And then, suddenly, it was all too much. The girl’s shoulder had jerked as she’d pulled herself upright. He could see in her eyes that the pain was indescribably fierce. So fierce she couldn’t bear it.

She gasped and staggered, and she would have fallen, but Mike was right there, holding her tightly by her good arm, stopping her from falling and propelling her down onto one of the tumbled bales of hay.

‘It’s OK.’ His voice, when he spoke, was as gentle as the laughter lines around his eyes. It was deep, resonant and sure, and, as always, it was inexplicably reassuring. The locals said his forte was small children and dogs, and they had reason. Mike’s was a voice that imbued trust. ‘Don’t fight it,’ he said softly. ‘It’s OK.’

The girl didn’t lack courage. She did resist-she pulled back for all of two seconds-but if she didn’t sit she’d fall, and there was no choice. She sat, and looked helplessly up again at him as she tried to clear the mists of pain. You could see what she was thinking.

Who the hell was this?

‘It’s OK,’ he repeated again, and there was such gentleness in his tone that it made the girl catch her breath. ‘We’re not here to hurt you.’

‘Where…where’s my grandfather?’

‘We’ve been searching for him.’ He knelt before her, and his fingers gripped hers, blood and all. His hands were big and strong and warm, and they clasped hers as if he knew how scared she was underneath the bravado. It was a gesture of warmth and strength and reassurance he’d used many times before, and the girl’s body relaxed just a smidgen. Nothing more, but he could feel it, and he smiled his reassuring smile-a smile that could charm a rattlesnake.

‘I’m the local doctor,’ he told her. ‘Let me see your arm. Let me help.’