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  He felt the swift heat of embarrassment wash over his face when he remembered how brusque he’d been with Faith today.

  The bequest must have been even more of a shock to her as the woman’s only surviving relative, and she’d probably still been reeling with it when he’d spoken to her. The least he could have done was to hear her out when she’d tried to voice her concerns. Except, if he was honest, he would have to admit that the reason why he’d cut her off that way was because he’d been overcome by fear.

  In spite of what he’d said to her, he wasn’t afraid that she was going to try to renege on her mother’s bequest—even after the way she’d left him and the number of years that had passed, he still believed in her basic honesty.

  No, his fear was that she was going to suggest finding some way to alter their joint trusteeship, to remove any possibility that the two of them would see each other again once she left Rookmere this time.

  He sighed heavily as he stared up at the ceiling, silently admitting that it was pointless trying to lie to himself.

  Truthfully, he was overjoyed at the bequest of the Barton. It was an unimaginable bonus that would chop years and hundreds of thousands off his fundraising attempts. But hot on the heels of that knowledge came the realisation that it was probably the only arrangement that would prevent Faith from cutting all ties to the area.

  He’d actually had to fight the urge to cheer aloud, and had made his way towards her filled with a crazy feeling of anticipation.

  Hearing her talk about her frantically busy life had been bad enough, but his reaction when she’d started talking about her original plans to sell the Barton had been classic knee-jerk stuff.

  No, sixteen years might have gone by, but he doubted that the person she’d been had intended to suggest that she wanted to sell the Barton for personal gain. It had been his disappointment that she was already trying to find a way not to spend time near him that had had him snapping at her, and ever since, he’d known that he was going to have to make another grovelling apology.

  Something of that magnitude should have been done in person, but just as he’d been about to leave the practice to drive up to the Barton, he’d intercepted a desperate call from Sara Dean.

  ‘Please, Doctor, help me!’ she’d begged hysterically, not sounding the least bit like her usual calm thirty-seven-year-old self. ‘Jamie’s not breathing. He’s gone blue.’

  ‘Have you phoned for an ambulance?’ he’d demanded, even as he’d snatched his bag off the reception desk and juggled to fish his keys from his pocket. His brain had already been moving at twice the speed of light. ‘And have you tried to resuscitate him?’

  ‘No!’ she wailed. ‘I phoned you as soon as I realised that he wasn’t—’

  ‘Sara!’ he interrupted quickly, ‘I’m on my way now. Call an ambulance straight away. The emergency services operator will tell you what to do until I can get there.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Now, Sara,’ he insisted, his pulse racing with the need to move swiftly. ‘Phone the emergency number now. Tell them you need an ambulance.’ He put the phone down and raced out of the door, barely pausing long enough to check that the lock had engaged to secure the building and its small pharmacy before he was pressing the button to unlock his car.

  It took concentration not to put his foot to the floor but, without a warning siren, he couldn’t risk the safety of the other people living along the route with excessive speed. The only thing he could do while the journey seemed to pass so agonisingly slowly was review everything he knew about the woman waiting for him to arrive.

  The Deans had been married for eight years, only realising when they’d tried unsuccessfully to start a family in their mid-thirties that their decision to concentrate on their careers might have been an irreversible mistake.

  Two years of expensive, fruitless intervention had followed, then, on their final attempt, the miracle had happened.

  Sara had just had her pregnancy confirmed when Quinn had started his original stint as locum and her incandescent joy in her developing baby had quickly fixed her in his mind. Unfortunately, he’d come to know her more than most of his patients as there had been numerous scares over the following seven months with bleeds and violent morning sickness in the early stages, followed by water retention and high blood pressure towards the end.

  He didn’t think he would ever forget the blissful expression on her face after her emergency Caesarean when she’d told him that her perfect son had been worth every miserable moment.

  Perhaps chance would be on her side again. She should have rung the emergency services immediately, but he guessed that she’d had to use the practice telephone number so often in the past that it had been automatic to her to dial it this time, too. He didn’t like to think how many precious minutes she might have wasted trying to contact him if he’d left the practice five minutes earlier…If he hadn’t been standing right beside the switchboard in the reception area when the phone had rung…

  Luckily, the Deans didn’t live in one of the more distant outlying hamlets, so it really didn’t take long before he was scattering gravel as he braked to a hasty halt outside their cottage. He only just remembered in time not to block easy access for the ambulance on its way.

  Even as he sprinted up the path he could see that the front door was standing wide open.

  ‘Hello?’ he called as he dashed inside, wondering which way to go—up to the bedroom or—?

  ‘It’s not working!’ he heard Sara wail from the room at the end of the short hallway, and took off at a run towards the sound.

  His heart sank when he took in the sight that met his eyes. Little Jamie, such a bright, alert little baby when he’d seen him for his last check-up, was lying on the floor as limp as a rag doll, his stretchy sleepsuit gaping open all the way down the front. As he watched, Sara completed the last of that set of chest compressions then covered his mouth and nose to breathe for him, all the while holding the phone to one ear.

  The little chest lifted as the lungs inflated, but Quinn’s heart sank. He was almost certain, even from the other side of the room, that there was little point to the exercise.

  ‘Sara, I’m here,’ he said, and swiftly knelt down beside her. ‘I need to take a look at Jamie.’

  ‘Please!’ She sank back onto her heels, visibly shaking all over. ‘Do something for him, please. I’ve tried and tried but I must be doing it all wrong. I can’t find his pulse and…and he won’t open his eyes and…and it’s time for his feed and—’

  ‘Sara!’ he interrupted sharply, all too aware that she was close to breaking down completely. He needed to concentrate on Jamie now. He wouldn’t be able to do his best for either of them if they both needed attention at once—at least, not effectively. ‘Please, tell the operator I’ve arrived. Ask them how long it will be before the ambulance arrives.’

  As he’d hoped, with a specific task to perform she managed to rally her control.

  ‘They’re nearly here,’ she reported eagerly. ‘She says they’re less than two minutes away now.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, even though his thoughts were very different. He’d found no pulse either, and so far he’d found absolutely no response of any kind to any of his tests. Jamie’s hands and feet were already blue and cold and his skin had taken on that tell-tale waxy appearance.

  ‘Go and open the door for them, please, Sara,’ he directed, when she started to kneel beside her son again.

  He knew that the door was already open—he deliberately hadn’t closed it when he’d come in—but he had some crucial tests to perform that he’d rather do without her watching. An intelligent woman like Sara would soon realise their significance and she definitely wasn’t ready for that yet. He doubted that any mother would ever be ready…

  He performed the tests carefully, hoping against hope that he was wrong, but his best guess was that Jamie had already been dead for at least half an hour and probably longer. It was difficult to be exa
ct with the warmth of the room slowing down the rate of heat loss. The coroner would be able to perform other tests for more accurate timing.

  ‘They’re here, Doctor!’ Sara shrieked, and came racing back into the room. ‘Oh, Jamie, love, they’re here. You’ll be all right now, sweetheart.’

  For just a moment Quinn contemplated continuing resuscitation, just to delay the inevitable a bit longer, but his innate sense of honesty wouldn’t let him do it.

  ‘Is he breathing?’ she demanded breathlessly when she came to a startled halt, wide-eyed to see Quinn kneeling motionless beside her baby. ‘Is Jamie all right?’ She dropped to her knees beside her son and ran a loving hand over his still body.

  ‘No, Sara,’ Quinn said sadly. ‘He’s not breathing. He—’

  ‘Well, why did you stop, then? Why aren’t you doing anything?’ she demanded shrilly. ‘If you don’t keep up the resuscitation he could be brain damaged, and then he won’t be able to…’

  Even as she was speaking, she was positioning her fingertips over her son’s tiny chest and beginning compressions, counting the repetitions aloud.

  ‘Sara, stop,’ he said, and reached out to cover her hands with one of his, but it took several seconds before he could force her to come to a halt. ‘It’s no good, Sara. He’s gone.’

  ‘No!’ she wailed, shaking her head frantically in denial and fighting his grasp as he drew her hands away. ‘He can’t be gone. We waited so long to have him and…and he’s ours and…and he’s perfect and…and he’ll be all right if we can just—’

  ‘No, Sara. He’s been gone for a little while,’ he said gently, as the paramedic took his place beside the still figure, drawing the hysterical woman away. ‘We can’t do anything for him now,’ he said, then had to wrap his arms around her to support her when grief overwhelmed her strength.

  Midnight had come before he’d realised it, the time being taken up with all the details that surrounded such a sudden death.

  He hadn’t had to contact the coroner’s office very often since he’d started working as a GP, and having to notify them of the death of such a young child would always be one of his more upsetting jobs.

  He’d sat with Sara while she’d cradled her baby, sobbing her heart out while she’d waited for her husband to return home from the second job he’d taken to pay for the expensive treatment that had given them their son. He’d made tea and sympathised with the Deans’ outpourings of grief and had kept them company while the uniformed policewoman had taken their statements, then had heaved a silent sigh of relief when Sara’s parents had finally arrived to take care of the shattered couple.

  Knowing that none of them was likely to be able to sleep tonight without help, he’d left a sample prescription of sleeping tablets, and had only just remembered before he’d left to give Sara an initial dose of bromocriptine to begin the process of drying up her milk.

  He was so exhausted by the time he finally reached home that he felt like a punch-drunk boxer, without the energy to do anything but still too full of adrenalin and caffeine to be able to sleep.

  If he closed his eyes, all he could see was that pitiful little body and was filled anew with the bitter regret that there had been absolutely nothing he could do for Jamie.

  He’d tried not to feel hurt when Sara had turned on him in her grief, knowing that it was a common reaction to such a loss, but still…

  Suddenly he was overwhelmed by the sheer loneliness of his responsibilities, the knowledge that he was responsible for the health of all the hundreds and hundreds of people who were registered with the practice, and just as suddenly all he wanted to do was phone Faith and hear her voice.

  The overwhelming force of his need shook him.

  He’d never been one of those people who made friends easily—probably a result of a childhood spent moving from one place to another to avoid creditors. Wherever he’d gone he’d always felt like an outsider, until that first day at school when he and his father had moved to Rookmere, the day when he’d met Faith.

  For the first time since his mother had died, he’d had someone who’d listened to him when he’d spoken about his hopes and dreams, someone who’d given him encouragement when he’d found his schoolwork hard and had praised him when he’d got good grades.

  In his last year at school he’d finally discovered what it felt like to have someone who believed in him without question because she’d shared his ambitions.

  It was only now that Faith had reappeared in his life, no matter how briefly she was going to stay, that he realised just how much he’d lost all those years ago.

  For the first time in sixteen years he knew that, even though she hadn’t become a doctor, she would understand if he were to tell her about the disaster that had happened tonight. Even after all this time, he was somehow certain that she would understand how he felt without him having to say a word.

  He drew in a shuddering breath when the significance of his thoughts dawned on him.

  Could it really be true? Was it possible that, in spite of his knee-jerk assumptions about her motives for wanting to sell the Barton, there was still a remnant of that special connection between them?

  There was only one way to find out.

  He reached for the phone.

  Tapping out the number was second nature now and, even though he knew he was going to have to make another apology, just the ringing sound in his ear brought a lift to his spirits.

  Those spirits started to come down to earth rather rapidly when the phone rang and rang without answer. He was just wondering whether Faith had gone away or whether he’d merely misdialled when someone picked up the receiver.

  ‘Faith?’ His pulse rate picked up again, fuelled by a mixture of relief and anticipation.

  ‘I’m sorry. She can’t come to the phone at the moment,’ said a sleepy-sounding male voice, and Quinn was certain his heart stopped for several endless seconds. ‘Did you want to leave a message?’ The polite enquiry was almost swallowed by a yawn.

  Quinn’s pulse thundered into action again, stoked by raging jealousy. All of a sudden there was a picture in his mind of the young man who had hovered over her so solicitously at the funeral and had sat close by her side when that prissy solicitor had read the will.

  ‘DJ?’ He was trying hard not to visualise him in Faith’s room at this time of night, sounding as if he’d just woken up. If he let his thoughts go down that path his pulse would be beating loud enough to drown out any conversation.

  ‘Yes. Who are—?’

  ‘Is Faith still at the Barton or has she gone away?’ he interrupted.

  ‘She’s still here, but who is this call—?’

  ‘Why didn’t she answer the phone, then?’ he demanded.

  ‘Probably because she didn’t hear it,’ DJ snapped irritably. ‘She can’t hear it when she’s downstairs, playing the piano. Now, who is this?’

  This time his question was interrupted by a feminine voice on the other end of the line. Quinn couldn’t hear what she said but he heard the impatient reply.

  ‘I don’t know who it is. Some guy with an attitude problem,’ DJ said, making no attempt to prevent Quinn hearing what he was saying. ‘Doesn’t he realise what time it is?’

  Quinn felt like an eavesdropper and strained his ears to try to decipher the murmured conversation that followed, without any success.

  Then he heard one soft word. ‘Quinn?’

  It was Faith’s voice, sounding unaccountably flustered, and the knots inside him tightened still further when he wondered at the cause of her disquiet. Was she embarrassed that the young man she lived with had picked up a call from another man?

  ‘I take it you haven’t told him about me?’ he demanded, only realising how abrupt he’d been when he heard her gasp.

  ‘Told him what, exactly?’

  ‘That we knew each other when he was probably still in nappies,’ he snapped. He knew he was probably sounding like a jealous fool, but somehow he just couldn’t stop
the words emerging.

  He cringed as the silence stretched out into infinity, half expecting to hear her put the phone down on him. The icy tone in her voice when she did speak was almost worse.

  ‘And you phoned me up at this time of night to comment on the company I keep?’

  He dragged his free hand over his face then squeezed the tight muscles at the back of his neck in the vain hope that he could stave off the building headache.

  ‘No, dammit,’ he growled. ‘That wasn’t why I phoned.’ He laughed but there was little humour in it. ‘I actually phoned to apologise…again!’

  ‘At this rate, you’re going to get good at it,’ she retorted. ‘How many times is it so far?’

  ‘More than my ego cares to remember,’ he admitted, knowing that he had no right to comment on the way she chose to live her life. If he needed a reminder, all he had to do was think about the way she’d left him the last time they’d been involved.

  Involved? His thoughts screeched to a halt at the very idea.

  He wasn’t involved with Faith. There was no point in even thinking about getting involved with her, bearing in mind just how little time she was going to be at the Barton.

  Yes, she would probably find a way to honour her mother’s last wishes in spite of her busy life, and he couldn’t help enjoying their late night conversations, but he was far too wary a bird to be caught in the same net twice.

  In fact, it would probably be wise if he made his apology and got off the phone as soon as possible, and limit any future calls to their joint involvement in the Barton’s conversion—but, then, when had he ever been wise where Faith Adamson was concerned?

  ‘So, why did you leave it so late to phone?’ Faith asked, and he suddenly remembered the other reason why he’d wanted to speak to her…why he’d needed to speak to her.