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Nikki and The
Lone Wolf
Mardie and The
City Surgeon
Marion Lennox
Nikki and The Lone Wolf
Marion Lennox
Dear Reader,
Every night around five o’clock my dog, Mitzi, starts pacing. She starts with a mournful sigh, then trudges to the door where her lead hangs, then back to me. Over and over. Finally, I relent. Snow, sleet or baking sun, off we go to our local lake, where I let her off the lead and she can run.
And she does run—a black and silver mini-schnauzer, the runt of the litter, a little dog in a huge dog’s body, mixing with all the other dogs who’ve had similar success getting their lead-holders out of their houses. We love it.
Mitzi’s best mates are wolfhounds—two vast mutts who play with her as if she’s an equal. She does doughnuts through their legs while I chat to their owner, Wolfhound Man, their equal in the large department—though a lot better-looking. A lot!
So for this story, when I needed a dog and a hero, there they were in my head—my wolfhound, Horse, and the man who loves him. Wolfhound Man has become Gabe, a sea captain and all-round hero, and of course there’s Nikki, a heroine deserving of both man and dog. I’m imagining you, my reader, as my heroine, and I hope you do, too. And you don’t even have to feed a wolfhound to do it.
I love the dogs in my life. I love the dogs in my books. But what I love most is when they come together with passion and laughter, and write themselves into love stories for you to enjoy with me.
Happy reading!
Marion
About the Author
MARION LENNOX is a country girl, born on an Australian dairy farm. She moved on—mostly because the cows just weren’t interested in her stories! Married to a “very special doctor”, Marion writes Medical Romances as well as Mills & Boon® Cherish™. She’s now had over seventy-five romance novels accepted for publication.
In her non-writing life Marion cares for kids, cats, dogs, chooks and goldfish. She travels, she fights her rampant garden (she’s losing) and her house dust (she’s lost).
Having spun in circles for the first part of her life, she’s now stepped back from her “other” career, which was teaching statistics at her local university. Finally she’s reprioritised her life, figured what’s important, and discovered the joys of deep baths, romance and chocolate. Preferably all at the same time!
To Gail and to Charles, for Bob, a gentle giant
with a heart as big as he was.
CHAPTER ONE
A WOLF was at her door.
Okay, maybe it wasn’t quite at her door, Nikki conceded, as she came back to earth. Or back to the sofa. The howl was close, though. Her hair felt as if it was spiking straight up, and for good reason.
It was the most appalling, desolate sound she could imagine—and she wasn’t imagining it.
She set her china teacup onto the coffee table with care, absurdly pleased she hadn’t spilled it. She was a country girl now. Country girls didn’t get spooked by wolves.
Yes, they did.
She fought for logic. Wolves didn’t exist in Banksia Bay. This was the north coast of New South Wales.
Was it a dingo?
Her landlord hadn’t mentioned dingoes.
He wouldn’t, she thought bitterly. Gabe Carver was one of the most taciturn men she’d ever met. He spoke in monosyllabic grunts. ‘Sign here. Rent first Tuesday of the month. Any problems, talk to Joe down at the wharf. He’s the handyman. Welcome to Banksia Bay.’
Even his welcome had seemed grudging.
Was he at home?
She peered nervously out into the night and was absurdly comforted to see lights on next door. Actually, it wasn’t even next door. This was a huge old house on the headland at the edge of town. Three rooms had been split from the rest of the house and a kitchen installed to make her lovely apartment.
Her landlord was thus right through the wall. They shared the entrance porch. Taciturn or not, the thought that he was at home was reassuring. The burly seaman seemed tough, capable, powerful—even vaguely scary. If the wolf came in …
This was crazy. Nothing was coming in. Her door was locked. And it couldn’t be a wolf. It was …
The howl came again, long, low and filling the night with despair.
Despair?
What would she know?
It was just a dog, howling at the moon.
It didn’t sound like … just a howl.
She peered out again, then tugged the curtains closed. Logical or not, this was scary. Barricade the door and go to bed. It was the only logical thing to do.
Another howl.
Pain.
Desolation.
Did pain and desolation make any kind of sense?
Step away from the window, Nikkita, she told herself. This is nothing to do with you. This is weird country stuff.
‘I’m a country girl.’ She said it out loud.
‘Um, no,’ she corrected herself. ‘You’re not. You’re a city girl who’s lived in Banksia Bay for all of three weeks. You ran here because your low-life boss broke your heart. It was a dumb, irrational move. You know nothing about country living.’
But her landlord was right next door. Dogs? Wolves? Whatever it was, he’d be hearing it. He could deal with it himself or he could call Joe.
She was going to bed.
* * *
The howl filled the night, echoing round and round the big old house.
There was a dog out there, in trouble.
It was not Gabe’s problem. Not.
The howl came again, mournful as death, filling his head with its misery. If Jem had been here she’d be off to investigate.
He missed Jem so much it was as if he’d lost a part of him.
He was settled in his armchair by the fire. Things were as they’d always been, but the place at his feet was empty.
He’d found Jem sixteen years ago, a scrappy, half grown collie, skin and bones. She was attacking a rotting fish on the beach.
He’d lifted her away, half expecting the starved pup to growl or snap, but she’d turned and licked his face with her disgusting tongue—and sealed a friendship for life.
She passed away in her sleep, three months back. He still put his hand down, expecting the warmth of her rough coat. Expecting her to be … there.
The howl cut across his thoughts. Impossible to ignore.
He swore.
Okay, he didn’t want to get involved—when had he ever?—but he couldn’t bear this. The howl was coming from the beach. If a dog was trapped down there … The tide was on its way in.
Why would a dog be trapped on the beach?
Why would a dog be on the beach?
The howl … again.
He sighed. Abandoned his book. Hauled on the battered sou’wester that, as a professional fisherman, was his second skin. Tugged on his boots and headed for the door.
There wasn’t a lot of use staring at the fire anyway. He’d made a conscious decision when his wife walked away to never live with anyone again. Emotional connection spelled disaster.
That didn’t mean he had to like his solitary life. With Jem it had been just okay. Not any more.
Her silk pyjamas were laid out on her pretty pink quilt, waiting for her to climb into her brand new single bed. But the howling went on.
She couldn’t bear it.
She might not be a country girl but she’d figured whatever was out there was distressed, not threatening. The howl contained all the misery in the world.
Her landlord lived next door. He should fix it, but would he?
The first day she’d been here she’d worried about pipes gurgling in her antiquated bathroom. The bathroom was vast, the bathtub was huge, and the plumbing looked as if it had come from a medieval castle. The gurgling had her thinking there was no way she was using the bath.
Gabe had been outside, chopping wood. She’d hesitated to approach, intimidated by his gruffness—and also the size, the sense of innate power, the sheer masculinity of the man. Chopping wood … he’d looked quite something.
Actually … he’d been stripped to the waist and he’d looked really something.
She was being stupid. Hormonal. Dumb. She’d plucked up courage and approached, feeling like Oliver Twist asking for more gruel. ‘Please sir, could you fix my pipes?’
‘See Joe,’ he’d muttered and promptly disappeared.
She’d been disconcerted for days.
She’d seethed for a bit, tried to ignore the gurgling for a few days, had showers, and finally gone to find Joe.
Joe was an ancient ex-fisherman living on a dilapidated schooner that looked as if it hadn’t been to sea for years. He’d promised to fix the gurgling that afternoon. He did—sort of—thumping the pipes with a spanner—but while she’d been explaining the problem, a fishing boat swept past. Huge. Freshly painted. Gleaming clean and white. The deck was stacked with cray-pots. The superstructure was strung with scores of lanterns that Joe explained were to attract squid.
Her landlord had been at the wheel.
Still disconcerting. Big, weathered, powerful.
Still capable of doing things to her hormones just by … being.
‘Turns his hand to anything, that one,’ Joe told her as they watched Gabe go past. ‘Some of the guys here just fish for squid. Or crays. Or tuna. Then there’s a drop in numbers, or sales go off and they’re in trouble. I’ve been a fisherman all my life and I’ve seen so many go to the wall. Gabe just buys ‘em out and keeps going. He went away for a while, but came back when things got bad. Bailed us out. Six of the boats here are his.’
At the wheel of his boat, Gabe looked an imposing figure. His sou’wester might have once been yellow, but that time was long past. He wore oversized waterproof trousers with braces, rubber boots and a faded checked shirt rolled up to reveal arms maybe four times the width of hers. His eyes were creased against the elements, and his face looked almost grim.
After days at sea, his stubble was almost a beard. His thick black hair—in need of a cut—was stiff with salt.
His boat passed within yards of Joe’s, and he gave Joe a salute. No smile, though.
He didn’t look as if he ever smiled.
He bought up other fishermen when they went broke? He made money out of other people’s misery?
Her hormones needed to find someone else to fantasise about, fast.
‘I’d guess he’s not popular,’ she’d ventured, but Joe had looked at her as if she was crazy.
‘Are you kidding? Without Gabe, the fishing industry here’d be bust. He buys out the guys who go broke, gives ‘em a fair price, then employs ‘em to keep working. He’s got thirty men and women working for him now, all making a better living than they ever did solo, and there’s not one but who’d lay down their lives for him. Not that he’d ask. Never asks anything of anyone. Never lets anyone close. If anyone’s in trouble Gabe’s first on hand, doing what needs doing, whatever the cost. But he doesn’t want thanks. Backs off a mile if you try and give it. He keeps to himself, our Gabe. Apart from that one disaster of a marriage, he always has and he always will. The town respects that. We’d be nuts not to.’
He paused, watching as Gabe expertly manoeuvred his boat into a berth that seemed way too small to take her. He did it as if he was parking a Mini Minor in a paddock, as if he had all the room in the world. ‘But now his dog’s died,’ Joe said slowly, reflectively. ‘I dunno … We’ve never seen him without her; not since he was a lad, and how he’s handling it …’ He broke off and shook his head. ‘Yeah, well, about those pipes …’
That was two weeks ago.
Another howl jerked her back to the present. A dog in trouble.
Desolation?
She had to do something.
There was nothing she could do. This was something her landlord had to cope with.
The howl came again, long, low and dreadful.
She’d tugged on her pyjama top. Almost defiantly.
Another howl.
She paused, torn.
What if her landlord wasn’t at home? What if he’d left the light on and was gone?
There was a dog out there in trouble.
Not your problem. NYP. NYP. NYP.
She closed her eyes.
Another howl.
She hauled off her pyjamas and tugged on jeans. Designer jeans. She should do something about her clothes.
She should do something about a dog.
Where was a torch?
What if it was a dingo?
She grabbed her mobile phone. Checked reception. Checked she had the emergency services number on speed dial.
There was a heavy metal poker by the fireside. So far she hadn’t lit the fire—or she had once but it had smoked and what did you do about a fire that smoked?
You bought a nice clean electric fire.
Another howl—they were now almost continuous.
Enough.
Poker in one hand, torch in the other, country-girl Nikki—or not—went to see.
The beach beneath the headland was bushland almost to the water’s edge. Gabe strode down the darkened track with ease. He’d lived here all his life—he practically knew each twig. He didn’t need a torch. In moonlight, torchlight stopped you seeing the big picture.
He reached the beach and looked out to the water’s edge. Following the howl.
A huge dog. Skinny. Really skinny. Standing in the shallows, howling with all the misery in the world.
Gabe walked steadily forward, not wanting to startle it, walking as if he was strolling slowly along the beach and hadn’t even noticed the dog.
The dog saw him. It stopped howling and backed further into the water. Obviously terrified.
A wolfhound? A wolfhound mixed with something else. Black and shaggy and desolate.
‘It’s okay.’ He was still twenty yards away. ‘Hey, boy, it’s fine. You going to tell me what’s the matter?’
The dog stilled.
It was seriously big. And seriously skinny. And very, very wet.
Had it come off a boat?
He thought suddenly of Jem, shivering on the beach sixteen years back. Jem, breaking his heart.
This dog was nothing to do with him. This was not another Jem.
He couldn’t leave it, though. Could he entice it up the cliff? If he could get it into his truck he’d take it to Henrietta who ran the local Animal Welfare shelter.
That was the extent of his involvement. Dogs broke your heart almost worse than people.
‘I’m not going to hurt you.’ He should have brought some steak, something to coax him. ‘You want to come home and get a feed? Here, boy?’
The dog backed still further. For whatever reason, this dog didn’t want company. He looked a great galumphing frame of terror.
It’d have to be steak. There was no way he’d catch him without.
‘Stay here,’ he told the dog. ‘Two minutes tops and I’ll be back with supper. You like rump steak?’
The dog was almost haunch-deep in water. Was he dumb or just past acting rationally?
‘Two minutes,’ he promised. ‘Don’t go away.’
The dog was on the beach. As soon as she walked out of the front door she figured it out. The house was on the headland and the howls were echoing straight up.
Should she knock on her landlord’s side of the house?
If he was home he must be hearing this, she thought, and if he’d heard it and done nothing, then no amount of pleading would make a difference. Joe said he helped people. Ha!
He must have heard and decided to ignore it. He was like Joe said, a loner.
Knock and see?
What was worse, the Hound of the Baskervilles or her landlord?
Don’t be stupid. Knock.
She knocked.
Nothing.
She didn’t know whether to be relieved or not.
Another howl.
What next? Ring the police?
What would she say? Excuse me but there’s a dog on the beach. What sort of wimpy statement was that?
She needed to see what was happening.
Cautiously.
There was a narrow track from the house to the beach but she’d only been on it a couple of times. It was a private track, practically overgrown. Where did the track start?
She searched the edge of the overgrown garden with the torch but she couldn’t find it.
So was she going to bush-bash her way down to the cove?
This was nuts. Dangerous nuts.
Only it wasn’t dangerous. There was only about fifty yards of bush-land between the house and the beach. The bush wasn’t so thick she couldn’t push through.
And that howl was doing things to her insides. It sounded like she imagined the Hound of the Baskervilles would sound, howling ghostly anguish over the moors. Or over her beach.
The animal must be stuck in a trap or something.
If it was stuck, what could she do?
Go to the beach, figure what’s wrong and then ring for help.
You can do this. You’re a big girl. A country girl. Or not.
She wanted, suddenly and desperately, to be back home in Sydney. In her lovely life she’d walked away from.
Face that tomorrow, she told herself harshly. For tonight … go fix a howl.
He was striding up the track, moving swiftly. With a slab of meat in his hand he could approach the dog slowly, letting it smell the meat before it smelled him. He’d intended to have the steak for breakfast—he needed a decent meal before heading to sea again—but he could cope with eggs.
Don’t get sucked in.
‘I’m not getting sucked in,’ he told himself. ‘I’m hauling the thing out of the water, feeding it and handing it over to Henrietta. End of story.’
It was dark.
The bush was really thick. Her torch wasn’t strong enough.
She was out of her mind.
The howls stopped.
Why?
The silence made it worse. Where had the howls been coming from? Where were the howls now?
Anything could be in here. Bunyips. Neanderthals. The odd rapist.
She was losing her mind, and she was going home now! She turned, pushed forward, and a branch slapped her forehead with a swish of leaves. She almost screamed. She was absurdly pleased that she didn’t.
But still no howl.
Where was it?
She was going back to the house. There was no way she was going one inch further.
Where was the thing behind the howl?
She shoved her way around the next bush, pushing herself against the thick foliage. Suddenly the foliage gave way and she almost tumbled out onto the track.
Hands grabbed her shoulders—and held.
She screamed and jerked back.
She raised her poker and she hit.
CHAPTER TWO
SHE’D killed him.
He went down like felled timber, crumpling from the knees, pitching sideways onto the leaf-littered track.
She had just enough courage not to run; to shine the torch at what she’d hit.
She’d hit someone—not something. She didn’t believe in werewolves. Therefore …
Sanity returned with terrifying speed. She had it figured almost before she got the torchlight on his face, and what she saw confirmed it.
She whimpered. There seemed no other option.
This was ghastly on so many levels her head felt it might explode.
She’d knocked out her landlord.
The howling started up again just through the trees, and she jumped higher than the first time she’d heard it.
A lesser woman would run.
There wasn’t room for her to be a lesser woman.
She knelt, shining the torchlight closer to see the damage.
Gabe’s dark face was thick with stubble, harsh and angular. A thin trickle of blood was oozing down the side of his cheek. A bruise with a split at its centre was rising above his eye.
He seemed totally unconscious.
To say her heart sank was an understatement. Her heart was below her ankles. It was threatening to abandon her body entirely.
But then … He stirred and groaned and his fingers moved towards his head.
Conscious. That had to be good.
What to do? Deep breath. This was no time for hysterics. He looked as if he was trying to focus.
She placed the poker behind her. Out of sight.
‘Are you … Are you okay?’ she managed.
He groaned. He closed his eyes and appeared to think about it.
‘No,’ he managed at last. ‘I’m not.’
‘I’ll find a doctor.’ Her voice wobbled to the point of ridiculous. ‘An ambulance.’
He opened his eyes again, touched his head, winced, closed his eyes again. ‘No.’
‘You need help.’ She was gabbling. ‘Someone.’ She went to touch his face and then thought better of it. She definitely needed help. Someone who knew what they were doing. She reached inside her jacket for her cellphone.
His eyes flew open, he grabbed her wrist and he held like a vice.
‘What did you hit me with?’ His voice was a slurred growl.
‘A … a poker.’ His voice was deep. In contrast, her voice was practically a squeak.
‘A poker,’ he said, almost conversationally. ‘Of course. And now what?’
‘S … sorry?’
‘You have a gun in your jacket? Or is only your poker loaded?’
Her breath came out in a rush. If he was making stupid jokes, maybe she hadn’t done deathly damage.
‘There’s not … that’s not funny,’ she managed. ‘You scared the daylights out of me.’
‘You hit the daylights out of me.’
Reaction was making her shake. ‘You snuck up.’ Her voice was getting higher. ‘You grabbed me.’
‘Snuck up …’ He sounded flabbergasted. ‘I believe,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘that I was running up the track. On my land. Back to my house. And you burst out of the undergrowth. Bearing poker.’
He had a point, she conceded. She’d almost fallen as she lurched onto the cleared track. She might indeed have fallen into his path.
It might even have been reasonable for him to grab her to stop them both falling.
And he was her landlord. Hitting someone was bad enough, but to hit Gabe …
It hadn’t been easy to find decent rental accommodation in Banksia Bay and she’d been really lucky to find this apartment. Apart from howling dogs, it had everything she needed. ‘Just be nice to your landlord and respect his privacy,’ the woman in the rental agency had advised. ‘He’s a bit of a loner. You leave Gabe in peace and you’ll get along fine.’
Leaving him in peace wouldn’t include hitting him, she conceded. Mentally she was already packing.
‘I need steak,’ he said across her thoughts.
She blinked. ‘Steak?’ She groped for basic first aid; thought of something she’d once read. ‘To stop the swelling?’ She tried to look wise. Tried to stop gibbering. ‘I don’t … I don’t have steak but I’ll get ice.’
‘For the dog, dummy.’ He’d raised his head but now he set it down again, staying flat on the leaf litter. Gingerly fingering the bruise. ‘The dog needs help. There’s steak in my fridge. Fetch it.’
‘I can’t …’
‘Just fetch it,’ he snapped and closed his eyes. ‘If you run round in the middle of the night with pokers, you face the consequences. Get the steak.’
‘I can’t leave you,’ she said miserably, and he opened one eye and looked at her. Flinching.
‘Turn the torch around,’ he said, and she realised that just possibly she was blinding him as well as hitting him.
‘Sorry.’ She swivelled the light so it was shining harmlessly into the bush.
‘No, onto you.’
He reached out, grabbed the flashlight and turned it onto her face. Then he surveyed her while she thought ouch, having a flashlight in her eyes hurt.
‘There’s no need to be scared,’ he said.
‘I’m not scared.’ But then the dog howled again and she jumped. Okay, maybe she was.
‘You can’t afford to be,’ he said, and she could tell by the strain in his voice that he was hurting. ‘Because the dog needs help. I don’t know what’s wrong with him. He’s standing on the beach howling. You were heading down with a poker. I, on the other hand, intend to try steak. I believe my method is more humane. It might take me a few moments to stop seeing stars, however, so you fetch it.’
‘Are you really seeing stars?’
‘Yes.’ Then he relented. ‘It’s night. There are stars. Yes, I’m dizzy, but I’ll get over it. I won’t die while you’re away, but I do need a minute to stop things spinning. My door’s open. Kitchen’s at the back. Steak’s in the paper parcel in the fridge. Chop it into bite sized pieces. I’ll lie here and count stars till you come back. Real ones.’
‘I can’t leave you. I need to call for help.’
‘I’m fine,’ he said with exaggerated patience. ‘I’ve had worse bumps than this and lived. Just do what I ask like a good girl and give me space to recover.’
‘You lost consciousness. I can’t …’
‘If I did it was momentary and I don’t need anyone to hold my hand,’ he snapped. ‘Neither do you. You’re wasting time, woman. Go.’
* * *
She went. Feeling dreadful.
She tracked the path with her torch, trying to run. She couldn’t. The path was a mass of tree roots. If Gabe had been running he must know the path by heart.
She didn’t have the right shoes for running either.
She didn’t have the right shoes at all, she thought. She was wearing Gucci loafers. They worked beautifully for wandering the Botanic Gardens in Sydney after a Sunday morning latte. They didn’t work so well here.
She wanted so much to be back in her lovely apartment overlooking Sydney Harbour. Back in her beautifully contained life, her wonderful job, her friends, the lovely parties, the coffee haunts, control.
Jon’s fabulous apartment. A job in a lovely office right next to Jon’s. A career that paid … extraordinarily. A career with Jon. Friends she shared with Jon. Coffee haunts where people greeted Jon before they greeted her.
Jon’s life. Or half of Jon’s life. She’d thought she had the perfect life and it had been based on a lie.
What to do when your world crumbled?
Run. She’d run to here.
‘Don’t think about it.’ She said it to herself as a mantra, over and over, as she headed up the track as fast as she could in her stupid shoes. There’d been enough self-pity. This was her new life. Wandering around in the dark, coshing her landlord, looking for steak for the Hound of the Baskervilles?
It was her new life until tomorrow, she thought miserably. Tomorrow Gabe would ask her to leave.
Another city might be more sensible than moving back to Sydney. But it was probably time she faced the fact that moving to the coast had been a romantic notion, a dignified way she could explain her escape to friends.
‘I can’t stand the rat race any longer. I can deal with my clients through the Internet and the occasional city visit. I see myself in a lovely little house overlooking the sea, just me and my work and time to think.’
Her friends—Jon’s friends—thought she was nuts, but then they didn’t know the truth about Jon.
Scumbag.
She’d walked away from a scumbag. Now she’d hit her landlord.
Men! Where was a nice convent when a girl needed one? A cloistered convent where no man set foot. Ever.
There seemed to be a dearth of convents on her way back to the house.
Steak.
She reached the house, and headed through the porch they shared, where two opposite doors delineated His and Hers.
She’d never been in His. She opened his door cautiously as if there might be a Hound or two in there as well.
No Hounds. The sitting room looked old and faded and comfy, warmed by a gorgeous open fire. There was one big armchair by the fire. A half-empty beer glass. Books scattered—lots of books. Masculine, unfussed, messy.
All this she saw at a glance as she headed towards the kitchen, but strangely … here was the hormone thing again. She was distracted by the sheer masculinity of the place.
As she was … distracted … by the sheer masculinity of her landlord.
Stupid. Get on with it, she told herself crossly, and she did.
His fridge held more than hers. Meat, vegetables, fruit, sauces—interesting stuff that said when he was at home he cooked.
She needed to learn, she thought suddenly, as she caught the whiff of meals past and glanced at the big old firestove that was the centrepiece of the kitchen. Enough with ‘Waistline Cuisine’.
It was hardly the time to be thinking cooking classes now, though. Or hormones.
Steak.
She had it. A solid lump, enough for a team of Hounds. She sliced it into chunks in seconds, then opened the freezer and grabbed a packet of frozen peas as well.
First aid and Hound meat, coming up.
Men and dogs. She could cope.
She had no choice. Convents had to wait.
What did you do with hormones in convents?
He’d terrified her.
Gabe lay back and looked at the sky and let his head clear. She’d packed a huge punch, but any anger he felt had been wiped by the look on her face. She’d looked sicker than he felt.
What was he about, letting the place to a needy city woman?
It was the second time he’d let it. The first time he’d rented it to Mavis, a spinster with two dogs. The moment she’d moved in she decided he needed mothering. Finally, after six months of tuna bakes, her mother had ‘a turn’ and Mavis headed back to Sydney to take care of her. Gabe had been so relieved he’d waived the last month’s rent.
And now this.
Dorothy in the letting agency had made this woman sound businesslike and sensible. Very different to Mavis.
‘Nikkita Morrissy. Thirty years old. She designs air conditioning systems for big industrial projects. Her usual schedule is three weeks home, one week on site, often overseas. She’s looking for a quiet place with a view, lots of natural light and nothing to disturb her.’
A woman who worked in industrial engineering. She sounded clever, efficient and non-needy.
His house was huge. He should move into town but he’d lived in this place all his life. His mother was here.
He’d lost his mother when he was eight years old, and this was all that was left. The garden she’d loved. The fence she’d almost finished. He walked outside sometimes and he could swear he saw her.
‘I’ll never leave you …’
People lied. He’d learned that early. Depend on no one. But here … in his mother’s garden, looking out over the bay she’d loved, this was all that was left of a promise he’d desperately wanted to believe in.
Emotional nonsense? Of course it was, he knew it, but his childhood house was a good place to crash when he wasn’t at sea. He had the money to keep it. If he could get a reasonable tenant for the apartment, then there’d be someone keeping the rooms warm, used.
