Of course Dixie noticed him standing at the back of the tiny crowded church. What woman wouldn't?
Tall, broad-shouldered, tanned, black hair curling over open-necked, white shirt collar; relaxed, slightly under-dressed for the occasion.
"We are gathered here together to celebrate the life..." the vicar intoned, breaking the sacred hush.
Dixie focused on the dust motes catching the light through the red and blue stained glass window, her thoughts decidedly secular. Despite herself her eyes swiveled round. Hmmmm. He certainly radiated virility.
Dixie felt a twinge of guilt as her attention wandered. Her grandmother had been both mother and father to her since she was six and had been very dear to her. She was sad at her death but not overwhelmed; she had done her grieving six months ago when her grandmother had her stroke. Now, death was a natural progression and a somewhat welcome relief. As funerals go, it was a happy one.
"Shall we join together to sing hymn..."
Who was he? As the local doctor for the past two years, Dixie thought she knew everyone hereabouts. He stood easy, leaning against a pillar, but although vague familiarity nagged her, memory slipped tantalizingly out of her grasp.
She became aware that the vicar was signaling for the pallbearers, and she stepped forward. She'd insisted on this. Her Uncle Foster had looked skeptical, and Aunt Lilian had said, "Dorothea," —How she hated being called that, and her aunt knew it!— "with your handicap anything could happen."
Hummmph. A slight limp didn't qualify as a handicap. It was merely an incidental fact of her life.
She watched as the Reverend Brown removed her wreath of daffodils and hyacinths from the top of the casket, and she hoped the unusual centerpiece would not roll out.
Her Granny had insisted on having an apple on her coffin. Dixie recalled her sitting in her wicker chair under the apple tree lees than a year ago saying, "If my old teeth can't eat a crisp apple now, I'm darned if I won't take one with me. They've promised me eternal youth in Heaven, including my teeth. Free, too."
True to her promise, Dixie had put an apple in the middle of the wreath.
The pallbearers lifted the coffin and proceeded down the church. As she passed the stranger at the door, he smiled at her, and Granny came near to being dropped.
Uh-oh. Could it be...?
A short while later, standing beside the open grave breathing in the raw smell of wet earth, Dixie shivered.
The old cemetery, another quirk of her grandmother's and hardly used since gold mining days in southern New Zealand, was on a hilltop and exposed to the chill wind. Heavy spring rains had soaked the ground, and she could see drips falling from the lone yew tree by the gate. Her feet were wet. A watery sun did its inadequate best, and she wound her possum scarf round her neck and tucked it into the collar of her jacket.
Solemn words were spoken, and somber faces watched as the coffin was lowered. It got most of the way down before it stuck. Dixie peered over and could see that the sodden earth had subsided on one side, and there was no way that coffin would go any further. It was pulled back up.
The vicar whispered to Uncle Foster who pulled out his mobile phone. He dialed and stood listening, his frown deepening. After a while he snorted and put the phone back in his pocket. Then after more whispering with the people around them, Caleb Pringle nodded, turned, and squelched back over the grass to his pickup truck. He returned with a shovel, and Dixie wasn't surprised to see him hand it resolutely to Foster. Caleb watched the pennies and wouldn't welcome the dry cleaning bill from the black mud down there.
No one else seemed keen either. Foster disclaimed it promptly by laying it down beside the grave. The rest of the mourners shifted from foot to foot and avoided eye contact. No volunteer came forward.
Just when the silence was becoming embarrassing the stranger stepped forward. She felt hope surge through the crowd.
"Hi, Dixie," he said.
Oh God, her hunch was right. It was him!
His face lit up as he smiled at her and she smiled back. There was brief but intense eye contact, and suddenly Dixie felt the day warm up. Then he bent down and picked up the shovel. There was an audible ripple of relief through the crowd.
"Thank you, Nate."
With mixed feelings she watched him balance on one foot and then the other as he removed his loafers and rolled up his cargoes. He pulled off his red polar fleece, dropped it on top of his shoes, and gingerly hopped over the edge.
Dirt flew up onto the grave edge followed a few minutes later by the shovel. The job was done. Everyone smiled at everyone else.
Foster leaned over to Dixie. "Who is he?"
Dixie shifted closer to Foster so she wouldn't have to yell in his deaf ear and inadvertently nudged the shovel lying at her feet, sending it slithering.
Clunk. Silence.
They edged forward and peered over again. Jaws dropped and eyes bulged on the ring of faces at the sorry sight. There was their savior, lying at the bottom of the grave, splattered with wet mud, out cold, the shovel on top of his chest.
Dixie just managed to turn an explosive giggle into a cough. Really she was appalled by the accident she had caused.
No one spoke; everyone was shocked into silence.
The only sound was the low moan of the wind in the pines bordering the cemetery. As Dixie looked down into the grave, her long hair whipped across her face. She raised her head and tucked her hair behind her ear and saw Reverend Brown, neck stretched forward, white hair flying and black vestments flapping, looking like a distressed crow.
"Tch, tch, tch," he muttered as he swiveled round and explained in hushed tones to the person behind him. A wave of whispering and tittering ran through the mourners.
Dixie stared down on the rugged face of a man who looked as though he had really lived life, not let it roll by since she'd seen him last. That dark unruly hair, that generous mouth above a slight cleft in the chin, and that aquiline nose she remembered from the school holidays when she was ten and her mother had come to visit with Reg, her new husband mark three. His nephew was in tow and was ordered to play with her, no doubt to keep her out of her mother's hair.
Nate Ryan was two years older than her and had teased her unmercifully. He was always laughing then. He wasn't now. But she could see his chest moving so he wasn't dead. She couldn't examine him any closer because she couldn't reach him from above and if she went down there was no place to stand except on top of him.
What was he doing at her grandmother's funeral anyway?
A clod was loosened and fell on his chest.
"Stand back, everyone," Reverend Brown barked abandoning his pious voice. "We came to bury the old lady, not him."
Suddenly the funeral mood was gone, and her grandmother was forgotten. The noise level rose as everyone offered advice. Someone at the back proposed his front-end loader, and someone else suggested the Spelunking Society. Aunt ordered Foster to ring 111 but Dixie quietly rang the Volunteer Fire Brigade.
As she waited she watched Nate anxiously. He may have put a frog in her bed seventeen years ago but she didn't want him to die, especially at her own hand—or more correctly, foot. He was too beautiful, even with a blue egg rising on his forehead.
Soon, with the help of experts with ladders and a sling stretcher, the muddy, floppy body was hauled out and laid gently on the grass verge.
Dixie took over then; this was her territory. She knelt down, inspected the egg on his forehead closely, and then ran her hands through his mud-caked hair to feel for skull damage. She took his hand to feel his pulse, and not satisfied, she loosened his now-black shirt, slid her hand underneath, and found the apex beat of his heart.
When she raised her eyes to his face to check his pupils his eyes were open. Relief turned to embarrassed annoyance when he winked at her.
"And just how long have you been conscious, Nate Ryan?" she asked sotto voce.
He gave her a groggy grin. "Long enough. Don't stop."
She pursed her lips. "Some things don't change," she muttered.
He ignored this. "How's my pulse, Doc?"
"Awful."
"No wonder."
"I'd say you're about to croak."
"You wish. Nice to meet you again, Dixie Delaney." He didn't look so rosy when he tried, against her advice, to stand up. He needed to hold on to her, but even so he would have staggered off by himself if she had let him.
"You shouldn't be alone for the next twenty-four hours in case..."
"Okay, I do understand."
Dixie looked up at him sharply.
"I'm in the business, too," he said grinning.
Dixie was digesting this when Aunt's voice rang out imperiously. "Dorothea will take you home. After all, you've got her to thank for—"
"Before you go we must bury the old lady," the Reverend cut in urgently, back to his funeral voice, laying a hand on Dixie's arm.
A hush fell as they all shamefacedly assembled again and rearranged their faces into funeral mask. The casket was lowered successfully this time.
Suddenly Nate wobbled and would have fallen had Dixie not caught him.
"I'd better get him back to wherever he's staying," she said, and the others nodded.
She retrieved the apple from the wreath, threw it into the grave, and followed it with a handful of earth and a chunk of her heart.
"Goodbye, Granny, and happy munching," she murmured as she turned away from the grave.
Then she picked up Nate's jacket and shoes, and together they moved toward the line of cars, Dixie supporting him with a hand under his elbow.
"How did you get here?" she asked.
"Rental."
"We can collect it later. Need anything out of it?"
"Yes, thanks."
He was not too steady and leaned heavily on her.
"Am I too heavy for you?" he asked.
"Of course you're not," she replied a little more tartly than she intended.
"Ah, I should have remembered," he said smiling. "Dixie Delaney can do everything anyone else can do and don't anyone suggest otherwise."
Dixie laughed shortly.
She wished that was true. She could do most things, but not all she wanted to do. She couldn't be a ballerina as she'd longed for as a child. As she got older she'd have happily settled for social dancing. She'd tried it once, only once, at a high school formal, and the class bitch had giggled and whispered, "You've got such beautiful legs, Dixie. Pity they're not both the same length."
She couldn't go jogging either. If she could, she might not have lost the only man she'd attempted to have a serious relationship with to a girl in pink trainers.
And she couldn't keep her mother's love. The tiny less-than-perfect scrap had been a disappointment her mother hadn't been able to hack. She hadn't even named her. Dorothea was chosen by her grandmother. Dixie was chosen by Dixie. She didn't dwell on all this; she merely factored it in and got on with her life.
Now her beloved Granny was gone. Dixie squared her shoulders. She still was needed by all those handicapped children. Within the next two years she aimed to convert her house into a weekend retreat where she'd give them love and confidence to make up for the inevitable rejections—by kids at school, by boyfriends, and even by mothers, she thought savagely.
"Hey, just joking, Dottie," Nate said.
His use of the name only he had ever used gave her a frisson of pleasure. "And when did you ever do otherwise?" she quipped.
"Promise I'll be po-faced from now on," he said, and Dixie couldn't help laughing at his mock-serious face.
They reached her car, and she relinquished his arm with relief. For some reason her breathing felt a little constricted.
"That's my car two down," he said, giving her the keys. "I'd be glad of my bag."
She opened her car door, and he looked ruefully at his clothes.
"Sorry about the mud," he said. "Do you want me to take them off?"
She glanced at him suspiciously but he opened his cafe latte eyes wide in all innocence. He was easy to like. Always was.
She laughed. "I'll cover the seat with a rug." She looked down at her sodden knees and mud-splattered coat. "Mine aren't much better."
In the boot of the rental she found one small grip, which she transferred to her car.
"Is that all your luggage?" she asked.
"Yeah. I travel light. In every way. There are more important things than possessions."
As she started the car she said, "Where can I take you? Where's home?"
He hesitated then grinned. "Rwanda," he said and let it hang.
She raised her eyebrows. "Rwanda? As in Africa?"
"Right in one. I'm a relief doctor there," he explained.
"I suppose you're not heading there right now?"
He laughed. "No. Not for another month or so. Some business to fix up before I return. But I must get back as soon as I can."
"Well, is there a second choice of destination for today?"
He thought for a moment. "There is a pub around here I suppose?"
"No, there isn't. Waitane hasn't progressed much since you were here last." She chewed the side of her mouth and drummed her fingers on the steering wheel as she wrestled with her conscience. Or was it her fear?
Finally her better nature won. "Come home with me," she said.
That was her first mistake.
It was only a short drive home, through lush acid-green pastures dotted with sheep and new lambs in their ballet warm-up leggings.
The familiar, calming warmth washed over her as she drove up the drive and parked on the gravel outside the front door. Rambling, single-storied, white weatherboard, "Liberton" had, together with her grandmother, been the rock on which her life had been built. Now that Granny was gone, Liberton was the only thing left; her happy memories of the past, her great joy in the present and her hope for the future.
Grannies might die, mothers and men might disappear, kids at school might taunt because of a limp, the hospital might terrify when corrective surgery was necessary, but always Liberton was there to welcome and enfold and heal bruised spirits.
"So you still live in the old house," he said.
She thought he sounded surprised. "Of course," she replied.
"I guess you're looking forward to moving into something more suitable than a huge old farm house."
She opened her mouth to remonstrate but he went right on, "You live by yourself?"
"Yes, ever since Granny went into hospital. And I intend things to remain that way."
"Really?" He looked her over slowly and grinned. "I'll bet they don't."
"I'll bet they do," she countered swiftly. "Unlike you, I find things so much more reliably comforting than people—with one exception, and I've just buried her."
His expression clouded, and his voice was uncharacteristically serious as he replied, "It depends on the relationship. Take my children for instance." Dixie glanced at him sharply but he didn't appear to notice. "Those with pneumonia, meningitis, gastroenteritis, polio—you name it. To know I can give some of them back their health, that they'd all certainly die if I wasn't there, is the most satisfying thing in my life."
"Well, yes, there's always one's patients." Dixie thought of her mission for handicapped children but knew she needed more even than that.
They walked slowly up the wide wooden steps flanked by purple iceplant, onto the iron lace-edged verandah, and through the front door into the large front hall. Dixie shrugged out of her jacket and threw it on the hall chair.
"How come you're back in New Zealand?" And coming to Granny's funeral? she wanted to add.
"Annual leave. Actually I left in a hurry several weeks before my leave was due because Uncle Reg was ill."
"I hope he's better." This was offered for the sake of politeness only. Reg Ryan's name stuck in her throat. After her mother had done a runner, the bank where Reg was manager had called up the mortgage and the farm had to be sold. Thank goodness they'd been able to retain the house.
"No, he isn't. He died," Nate said quietly. "Last week. Didn't you know? A letter was sent to you."
Why they should contact her, Dixie didn't know. Then she thought guiltily of the pile of unopened mail that had accumulated in the rush of her grandmother's death.
"No. I didn't know."
Nate opened his mouth to say something and then apparently changed his mind.
"You've had a lot of funerals lately," she said sympathetically.
"So have you, I believe," he said softly.
So he knows about my mother's death, she thought. That had been eight months ago now. Dixie couldn't pretend great sorrow.
Aunt had said loudly that it was the first funeral she'd been to where all the pallbearers had inside knowledge so to speak. And that didn't count Dixie's father who had been killed by a bull before she was born.
They'd all helped her mother to spend the money and ruin the farm so they might as well help to carry her to her grave, Dixie thought.
Nate passed a hand over his head, and Dixie noticed how pale he looked.
"How's the head?"
"Bursting. I'll take some paracetamol."
"I'll take you straight to your room. Then you can shower." A modern shower had been one of the few changes Dixie had made. "You don't smell too good," she added.
"Thank you. And did you get honors at your finishing school?" he asked facetiously. "Anyway it's called animal magnetism."
Dixie laughed as they continued up the red paisley hall runner to his bedroom. "I'll put a chair in the shower for you. Don't lock the door."
"Whaaat," he squeaked. "With a vampire like you, kid, on the loose?"
"I'm not `kid' any longer, Grandpa."
His eyes dwelled midway down her blue jumper, and he raised one eyebrow. "I've noticed," he said, grinning.
Dixie was annoyed to feel color rising in her face.
"Look, Nate Ryan, be sensible. How long has it taken?" She glanced at her watch. "Barely an hour and we're back to the nonsense of seventeen years ago. You know there's a danger of fainting under the shower."
"Yes, ma'am. I'll come quietly." He put down his bag and went over to the window. The back lighting illuminated a halo of his dark hair.
"Nice," he said, turning back to her. "I'm wallowing in deja vu—the room, the view. Thank you for having me."
"You're welcome. Dinner won't be long."
As she poached the chicken breasts she heard the water in the shower. The thought of him so close, so naked, jeopardized her concentration.
"Dixie."
She held the wooden spoon in the air and listened. "Dixie, I feel a bit faint."
She rushed into the bathroom—and pulled up in confusion.
He was standing with his back to the claw-footed bath: a dark god minimally wrapped in a white towel. A perfect specimen. He looked pink and far from fainting as he watched her reaction with evident amusement. Dixie gulped. He smiled and spread his hands in an apologetic gesture.
"Just testing," he said.
"You wait," she gritted as she slammed the bathroom door.
Back in the kitchen she washed the lettuce, absentmindedly thinking about her visitor—mostly personal, a little bit medical. Half an hour later, when he entered the kitchen in response to the big brass bell she said what had been on her mind—the medical bit.
"There's the question of an X-ray, too."
"I think I'm okay. No focal symptoms."
"Any amnesia? Do you remember what you were doing immediately before?"
"Sure. Shoveling. I remember what I was thinking, too." He leaned against the kitchen doorjamb and looked at her. "I was thinking of Dixie Delaney age ten and how she was the nearest thing to a sister to me. And now my sister is a very beautiful woman."
But flawed, Dixie thought cynically. She wished he wouldn't pretend. She kept her eyes down and mashed the potatoes violently.
"And how you never did give me that kiss you promised if I beat you at snakes and ladders, Dottie," he continued.
"You cheated," she said as she picked up the willow-patterned covered dishes and headed for the dining room. "Let's eat."
"It would have been worth it," he said as he sat down at the oak table.
"You got to go up a ladder today anyway."
"I don't remember that bit. Which reminds me. Did I hear someone trying to blame you?"
"Well, um, I regret to confess that technically speaking it was my foot that accidentally sent that shovel sliding." She transferred a chicken breast on to his plate, ladled some sauce on top, and then looked up at him and grinned as she handed it to him. "But I swear it wasn't retribution for that time you filled my cupcake with shaving cream."
"Knocking me out with a shovel is rather an excessive delayed reaction." He fingered the egg on his forehead. "Seems like you owe me one."
Dixie laughed. "I'll make a note of it," she said as she passed him the salad.
After dinner, as she cleared the table she said, "Breakfast is informal here. I'll leave things out so please help yourself." She continued stacking the plates as she added, "And you'll have to put up with me waking you a few times during the night to make sure you're all right. It would be embarrassing to have you die here."
"Wouldn't it be simpler to sleep with me?"
Dixie's heart stopped, then started again with a bang.
"Nate Ryan, stop teasing. You haven't changed."
"Oh yes, I have. I'm a big boy now." He flexed his biceps.
Yeah. Big and dangerous. She threw him an exasperated look and escaped to the kitchen with the dirty dishes.
Dixie did indeed check on him through the night.
That was her second mistake.
She set the alarm for two hours, and when it woke her she padded down the hall to his room. He was dead to the world, and she stood for a moment looking at his body sculptured in the silvery moonlight. Her eyes rose to his face and traced his rugged features from his deep-set eyes and aquiline nose, slightly asymmetrical now—no doubt a scar of an interesting life—down to his sensuous, teasing mouth. She caught her breath, seeing something deeper in his face than good looks; integrity maybe. He was an impressive person.
And a disturbing one. He was bare to his lean waist. Dark hair on his chest ran down into a valley between powerful, smooth pectorals and on down to... Dare she touch him to wake him?
Hesitatingly she put a hand on his chest and felt the dizzying promise. Suddenly he lashed out and slapped her hand, and she jumped back guiltily, knocking her chair over.
He propped himself up on his elbows and peered at her.
"Ah, Dixie. I thought you were a mosquito. Sorry about that."
"You're alive anyway. I was just checking. No need to get violent."
The next time she went in he was tossing and tangled in the sheets. She had to make sure his thrashing about wasn't caused by cerebral irritation but she was loath to wake him. Touching him wasn't good for her. He should be stamped with a warning from the Surgeon General: Touching this man may endanger your health.
Gathering her courage she took him by the shoulders, resisting the urge to dig her fingers into the firm, warm flesh, and shook him gently. He put one hand over hers and muttered something, his eyes still closed. Then his other hand found her shoulder and pulled her down. He must be dreaming.
She fell on top of him, and her senses reeled at his warmth and hard strength and feral smell. She had to get the hell out of there before...
His eyes were still closed but he was smiling faintly. She wriggled free and struggled to her feet, catching the sheet.
Dear God, he didn't wear pjs and that dream must be a mighty good one. Her pulse racing, she fled back to her room and turned off the alarm. She couldn't take any more.
Next morning Dixie woke early feeling jaded after a disturbed night. Freud would have had a field day with her dreams. Now her muddled thoughts were a mixture of apprehension at facing him this morning, regret that sheÕd asked him to stay, and pleasurable warmth that he was here. She rose reluctantly and opened the casement to let in the sun. Annoying restlessness pervaded her, and she looked to her familiar surroundings for solace. Her eyes ranged over the beloved view, and she breathed deeply the scents of home—her home, now that her granny had gone. A bumblebee buzzed crossly in the orange Virginia creeper at the edge of the verandah, the dew on the lawn glistened, and the spire of the old church in the township a mile away pierced the clear blue sky.
To her surprise she saw she wasn't the first one up. Nate appeared from behind the circular rose garden beyond the gravel entrance. Tousled hair, pecs stretching his black t-shirt, hands jammed in the pockets of shorts pulling them tight across narrow hips, bare feet.
She stepped hurriedly back inside. So he had thought of her as a sister! She experimented with the idea of him as a brother. It didn't take.
There are sexy men, and then there's Nate Ryan, she thought. She replayed her mental video of the previous day. What had excited and infuriated her in turns as a ten-year-old, still did so now but also dismayed her. There was more at stake.
The events during the night didn't have to be called up. The problem was to turn that video off.
She stood concealed by the curtain and watched him peer up at the roof and then walk back to get a better view. Then he disappeared round the side of the house, and a few minutes later she heard him up in the attic.
She frowned. Anyone would think he owned the place. She'd better get going. She would have a busy day as things had been let slide lately. That mail for instance. She knew she should at least have opened it.
Neglecting that was her third mistake.
Nate rose early and reluctantly.
Reluctantly because delightful dreams had disturbed his sleep. Vague and not so vague memories made him smile—he really shouldn't tease her.
Early because he hoped to look for rotten boards and leaking guttering before Dixie surfaced. There had been hints of deferred maintenance, and he really needed to know, now that the house was his. Not that he was a coward; he just didn't want to cause unnecessary hurt by rubbing in his new possession.
Even though she hadn't seemed at all curious about Liberton when she learned of his uncle's death and he'd concluded she didn't care about the place, nevertheless it had been her home for a long time. It was wonderful to see her again. She was just the same, only bigger—and better.
After poking round for a while, his dreams following him persistently, he headed for the kitchen. He needed coffee. Strong coffee.
When Dixie entered, Nate rose from his chair at the long marble kitchen table—the chair where her grandmother had been wont to sit with her head on her arms and have `forty winks' after lunch.
His quick glance and ready smile, so well remembered from years ago, caught her somewhere beneath the ribs. She could take breakfasting with that smile; it would turn gloomy weather into sunshine.
"I hope you don't mind my helping myself to coffee," he said.
"Of course not. I need a fix myself." And she smiled as serenely as she could manage.
"Let me pour it," he said, as he walked round and held her chair for her. She smiled her gratitude for his courtesy. At least he'd made no mention of last night. Must have been dreaming.
A short while later, sitting at breakfast together, Dixie let her curiosity get the better of her. "You've a special interest in roofs and attics, Nate?"
Obviously uncomfortable, he ran his hand through his hair. "Have you read the mail yet?"
Dixie looked surprised. "No, but what's that got to do with anything? You haven't answered my question."
"I—ah—just thought I should check the guttering."
Mystified, Dixie laughed. It would be her last laugh for a while.
"Anyone would think you owned the place," she said.
Nate studied his hands clasped on the table and massaged with his thumbs. "I do," he replied quietly.