The Surgeon's Doorstep Baby. Marion Lennox

in a bouncy ponytail. She was about five feet four or five, she had freckles, brown eyes and a snub nose, and until tonight he would have described her as nondescript.

      What he’d just seen wasn’t nondescript. It was something far from it.

      What?

      Cute, he thought, but then he thought no. It was something … deeper.

      She’d been wearing faded pink pyjamas, fluffy slippers and an ancient powder-blue bathrobe. Her brown hair, once let loose, showed an auburn burnish. Her curls tumbled about her shoulders and she looked like she’d just woken from sleep. Standing with her dogs by her sides, the fire crackling in the background, she looked …

      Adorable?

      She looked everything the women in his life weren’t. Cosy. Domestic. Welcoming.

      And also strong. That glare said he’d better move his butt and get her bag back inside, stat.

      She wouldn’t know he was a doctor, he thought. When the baby had wailed he’d recognised, as she had, that the little creature was in trouble. The light-bulb over his door had blown long since, but once he’d been under the light of her porch he’d seen the tell-tale signs of dehydration, a baby who looked underweight; malnourished. He’d reached to find a pulse but her movement to defend the child was right. Until she knew what was wrong, the less handling the better.

      She was reacting like a midwife at her best, he thought with something of relief. Even if she needed his help right now, this baby wasn’t his problem. She was more than capable of taking responsibility.

      She was a professional. She could get on with her job and he could move away.

      Get the lady her bag. Now.

      The bag was a huge case-cum-portable bureau, wedged into the back of an ancient family wagon. He grabbed it and grunted as he pulled it free—it weighed a ton. What was it—medical supplies for the entire valley? How on earth did a diminutive parcel like Maggie handle such a thing?

      He was a week out from an appendectomy. He felt internal stitches pull and thought of consequences—and headed for the back door and grabbed the wheelbarrow.

      Medical priorities.

      If he broke his stitches he’d be no use to anyone. Worse, he’d need help himself.

      One bag coming up. By barrow.

      He pushed his way back into the living room and Maggie’s eyes widened.

      She’d expected landlord with a bag.

      What she got was landlord, looking a bit sheepish, with her firewood-carting wheelbarrow, plus bag.

      ‘Appendectomy,’ he said before she could say a word. ‘Stitches. You don’t want two patients.’

      Oh, heck. She hadn’t thought. He’d told her he was here recovering from an appendectomy. She should have …

      ‘It’s fine,’ he said, quickly, obviously seeing her remorse. ‘As long as you don’t mind tyre tracks on your rugs.’

      ‘With my family I’m not used to house-proud. Thanks for getting it. Are you okay?’

      ‘Yes.’

      She cast him a sharp, assessing look, and he thought she was working out the truth for herself, and she figured he was telling it.

      ‘If I tell you how, can you make up some formula? This little one’s badly dehydrated.’

      ‘Can I see?’ he said, over the baby’s cries.

      The baby was still wailing, desperation personified.

      He stooped beside her. He didn’t try and touch the baby, just pushed back the coverings further from its face.

      Maggie had obviously done a fast check and then re-wrapped the infant, leaving the nappy on, tugging open the stained grow suit to the nappy but leaving it on, rewrapping the baby in the same blanket but adding her own, a cashmere throw he’d seen at the end of the sofa.

      With the blankets pulled aside and the grow suit unfastened, he could see signs of neglect. This was no rosy, bouncing baby. He could see the tell-tale signs of severe nappy rash, even above the nappy. He could see signs of malnourishment.

      She was right about dehydration. They needed to get the little one clean and dry—but first they needed to get fluids in and if it was possible, the best way was by mouth.

      ‘Tell me where, tell me how,’ he said, and she shot him a grateful glance and proceeded to do just that. Five minutes later he had a sterilised bottle filled with formula, he offered it to Maggie, she offered it to one tiny baby—who latched on like a leech and proceeded to suck like there was no tomorrow.

      The sudden silence was deafening. Even the dogs seemed to sigh in relief.

      Maggie’s wide, expressive mouth curved into a smile. ‘Hey,’ she said softly. ‘You’ve just saved yourself from evacuation, hospital and IV drips. Now, let’s see what we have here.’ She glanced up at Blake. ‘Are you man enough to cope with the nappy? I’d normally not try and change a baby in mid-feed but this one’s practically walking on its own and I hate to imagine what it’s doing to the skin. It needs to be off but I don’t want to disturb the baby more than necessary. While the bottle’s doing the comforting we might see what we’re dealing with.’

      He understood. Sort of. There was a medical imperative.

      What he’d really like to do was offer to take over the holding and feeding while she coped with the other end, but he’d missed his opportunity. There was no way they should interrupt established feeding when it was so important. This baby needed fluids fast, and Maggie was the one providing them.

      So … the other end.

      He was a surgeon. He was used to stomach-churning sights.

      He’d never actually changed a baby’s nappy.

      ‘You’ll need a big bowl of warm, soapy water,’ she told him. ‘The bowl’s in the left-hand cupboard by the stove. Get a couple of clean towels from the bathroom and fetch the blue bottle on the top of my bag with the picture of a baby’s bottom on the front.’

      ‘Right,’ he said faintly, and went to get what he needed, with not nearly the enthusiasm he’d used to make the formula.

      Baby changing. He had to learn some time, he supposed. At some stage in the far distant future he and Miriam might have babies. He thought about it as he filled the bucket with skin-temperature water. He and Miriam were professional colleagues having a somewhat tepid relationship on the side. Miriam was dubious about attachment. He was even more dubious.

      He suspected what he was facing tonight might make him more so.

      ‘Oi,’ Maggie called from the living room. ‘Water. Nappy. Stat.’

      ‘Yes, Nurse,’ he called back, and went to do her bidding.

      CHAPTER TWO

      BLAKE removed the nappy and under all that mess… ‘She doesn’t look like she’s been changed for days,’ Maggie said, horrified … they found a little girl.

      They also found something else. As he tugged her growsuit free from her legs and unwrapped her fully, he drew in a deep breath.

      Talipes equinovarus. Club feet. The little girl’s feet were pointed inwards, almost at right angles to where they should be.

      Severe.

      He didn’t comment but he felt ill, and it wasn’t the contents of the nappy that was doing it. That someone could desert such a child … To neglect her and then just toss her on his doorstep …

      How did they know Maggie would be home? Maggie had dogs. How did they know the dogs wouldn’t be free to hurt her?

      Seeing the extent of the nappy rash, the dehydration—and