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  A wriggle, a squirm, and Rosie shrieked, ‘Nixon, have you seen the baby? Mummy won’t take me to see it and I want to hold her.’

  Emma’s mother stepped back, rubbing her ear. ‘Quieter, Rosie.’

  Emma ran her hand over Rosie’s curls. ‘That’s not what I said. Abbie’s feeding Grace so you have to be patient.’

  ‘That’s like asking a cat to ignore the mouse running across its paws.’ Nixon winked. ‘Especially with this one.’ He knew Rosie from the times she used to be dropped off at the department after pre-school on the days Emma was running late signing off. Her daughter had fallen under his spell in the flash of a chocolate bar and a wide smile. Easily bribed, her girl.

  Nixon moved up, leaned over and wrapped his arms around Emma. ‘You’re looking good for what you’ve been through.’

  A warm sigh trickled across her lips. This hug felt special. The perfect elixir for lurking emotions left over from handing the baby to Abbie. Emma leaned forward ever so slightly to rest against Nixon’s chest and breathed deeply, absorbing the man scent and strength. She lurched backwards. This was all wrong. They were pals, not lovers.

  There had been one time she’d said too much to him. At the end of a particularly hectic shift she’d been tired and achy, heavily pregnant and despondent, and when he’d walked out of the department with her and suggested a wind-down drink over the road at the café, she’d burst into tears. It had to have been the tea that loosened her tongue, or otherwise why had she spilled her guts to Nixon about her feelings over giving up the baby? The feelings she wouldn’t share with Abbie so as not to rattle her friend’s confidence that she would hand over Abbie’s baby.

  He’d listened without interruption as she’d explained her fear of not being able to let go the baby, which would break her friend’s heart along with her own. Not once did Nixon say it was her fault she was in that predicament. He’d shown another side to himself. He’d always been popular, but also somewhat wary, and known to be a focused, caring doctor. She doubted anyone at work had seen Nixon so thoughtful and considerate about something unrelated to work. Which made her wonder what else he was hiding behind his everyday face. And glad she’d turned him down for that date. She had enough of her own problems to be carrying on with, without taking on anyone else’s.

  Now he stepped back, those thoughtful eyes watching her too closely for comfort.

  ‘Mum, you haven’t met Nixon, have you? Nixon Wright, this is my mum Kathy Hayes. Nixon’s our emergency specialist,’ she added for clarity. No point raising her mother’s hopes that she’d found a man. How her mother could want her to get married again was beyond Emma. Not after her last fiasco. But then, all her family held onto some guilt over that. They’d fallen under Alvin’s spell too and had encouraged her marriage.

  ‘You’re not a local.’ Her mother shook Nixon’s hand, appraising the tall, strapping specimen before her as if she was about to interview him. Which, being her mother, was definitely on the cards. And her mum had nothing on her brothers or father. Emma wouldn’t put it past them to tie any man she might be interested in up to the fence and throw icy water over him while proceeding with an interrogation about whether he knew his hands were not made to be used against their sister and daughter.

  He gave a light smile. ‘I shifted here from Dunedin a year ago, so, no, most people don’t know what I like to eat for breakfast or what grades I got in school.’

  There were few secrets in Queenstown amongst the locals, for sure. Hurrying to cut her mother off before she got started on in-depth questions, Emma said, ‘Grace weighs three point seven kilos, has ten fingers and ten toes, and is cute as a button. Abbie’s besotted.’

  Nixon agreed. ‘I saw her in the nursery on my way here. I think we could have a Force Six earthquake and she wouldn’t notice.’ His smile dipped. ‘You’re all right?’

  The same loaded question her mother had asked. No doubt she’d hear it a few more times yet. ‘Yep.’

  He locked eyes with her, as if he was looking for more. But what could she say? Especially in front of her mother, who had had misgivings about the whole surrogacy thing from the day she’d told her family she was having Abbie’s baby. ‘I have no regrets. Okay?’

  ‘I didn’t think you would.’ Nixon looked away, and got caught in the beam of her mother’s stare. ‘You’ve got one tough daughter, Kathy.’

  ‘She had to learn to be.’ It was so unlike her mother to say such a thing. Her family never talked about her past unless she brought up the horrible subject herself, which she rarely did. Why go back to hell when she’d finally found her way out?

  Emma shivered. Her mum was certainly assessing Nixon thoroughly. Too thoroughly. Something she needed to stop doing. ‘Nixon’s my boss.’ For some inexplicable reason that gave her a stabbing sensation in her chest.

  Her mother nodded once, abruptly.

  But Nixon surprised Emma with his suddenly widening eyes and flattening mouth. What had she done other than tell the truth? He was her boss. And one hell of a man, who had the broad shoulders to cry on and endless patience when she’d needed to let off steam. Those shoulders were filling her vision now, tightening her tummy in ways it shouldn’t.

  Then a deep yawn pulled her mouth wide. The day had caught up with her in spades. ‘Sorry, everyone. I need to catnap for a bit.’ She reached for Rosie. ‘Another hug for Mummy?’

  As Rosie obliged Emma glimpsed Nixon over her daughter’s head. There was a strange longing filling those grey eyes as he watched them. Something she’d never seen before. Something that strummed on her heartstrings. Nixon was lonely for love? Was that it? Couldn’t be. He could have any woman he set his eyes on.

  But wait, wasn’t there a rumour that he had a three-dates rule? He also shunned invitations from individual staff members to work social occasions, but that was probably sensible. Yet he’d asked her out. Strange.

  She chose to be alone too, but that didn’t mean she didn’t want family and love. Nixon hadn’t said a word about his family when she’d talked about hers the day she’d blubbed all over him. He’d only said he was too busy for commitment. What with running a small but busy emergency department here in the Queenstown Hospital, where extreme sports injuries were as common as the tourists that filled the town all year round. Being a mountain-biking addict alongside his busy job, he didn’t have the time required for a full-on, permanent relationship.

  Nixon might be surprised to know everyone knew he avoided relationships. It was fairly obvious when he only ever dated women who were visiting Queenstown, getting his testosterone fix without getting entangled. Emma hadn’t been able to decide if she should’ve been flattered or insulted when he’d asked her out. Apparently she’d been the exception to his rule. He socialised without getting involved, so he’d have been a perfect date for her. She’d have had fun. It wasn’t as if he were dull, weird, or afraid of his own shadow. Completely the opposite, in fact. Tall, built, fun, sincere.

  Sexy.

  Gasp.

  Was it all right to think that of a friend?

  Emma’s heart slowed. Sadness rocked in and darkened her mood; she closed her eyes so she didn’t have to see Nixon watching her with a hunger in his gaze that confused her. To her he was someone she worked with who’d become a good friend over the last few months. He was a man in need of a shake-up. Who amongst her old friends could she find to knock his knees out from under him? No one. What about—?

  No one. Or—?

  No one.

  The thought of Nixon getting all cosy with someone she knew felt like a lead ball swinging at her head.

  A phone sounded loud in the still room. ‘I’d better get back. The heli’s five minutes out,’ Nixon said as he read his message. ‘I grabbed a quiet moment to check on you.’

  As her boss? Or as a friend. ‘You want to give me a lift home later?’ What was wrong with her? As if she wanted Nixon driving her home. But he’d ask less questions than her family.

  Her moth
er got there before him. ‘I can come back in whenever you’re ready. You and Rosie should stay the night with us anyway.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum, but I’d prefer going to the apartment, taking a long, hot shower and curling up in my own bed.’ That was the truth, even if it meant having to stay awake until Rosie went to bed, which these days could be anywhere between seven and nine. The kid didn’t get bedtime rules at all.

  ‘Your brothers will be disappointed. Not to mention your father.’

  Exactly. An inquest about her feelings was not on her agenda. ‘I’ll see them tomorrow.’

  Nixon turned his formidable gaze from her to her mother and nodded. ‘I’m going to be tied up for a long time with what the paramedics are bringing in.’

  ‘What happened?’ Emma asked.

  ‘A mountain biker here for the Lake Hawea challenge went off the edge of the road somewhere on Cardrona while on a training ride and hit the rocks way below.’ Nixon headed for the door, and paused, one hand on the frame. ‘I’ll drop by later to see if you want me to give you a ride somewhere.’ A hint of challenge coloured his voice, which disappeared before he nodded to her mother, who was nudging Rosie towards the door. ‘A pleasure meeting you.’

  Then he was gone, leaving a void in the room Emma wanted filled. By whom? By what? She had no idea, she only knew her head and heart were all over the place at the moment, and that had nothing to do with Nixon and all to do with the baby she’d delivered not so long ago.

  Yet she felt that challenge even if she didn’t know what it was about. As if Nixon had handed her the baton and she needed to run with it. Now. When she’d just had a baby? When she did not need—or want—a man in her life? Forget her earlier longings. That had been baby-brain talk.

  Baby. Her hands slid over her empty stomach. I had a baby today. And she’s nowhere to be seen.

  Abbie’s baby. Not mine. Abbie’s baby. Abbie’s baby. My baby.

  Emma cried herself into a restless, baby-filled sleep.

  CHAPTER TWO

  NIXON WRIGHT EASED himself onto the chair beside Emma’s bed, and, with his elbows on his knees, dropped his chin into the palms of his hands. The cyclist was in Theatre. He was done for the day. His own cycle at home beckoned but he’d told Emma he’d drop by before he left; hadn’t told her he needed to check on her for his own peace of mind.

  Watching Emma as she slept tugged him deep inside. Her short, light breaths lifted an errant curl from one cheek, let it fall on the outward sigh. Dark shadows resembling bruises darkened the pale skin beneath her eyes, her coppery hair striking against those cheeks. She looked small and defenceless under the covers, bringing all his protective mechanisms to the fore, making him want to crawl onto the bed and hold her close, keep the world at bay until she was ready to face it again.

  He’d never seen her so lost. Oh, sure, she’d deny that faster than a blink, but she was confused, dealing with emotions she knew and expected and didn’t want. She’d been brave today; so very, very brave. Not a hint of regret apparent, but there had to be a lot of tugging towards that baby going on inside.

  Emma was a loving soul. Since he’d learned she was pregnant, he’d seen how she’d loved that baby growing inside her. Yet not once, even on those bleak days when she’d felt wobbly about it all—and there had been some, though she’d only ever talked to him about her feelings once—had she said anything to suggest she wouldn’t give up Grace to her rightful mother.

  From what he’d seen, Emma and Abbie had a strong, unbreakable bond so that had never been going to happen. Apparently the two women had seen each other through some terrible times. Abbie’s husband had passed away from cancer, and from idle gossip in the department he knew Emma had been married to a violent man—which made him seethe with impotent fury just thinking about it. He shoved the anger aside. It had no place here, and if Emma had managed to walk away from that husband then he had no right resurrecting her history, if only in his head. She needed positive vibes.

  Nixon’s heart expanded. If ever there was an amazing gift, Emma had given it to her friend. Her generosity knew no bounds, but in the coming days she’d need someone to lean on and he was putting his hand up. As the friend he’d already been for her.

  Oh, really? some strange, illogical emotion deep inside asked.

  His phone pinged with an incoming text. Nixon read the message his uncle Henry had sent to all the family.

  Hope everyone has a lovely time at the birthday party in Wellington this weekend. I’ll be thinking of you. Sorry you can’t make it either, Nixon.

  Henry could be joining his children and grandchildren if he eased up on his belief he was doing his family more good leaving them a large inheritance than using some of his money to be with them for special occasions. Instead, he ignored the pleas to spend the money now when everyone could enjoy the benefits.

  Guilt snuck in. It was brought on because his uncle had taken him in when he was six and raised him with his cousins until he left school. Henry had never been generous with money and especially not with his heart, but Nixon had been fed, clothed in hand-me-downs and given shelter. He’d always be grateful, but he’d have been happy to go hungry if instead there’d been open and happy love such as he’d known in his six short years with his parents and brother before they died in a plane crash.

  ‘Nixon, your mum and dad and Davey are not coming home ever again.’

  The terrifying words had cut him off from his family, from love and happiness. From ever giving his heart unconditionally again.

  But had Henry giving him a roof over his head been his way of showing love? Fundamental perhaps, but that was his uncle’s approach.

  Well, he could do the same. Nixon texted back.

  Book flights and hotel. I’ll fix you up tonight.

  Henry would go for the most expensive flights and hotel room, but, hey, those were the breaks. If it made his uncle happy then what did it matter? It was only money and he wasn’t short of a few dollars. These people were his only family. They had cared about him as one of their own, looked out for him when he hadn’t been able to grasp what not ever coming home again meant. If only Henry had shown his love with hugs and games and laughter as his own parents had, then he mightn’t have felt quite so lost and alone.

  Nixon’s gaze drifted to Emma.

  He’d cried off going away with his cousins and their kids, using a bike endurance he’d entered as his reason. While it was true, he’d also been reluctant to be out of town when Emma had her baby. He’d wanted to be around when it happened in case that despair and fear she’d once sobbed out onto his shoulder returned, stronger and harder to move past. He might’ve made sure she was all right when her waters broke and retrieved her bag from her car for her yet he’d waited ’til well after the birth to visit her, suddenly afraid of where his feelings about Emma were taking him. They’d become such great friends that he’d even felt grateful she’d turned him down for a date because when he walked away at the end of it, which he surely would have done, he’d have missed out on so much. While she was pregnant, he’d felt restrained about furthering their friendship. She’d had enough issues to deal with. But now where did they stand? He believed he didn’t want involvement, couldn’t risk his heart only to lose her when she decided she didn’t need him, but…

  But ask him why he’d felt he should be here and he couldn’t find a satisfactory answer. Emma didn’t need him at her side. They got along fine, and sometimes she opened up to him, though lately he’d pulled back, afraid of where this was headed.

  Be honest. You like that she talks to you about things she can’t tell her best friend.

  Yeah, well, all very good, but all the more reason to pull away. That thinking could lead to deeper involvement, a place he wasn’t planning on going. If he ever chanced falling in love with a special woman—Emma?—he’d want to be able to leap in, boots and all, heart and all, be open, have fun, share the highs and lows. He wouldn’t want to be this uptight, afraid version. />
  His phone received a text. Henry.

  Thanks, lad. Appreciate it.

  No problem.

  Had Henry shut down on his open loving side when his wife died in childbirth? Gone further into the deep when Nixon’s mother died? Did he hold the same fears?

  Oh, man.

  Occasionally Nixon had wondered about this but had always shaken it off as wrong. He wasn’t Henry’s child, he’d inherited different genes, and his mother, Henry’s sister, had been a happy, always laughing person. From what he knew and remembered. None of this had crossed Nixon’s mind before. He could very possibly be a chip off the old block. Might’ve learned from his uncle how to hold everything in. They both kept their feelings close to their chests. Didn’t rush around hugging friends and family.

  You hugged Emma earlier.

  Yeah, well, Emma.

  Now what? Carry on with no hope of it being anything more? Or try to let go of the restraints and open up, risk his heart and see where that led? Instantly his belly tightened and his heart slowed as though it were withdrawing from this crazy idea, protecting itself. It was far wiser to stick with the current way of doing things. But was that truly what he wanted?

  ‘You going to sit there staring at the floor all evening?’ Emma muttered from the bed.

  ‘It’s a damned nice floor.’ Grey vinyl wasn’t really his thing.

  She chuckled.

  That chuckle crept into places that had remained cold since the day the social worker had picked him up from school and delivered him to Uncle Henry. The warmth Emma engendered made going for a diversion imperative. He wasn’t ready to follow that warmth. ‘Easier than deciding who to employ for the summer rush.’

  ‘Which started a week ago, in case you hadn’t noticed. The day the spring rush finished.’ Emma shuffled up the bed, wincing. ‘We’ve already had numerous broken bodies in ED from mountain day trippers going off track and getting caught by unseasonal storms.’