Rescued: Mother and Baby

‘Have dinner with me,’ he said abruptly.

It wasn’t really a question, and the suddenness took her breath away. Flustered, she could only open and close her mouth like an idiot.

‘I don’t know if I’m ready to date again. I mean if it is a date…’ She flushed deeply as he grinned widely.

‘That’s kind of what I had in mind.’ His eyes dropped to the ring finger of her left hand. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he said softly. ‘But, Georgie, I only had dinner in mind. That’s all.’

Her heart was thudding uncomfortably in her chest. What should she do? There was no doubt she found him attractive, almost painfully so. It was just his career. Hadn’t she repeatedly told herself that she would never want to be with a man who put his life in danger almost every day of his life? Logan would be gone in three months. Far better that she keep her distance. On the other hand, it was just dinner. What was the harm in that? Two colleagues sharing a meal.

Confused by the conflicting emotions whizzing around her brain, she shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.’

Logan took a step back, surprise written all over his face. Georgie guessed that he wasn’t used to being turned down.

‘Of course,’ he said smoothly. ‘I understand. Maybe another time?’

‘Sure,’ Georgie mumbled. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to run.’ And before he could say anything else she took off, as if the devil himself was behind her.

Anne Fraser was born in Scotland, but brought up in South Africa. After she left school she returned to the birthplace of her parents, the remote Western Islands of Scotland. She left there to train as a nurse, before going on to university to study English Literature. After the birth of her first child she and her doctor husband travelled the world, working in rural Africa, Australia and Northern Canada. Anne still works in the health sector. To relax, she enjoys spending time with her family, reading, walking and travelling.

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^>*The Brides of Penhally Bay

To my daughter Rachel, with love.

GEORGIE MCARTHUR pulled herself up the almost vertical rock face, inch by painful inch. The day that had started with unseasonably warm sun was now, in true Scottish spring fashion, beginning to close in and the temperature was dropping rapidly. Despite the chill in the air, Georgie could feel perspiration beading her brow as she willed her stiff and unused muscles higher up the cliff. Taking a deep breath, she dug her fingertips into the rock and, finding the narrowest of footholds, dragged herself another couple of inches closer.

The ledge she was heading for was now only two feet above her and slightly to the right. This last bit of the climb was critical and she prayed the injured boy would stay still until she reached him. If he panicked now and the shelf crumbled, it could send him tumbling over the edge—and her along with him.

‘Stay as still as you can,’ she called out. ‘I’ll be with you soon, but I have to climb above you first. Okay?’ There was no reply. The child was hidden from her view by the ledge and Georgie fervently hoped he was all right.

Steadying herself, she continued climbing until she was above him. At last she could see him clearly. He was sitting huddled against the cliff wall, his legs in front of him, the left twisted at an unnatural angle. Without doubt it was broken, but how badly? The boy was pale and clearly distressed.

‘Almost there—just sit tight,’ Georgie said, inserting another bolt into the cliff. By climbing higher than the boy, she could suspend herself just above him until she made an assessment of the stability of the shelf of rock. The last thing she wanted was for her added weight to send them both plummeting to the ground.

Finally she was in position. The boy had been watching her wide-eyed while she’d made her preparations. He looked about nine years old, and his anxious, pain-filled eyes tugged at her heart. He was so little to be going through this on his own. Which begged the question: where was the adult—or adults—who had been with him? As far as Georgie knew, the call had come from a climber who had just happened to be passing when he’d spotted the brightly coloured jacket the boy was wearing. He’d immediately called the rescue services.

It had been Georgie’s bad luck to be visiting her brother Kirk at the mountain rescue clubhouse when the call had come through. The timing was all off. A few more minutes and she might have been out of the clubhouse and on her way home, absolved from feeling any responsibility for the young victim. But she had been there when the emergency had been phoned through.

‘There’s a problem up on Ben Nevis,’ Kirk had said grimly after answering his mobile phone. ‘A young lad is stuck on a cliff. No one knows how he got there, but it seems he’s hurt.’

Kirk had looked at her with sympathy in his eyes. ‘There’s no one else, Georgie,’ he’d said quietly. He’d glanced at the clock on the wood-panelled wall. ‘Damn it, I don’t think the others are going to be back any time soon and I can’t do much with this cursed wrist in a cast.’