Mistletoe Mother (Medical Romance) Read online

  “My God! Ella, you’re pregnant!” Seth breathed, clearly shocked.

  “Well, I’m glad to see that all those years of training weren’t wasted,” she retorted acidly.

  “So, who’s the father? I hadn’t heard you’d got married.”

  For a moment Ella didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but ended up determined to do neither.

  “You stupid man!” she exclaimed shrilly as all those months of wondering and hurting finally boiled over. “I’m not married. I have never married and I have no intention of ever getting married. Furthermore, whether you believe it or not, you are the only man I’ve ever slept with, but to save you wasting money on DNA testing, I’ll tell you here and now that I won’t be asking you for a single penny to raise this child. At least you’ll go away from here secure in the knowledge that I have no intention of using the baby to destroy your marriage.”

  Dear Reader,

  Trying to work out why we make the decisions we make fascinates me. For example, when problems seem insurmountable, what makes some people try to run away from them, while others would rather fight to solve them? Unfortunately, in Mistletoe Mother the heroine’s interfering sister decides to take a hand, so that one of Ella’s problems lands on the doorstep of her isolated Scottish home just ahead of a blizzard—all six feet of him!

  Her other problem is something even she can’t run away from, and it can only be solved if the two of them can learn to trust each other again and rediscover the love they’d almost lost.

  Happy reading, and a very merry Christmas.

  Mistletoe Mother

  Josie Metcalfe

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘WHAT on earth am I doing in Scotland in the middle of winter?’ Seth Gifford groaned in disgust.

  The snow seemed to be coming at him from every direction at once, and as fast as it was chilling his face and piling up on his hair and coat, it was also melting down the back of his neck in freezing trickles.

  He could barely see the outline of the tiny cottage through the wildly whirling flakes surrounding him, even though it was just a few paces away. The path was slippery, too, especially with a cumbersome box of groceries in his arms.

  ‘Whose stupid idea was this, anyway?’ he grumbled aloud, knowing that there was no one in this whirling white wilderness to hear him. For the first time in his life he was completely alone, with not a single person for miles around him. Even his unofficial chauffeur was too far away by now to hear him talking to himself, on his way back to the cosy warmth of his cottage in the village at the other end of the glen. It would be two weeks, when Christmas and the New Year’s celebrations were all over, before the elderly man would retrieve him from his solitude in this tiny croft.

  Solitude, he repeated as he made a second journey between the pile of boxes the elderly man had helped to offload at the gate and the tiny porch sheltering the front door. Well, it was another less emotive word for loneliness, he supposed. But, then, he seemed to have been lonely for so much of his life that another two weeks wouldn’t make much difference.

  His colleagues back at the hospital had been looking forward to the coming festive season with their usual mix of anticipation and resignation, depending on their family situations and whether they were rostered on or off duty.

  He’d barely registered feelings either way. Since Fran had died he’d had no really close friends. There was only his brother left to share the holiday season with, and he’d had his own agenda for years. Not even the matchmaking efforts of the boldest of his co-workers had been able to persuade him into starting a new relationship, and he certainly wasn’t into brief flings.

  There had only ever been three women in his life who had mattered to him. First, Margaret, the mother who had died so tragically when he was only sixteen, then Fran, the wife whose disregard for hospital rules and regulations had exacted such a terrible price. The third had been a colleague in his own Obs and Gyn department who he’d foolishly believed would be there for him when he needed her most.

  Instead, she had disappeared from his life without a trace and he tried to avoid even thinking about her, let alone saying her name.

  ‘So much for third time lucky,’ he muttered grimly as he searched in one pocket after another to find the elusive key while bracing the last box against the frame of the door. With a growl of frustration he dragged first one glove and then the other off with his teeth, beyond caring when only one of them managed to drop inside the box. The other disappeared towards his feet, probably destined to be whirled away and buried under a mountain of snow.

  He supposed it was his own fault that he’d ended up here, bearing in mind his increasingly sombre moods over the last year or so. The fact that he’d never been able to confide in any of his colleagues had only added to the stress. Sometimes it had felt as if the only thing that had kept him sane had been the fact that he’d had patients depending on his skills to bring their babies safely into the world, but even so…

  Really, he admitted silently, remembering the pointed comments he’d had from more than one of those colleagues, it was probably just sheer luck on his part that his whole team hadn’t ganged up to banish him to the North Pole.

  ‘On second thoughts, perhaps they have,’ he muttered in disgust as the rising wind blew a veritable blizzard of snowflakes around him in spite of the partial protection of the porch. But he hadn’t been that bad, had he, that they’d want to dump him in the middle of this? At Christmas, too…?

  He threw a quick glance over his shoulder and grimaced. The brief glimpse he’d had of starkly beautiful winter mountains had disappeared almost as quickly as his unofficial taxi. The snow was falling faster now and the last of the daylight was almost gone. If this kept up he was going to be completely stranded in a matter of hours and who knew how long it would be before the roads would be clear again? If he didn’t find the key soon, perhaps they’d find his body still frozen on the doorstep when the snows finally thawed in the spring…

  ‘Gotcha!’ He finally closed his chilly fingers around the elusive key and dragged it out of his pocket. ‘Now all I’ve got to do is get the wretched thing to fit into the lock.’

  With a grunt of satisfaction he heard the snick as the key turned but when he leant against the door it remained stubbornly closed, almost as though it were still firmly locked.

  ‘That’s all I need!’ he groaned in disbelief. ‘Am I going to have to break in to get out of the cold?’ It certainly wouldn’t be very cosy inside if he had to spend the next two weeks combating a howling gale coming in through a broken window.

  ‘The key must fit, otherwise what was the point in giving it to me?’

  The envelope bearing the key and the address of this little cottage had been hand-delivered to his office just two days ago. He hadn’t recognised the handwriting and no one would admit responsibility, but everyone he’d asked had been almost insultingly eager that he should take the suggested holiday.

  Another flurry of snow sifted its way down the back of his neck and for just a second he contemplated finding his mobile phone to ask for his unofficial taxi driver to come straight back to collect him. Then the thought of dragging a man almost old enough to be his grandfather out again on a night like this resurrected a little of his pride.

  ‘You’re not caving in at the first hurdle,’ he told himself fiercely. ‘The others might have b
een half joking when they sent you here, but you’re the only one who really knows how much you need to get your head together. Now, think, man. Why didn’t the key work? Perhaps the door’s warped, or something. Small wonder if this weather is par for the time of year.’

  As he bent down to deposit his ungainly burden before trying again, he suddenly realised that he was still talking to himself and grimaced. Was this a new habit? Surely the isolation wasn’t getting to him already.

  As he straightened up to try the key again, the increasingly vicious wind caught the end of his scarf and flipped it right across his face just as the door swung silently open in front of him. He blinked as light and warmth spilled over him like some unearthly benediction and suddenly realised that he had an unexpected welcoming committee.

  ‘How far have you got, then?’

  Ella bent awkwardly towards the hearth to lift the corner of the tea towel and peered at the rising dough underneath it with a satisfied smile.

  The bread wouldn’t be ready to go into the oven for another twenty minutes or so. Just enough time to get the fire going so that the oven would be hot enough to make a crusty top on each loaf. ‘Just the way you taught me, Granny,’ she murmured as she set the timer, feeling as ever that her grandmother’s spirit would never really leave the cottage she’d loved so much. ‘Put the bread in first, when the oven’s hottest, then pastry, then cakes as the temperature slowly falls.’

  Later, she would be putting in a casserole to simmer slowly overnight, but her supper tonight was going to be at least one steaming bowl of home-made leek and potato soup with a couple of slices of hot, freshly baked bread. ‘If I can get the fire hot enough, that is,’ she grumbled as she lowered herself heavily to her knees and reached for a handful of kindling. ‘I’m moving even slower than Granny did, and she was eighty years old and riddled with arthritis.’

  After the last seven or eight months, the whole baking process was almost second nature now—lighting a fire in the old-fashioned cloam oven from the briskly burning embers of the open hearth, then raking out the fire when the oven reached the right temperature to bake the bread.

  Her father had wanted to replace the centuries-old hearth with a modern cooker to make his mother’s life a little easier but she’d stubbornly clung to the methods she’d grown up with. In spite of the effort involved, Ella could understand the attraction of the old ways, especially on such a cold day.

  The fire was blazing brightly in the depths when she shut the oven door and sat back on her heels, glad that her grandmother had resisted. It might be old-fashioned, but the wide fireplace with the cloam oven built into the wall of one side of it was certainly the most appropriate for this sort of weather.

  ‘Not only does it keep me warm but I can use it for cooking my food, too, and all without worrying about power cuts or running out of gas bottles.’

  The swiftly running stream that hurried past the back of the cottage provided her water, via the totally modern tanks and pipes at one end of the tiny loft. Granny had been easily persuaded that there was no good reason to carry buckets of water or make trips to the ‘privy’ when she could have the labour-saving convenience of running water and an inside bathroom.

  At the same time, the force of the stream on its downward rush had been unobtrusively utilised to provide all the power she needed for lighting and a fridge. In a really bitter winter the volume of water might be diminished by ice, but so far the little diesel generator hidden away in one of the outhouses as an emergency backup hadn’t been needed at all.

  Anyway, she preferred the oil lamps her grandmother had once relied on, and she had a plentiful supply of candles. There was plenty of wood split for burning, with several days’ worth neatly piled beside the fire and even a stack of peat if she got desperate.

  Real pioneer stuff, as her sister Sophia was prone to tease, her pretty face screwed up in an expression of mock disgust as she examined her neatly manicured nails.

  And it was just teasing, Ella knew with a renewed surge of gratitude for Sophia’s generosity. They’d both loved their visits to the little cottage and had revelled in the freedom to roam far and wide no matter what time of year they’d come. It seemed almost impossible that they would never again hear the soft burr of Granny’s voice as she bade them come in for their tea, or the stories she would tell of the creatures that shared the glen with her.

  It had been her bequest to the two of them that they should share the cottage between them and it had been Sophia’s idea that Ella should stay here until she decided what direction her life was going to take.

  She’d originally offered to sell the cottage so that Ella could use the money to live on, only admitting how much she’d hated the thought of losing it when Ella had turned the idea down without a second thought.

  Staying here had been the best solution all round. She had chickens for eggs and she’d become almost self-sufficient once she’d got the vegetable garden going. As for the rest, it hadn’t taken long to dust off her grandmother’s spinning wheel so that she had goods to sell or barter in the way of isolated rural communities for the other things she needed.

  Her thoughts were wandering happily over the little successes that had helped to bring her out of the depression that had driven her here when a sound outside the front of the cottage drew her attention.

  A car? She began the struggle to get to her feet. ‘If that’s Malcolm coming to check up on me again I shall give him a piece of my mind. I told him I had plenty of everything and he shouldn’t be driving around when the weather’s like this. Doesn’t he realise that Morag worries about him?’

  She used the arm of the chair to heave herself upright and stood puffing for a moment while she listened to the sound of thuds and bumps in the little porch. She hardly needed more food and she had enough wood stacked within easy reach to last for a couple of months at least. She even had a source of fresh milk, delivered daily to the end of the track by one of the MacLain lads on his way into the village. Anything else she needed, including help, she just had to lift the phone to find any number of people willing to offer, such was her grandmother’s legacy within the tiny community.

  The only thing she hadn’t got—and that Malcolm couldn’t deliver—was some extra energy.

  ‘Oh, I’ll be so glad when I’ve lost some of this weight,’ she grumbled as she waddled towards the door. ‘The next three weeks can’t go fast enough. I can’t wait to see my feet again—no offence, baby!’ she added as she slid a hand under the voluminous hand-knitted jumper which had once been her father’s and patted the taut mound of her belly.

  For a moment it almost sounded as if someone was trying to use a key in the lock, but before she could think anything of it she was distracted by a hefty kick against her hand.

  ‘So, you want to get out, do you? If you take my advice, you’ll wait until the weather’s a bit better, or at least until daylight,’ she murmured fondly as she reached out to slide the old-fashioned bolt aside, her other hand reaching for the light switch that was almost never used. ‘We don’t want to make Malcolm do too many trips in the snow.’

  She pulled the door open and was momentarily blinded by a flurry of whirling snowflakes before she realised that, whoever he was, the man on her doorstep wasn’t sixty-four-year-old Malcolm.

  For just a moment the reflexes she’d honed when she’d lived in the city nearly had her slamming the door in the stranger’s face. Then common sense stayed her hand.

  Whoever he was, and whatever had brought him to her door, he needed help to find his way back to the road, although how he could possibly have mistaken her little track for the properly surfaced glen road she had no idea.

  ‘Are you lost?’ she asked, and had to suppress a smile when she heard echoes of her grandmother’s accent in her voice. When she’d lived in the city all those years, during her training, her own accent had almost disappeared. Until this moment she hadn’t realised that it had returned stronger than ever.

 
; She shivered as the wind forced its way through the narrow gap between door and jamb, glad of her thick jumper and the fact that she wasn’t out in that awful weather.

  As her visitor fought to subdue the ends of his scarf the light over his head suddenly illuminated a head of thick dark hair, tousled by the wind in spite of the neatness of the style and dotted with glittering shards of ice. He blinked to rid sinfully long lashes of the latest sprinkling of snowflakes and revealed eyes the colour of burnished steel.

  ‘If this isn’t Buchanan’s Croft, I am lost,’ her visitor said wryly.

  Every hair went up on the back of Ella’s neck when she heard that all-too-familiar voice and she had an awful sinking feeling inside her that wasn’t helped by the vigorous football match being enacted inside her.

  ‘And why would you be looking for the Buchanan’s Croft?’ she asked, copying his ‘foreign’ pronunciation of the name as she had to raise her voice over the rising sound of the wind. She had a dreadful feeling as the scene played out in front of her eyes that her peaceful existence was just about to shatter beyond repair. This was all of her worst nightmares come to life and she would far rather have shouted at him to go away than hold a polite conversation on her doorstep.

  ‘Because I’m supposed to be staying at the croft for the next two weeks and I seem to have been delivered to the wrong place.’ He was searching his pockets as though trying to find something. ‘Is it far away?’

  ‘Staying?’ she squeaked as the situation just got worse and worse. ‘But…’

  ‘Ah! Here it is!’ he exclaimed as he pulled a crumpled sheet of paper out of an inside pocket. ‘There’s the address, right there.’

  He held the pale blue slip towards her and she leant forward to look at it.

  Her gasp as she recognised the handwriting in the distinctive violet ink echoed his exclamation when she was clearly illuminated for the first time.

  ‘Sophia!’ she hissed, and didn’t know whether to burst into maniacal laughter or floods of tears when she realised what her sister had done.