-lucky registrar to an alcoholic who prioritised his addiction over his family. She and Jamie would be happy again.

‘Mummy, can I ride my bike now? Please?’

Where did he get his energy? Zoe looked down at her son and smiled, her heart turning over. ‘Just up and down the path, sweetheart. It’s getting late and I’m too tired to find you a longer ride today.’

‘Can’t I ride over there?’

Over there was the lane outside. She could see why he’d be confused. It didn’t seem like any road he’d been taught to be careful of and he was used to riding in the park near their flat where there were long paths looking very similar.

‘No, that’s a road. We drove up it. You’re not to go out of the garden ever unless I’m with you.’

Zoe hadn’t had a garden for years. Jamie had never had one. They’d be able to plant things here; not just what would fit in a window box, but a whole bush or a big swathe of bulbs. Something else that was new. This garden was safe and enclosed—Jamie could roam it at will without her worrying. It would be like having a miniature park of his own.

‘Can I go through the other gate? There’s a longer bit of path there and there’s a slope.’ As an extra argument, Jamie added, ‘I promise to be careful.’

Other gate? Zoe roused herself to look where her son was pointing. The path ran from their kitchen door, down the garden and into the garden of the big house next door. Then it disappeared into a stand of small trees. Where the post-and-rail fence crossed the path was a rustic-looking gate.

‘No, sweetheart. That’s. Dr Maitland’s garden. He’s our landlord. We have to stay on our side.’

‘All right,’ said Jamie. ‘I’ll go for just a little ride then.’

Zoe watched, grateful that he was adapting. She didn’t know how much he remembered of that dreadful day. He’d had terrible dreams to start with and for weeks he had hardly spoken. Even now, occasionally she found him hiding behind the furniture, completely silent. She had told him Daddy was in Heaven, still loving him, but she wasn’t sure how much he’d taken in. She hoped the move from city to country would help turn him back into the joyous little boy he had been before the accident.

Certainly he seemed content at the moment, riding his bike up and down the path, and Zoe was thankful. In a new house—and starting a new school tomorrow—he needed all the confidence he could get.

***

Zoe wasn’t surprised when Jamie chose The Big Red Tractor for his bedtime story. It was comfort-reading and the fact that they both knew it by heart made no difference to his love of it.

He was asleep by the end, and Zoe was hardly less tired. It had been a long day, supervising the removal men then driving up all the way from London. There was more unpacking to do yet, but instead she sat holding. . .