The Cattleman, The Baby and Me

by Michelle Douglas

  She glanced down at him and he lifted his arms to her. Perhaps surrounded by strangers he now saw her as his only ally. ‘Oh, Harry,’ she whispered. How could she tell him he was putting his faith in the wrong person? She wanted to weep for him.

  She lifted him out, cuddled him close.

  Liam gestured. ‘This is Mrs Beatson—the housekeeper here at Newarra.’

  She pasted on a bright smile when the older woman started across the lawn. ‘It’s nice to meet you, Mrs Beatson.’

  ‘Call me Beattie, my dear, everyone does. Mrs Beatson was my mother, God rest her. It’s lovely to have visitors.’ Her eyes lit up when they landed on Harry. ‘Ooh, and you’ve brought a littlie—what fun!’

  But as she reached out a hand to Harry he threw his face into Sapphie’s neck with a cry. Sapphie wanted to apologise, but she didn’t get a chance. With a sympathetic tsk-tsk, Mrs Beatson murmured, ‘Poor little tyke. He’s all worn out.’ And she promptly set about abusing Liam for keeping Harry and Sapphie standing in the sun for so long.

  Sapphie only had time to grab the bag containing Harry’s essentials before Mrs Beatson had taken her arm and was propelling her up the path towards the house. ‘Oh, but shouldn’t we help unload the car?’

  ‘Nonsense, dear, it’s what men have muscles for.’

  That made Sapphie grin. All the same, she turned back to glance at Liam.

  ‘Beattie will show you to your room.’ His lips twisted. ‘Take your time. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be in the living room when you’re ready.’

  With a quiet nod, she turned and followed the housekeeper.

  She let out a sigh of pure pleasure when they crossed the threshold. ‘Oh, Mrs Beatson—Beattie.’ She corrected herself at the housekeeper’s frown. ‘What a lovely home.’

  Dark waxed floorboards and antique furniture greeted them, the dim shade a distinct relief after the glare of the sun outside. An overriding sense of peace and calm stole over her. It was ridiculous, she knew, but it felt as if nothing bad could happen in such a lovely place.

  ‘It’s so…big!’

  ‘It is at that.’ Beattie chuckled.

  Sapphie swallowed as she followed the housekeeper into the kitchen—state of the art. Beattie set a kettle on to boil.

  Sapphie moistened her lips. ‘It’s way too big for one person. Does Liam live here all by himself?’

  ‘He does at the moment, dear.’ Beattie turned pensive. ‘This is the family home, mind, so the rest of the family all have rooms here, but they haven’t visited in a while. At Christmas it can get quite rowdy, but…well, not last Christmas.’

  Before Sapphie could ask why, Beattie beckoned to a door off to the left.

  ‘Those are my rooms down there if you need to find me. Now, let’s get you and this little man here settled.’

  She led Sapphie down a long corridor—more waxed floorboards, softened by a Persian carpet runner in burgundy. She threw open a door at the end to reveal a beautifully appointed room with moulded cornices and French doors leading out to the shade of the veranda.

  ‘And here’s the attached nursery,’ Beattie said, leading her through an adjoining doorway.

  ‘Oh!’ Sapphie turned on the spot. Everything she and Harry could possibly want, even down to an antique wooden rocking horse, was here. ‘It’s lovely.’

  Beattie gave a satisfied sigh. ‘This nursery has seen four generations of Stapleton children. Liam and Belinda had it redecorated.’

  ‘Umm… Belinda?’

  Beattie shook her head. ‘Sorry, dear, I’m prattling on, aren’t I? We haven’t had visitors in an age and I’ve forgotten how to act.’ Her voice lowered a notch. ‘Belinda was Liam’s wife. They divorced a few years back. He’s a good man. He didn’t deserve that.’ She stared at Harry and her smile broadened again. ‘Oh, my, but it warms the heart to have a child in the house again, let me tell you. And don’t you worry, dear. Nobody will disturb you down this end of the house. Liam hasn’t visited these rooms since—’

  She broke off. Sapphie had to bite her tongue to stop from asking Since when?

  ‘You’ll have to excuse an old woman’s ramblings.’

  ‘There’s nothing to excuse,’ Sapphie said with a determined smile and a shake of her head.

  ‘Now, the bathroom is just down the hall. And don’t hesitate to ask if you need anything.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Beattie disappeared, leaving Sapphie and Harry alone. And it suddenly occurred to Sapphie that not only was Liam not Harry’s father, but he no longer had a wife either, which meant he was a single man.

  Her mouth went dry. She eyed the phone on the bedside table, bit her lip. She didn’t want to talk to Anna—not yet, not after everything she’d just found out. But for safety’s sake someone needed to know where she and Harry were.

  She hauled in a breath and forced herself to pick up the receiver. As long as she didn’t have to look Anna in the eye, she should be able to lie convincingly enough. If Anna sensed that something was wrong, Sapphie could simply say she was worried about Harry and Emmy. Which was the truth. In part.

  Sapphie bathed Harry and dressed him in clean clothes. He didn’t exactly co-operate, but he didn’t fight her either.

  She tried telling herself it was an improvement, a step forward for little Harry. Common sense told her he was just too tired at the moment to kick up a fuss.

  She had to find his father. She had to find someone who could look after him properly and give him everything he needed. She had to remove herself from his world before he started to rely on her…before she tainted him too. She wasn’t the kind of woman who should be trusted with the care of a child.

  A lump lodged in her throat as she stared at him. He was so little. He was such an innocent. And he didn’t deserve any of this! Longing welled through her. She did what she could to banish it.

  With a gulp, she kicked herself back into action—showered in double-quick time, pulled on clean clothes, and then towel-dried her hair, tugged a comb through it. Neat, tidy, clean—that was all the occasion called for.

  She started towards Harry, who lay in the middle of the queen-sized bed. She pulled up short, bit her lip, cast a glance at the door. Not the smallest spark of sexual interest had lightened Liam’s eyes when they’d rested on her. Not at the airstrip. Not in the car. And she’d like to keep it that way.

  She pulled a cotton sweater from her suitcase, tugged it on over her head. She adjusted the long sleeves, fastened the three buttons at the collar. Jared, via Anna, had told her Liam was a good man. Beattie and Sid had both said the same thing. It was what her instincts told her too. She prayed that none of them had been deceived.

  Liam shot to his feet the moment he realised Sapphie hovered in the doorway. He wasn’t sure what had alerted him to her presence. Her fragrance, perhaps? She smelt of peaches.

  ‘Come in.’

  She took a few hesitant steps into the living room. Her hair was damp, as if she’d just showered. Perhaps she used peach-scented shampoo?

  She wore a clean pair of jeans and a shirt that had to be at least three sizes too big. She balanced Harry on one hip and clutched a baby bottle full of milk in her other hand. With a piece of terry cloth in the most vivid orange tossed over her shoulder she shouldn’t look sexy.

  She didn’t!

  He pushed the thought right out of his head as soon as he was aware of thinking it. He didn’t give two hoots what Sapphie Thomas looked like.

  He gritted his teeth. He didn’t need a woman like this at Newarra. He didn’t need any woman. He forced himself to focus on the bright cloth and nothing else.

  She reached up a hand to finger it. ‘Do you know they make nappies in the most amazing range of colours now? I like them loads more than the plain old white ones, don’t you?’

  He didn’t know what to say. A nappy was a nappy, as far as he was concerned. ‘You need to change him?’

  She shook her head. ‘This—’ she pulled the nappy fr
om her shoulder and glanced around the room at its vast array of sofas and armchairs ‘—is to save your furniture.’

  ‘It’s survived generations of children. No doubt it’ll survive generations more.’

  ‘Yeah, but only through the hard work of women like Beattie. If I can save her any work, then I will.’

  For some reason that made him want to smile. ‘She’d think it a small price to pay for having a child in the house again, believe me.’ He glanced at Harry, and any desire he had to smile fled. He didn’t need a child at Newarra either. ‘You didn’t want to put him down for a nap?’

  Her gaze darted away. ‘He’s unsettled. I wanted to keep an eye on him.’

  He took a step towards her, noted the dark circles under her eyes and remembered how she’d said she hadn’t slept in two days. Suddenly he wished she could have all the sleep she needed. He could go and work on that new brumby for a couple of hours, as he’d planned before she’d turned up on his doorstep…or rather airstrip. They could talk once she was rested.

  He opened his mouth, but she got in first. ‘May I take a seat?’

  He deliberately hardened his heart, warned himself against going soft…especially where a woman was concerned. He and Sapphie Thomas had too much to sort out. He had too much to find out.

  ‘Of course…please.’ He motioned her further into the room and pointed to a sofa. ‘That one is particularly comfortable.’ And, from his armchair, it would afford him a good view of her face.

  He watched her settle Harry back against the cushions, the orange nappy arranged around him. Liam kept his eyes on Sapphie’s face. It was easier than looking at Harry. His jaw tightened. The furniture at the Newarra homestead might survive several more generations of children, but none of those children would be his.

  Some of the tension seeped out of him, though, as he continued to watch Sapphie. She was easy on the eye. She might not be conventionally beautiful—her mouth was too wide and her jaw too square—but her features were mobile and constantly changing, a play of light and shadow. Though perhaps there was more shadow than light at the moment. He frowned.

  If she was aware of his scrutiny she gave no sign of it. Oversized sweater, buttons fastened again. She was telling him in no uncertain terms—hands off.

  His lips tightened. That suited him fine. She didn’t need to tell him twice.

  She showed Harry his bottle…smiled and talked nonsense…sighed when he didn’t respond. Harry took his bottle, though, rolling onto his side and suckling eagerly. Which reminded Liam…

  ‘Beattie made us a pot of tea and some Vegemite sandwiches.’ He lifted the plate of sandwiches towards her.

  ‘Ooh, yum!’ She seized one and bit into it. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, because I mean to eat this with more gusto than grace,’ she said, mouth half full.

  He’d have smiled, but as he watched her devour half a sandwich and then reach for another his heart started to burn. ‘When did you last eat?’

  ‘Last night.’

  He leapt up. ‘That’s not—’

  He broke off when she put a finger to her lips and gestured to Harry. The child’s eyes were closed. In repose, Harry’s face lost its wariness. Liam’s heart burned harder. Part of him wanted to reach out and touch the child—make sure he was real. The greater part of him shied away.

  Sapphie’s voice hauled him back. ‘When I found out the mail plane was doing its run today I didn’t have time for breakfast. And, while I grabbed plenty of supplies for the trip, both Harry and I felt a bit queasy on the plane.’

  Liam opened his mouth, but she’d pre-empted his next question. ‘And, yes, we both drank plenty of water. Neither one of us is dehydrated.’

  He sank back into his chair. Then slid forward to pour the tea. If she hadn’t eaten since last night… ‘How do you take your tea?’

  ‘White and two, thanks.’

  He handed her a cup, and then watched in fascination as she swallowed it down in three swigs. Beattie had used the good china—the cups were tiny. He poured her a second cup as she finished the rest of her sandwich. He held out the plate towards her again.

  She took the cup with a murmured, ‘Thank you,’ but declined another sandwich. He set the plate back to the coffee table, aware of a vague sense of disappointment—it had given him a certain satisfaction to feed her.

  She took a measured sip of her tea, eyeing him over its rim, and then straightened as if refusing to surrender to the sofa’s beckoning softness. She set the cup on the coffee table. ‘Liam, who do you think is Harry’s father?’

  She didn’t want to make small talk, and he didn’t blame her. They didn’t have anything small to talk about. Harry might be small in stature, but not in any other sense of the word. She wanted answers.

  Who did he suspect was Harry’s father? He dragged a hand down his face. Lucas, that was who. He bit back an oath. What a mess!

  He stared back at her, tried to keep his voice measured, his breathing even. ‘I suspect that the child there is my nephew.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  SAPPHIE stared at him—nephew? He thought Harry was his nephew? She didn’t know whether to laugh in relief that her search hadn’t taken her too wide of the mark or not. One look at Liam’s face and she decided not to. She bit her lip. From what Beatttie had said none of Liam’s family was currently in residence at Newarra, but surely a simple phone call would solve everything?

  And then Harry would have his daddy.

  She pressed her hands to her heart, willing it to slow, and slumped back against the sofa’s softness. ‘What is your brother’s name?’

  ‘Lucas.’ The word scratched out of him, barely audible. He cleared his throat. ‘Lucas,’ he said again, this time louder.

  ‘Lucas?’ she whispered, remembering the betrayal that had stained Emmy’s eyes when she’d said, ‘He promised to come back for me.’ ‘Why do you think he’s Harry’s father?’

  Liam started to rise, then stopped, as if he thought any sudden movement might startle her. ‘Can I show you the family album?’

  He was treating her the same way Bryce had treated a frightened colt. She didn’t mind. It suited her purposes perfectly for the moment. She didn’t want Liam taking her assent about anything for granted.

  At her nod, he strode across the room to a bookcase. He was just a little too lean and broad and hard for a woman’s peace of mind. It would suit her just fine if he kept his distance.

  He came back, laid a heavy photo album across her knee and retreated to his chair. She opened the first page and just stared. She turned to the second page…went back to the first page…turned to the third. And it suddenly fell into place—why Liam had broken off mid-tirade and stopped threatening to throw her back on the mail plane. The faces of the babies staring out at her from the album were identical to that of the baby sleeping beside her.

  ‘Harry is…’

  ‘The very image of me and my brothers,’ Liam confirmed, his lips twisting.

  She stared at him, willing him to show just a little bit of joy at discovering he had a nephew. She understood that he might still be wrestling with the magnitude of the surprise, but…

  She swallowed and shook herself. ‘Who’s this? And this?’

  Liam leant across the arm of the sofa. He touched one brown finger to a photograph. ‘This is me… That’s my brother Lachlan, my sister Lacey… And this here is Lucas.’

  Until around the ages of three, the photographs of Liam, Lachlan and Lucas seemed identical. They still looked like brothers after that, but their individual differences started coming to the fore. Not just physically either. In every photograph of him after the age of five Liam stood with his back ramrod-straight, staring intently at the camera. Lachlan, with a grin full of mischief, was usually showing off. And Lucas, when he wasn’t laughing, had a tendency to duck his head—a little uncertain, a little shy.

  They were gorgeous kids. And they had all grown into seriously gorgeous men.

  As S
apphie turned the pages of the photo album, a picture formed of a close-knit family bound by love and laughter and mutual respect. Longing yawned through her. She’d spent her whole life wanting to belong to a family like this.

  She glanced down at Harry. Could all this history and heritage be his?

  Finally she handed the album back to Liam, and thankfully he moved away, back to his armchair, where his heat and his scent couldn’t beat at her. He smelt of horse and leather and native grass—scents she associated with the Kimberley and with good times. For as long as he’d sat so close she’d had to fight the urge to lean into him. She swallowed and told herself to stop being so fanciful.

  ‘The resemblance is remarkable.’

  ‘Yes.’

  If the photos were any indication, Lucas laughed a lot. He looked as if he’d make a wonderful father—full of fun and laughter…and love. The opposite of the man sitting across from her.

  Her instincts told her Liam was a good man, but nobody could accuse him of being a barrel of laughs, could they? The lines around his eyes and mouth grew more pronounced. She wished he’d smile. She should have known the moment she’d clapped eyes on him that Emmy wouldn’t mess with a man like Liam. He wasn’t the kind of man one messed about with.

  ‘You should probably have a look at this.’

  He held something out to her. A postcard. She couldn’t decipher the emotion that momentarily twisted his features, but an icy premonition suddenly seized hold of her. She didn’t want to read that postcard. She knew that with every atom of her being. She forced her nerveless fingers to take it. A postcard from Rottnest Island. She turned it over. It was signed by Lucas. The date was twenty-one months ago. She frowned. It seemed innocuous enough.

  Liam held up two sheets of paper. ‘This is Lucas’s credit card statement from twenty-one months ago. Multiple transactions were made at a resort on Rottnest Island. It appears he was there for about a week.’