Miracles in the Village. Josie Metcalfe

      Miracles in the Village

      Their Miracle Baby

      Caroline Anderson

      Sheikh Surgeon Claims His Bride

      Josie Metcalfe

      A Baby for Eve

      Maggie Kingsley

      Dr Devereux’s Proposal

      Margaret McDonagh

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      Their Miracle Baby

      Caroline Anderson

      About the Author

      CAROLINE ANDERSON has the mind of a butterfly. She’s been a nurse, a secretary, a teacher, run her own soft-furnishing business, and now she’s settled on writing. She says, “I was looking for that elusive something. I finally realised it was variety, and now I have it in abundance. Every book brings new horizons and new friends, and in between books I have learned to be a juggler. My teacher husband John and I have two beautiful and talented daughters, Sarah and Hannah, umpteen pets, and several acres of Suffolk that nature tries to reclaim every time we turn our backs!” Caroline also writes for the Mills & Boon^® cherish^™ series.

      CHAPTER ONE

      ‘DADDY!

      ‘Hello, pickle!’ Mike scooped Sophie up into his arms and whirled her round, their laughter ringing round the yard and echoing off the old stone walls of the barn, bringing a lump to her throat.

      These two adored each other, and now both their faces were lit up with a joy so infectious Fran couldn’t help but smile.

      ‘How’s my favourite girl today?’ he asked, hugging her tight and looking down into her beaming face.

      ‘I’m fine—Daddy, where’s Fran? I’ve got something really special to show her—Fran! Look!’ she yelled, catching sight of her and waving madly.

      She wriggled out of his arms, running across and throwing herself at Fran. She caught her little stepdaughter, hugging her close and laughing, kissing her bright, rosy cheek and holding out her hand for the little box Sophie was thrusting at her eagerly.

      ‘It’s a model—I made it at school!’ she confided in a stage whisper. ‘It’s Daddy milking a cow—see, here’s Amber, and this is Daddy, and this is the cluster …’

      She pointed underneath the misshapen reddish blob that could just conceivably have been a cow, and there was a thing like a mangled grey spider stuck on her underside. She supposed if the blob could be Amber, then the spider could be a milking machine cluster. Why not? And as for Mike …!

      ‘I’m going to give it to him for his birthday,’ she went on, still whispering loud enough to wake the dead. ‘We’ve got to wrap it. Have you got paper?’

      Fran smiled and put the lid back on the box. ‘I’m sure we’ve got paper,’ she whispered back. ‘It’s lovely. Well done, darling. I’m sure he’ll be really pleased.’

      A flicker of doubt passed over Sophie’s earnest little face. ‘Do you think so? Amber was really hard to make.’

      ‘I’m sure, but you’ve done it beautifully. He’ll be so pleased. He loves everything you make for him. It makes him feel really special.’

      Sophie brightened, her confidence restored, and whirling round she ran back to her beloved father and grabbed his hand. ‘I want to go and see the cows—Oh, Brodie!’ she said, breaking away again and dropping to her knees to cuddle the delighted collie who was lying on her back, grinning hideously and wagging her tail fit to break it. ‘Hello, Brodie,’ she crooned, bending right down and letting the dog wash her face with meticulous attention.

      ‘Sophie, you mustn’t let her do that!’ Kirsten protested, but Sophie ignored her mother, laughing and hugging the dog while Brodie licked and licked and licked for England.

      ‘Yeah, not your face, it’s not a good idea,’ Mike chipped in, backing Kirsten up simply because he just did. It was one of the many things Fran loved about him, the way he defended Sophie’s mother’s decisions to their daughter even if he didn’t agree, and then discussed it with her rationally when Sophie wasn’t around.

      The fact that Brodie washed his face whenever it was in reach was neither here nor there! Now he held out his hand to Sophie and pulled her to her feet—and out of range of Brodie’s tongue—with a grin.

      ‘Come on, scamp, say goodbye to your mum and then let’s go and see the cows. I’m sure they’ve missed you.’

      Missed the treats, no doubt, because the six-year-old always seemed to have her little pockets bulging with pellets of feed, and she’d happily give it to them despite the cows’ slippery noses and rough, rasping tongues. Nothing fazed her, and she was deliriously happy trailing round after her father and ‘helping’ him.

      ‘Fran?’ Sophie said, holding out her hand expectantly after they’d waved Kirsten off, but she shook her head. This was their time, precious and special to both of them, and she wouldn’t intrude.

      ‘I’ve got to make supper,’ she said with a smile. ‘You go with your father and say goodnight to the cows. I’ll see you both soon.’ And with a little wave she watched them head off towards the field where the cows were grazing, Mike shortening his stride to accommodate his little sprite, Sophie skipping and dancing beside him, chattering nineteen to the dozen while her pale blonde bunches bobbed and curled and flicked around her head.

      They went round the corner out of sight, Brodie at their heels, and with a soft sigh Fran went back inside, the little cardboard box containing Mike’s present in her hand. She opened the lid and stared down at the little lumps of modelling clay so carefully and lovingly squashed into shape, and her eyes filled. He was so lucky to have her. So very, very lucky.

      If only it could happen to them.

      They’d come so close—twice now.

      It often happened, she’d been told. Miscarriages were common, and her first, three years ago—well, that had just been one of those things, they’d said. It probably wouldn’t happen again.

      And it hadn’t, of course, because she hadn’t conceived again, and so they’d undergone endless intrusive and humiliating tests, all of which had proved nothing except that there wasn’t any obvious reason why they hadn’t had a baby yet.

      So they’d gone through the difficult and challenging process of a cycle of IVF, and she’d become pregnant, and then, just like before, she’d lost it.

      Not unusual, they were told again, especially with IVF, possibly because the embryos weren’t always as perfect as they might be with a normally conceived embryo, and this, it seemed, was probably what had happened to theirs.

      All very logical, but she