The Surgeon's Doorstep Baby. Marion Lennox

Not with that body …

      Get a grip. Settees. Baby.

      Not Blake.

      She set about rewrapping Ruby, bundling her tightly so those flailing little legs and arms could relax, and the baby attached to them would feel secure. But she was a midwife. Bundling babies was second nature. She had more than enough time to think about settees and baby—and Blake Samford’s body.

      Which was truly awesome. Which was enough to make a girl … make a girl …

      Think unwisely. Think stupid, in fact. This was her landlord—a guy who wanted to get rid of a baby.

      You show one hint of weakness and you’ll have a baby on your hands, she told herself. And if you fall for this baby …

      She’d fallen for two dogs. That was more than enough.

      She lived in this man’s house as a tenant, and that was all. If babies came with the territory then she moved out.

      This was dumb. She was thinking dramatic when the situation simply needed practical. This guy had a problem and she could help him, the same way she’d help any new parent. She’d help and then she’d leave.

      Ruby was still wailing, not with the desperation of a moment ago but with an I-want-something-and-I-want-it-now wail.

      She lifted the bottle and flicked a little milk on her wrist. Perfect temperature. She offered it, one little mouth opened and accepted—and suddenly the noise stopped.

      The silence was magical.

      She smiled. Despite very real qualms in this case, Maggie Tilden did love babies. They sucked you in.

      Her mother had used that to her advantage. Maggie’s mother loved having babies, she just didn’t like caring for them.

      Over to Maggie.

      And that was what Blake wanted. Over to Maggie.

      Do not get sucked in, she told herself desperately. Do not become emotionally involved.

      Anything but that. Even looking at Blake.

      At his chest. At the angry red line she could see emerging from the top of his shorts.

      Appendix. Stitches. Even if the external ones had been removed, it’d take weeks for the internal ones to dissolve.

      ‘So no keyhole surgery for you?’ she asked, trying to make her voice casual, like this was a normal neighbourly chat. ‘You didn’t choose the right surgeon?’

      ‘I chose the wrong appendix,’ he said, glancing down at his bare abs. ‘Sorry. I’ll cover up.’

      ‘I’m not squeamish about an appendix scar,’ she told him. ‘I’m a nurse. So things were messy, huh?

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘No peritonitis?’

      ‘I’m on decent antibiotics.’

      Her frown deepened. ‘Are you sure you’re okay to stay on this side of the river?’

      ‘Of course.’

      But she was looking at problems she hadn’t foreseen. Problems she hadn’t thought about. ‘If there’s the least chance of infection … I assumed you’d had keyhole surgery. If I’d known …’

      ‘You would have ordered me to leave?’

      ‘I’d have advised you to leave.’

      ‘You’re in charge?’

      ‘That’s just the problem,’ she said ruefully. ‘I am. Until the water goes down there’s no way I can get anyone to medical help. There’s just me.’

      ‘And me.’

      She nodded, grateful that he was acknowledging he could help in a crisis—having a doctor on this side was wonderful but one who’d so recently had surgery? ‘That’s fine,’ she told him. ‘Unless you’re the patient.’

      ‘I don’t intend to be the patient.’ He was looking down at the blissfully sucking baby with bemusement. ‘Why couldn’t I do that?’

      ‘You could. You can.’ She rose and handed the bundle over, bottle and all, and Blake was left standing with an armload of baby. ‘Sit,’ she told him. ‘Settle. Bond.’

      ‘Bond?’

      ‘You’re her uncle. I suspect this little one needs all the family she can get.’

      ‘It’s she who needs medical help,’ he said, almost savagely, and Ruby startled in his arms.

      ‘Sit,’ Maggie said again. ‘Settle.’

      He sat. He settled, as far as a man with an armload of baby could settle.

      He looked … stunning, Maggie thought. Bare chested, wearing only boxer shorts, his dark hair raked and rumpled, his five o’clock shadow a few hours past five o’clock. Yep, stunning was the word for it.

      It’d be wise if she failed to be stunned. She needed to remember she was here for a postnatal visit. Maternal health nurse visiting brand-new parent …

      Who happened to be her landlord.

      Who happened to be a surgeon—who was telling her the baby had medical needs.

      She needed to pay attention to something other than how sexy he looked, one big man, almost naked, cradling a tiny baby.

      With medical needs. Get serious.

      ‘If you think her legs are bad enough to require immediate medical intervention I can organise helicopter evacuation,’ she said. She knelt and unwrapped the blanket from around the tiny feet and winced.

      ‘I can’t believe her mother rejected her because of her feet,’ she whispered, and Blake shook his head.

      ‘No mother rejects her baby because of crooked feet.’

      ‘Some fathers might. Some do. A daughter and an imperfect one at that. If the mother’s weak …’

      ‘Or if the mother’s on drugs …’

      ‘There doesn’t seem any sign of withdrawal,’ Maggie said, touching the tiny cheek, feeling the way the baby’s face was filling out already. ‘If her mother’s a drug addict, this little one will be suffering withdrawal herself.’

      ‘She’s three weeks old,’ Blake said. ‘She may well be over it. But if she was addicted, those first couple of weeks will have been hell. That and the talipes may well have been enough for her to be rejected.’

      ‘That and the knowledge that you’ve come home,’ Maggie said thoughtfully. ‘If your sister knows you’re here, and thinks you’re in a position to care for her, then she might see you as a way out.’

      ‘She’s not my sister.’

      ‘Your father is her father.’

      ‘I don’t even know her surname.’

      ‘No, but I do,’ she said smoothly. ‘She’s Wendy Runt-land, twenty-nine years old, and she lives on a farm-let six miles on the far side of the base hospital. Ruby was born on the twenty-first of last month. Wendy only stayed overnight and refused further assistance. The staff were worried. They’d organised a paediatrician to see the baby to assess her feet but Wendy discharged herself—and Ruby—before he got there.’

      ‘How the—?’

      ‘I’m a midwife employed by the Valley Health Service,’ she told him. ‘If I’m worried about babies, I can access files. I rang the hospital last night and asked for a search for a local baby born with talipes. Ruby’s the only fit. The file’s scanty. No antenatal care. First baby. Fast, hard labour with a partner present for some of the time. They were both visibly upset by the baby’s feet and there’s a note in the file that the guy was angry and abusive.