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Chapter 4
Adelaide River
‘For a bush hospital, this place isn’t bad, hey, Meg?’ Seamus sat on a nearby rock, his dinner cradled awkwardly in his injured arm. After several weeks in plaster, it was pale and skinnier than his other wrist, and he would have to work to build up muscle strength. ‘Good tucker.’ He scooped another spoonful into his mouth.
‘Pretty good, especially since the cook has to feed more mouths than he had supplies for. He’s rationed the meat, but with all the vegetables they grow here—’
‘And the tropical fruits. Don’t forget them.’
‘Army food isn’t so bad here, but I look forward to when bush turkey isn’t the only meat served.’
Seamus had shot a bush turkey to add to the pot, his second in two days. One-handed and therefore slower to complete tasks, his humorous quips on the ward lifted the spirits of patients and staff alike, and his hunting skill had eased the cook’s worries about making supplies last. ‘Mind you, I’ve never eaten bush turkey before. Are they always so—chewy?’
‘Plenty of them in the bush around our farm.’ A cheeky grin lit his face. ‘Tough old bird, but boil the guts out of it and you get—’
‘Still a tough old bird.’ Meg laughed. ‘And a good jaw workout while you eat.’
‘Ah, Meg, you know how to cut a man’s delusions of being a great white hunter down to size.’
‘I didn’t mean—’
‘No offence taken, macushla. I’m teasing, is all.’
‘You’ve been wonderful, the way you help everyone.’
‘Wonderful, is it now? You’ll give me a big head.’ He scraped the last of the meal onto his spoon and set his bowl down with a sigh of satisfaction. ‘Tough, but tasty.’
‘If you’re finished, I’ll wash your plate, and you can tell me what that word means while we have a cuppa.’
‘What word would that be?’
‘The “mac” word you call me.’
‘Macushla?’ His gaze darkened, deepened, pinning her on her rocky seat. The way he said it—with that lilt of a remembered Irish accent— was . . . She thought about it for a moment before she answered. Possessive, almost, but in a good way.
‘That word, yes.’ Her voice came out soft, and filled with hunger for something—precisely what, she didn’t know.
He stood abruptly. ‘I’ll get us both a mug of tea and meet you yonder.’ He nodded towards the growing darkness at the edge of camp then turned away and strode to the mess tent.
In a haze of unfamiliar emotions, Meg washed and dried their plates and set them on the neat pile ready for the morning meal. Innocent of a man’s touch though she was, Seamus stirred feelings in her. Feelings that made sense of the romantic poetry she’d read late at night in bed in the nurses’ quarters in Sydney.
She bit her thumb and peered into the gathering darkness where Seamus waited with her tea. It’s just tea, for goodness’ sake. Just a cup of tea.
But she knew she lied.
Seamus’s gaze had promised knowledge and an answer to the fluttering in her stomach whenever he was near. If she walked down the track to the edge of camp, she would break Matron’s rule of no cuddling. She knew there would be cuddling. She knew there would be no turning back.
The sky was filling with stars and a tropical moon, big and white and full, had risen, bathing the landscape in a wash of magical light.
Drawing a deep breath, Meg stepped onto the track, following it to Seamus.
##
He was perched on afallen log, his legs stretched in front of him and crossed at the ankles. Meg stepped through his long moon-shadow and sat beside him, crossing her ankles and tucking her feet to the side. Silently, he handed her a mug, the brew strong and black, but redolent of home and comfort.
Like the man by her side. In a handful of days, Seamus had become her comfort. Being with him was like returning home.
‘You’re my North Star, Meg.’ His voice was low, thoughtful, romantic—like the lush tropical night enveloping them. Lover-like. She’d seen Gone with the Wind, almost swooned at Rhett Butler’s voice, but Seamus’s voice thrilled her more. Thrilled and comforted and excited her.
