Читать книгу: «The Rebel Of Penhally Bay», страница 2

Oh, why was she so fixated on him? She couldn’t afford to let herself do this. He was passing through, doing what he’d done over and over again, coming back only for long enough to do what was necessary and this time, just for good measure, tearing the scab off her wounded heart.

If she let him. She didn’t have to, of course. She could keep him firmly at a distance. She’d heard Nick ask him to stay, seen him leave the building as if it were on fire.

Sam wouldn’t be staying.

And she wouldn’t be letting him into her heart.

‘Sam! Hello, darling, I hoped you’d come.’

‘Hiya. How are you? You sound better—your speech is much clearer. That’s fantastic.’ He brushed a kiss over his mother’s drooping cheek—was it less noticeable?—and eased himself down into the chair beside her bed. ‘I’ve brought you some grapes.’

‘Not chocolate?’

He gave a short laugh. ‘No, Mum, not chocolate. Grapes are good for you and, besides, I like them.’ He helped himself to a handful and settled back in the chair, one foot crossed over the other knee. ‘Anyway, I want to talk to you. About Jamie.’

‘Oh, Sam, where is he?’ she slurred, her eyes welling. ‘I thought you’d bring him.’

‘No, sorry, I had to walk the dog, and when I got back he’d gone out—he sent me a text, though. He had to be at school, he said.’

‘He doesn’t want to see me.’

He didn’t tell her that the thought had occurred to him, too. ‘No, it’s legit. I rang the school—it’s a careers evening and he’s apparently volunteered to help out. I’m going over there as soon as I leave you to make sure he’s there and talk to the staff.’

‘Oh, dear,’ she said ruefully.

‘Mmm. I’m sure they’ll have lots to say, but so have I. Don’t worry, I’ll sort Jamie out. You just concentrate on getting better.’

She gave a funny little laugh, then her face creased. ‘How’s Digger? Does he miss me?’

Sam smiled. ‘I think he does, but he’s enjoying his walks. We had a lovely run on the beach this morning at dawn.’ Down to the other beach, to sit on the stumps of the old cabin and torture himself with the memories…

‘Don’t let him off the lead. He’ll go down a hole.’

Sam laughed softly. ‘I do remember you telling me how he got his name. I’ll keep him on the lead, don’t worry.’

‘So—did you go to the surgery?’ she asked after the slightest pause, and he braced himself for the inevitable questions.

‘Yes, I saw Nick.’

‘And Gemma?’

He felt his mouth tighten and consciously relaxed it. ‘Yes, I saw Gemma. She sends her love. She seems to know you quite well.’

‘Oh, she does. She runs the cont…’

She trailed off, exasperated by her uncooperative tongue, and Sam put in, ‘The continuing care clinic?’

‘Mmm. She does my blood pressure. She’s beautiful, isn’t she? Pretty girl.’

‘I didn’t notice,’ he lied. ‘I was a bit busy.’

God, it was a wonder his nose wasn’t longer than Pinocchio’s! He put the grapes back on his mother’s bed table before he crushed them all inadvertently, moved her newspaper and picked up her weakened left hand. ‘Come on, let’s do some physio. We need to keep these fingers moving.’

She shook her head. ‘They just won’t.’

‘They will. Keep trying. Here, come on, I’ll help you,’ he said, and, taking her fingers in his, he started working on them, giving himself something to do apart from conjuring Gemma’s image into his crazed mind.

But it didn’t work, her image was still there larger than life, her soft, wounded, wary eyes torturing him, so after a few minutes he put his mother’s hand down and stood up. ‘Right, I’m off to the school to sort out young Jamie. I’ll see you tomorrow. Be good.’

‘What else?’ she said sadly, and her eyes filled again, ripping at his conscience. ‘Bring him—come for longer. I miss you, Sam. You don’t know…’

His conscience stabbed him again, and he sighed softly. ‘I do. You tell me often enough. But my life’s not here, Mum.’

‘Could be.’

‘No. No, it couldn’t. Just the moment you’re better and I’m given the all-clear by the physios, I’m going back to Africa.’

Her fingers tightened on his, her right hand clutching at him in desperation. ‘No, Sam! Don’t! You can’t go back!’

That was probably true, although not the way she meant it, but he wasn’t giving in. Not yet. ‘Mum, I have to go,’ he repeated, and, freeing his hand, he dropped a swift kiss on her cheek and walked out.

‘Sam! I didn’t expect to see you here. It’s the last place!’

‘Well, ditto,’ he said, and his smile looked strained. ‘Have you seen Jamie?’

‘He’s here somewhere,’ Gemma said, trying to control her see-sawing emotions. ‘Doing the name badges and the drinks for the parents? He will have done the careers thing last year, so he’s only helping. I don’t like to be unkind, but it doesn’t sound like him.’

‘Maybe it was just a reason not to go and see Mum. He hasn’t been in yet. I think he’s scared, but while I’m here I need to speak to his teachers and find out what I can about him hanging around with Gary Lovelace.’

‘Well, Lachlan D’Ancey’s here, he’ll fill you in. He’s Chief Constable now, but he just comes to support the school and sell the police force. Nick Tremayne’s here, too. If Lachlan’s busy I expect Nick could use some help, there are always lots of people thinking of studying medicine.’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t think the school would be interested in my support. I wasn’t exactly their star pupil.’

‘That’s rubbish, Sam, you got four As at A level!’

‘Only because I was constantly being grounded.’

She smiled slightly, remembering the tales of how rebellious he’d been, how he’d pushed everyone to the limit of their patience, worried his mother senseless and alienated half of the town.

Which, of course, had only made him even more attractive.

She dragged her eyes from Sam and looked at the girl who was hovering behind him. ‘Hi. Did you want to see me?’

‘Um—yes, please. I’m thinking of going into nursing, and I wondered if you could tell me about it.’

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Sam lift his hand in farewell as he walked away, and she stifled a sigh of regret.

Foolish, foolish woman. It’s over. Forget it.

But she couldn’t, and for the rest of the evening her eyes were constantly searching for him, and every time they found him, her silly, stupid heart would lurch against her ribs.

It might be over, but apparently she couldn’t forget it. Not for the last nearly eleven years, and certainly not now, with Sam right here under her nose, his presence reminding her of everything she’d lost…

CHAPTER TWO

‘SAM—good to see you.’

He stifled a wry grin at the blatant lie from the man who’d had altogether too much to do with him in his youth. ‘Hello, Lachlan. How are you?’

‘Very well. Great, actually. Married again.’

Sam hadn’t known he’d got unmarried, but he wasn’t surprised that yet another thing had happened in Penhally without him knowing. He’d done his best to distance himself, so it was hardly rocket science, and he made some trite and socially acceptable remark and then Lachlan brought the conversation, not unexpectedly, around to Jamie.

‘Your brother’s getting himself in a bit of bother these days,’ he murmured. ‘You want to have a word with him. He’s going to end up with a criminal record if he goes on like this, and it’s a crying shame because he’s a good lad really. Sharp as a tack, which is half his trouble, of course, like it was yours. What he needs is a good role model.’

‘Well, don’t look at me,’ Sam said with a low laugh. ‘I’m the last person to give him advice.’

‘I disagree. You’re just the person—he reminds me a lot of you.’

‘What—loud and unruly?’

‘No—lost,’ he said, and Sam looked away, uncomfortable with Lachlan’s all too accurate interpretation of his youthful emotions. ‘You need to get him out of the influence of that young Gary Lovelace. He’s a nasty piece of work—God alone knows what Jamie sees in him, but he’s leading your little brother into all sorts of mischief.’

Sam straightened. ‘Not drugs?’

‘Not that we know of, but I shouldn’t be surprised. But Gary’s a thief, and a bully, like his father and his little brother, and you need to get Jamie away from him before something bad happens.’

Sam sighed inwardly. This was the last thing he needed.

‘So how’s your mother? I was sorry to hear about her stroke—she seems far too young.’

‘Yes. But strokes can happen to anyone, from tiny babies upwards. She’s making great progress, but we just need to know why it happened to stop it happening again.’

‘You ought to speak to Gemma. It was Gemma who found her. She went round after work and checked up on her because she was worried.’

‘Did she?’ he said softly, wondering why Gemma hadn’t mentioned it. Because she didn’t want to talk to him any more than she had to? Very likely. He didn’t really want to talk to her, either, and so far all their exchanges had been carefully contained, with all hell breaking loose just under the surface—at least, on his side. But if Gemma had found his mother, she could easily have been responsible for saving her life, and at the very least he ought to thank her. Not even he was that churlish.

‘I’ll go and have a word. Thanks, Lachlan—and if you hear anything I need to know about Jamie, let me know.’

‘Will do. And you do the same.’

‘Sure.’

He went back towards Gemma, but there was a crowd of young girls around her, so he wandered over to the desk where Jamie was handing out name tags and soft drinks to parents.

‘Checking up on me?’ Jamie said, his mouth set in a defiant line, and Sam just smiled.

‘No. I don’t need to, I’ve got the rest of Penhally doing that, by all accounts. How long are you going to be here?’

‘Another few minutes, then I’m going out with my friends.’

Sam frowned. ‘Why? It’s a school night. You’ve got your exams in a few weeks, you should be working.’

‘Nah. I’ve got it all under control, Sam. You don’t have to come home and play the heavy brother with me.’

‘That’s not what I’m hearing.’

‘Well, tough. What do they know?’

‘Well, I gather Mr D’Ancey knows quite a lot about you—probably rather more than is healthy.’

Jamie’s eyes slid away and his face took on a defensive cast. ‘Whatever. I’m out tonight. My work’s up to date, I’ve got nothing outstanding—and don’t even think about suggesting I tidy my bedroom. All I hear from Mum is that I’m just like you.’

Sam stifled a smile and gave up—for now. ‘OK. But not late. Ten.’

‘Ten-thirty.’

‘Ten-fifteen—and if you’re so much as thirty seconds late, you’re grounded for a week.’

‘What? Where do you get off—?’

‘Suit yourself. Ten-fifteen or you’re grounded. I’ll see you later.’

And without giving his brother a chance to argue any further, he walked away. Gemma was free now, and he crossed to her quickly before another wannabe nurse appeared. ‘Can we talk?’

Her eyes widened with alarm, and he realised she’d misunderstood. Or maybe she hadn’t, not really, but he wasn’t getting into all that now. He could barely keep a lid on his emotions as it was. The last thing he needed was to have a deeply personal conversation in public with the woman who’d shredded his heart. ‘About my mother,’ he added, and saw the alarm recede.

‘Sure. When are you thinking of?’

‘After you finish? I haven’t eaten yet, I don’t know if you have, but I thought we could go up to the Smugglers’ and have something there while we talk.’

She nodded slowly. ‘That would be fine. Give me another few minutes, and if nobody else comes, we can go.’

‘Fine.’ He gave her a brisk nod, and walked off to find Nick.

‘Ah, Sam, just the man. This is Dr Cavendish—he’s been working in Africa with an aid agency—was it Doctors Without Borders?’

‘No, but it’s similar,’ he said. ‘Why?’

‘Young David here is considering medicine and wants to work in that field. Can you give him some advice?’

He dredged up a smile for the youngster. ‘Sure. What do you want to know?’

‘Sorry about that, I got caught up.’ ‘So did I. Nick found me a young lad with a death wish. He wants to work in Africa—he’s talking about doing a gap year with an aid agency before he goes to med school.’

‘So what did you say?’

‘Don’t do it. Are you all done now?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then let’s get out of here—have you got your car?’

‘Yes. Shall I meet you up at the pub?’

‘Good idea.’

He followed her down past the surgery to the harbour and turned right along Harbour Road past the shrouded site of the Anchor Hotel, over the River Lanson at the bottom of Bridge Street and along to the end, past Nick Tremayne’s house and his mother’s house next door, then up the hill, past the little church on the left with the lighthouse beyond it on the headland, and then over the rise to the Smugglers’ Inn.

The place was doing well, if the number of cars outside on a week night was anything to go by, and he parked in the last space and got out, breathing deeply and drawing the fresh sea air into his lungs.

God, that smelt good. It was one of the few things about Penhally that he missed—apart from Gemma, who was walking towards him now, her eyes unreadable in the dimly lit car park. Her hands were stuffed into the pockets of her coat, and she looked wary and uncertain, as if she was regretting saying yes.

She didn’t need to. He wasn’t a threat to her. He had no intention of getting into any personal territory at all. Not even slightly.

‘Lots of cars,’ he said, aiming for something neutral. ‘Do you think we’ll get a seat?’

She looked round and shrugged. ‘I don’t know. We could always sit outside on the terrace,’ she said doubtfully.

Hell, no. They’d spent whole evenings on that terrace, and it was the last place he wanted to go. ‘It’s not warm enough, the food might get cold.’

‘There might be room inside.’

‘We’ll see.’ Oh, God, endless pleasantries, and all he really wanted to do was touch her, thread her hair through his fingers, feel her body soft against his…

He yanked open the door of the pub and ushered her in, and as they walked into the bar, a hush fell.

‘Well, by all the saints, young Samuel. Come home to cause havoc, have ‘e, lad?’

‘Ignore him,’ Gemma muttered, but he went over to old Fred Spencer and shook his hand.

‘How are you, Mr Spencer?’

‘Better’n you, by all accounts. Why you limpin’?’

‘Fell off my bike,’ he said economically. ‘And don’t say it.’

‘Well, I ‘spect it was your fault.’

‘Why not? It always was, wasn’t it?’

The old man cracked a laugh and turned back to his companions. ‘Always had to have the last word, young Sam.’

Only not always. Not with Gemma. There’d been no chance to have the last word, to talk things through, to get to the bottom of it—and he wasn’t starting now.

Leaving Fred with his mates, they went over to the bar and ordered drinks and scanned the specials board.

‘The steak’s still good,’ Gemma said. ‘I think I’ll have that—just the small one.’

‘Rare?’

She nodded, surprised and yet not that he would have remembered. They’d always had the steak frites in here, and it had always been good, and she’d always had it rare.

Listen to her! Always, indeed. What was she thinking? It had only been—what? Ten, maybe twelve times in all, over more than a year? But it was all the time they’d had together, and it had been precious, every last second of it.

He ordered the steak for her, but to her surprise he ordered beef Stroganoff for himself—just in case she thought it was all too cosy down Memory Lane? She wasn’t sure, not sure at all, about any of it, and she didn’t really have any idea what she was doing here with him, tearing herself apart, when she could have been safely tucked up at home.

‘Ah, there’s a table here,’ he said, and led her across the room to where a couple were just leaving. He held the chair for her to sit down, and as he did so, his hand brushed her arm.

Dear God, he thought, desperately resisting the need to touch her again, to reach out and let his fingers linger over that soft, slender arm, to run them over her shoulder, to slide the lightweight jersey top aside and press his lips to her skin…

He retreated to the safety of the other side of the table and sat down opposite her, flicking his eyes over the menu even though he’d already ordered, staring out of the window as she shuffled in her seat, organising her bag, placing her drink carefully in the centre of the beer mat with great precision.

And then, once they were settled and there was nothing left to fidget with, there was a silence that was so full of unspoken words it was like a roar in his head. And he had to break it or go mad.

‘So—you came back to Penhally,’ he said, trying to find something neutral to talk about and failing dismally at the first hurdle.

She glanced away, but not before he’d seen a shadow in her eyes. ‘Yes. I love it here.’

Especially when he wasn’t there. His mouth tipped in a mocking smile. ‘I thought it was too small for you? Too pedestrian. Too provincial. Wasn’t that why you left to see the world and didn’t come back?’

Hardly. It was the place where her heart was, where she’d found a love she’d thought would last forever, but she couldn’t tell him that or she’d have to tell him why she’d gone, so she just gave him a level look and lied in her teeth.

‘You know why I left—to go travelling while I considered my career options. And you can talk about leaving to see the world, Sam. It’s me who’s living here now. You’ve hardly been home.’

‘Et tu, Brute? Isn’t this where you tell me that I’ve failed my mother and failed my brother and ought to move home like a good little boy? Well, news flash, Gemma. I’ve got a life now, and it’s not here. And it never will be.’ Thanks to her. His jaw tightened, and she felt a stab of pain for him, and for herself.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said softly. ‘It’s none of my business. But for what it’s worth, I don’t think you should come home for your mother or your brother. You did more than enough for them, Sam, and you’ve got two sisters who don’t live a million miles away who could be putting more into this than they are. But maybe you should think about coming home for you.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, what is it about Penhally and everyone telling me what to do?’

‘I wasn’t telling you—’

‘Weren’t you? Well, it sounded like it from where I’m sitting.’

Or maybe that was his conscience, he thought, guilt racking him yet again for the hurt look he’d put in her eyes.

‘I don’t want to go into this. I brought you here to talk about my mother’s stroke, not me,’ he said after a moment in which they’d both taken a deep breath and regrouped. ‘I gather you found her last night?’

She met his eyes squarely, her own still reproachful. ‘Yes—she came in the day before yesterday to see me for a routine blood-pressure check, and she mentioned that she’d noticed her heart doing something funny in the evening a couple of times. I had a word with Adam—Adam Donnelly, one of our doctors—and he suggested we should do an ECG and then refer her to St Piran for some tests.’

‘And?’

‘I did the ECG yesterday, and there was nothing out of the ordinary at all, but I was just a bit worried about her. Her blood pressure was up again, and—I don’t know, she just didn’t seem right. And she looked a bit strained around the eyes. So after work I popped in. There was no reply to the doorbell, so I went round the back and opened the door because I could hear Digger whining, and I found her at the kitchen table, looking chalky grey and sweaty and feeling terrible. And she had a killer headache, apparently, and she said she’d had some kind of convulsion, but I noticed her mouth was drooping a bit and then she just lost her speech. It was a classic stroke, so I called Nick and got the ambulance on its way, and alerted the specialist unit, and—well, I don’t know how she is now. I went in with her last night because Jamie wasn’t around and I didn’t want her to be alone, but I haven’t had time to get up there again. I was going to go and see her in my lunch break but I thought you might be there, and then there was the careers evening so I just haven’t had a chance. So how is she? Really? She must have been so frightened.’

He nodded slowly. ‘I think so. But who wouldn’t be? It’s a really big thing, isn’t it, and it could have been so much worse if you hadn’t checked on her. I hate to think what would have happened if you hadn’t. It sounds as if your prompt action’s made a huge difference to the impact of her stroke, and if you hadn’t gone in—well, talking to the staff it’s clear that without immediate help she could easily have died, so thank you. She sends you her love, by the way. She seems very fond of you.’

Gemma gave a soft, wry little laugh. ‘I can’t imagine why. I bully her dreadfully.’

‘She needs it. So—about this heart thing…’

‘Mmm. I mean, obviously it hasn’t been investigated properly yet, but I was wondering—do you think she could have some kind of AF?’

‘Atrial fibrillation? Could well be. It would fit. I just can’t understand how she hasn’t felt it in her chest before, if she’s got AF and it’s sustained enough that she’s forming clots. You’d think you’d feel it if your heart’s not beating right.’

‘Not everyone does feel it, though, and atrial fibrillation is notoriously tricky to control.’

‘Especially if you OD on stimulants like tea and coffee and very dark chocolate. It’s always given her the odd palpitation, and maybe it’s just accustomed her to a funny heartbeat from time to time, and then the AF doesn’t feel so very different—’

‘Steak frites and beef Stroganoff?’

‘Thanks, Tony,’ Sam said, leaning back so the landlord could put their plates down. He paused to welcome Sam back.

‘Good to see you again. How are things? Sorry about your mother.’

‘Thanks,’ he said, feeling a little awkward because clearly everyone knew about her, recognised him and also recognised the fact that he’d been notable by his absence. Then he chatted to Gemma for a few moments, and while he listened to them, Sam watched her, her face attentive, her eyes crinkling with humour when Tony made a joke, and all the time her lips were moving, soft and warm, bare of lipstick but moist from the occasional flick of her tongue, and it was getting increasingly difficult to sit there and pretend that he felt nothing for her, this woman who’d torn his heart apart.

His wife, for heaven’s sake.

Then Tony moved away, and he turned his attention to his food, and for a while they were both silent. Then she lifted her head and said, ‘You know you made that remark about David having a death wish because he wanted to go to Africa? What did you mean?’

He shrugged. ‘It was just a joke.’

‘No. You meant something, and you said you’d told him not to go, and when you were talking to Fred just now about the accident—what happened, Sam?’ she asked softly. ‘Did you really just fall off your bike?’

He sighed and set down his fork. ‘Really? In a manner of speaking,’ he said, and then bluntly, because he still wanted to lash out, he went on, ‘I hit a landmine.’

Her face bleached of colour, and he caught her glass just as it slipped through her fingers. ‘Careful, anybody would think you still cared, and we all know that’s not true,’ he said with bitter irony.

She sat back, her eyes filling, and closed them quickly, but not quickly enough because a single tear slipped down her cheek and that old guilt thing kicked in again. ‘Actually I was thinking of your mother—how she would have coped if…’

‘If I’d died?’ he prompted, trying not to look at the tear, and she sucked in a tiny breath.

‘Don’t.’ She swallowed and opened her eyes, reaching for her glass. He still had it in his hand, and as he passed it to her, their fingers met and he felt the shock race through him again.

Damn. Still, after all these years…

She took a sip and put it down, then met his eyes again. ‘So what really happened, Sam? With the landmine?’

He made himself concentrate on something other than the little trail the tear had made on her cheek. ‘There was a booby trap—a car in the road. I swerved round it, not paying attention, and the back wheel caught the anti-personnel mine and it hurled the back of the bike up into the air. Luckily the panniers were rammed with equipment, which protected me from the blast, but the force of the explosion threw me forwards onto the ground.’

‘And?’

‘And I broke my collar bone and my ankle,’ he told her, grossly oversimplifying it. ‘Oh, and tore the rotator cuff in my left shoulder.’

She nodded slowly. ‘I’ve noticed you don’t use your left hand very much.’

‘Got out of the habit,’ he lied, and turned his attention back to his food, leaving her sitting there in silence, struggling with the image of him being hurled through the air and smashed into the ground.

She felt sick. It could have been so much worse, she thought, and set down her knife and fork, unable to eat while her emotions churned round inside her and the man she loved was just a foot away, his eyes fixed on his plate, obviously in a hurry now to finish his meal and leave. He’d only wanted to thank her for finding his mother, and he’d done that, and now he just wanted to go.

Fair enough. So did she, and she was about to get up and leave when Tony stopped by their table.

‘Everything all right?’ he asked, and she nodded and smiled at him and picked up her knife and fork again, forcing herself to finish her food before it was not only the flavour of sawdust, but stone cold with it.

‘So how long will she be in?’ he asked the registrar the next day.

‘Just a few days. We want to get her anticoagulation sorted and then she can be discharged.’

He felt a flicker of fear, the tightening of the noose of responsibility, and consciously slowed his breathing down.

‘Surely she can’t come home until she’s able to look after herself?’

‘But I gather you’re at home now, so that’s not a problem, is it?’

He arched a brow. ‘You want me to look after my mother? Attend to her personal care?’

‘Why not? You’re a doctor.’

But she’s my mother! he wanted to scream, but it was pointless. She would have done the same for him, and it was only because it made him feel trapped that he was so desperate to get away. And last night, with Gemma—well, it had been an emotional minefield every bit as dangerous to his health as the one he’d encountered on the bike, and he hadn’t been able to get away from the pub quick enough.

He’d used Digger as an excuse, and he’d gone back to the house, collected the dog and taken him for a long walk along the beach in the moonlight, right down to the far end and back while he thought about Gemma and how he still wanted her so badly it was tearing holes in him.

He couldn’t do it—couldn’t stay here. He just wanted to get away, to go back to Africa and lick his wounds in peace. Well, not peace, exactly, but anonymity, at least, without the benefit of the residents of Penhally telling him he’d deserted his mother and let his brother run wild and failed them both, with Gemma in the background reminding him that he’d failed her, too, or why the hell else would she have left him when everything between them had seemed so incredibly perfect?

But he couldn’t go back to Africa, because he couldn’t operate, because his collar bone hadn’t just broken, it had shredded his left brachial plexus and damaged the sensory nerves to his left hand, and his shoulder was still weak from the tear to his rotator cuff when he’d landed on it, and his leg—well, his ankle would heal slowly and improve with time, unlike his hand, but in the meantime he’d struggle to stand for hours operating, even if he could feel what he was doing with his hand, which he couldn’t, and he couldn’t ride a bike, not with his left arm so compromised and his ankle inflexible, so it was pointless thinking about it and tormenting himself.

And his mother aside, there was the problem of Jamie, who had come in last night at seventeen minutes past ten. Late, but not so late that he was going to say anything, and so they’d established an uneasy truce.

But the need to get away was overwhelming, and after he left the hospital he drove up onto Bodmin Moor and walked for hours with Digger over the rough grass and heather until his ankle was screaming and he wasn’t sure how he’d get back, his mind tortured with memories of Gemma, lying there with him in the heather and kissing him back for hour after hour until he thought he’d die of frustration.

Huh. No way. He’d discovered through painful and bitter experience that you didn’t die of frustration, you just wished you could, because that would bring an end to it at last.

He sat down on a granite outcrop with the panting Jack Russell at his feet and stared out over the barren, wild landscape while he waited for the pain in his ankle to subside. He could see a few sturdy little ponies grazing and, in the distance, a small herd of Devon Red bullocks turned out for fattening on the spring grass. But apart from that and the inevitable sheep dotted about like cotton-wool balls in the heather, there was nothing there but the wide-open skies and the magical, liquid sound of the curlews.

And gradually, as the warmth of the spring sun seeped into his bones and the bleak, familiar landscape welcomed him home, he accepted what he had to do—what he’d known, ever since he’d had the phone call about her stroke, that he would have to do.

He didn’t like it—he didn’t like it one bit—but he had no choice, and he would do it, because that was who he was. He would stay at home and look after his mother until she was better, he’d get his brother back on the rails, and then he’d look at his future.