From Christmas To Forever?
Melting his frozen heartHeiress Dr Pollyanna Hargreaves has been wrapped in cotton wool all her life, now she’s determined to strike out on her own! But she never expected to get stuck with handsome GP Dr Hugo Denver for Christmas. He’s meant to have left on holiday with his adorable niece already – not be tempting her at every turn!Forced to work together Hugo’s icy exterior soon begins to thaw. And it’s not long before Polly realises that she’s falling for him…and little Ruby too!
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‘Marion Lennox’s Rescue at Cradle Lake is simply magical, eliciting laughter and tears in equal measure. A keeper.’
—RT Book Reviews
‘Best of 2010: a very rewarding read. The characters are believable, the setting is real, and the writing is terrific.’
—Dear Author on Christmas with Her Boss
She really was fragile, Hugo thought, bending down to give his niece a hug. Last year had been a tragedy for Ruby, and it still showed. She expected calamity.
‘This isn’t ruin,’ he said gently. ‘It’s just flour.’
‘It’s snow. To make Polly feel better when we’re not here.’
‘And Polly loves it,’ Polly said, and then sneezed as if she needed to accentuate the point. ‘Ruby, it’s still great. Look what we’ve done, Dr Denver. All we need you to do is chop down a tree, so I suggest you stop dripping and start helping while I clean up your mess …’
‘My mess?’
‘Your mess,’ she said, and grinned. ‘Walking in on artists at work … you should know better.’
‘I’m glad I didn’t,’ he said faintly, and he looked around at the mess and thought for the first time in … how long? … that this place looked like home.
What was better than this? he thought. What was better than Polly?
I was raised in a farming community, where everyone knew everyone and where our doctor seemed the linchpin of our lives. Doc—he needed no other name—was known to walk fifteen miles between clinics during wartime petrol rationing. By the time he delivered me he was in his eighties, and he worked on until I was in my teens. We never called him unless we truly needed him, but when we did he gave his all. I remember his grandson telling me what it was like at Doc’s house at Christmas. You couldn’t move for whisky, he said, and grateful gifts of home-baked goodies and produce were almost an embarrassment. When he died, the entire district mourned.
In a way, this book is a testament to Doc and to the caring community I was raised in. My husband and I have recently—joyously—moved back to a small town. As I write this I’m looking forward to Christmas in our new/old home, in our new/old community, and I’m wishing you the magic of belonging. I’m also wishing you the love shown by Doc, and by so many medical staff who follow his tradition of care, and I’m wishing you a very happy Christmas.
Marion Lennox
MARION LENNOX is a country girl, born on an Australian dairy farm. She moved on, because the cows just weren’t interested in her stories! Married to a ‘very special doctor’, she has also written under the name Trisha David. She’s now stepped back from her ‘other’ career, teaching statistics. Finally she’s figured out what’s important, and has discovered the joys of baths, romance and chocolate. Preferably all at the same time! Marion is an international award-winning author.
To the many people who’ve already made us welcome in our new home. To Jacky, to Gail, to Colleen, to Alison, and to all on Fisherman’s Flat, to all who welcome us as we walk our dog, paddle our kayaks, or simply yak over the front fence. You’re stuck with us for life, and we love it.
Table of Contents
Dedication
CHRISTMAS IN THE middle of nowhere. Wombat Valley. Hooray!
Dr Pollyanna Hargreaves—Polly to everyone but her mother—beefed up the radio as she turned off the main road. Bing Crosby’s ‘White Christmas’ wasn’t exactly appropriate for Christmas deep in the Australian bush, but it didn’t stop her singing along. She might be a long way from snow, but she was happy.
The country around her was wild and mountainous. The twisting road meant this last section of the journey could take a while, but the further she went, the further she got from the whole over-the-top celebration that was her parents’ idea of Christmas.
‘You can’t be serious!’ She could still hear her mother’s appalled words when she’d broken the news that she wouldn’t be spending Christmas with them. ‘We’ve planned one of the most wonderful Christmases ever. We’ve hired the most prestigious restaurant on Sydney Harbour. All our closest friends are coming, and the head chef himself has promised to oversee a diabetic menu. Pollyanna, everyone expects you.’
Expectation was the whole problem, Polly thought, as she turned through the next curve with care. This road was little more than a logging route, and recent rain had gouged gutters along the unsealed verge. The whole of New South Wales had been inundated with weeks of subtropical downpours, and it looked as if Wombat Valley had borne the brunt of them. She was down to a snail’s pace.
But she wasn’t worried. She wasn’t in Sydney. Or in Monaco, where she’d been last Christmas. Or in Aspen, where she’d been the Christmas before that.
Cute little Pollyanna had finally cut and run.
