The Doctor, His Daughter and Me Read online

  ‘Is there room in your life for anyone else to love you?’

  Ryan knew he was moving too fast but he had to know. If she said no without hesitation then he might as well give up. Tara could be stubborn, and if she made up her mind about something it was extremely difficult to change it.

  But she hadn’t answered.

  Her cheeks were pink and she was looking at a point somewhere on the opposite wall. He moved a little closer to her and grasped her hand.

  She refocused and mesmerised him with her deep grey-blue eyes. Was it desire he saw in their depths?

  ‘You mean you?’ she finally said.

  ‘Yes.’

  Tara leaned across, rested her head on Ryan’s shoulder and sighed.

  ‘Oh, Ryan. Why did you have to come back? I had my future mapped out. I thought I was as happy as I could be. And I honestly can’t think of love. Not now. It’s too hard.’

  Ryan gently stroked her silky hair and resisted the temptation to put words into her mouth. She had to say it.

  He waited…

  Dear Reader

  I was born and bred in the city, but have spent nearly two decades living and working in the country. During that time I’ve come to know many true heroes and heroines who have done the best they can to make a go of it on the land. In this story I have tried to impart a sense of the struggle many country people have to deal with as a backdrop to the romance between Ryan, a city orthopaedic surgeon, and Tara, a country GP.

  Their journey takes them from a life-changing event in the past, and having to deal with the fall-out of that event, finally to a future full of love, hope and impossible dreams come true.

  I hope you enjoy this story.

  Leonie K

  PS I love to hear from my readers and you can contact me via my website: www.leonieknight.com

  About the Author

  Originally a city girl, LEONIE KNIGHT grew up in Perth, Western Australia. Several years ago, with her husband, two young sons and their Golden Retriever, she moved south to a small rural acreage located midway between dazzling white beaches and the magnificent jarrah forest of the Darling Scarp. Now her boys have grown and left home, and the demands of her day job have lessened, she finds she has more time to devote to the things she loves—gardening, walking, cycling, reading and, of course, writing. She has spent most of her adult life working in first a suburban and then a rural general medical practice. That combined with the inspiration she gets from her real-life hero makes it only natural that the stories she writes are Medical Romances.

  Recent titles by the same author:

  HOW TO SAVE A MARRIAGE IN A MILLION

  SUDDENLY SINGLE SOPHIE

  The Doctor,

  His Daughter

  and Me

  Leonie Knight

  Many thanks to Heather and Ian, retired dairy farmers

  and a wonderfully generous couple,

  who helped me with the details of life on a farm.

  Also for Shellee and Margaret.

  You are truly inspirational.

  PROLOGUE

  DR TARA DENNISON closed her eyes, took several deep breaths and tried to relax as the physio’s thumbs dug deep into both sides of her neck. She was close to tears but it had nothing to do with the massage. She’d decided she couldn’t put it off any longer. She would tell Ryan tonight. And then they would both be free…free of the guilt, anguish and pain that held them together in a fragile relationship that had mercilessly sapped the strength from both of them over the past three months.

  ‘Ouch,’ she said as the pressure on her spine amplified and teetered on the edge of pain.

  ‘You’re tenser today than you usually are. Is there anything wrong? Soreness anywhere?’

  Tara opened her eyes. She definitely wasn’t about to reveal that everything was wrong. That she loved her husband so much there was no way she could deny him the future he deserved—the loving perfect wife, sexual fulfilment, the children he’d always wanted…

  ‘No, I’m fine. I think I may have overdone it in the gym yesterday. Perhaps we could call it quits now?’

  ‘Good idea. I’ll catch up with you in the pool tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Yes, the pool…’

  But before she had time to finish her sentence the physio had left, and a few minutes later she heard familiar footsteps heading towards her room. Her heart did a somersault and landed squarely in the pit of her stomach.

  Now.

  She’d made up her mind. She would definitely tell him now.

  * * *

  Ryan felt good. The time was right. He clutched an enormous bouquet of delicately scented yellow roses in one hand and the list he’d laboured over for the past week in the other. With the information he had, and Tara’s all-time favourite flowers, how could she possibly refuse?

  But when he reached her room, drew back the curtain and saw the expression on her face, he began to have doubts.

  ‘Hi, beautiful.’ He placed the flowers on the bedside table, leaned forward and kissed his wife on the mouth, holding the simple but intimate connection for as long as he could. Her mouth was immobile, her lips cool, and when he finally drew away her sombre expression flattened his mood like a burst balloon.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  She was looking at the roses as if he’d given her a bunch of stinging nettles.

  ‘I have something I want to tell you.’

  ‘That’s great.’ His gentle smile did nothing to thaw the icy expression on Tara’s face. ‘I have something to tell you too.’

  Some of his previous joy at finally tying up all the loose ends of his plan that would give them the chance of a rosy future returned. His love for Tara had never waned. They had survived a horrific accident and were both miraculously alive; he’d been there every step of the way through the lengthy and arduous rehabilitation programme; he’d supported her through bouts of debilitating depression and he’d found a way for them to live out the happily-ever-after of their dreams. If she’d just let him explain…

  ‘I’ll go first.’ The list he had made seemed redundant now, but he knew once she’d realised they weren’t stuck in an inescapable rut…

  ‘No, Ryan. Let me.’

  Her eyes, which were usually wide open windows to her feelings, were shuttered.

  ‘Okay,’ he said slowly as he reached for her hand, but she snatched it away.

  ‘I want a divorce.’

  Ryan shook his head in disbelief. Just when there was a possibility they could get their lives back on track? Had he heard wrong?

  ‘No!’ The word came out more forcefully than he’d planned. ‘Sorry,’ he added, and this time Tara let him hold her hand. She was shaking.

  ‘Why?’

  She took a deep breath and looked him straight in the eye.

  ‘Because I’m disabled, Ryan. I’m a different person to the perfect woman you married. I think and feel differently and I could never be a mother to your children—’

  ‘But…’ He squeezed Tara’s hand tight. ‘But none of that matters…if we love each other.’

  Tara looked away and shifted restlessly in her hospital bed.

  ‘Tara? Love…it’s what has sustained us through the bad times as well as the good.’

  Tara’s gaze swung back to Ryan. She sighed.

  ‘That’s the problem, Ryan. I don’t love you any more. And I can’t live in a loveless marriage.’ She cleared her throat. ‘I want a divorce and I’m not going to change my mind.’

  CHAPTER ONE

  Eight years later.

  RYAN DENNISON wasn’t trying to avoid the inevitable confrontation, just delaying it. He circled the car park looking for an inconspic
uous space from where he’d still have full view of the entrance to the clinic.

  How long had it been since he’d seen Tara? He did a quick mental calculation. It was nearly eight years. Back then, he’d told her he was prepared to be there for her all the way, no matter the sacrifices. He’d had a workable plan for their future. But she’d insisted she wanted a divorce. He thought he’d found a way to overcome all their problems but he’d had no answer to her simple statement: I don’t love you any more. And she’d been right; they couldn’t stay together in a marriage without mutual love.

  After several weeks of agonising self-doubt, guilt and pleading with Tara, she’d held her ground and become more distant as time went on. He knew her grief had been as gut-wrenching as his, but she hadn’t seemed to understand the anguish he’d suffered at being pushed away, at having to endure years of remorse.

  Yes, he’d agreed to end their marriage, but his heart still bore the scars of being rejected by the woman he’d loved with his whole being. His attempts to contact her by e-mails and phone calls in the first few years had been ignored, as if she’d been frightened of having any communication with him. His phone calls to her home phone had always been coldly blocked by her parents, who’d told him their daughter didn’t want to talk to him, and she must have recognised his mobile number as his texts and calls went unanswered. In the end he’d stopped trying.

  No one was to blame.

  Well, that was what he’d kept telling himself—until the words almost lost their meaning.

  But Tara’s parents didn’t believe it and he suspected Tara nursed doubts as well.

  He parked the car and then glanced at his watch—four twenty-five. He’d done his homework. She finished at four-thirty but he’d come prepared for a wait. She would be busy, popular and almost certainly run overtime. Scanning the cars in the disabled section, he came to the conclusion hers would be the people-mover—the only vehicle big enough to take an electric wheelchair and be fitted with the gadgetry for a paraplegic driver.

  Paraplegic…Oh, God, if only things had been different. Despite his outward calm he still had nightmares, replaying the horrors of that terrible evening. In the past week he’d woken nearly every night in a lather of torment, grief and with a vivid image of twisted metal. It was a painful reminder of how he was feeling about seeing his ex-wife again.

  He took a sip of bottled water to cool the burning dryness in his throat.

  He couldn’t change the past. Now he was going to be working in the same building with her he hoped she’d at least talk to him. But unless she’d had a turnaround in her personality she’d be stubborn and cling fiercely to her independence. The fact she’d finished her training and found a job was testament to her determination. She didn’t need—or want—him any more. She’d made that clear when they parted.

  The guilt stabbed painfully again.

  He closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them he saw her, just as beautiful as she’d been the day he’d met her. The years had been kind to her. Her strawberry-blonde hair, streaked with gold, was cut shorter, so it fell in tapered wisps to her shoulders. He could see her arms were muscular and her shoulders a little broader than he remembered, but it didn’t detract from her femininity. Grimacing with concentration, she skilfully manoeuvred to the driver’s side of the vehicle, opened the door and positioned the wheelchair so she could haul herself into the driver’s seat. Then she smiled and said something to the young woman accompanying her, who opened the rear door and put the chair on a hoist which lifted it into the luggage space. The woman waved as she returned to the building and Tara reversed and drove slowly away.

  What now?

  He’d seen her. That had been pleasure, not pain. But he still had to speak to her. Tell her he was soon starting sessional work in the specialist rooms attached to her practice. What a strange turn of fate that the position of visiting orthopaedic surgeon had come up in Keysdale, of all places. As the most junior partner in his practice, without any country attachments, he’d been offered the job and been expected to take it. Initially he’d had doubts, as it would mean bringing up traumas of the past he’d thought he’d laid to rest, but after thinking long and hard he’d realised it might be a way of achieving closure to confirm Tara had no feelings for him.

  And now he was back, and he didn’t want to present her with any nasty surprises like approaching her in the car park. It would have to be at her home—her parents’ home. He cringed at the thought of a reunion with the two people he’d believed had liked him and approved of his marriage to their only daughter. But after the accident they’d not bothered to hide their abhorrence of him. They’d blamed him and then callously ignored him. Or at least her father had.

  If there was any other way…

  He decided to have a coffee in one of the cafés in the main street, go through in his mind what he would say, and then drive the ten kilometres out of town to the Fielding farm. He couldn’t put it off any longer.

  * * *

  ‘Is Dad still working?’ Tara asked as her mother helped her into her wheelchair.

  ‘Yep, but he should be here any minute. He’s been fixing fences down near the creek and said he’d finish the job after milking.’ Jane Fielding closed the back of the car and followed her daughter towards the homestead.

  ‘How was your day, love?’ her mother asked, as she did every afternoon when Tara came home from work. Tara loved her mother dearly, but sometimes felt smothered by her protectiveness and yearned for a home of her own.

  But Tara was realistic; leaving the family home wasn’t practical. She’d need a purpose-built unit and help from an able-bodied person for things that most people took for granted—like transferring to her chair, shopping in a supermarket, hanging out washing or gaining access to immediate help in an emergency. Of course there were ways around these difficulties, but even the most basic tasks took longer when you were confined to a wheelchair. She’d have to rethink her schedule to incorporate cooking, housework, washing and ironing—all the things her mother did without complaint. Her life wasn’t perfect, but it was a better option than moving out on her own. She was used to the routine. And her parents had made sacrifices, including nearly losing the farm, to cater for her needs and extra expenses in the early years. She would probably never be able to repay them.

  ‘Oh, you know—the same as usual; nothing out of the ordinary.’ She parked next to the kitchen bench where her mother began preparing a late afternoon tea.

  A moment later she heard the sound of her father’s boots being flung into the corner of the veranda near the back door.

  ‘I’m home,’ he shouted unnecessarily. You’d have to be deaf as a farm gate not to notice his comings and goings. Her mother always said it was a man thing—slamming doors, throwing things like a ball to a hoop and stomping around like an army major.

  ‘We’re in the kitchen. Tara’s just come home and I’m making tea.’

  ‘Rightio.’

  Tara laughed. The word was so old-fashioned but suited her father perfectly.

  Jane put fresh-brewed tea and a plate of orange cake on the bench as Graham Fielding entered the room.

  ‘Have you washed your hands?’ Tara’s mother was quick to ask—as she always did when Graham came in from working on the farm.

  ‘Yes, I’ve washed my hands,’ he said as he held them up for inspection, before kissing Tara on her forehead. ‘How’s my best girl?’

  Tara frowned. She hated the way her father often treated her as if she was still his little girl.

  ‘Fine, Dad.’ She reached for her cup of tea as her mother passed the cake. ‘How did you go with the fences?’

  ‘All done, but I won’t move the cows until after milking tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Want a hand?’

  Though she was quite able to handle a quad bike to get around the farm, and knew the routine of milking back to front, she guessed her father would say no. As he always did. She was sure she could manage
most of the work from her wheelchair with a simple modification to raise her height. She’d developed strength in her arms and shoulders to rival any man’s.

  But her father had refused to let her near the dairy after the accident. He didn’t seem to understand that her help would give him more time for the heavier work that neither Tara nor her mother could manage. For him, there was a non-negotiable line between men’s and women’s work that she’d almost given up trying to cross. His one concession was letting her mother help out now they could no longer afford to hire a dairyman.

  ‘No, love. It won’t take long, and you deserve your free time on the weekends.’

  He had good intentions but was seriously lacking in subtlety. Another one of those man things, as her mother would say. He had no idea, though. She hardly needed to keep a social diary. Her life had settled into a comfortable equilibrium of work, home and the occasional outing to the shops or the pool at the physio’s in Bayfield, fifty kilometres away. And at the end of her working days she hardly had any energy left to party.

  Their conversation was interrupted by a car pulling up at the front of the house.

  ‘Are you expecting visitors?’ Graham glanced at his wife.

  ‘Might be Audrey. She said she’d come round some time this week to return those preserving jars. But she usually drives around the back.’

  A car door slammed and a few moments later there was a crisp knock on the front door. ‘I’ll go and see who it is,’ she added.

  Graham stood up, an imposing thick-set man of six foot three. ‘No, I’ll go. You get another cup of tea poured.’

  * * *

  Tara heard her father talking, but not what he was saying. She could tell he was angry by the sharp rise and fall of his voice. The visitor was male, that was all she could tell, and clearly unwelcome.

  ‘Doesn’t sound like Audrey,’ her mother said with eyebrows raised.

  They stilled at the sound of the front door slamming and her father clomping, barefoot, down the passage.