One Step At A Time Read online

  Had he died?

  About the Author

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  EPILOGUE

  Copyright

  Had he died?

  No. It still hurt too much. Then he must be dreaming her, pulling her out of thin air because he needed her so badly. She was stroking him, her hand cool and soft, gentle against his bruised face. His eye struggled open again, and blinked. His vision was filled by her. He blinked again. She was all out of focus.

  “Dominic?”

  Now she even sounded real. “Hi,” he croaked, realizing as he did so that he must look a real idiot to anyone passing. Fancy talking to a dream.

  Caroline Anderson’s nursing career was brought to an abrupt halt by a back injury, but her interest in medical things led her to work first as a medical secretary and then, after completing her teacher training, as a lecturer in Medical Office Practice, to trainee medical secretaries. She lives in rural Suffolk with her husband, two daughters, mother and assorted animals.

  One Step at a Time

  Caroline Anderson

  TORONTO NEW YORK • LONDON

  AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

  STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN

  MADRID • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘Mum? Phone—the hospital.’

  Kate’s gangly, lovely daughter lowered the receiver, one hand covering the mouthpiece. ‘I expect they want you to go and earn lots of dosh—so maybe I get that hi-fi in my room?’

  ‘In your dreams,’ Kate chuckled, unravelling her legs from under her and wincing at the pins and needles. ‘I want some hearing left for my old age—tell them I’m coming. And go and have your shower now, please.’

  Stephie removed her hand from the receiver and positively sparkled into it. ‘Hold on, please—Dr Heywood will be with you in a moment. Can I say what it’s concerning?’

  Kate rolled her eyes and grabbed the receiver before her dear, delightful daughter could say anything else—like she hoped that the rates were good because there was this really cool hi-fi she’d seen...

  ‘Hello, Dr Heywood speaking,’ she said, her smile still in her voice. ‘What can I do for you?’ She turned to Stephie and covered the receiver. ‘Go and shower,’ she hissed.

  ‘Is that Mrs Katherine Heywood?’

  The voice at the other end wasn’t the typical, efficient man-management voice of her usual contact at the hospital. Instead it was a little—what? Not hesitant, but careful, a little guarded. Gentle, almost. Immediately Kate’s blood chilled, but that was silly. Her daughter was here with her, and quite clearly safe. ‘Go and have your shower now,’ she mouthed, and then, as Stephie left the room, she said, ‘Yes, I’m Kate Heywood.’

  ‘Mrs Heywood, your husband asked me to call you.’

  Immediately Kate relaxed. Obviously this was some poor secretary delegated by Dominic to pass on a message—and probably to get him off the hook for the weekend. ‘Ex-husband,’ she corrected automatically. ‘Don’t tell me—it’s an operation and it’s simply unavoidable.’

  There was a palpable silence from the other end. ‘Um—you know, then?’

  Kate laughed shortly. ‘Just guessing. It’s happened before. It’s rather a habit of his.’

  ‘A habit?’ Kate could almost hear the confusion. ‘Is he accident-prone?’

  This time the confusion was Kate’s. ‘I’m sorry, could you explain that?’ she managed at last, her brow creased in a little furrow.

  She heard the other woman draw a breath, then start again. This time there was no mistaking the gentle, news-breaking tone of voice. ‘Mrs Heywood—are you aware that your husband’s been involved in an accident?’

  The icy dread crawled back over her. ‘Accident?’ she echoed. ‘What accident?’ She was aware of Stephie’s footsteps overhead, the sound of water running, and the pounding beat of her heart in her chest. Her grip on the receiver tightened reflexively. ‘Is he badly hurt?’

  The girl at the other end soothed her professionally. ‘No, not really. He has leg injuries and a minor head injury—nothing life-threatening, but he’ll be in hospital for a week or two. I understand your daughter was to spend the weekend with him.’

  Kate’s eyes slid to the photo of Stephie on the top of the piano. Lord, how would she tell her? ‘Yes, that’s right. Um—the weekend’s not a problem. How is he?’

  Damn. Her voice was all wobbly and she could hardly hear for the pounding in her ears. She turned her back to the wall and slid down it, her legs suddenly like jelly. ‘Does he need anything? We’ll come and visit him.’

  ‘Well, in fact he asked me to call to tell you he’s fine and doesn’t want Stephanie to know, but he’d like to see you if you could pop in tomorrow. He wanted to ask you something. He’s having his leg pinned at eight—so after that? Say, two-thirty? He could probably do with some T-shirts or pyjama tops when you come in, if you can get them. And briefs or boxer shorts, not pyjama bottoms—he might have to be in traction.’

  ‘Traction? Pinned?’ Kate’s mind was reeling, and it showed in her voice. She consciously deepened it to take the anguished squeak out. ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘Broken his femur—his thigh bone.’

  ‘I know what a femur is; I’m a doctor. How?’

  ‘Car accident. I gather he was in collision with someone trying to overtake a lorry on a blind bend. He’s a bit—cross about it. He said something about the car being totalled. 1 understand it was rather old and precious.’

  The Jag. Kate stifled a snort. She could imagine Dominic would be a ‘bit cross’ about it. More than a bit. The old E-type was his pride and joy. If it had been ‘totalled’, as he’d colourfully described it, she could imagine the ward staff being given a really hard time! Dominic in a temper was a sight to behold—fortunately not a sight she now had to witness too often, thank God.

  She jotted down the name and address of the hospital, the name of the ward and the consultant, and visiting times.

  ‘Tell him I’ll be in to see him tomorrow, and I won’t tell Stephie for now. Give him...’ She hesitated, and swallowed the sudden unexpected lump in her throat. ‘Give him my love,’ she finished softly, and returning the phone to its cradle with infinite care, she dropped her head back against the wall and let her breath out on a ragged sigh. He was hurt. Her hand pressed her chest, nursing the ache there. Thank God he’d had the sense not to worry Stephie. She finished her end-of-year exams tomorrow, and once Kate had seen him she would have to decide how to break the news. By then she would have a better idea of what she was preparing Stephie for, but she couldn’t tell the girl until Dominic agreed, because once she knew he’d been hurt wild horses wouldn’t keep her away from her father.

  Kate sighed again and ran a shaking hand through her thick dark hair, destroying the sleek line of the bob. Of course Stephie would be desperate to see him. Her parents’ disastrous marriage had been over for years now, and Kate and Dominic had both worked hard at maintaining a good relationship with their only child. They both loved her, and Stephie in turn loved both of them. However, she was especially close to Dominic, in the way girls were often closer to their fathers, and she would be terribly upset to know that he was hurt.

  Kate would have to keep it a secret until after Stephie’s last exams tomorrow—if she could manage to fool her usually extraordinarily perceptive child.

  Overhead she heard the water stop, and after
crawling to her feet she went into the kitchen and poured a glass of wine from the box in the fridge, draining it with shaking hands. Please, God, let her get some composure back.

  Moments later Stephie bounded down the stairs and into the room like a gangly puppy, all high spirits and sparkling eyes.

  ‘Well? Do I get my hi-fi?’

  Kate scraped up a smile. ‘Not quite yet. It was a message from your father to say he’s got an operation tomorrow and he’ll be a bit tied up at the weekend,’ she explained, without explaining anything at all, and Stephie stared at her for a moment.

  ‘The call was from the hospital,’ she said.

  Kate could see puzzlement and doubt creeping into her daughter’s face, and flannelled like mad. ‘Yes—he’s there now. It’s an emergency, scheduled for operation early tomorrow, and he won’t be able to go far afterwards just in case.’ Just in case of what, she didn’t elaborate. ‘He sends his love—says he’ll make it up to you later,’ she added.

  Stephie pulled a face, yanked open the fridge door and stared disgustedly at the contents.

  ‘There’s nothing in here!’ she grumbled. ‘Does that mean I’m not going to the clinic at all this weekend?’

  ‘I’m afraid not—and don’t you dare tell me the food’s better there!’ Kate warned, and her daughter grinned winningly.

  ‘OK, I won’t,’ she sang, and, snapping a yoghurt off the pack, she ripped off the foil and licked it, then dropped it on the table and sauntered over to the drawer.

  ‘In the bin,’ Kate nagged, thankful for the diversion of everyday bickering to distract both her and Stephie from the tension she was feeling.

  The moment the yoghurt was finished she hustled Stephie off to bed, and followed her shortly afterwards. Sleep, though, was a long time coming. Her mind was tortured with the image of Dominic lying in a hospital bed, his leg up in traction, racked with pain.

  Their marriage might have been over for years, but that didn’t mean that deep under the polite veneer and child-orientated communication there was no feeling left. She told herself that it was because he was the father of her child, and nothing to do with the dynamic, sensuous, cantankerous but funny man she had married, but she didn’t believe it. She would always have a place in her heart for him, and just now that place was hurting...

  She swallowed the lump again, told herself that he was fine and probably giving the nursing staff hell, and finally drifted off into a restless, dream-filled sleep.

  The next day she dropped Stephie off at the bus stop as usual, then went to the GPs’ surgery where she was doing locum cover. They were reasonably understanding about her disappearing for the afternoon, especially considering they had to dovetail her surgery patients into two other doctors’ surgeries that evening, but it couldn’t be helped. It was her last day there anyway, fortunately.

  She escaped gratefully at lunchtime, drove straight to the hospital and then paused to drag a comb through her hair and wash her face and hands in cool water before going onto the ward.

  She found a staff nurse at the desk and introduced herself.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ the girl said with a smile. ‘Dr Heywood’s been expecting you. He’s a bit groggy still, from the anaesthetic, but you should be able to wake him. He’s here.’

  She led Kate into a small four-bedded unit right opposite the nursing station. It was empty apart from him, and she was grateful that there was nobody to see her reaction.

  The nurst left her with a smile, and for a moment Kate hesitated, her heart pounding, her professional detachment blown to smithereens by the force of her feelings for him. She hovered by the foot of the bed, taking in the sight of the bruised and battered man lying almost naked in front of her, his skin contrasting sharply with the bright white sheets. He was asleep, his body lax with the weight of drug-induced oblivion, and she gripped the end of the bed, studying him, her heart in her mouth.

  He looked awful. Her knees dissolved under her, and, taking a steadying breath, she lowered herself into the chair beside his bed, her eyes automatically flicking over him and inventorying his injuries.

  His face was bruised and swollen, his eyes blackened, and there was a bump in the middle of his beautifully straight aristocratic nose. His left eye was almost swollen shut, and there was a nasty, jagged scratch down his throat and over his collarbone.

  His chest was bare, with pads and wires trailing to a heart monitor that bleeped quietly in the corner. She studied the trace for a moment, reassured that it looked normal, then looked back at his bruised and battered chest.

  A large, curved, purple stain spread over the front of his ribcage, clearly visible through the light scatter of curls that was his only covering. A folded blanket lay across his hips, and she could see the swollen and discoloured area over the fracture site on his right thigh.

  As she watched his right eye flickered open and he turned his head towards her. ‘Kate?’ he mumbled. His brow creased, and with a groan his eye flickered shut again.

  Had he died? No. It still hurt too much. Then he must be dreaming her, pulling her out of thin air because he needed her so badly.

  Damn, he could smell her, that faint, delicate fragrance that teased his senses and haunted his dreams.

  Or this dream, at least. She was stroking him, her hand cool and soft, gentle against his bruised face. The fragrance wafted over him again and he turned towards it, inhaling deeply.

  Too deeply. With a groan he lifted his hand to his bruised ribs and cradled the deep ache. Damn, he hurt. Not just the ribs, but everywhere.

  Especially his leg. Hell’s teeth, that was grim. He needed pain relief. What was it the nurse had said?

  His eye struggled open again, and blinked. His vision was filled by her—her wide, luminous grey eyes like the mist on a summer’s morning, her short, straight nose sprinkled with tiny freckles, her mouth soft and full, a little too wide but so kissable, so endlessly inviting...

  He blinked again. She was all out of focus.

  ‘Dominic?’

  Now she even sounded real. ‘Hi,’ he croaked, realising as he did so that he must look a real idiot to anyone passing. Fancy talking to a dream.

  ‘How are you?’ the dream asked, her voice soft, curling round him like the fading wisps of that misty morning.

  ‘I hurt,’ he mumbled. ‘Thirsty—bloody leg aches.’

  ‘Do you want a squirt from your pethidine pump?’ she asked.

  He turned his head slightly. That was what the nurse had said. He nodded, and instantly regretted it as the drummers started up again inside his skull. His one useable eye slid shut and the groan rumbled in his chest, but then moments later he felt the pain ease slightly in his leg. Now, if the drummers would only knock off as well, maybe he could get on with his dream...

  He prised his eye open again. ‘God, Kate, you’re beautiful,’ he mumbled. His lips felt thick and numb, like swollen rubber. He moved his hand and felt her cool, firm palm against his, the curl of her fingers wrapping over the back of his hand and squeezing gently.

  An angel, he thought, except that he wasn’t dead. He studied the face, shifting in and out of focus, surrounded by those soft tendrils of dark hair that had escaped from the severe bob, refusing to be tamed. Maybe she was an angel. He shifted to get a better look, and pain shot through him again.

  He resented it. It interfered with his dream. Perhaps he’d just shut his eyes and feel, instead.

  The hand was stroking him now, the skin like silk. Her skin was, of course. He could remember it, even after all these years. Soft and silky and fragrant, and so warm. He could remember the feel of it under his hand, and the softness under the skin, the smooth curves, the womanly fullness—

  He groaned again. Damn, he could feel her skin now, the dream was so vivid. Vivid and beautiful, and so real. The mind was a fascinating thing, he thought abstractedly. Here he was, dreaming about lying here dreaming about lying here—it was like a room with mirrors on each side, so that you could see your image
getting further and further away—it was complicated. Too complicated...

  ‘How is he?’

  Who was that? He wanted to open his eyes, but he couldn’t seem to manage it. The drummers in his head had crawled out and sat on his eyelids, holding them shut.

  His dream-Kate replied, ‘Drowsy—I think he’s in pain. I gave him a shot from the pethidine pump and he settled a little.’

  He grunted disgustedly. The dream was getting boring, interrupted just as he was getting to the best bit. The hand tightened around his, the dream-voice soft, soothing, hushing him. Lord, she was so lovely in this dream. That skin was like velvet...

  ‘I love you,’ he mumbled, and the fingers tightened fractionally.

  He felt another hand, cooler, firmer, businesslike, on his other wrist. The nurse. He’d better stop talking to his dream or he’d be moved to the psychiatric wing for observation.

  A weak chuckle bubbled in his chest. What a damn fool. They’d have him pegged as a loony in no time.

  ‘Dr Heywood? Are you awake?’

  Damn. He forced the eye open again, evicting the drummers, and the nurse’s face swam into view.

  ‘Hello there,’ she said with a smile. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Bloody,’ he said bluntly. ‘You woke me up—I was dreaming.’

  The nurse’s face smiled. ‘Your wife’s here.’

  He turned his head a fraction and waited for the drummers to start up again inside, but they seemed to have got lost, thank God. Kate’s face swam into view. Oh, hell. She really was here. What had he said out loud, and what in his dream?

  ‘I dreamt you were here,’ he told her, just in case it was anything incriminating.

  She smiled, her eyes misty—damp? he thought incredulously. Never. Not his Kate.

  She wasn’t, though, of course. Not his.

  Not since he’d walked out.

  ‘How are you?’ she was asking.