‘Hey, sweet pea.’ Ed touched Katie’s hand, watching her tiny fingers unfurl and stretch. ‘Ready to come home?’
‘Home to a nursery that your daddy has painted from top to bottom and made fit for a princess?’ added Milla.
‘Home to baby lambs, and a black and white dog and a ginger cat,’ said Ed, who was truly in his element now that he was a farmer, a husband and a father.
Milla was bursting with happiness, too. She had to pinch herself as she looked around at the profusion of flowers and cards and stuffed toys that had been sent or hand delivered by family members and friends and customers from the bakery.
She couldn’t help remembering that other lonely time, over two years ago now, when she’d sat in a bleak, empty hospital room, grieving for her lost baby, and wondering what on earth she would do with the rest of her sad, sorry life.
‘I’ve brought boxes to cart all these things,’ Ed said as he began to gather up the bouquets. ‘I’ll take them to the car and come back for you. You’ll soon be home.’
Home. Their favourite place to be.
They drove from the hospital in Parkes, with Katie safely in her little capsule in the back of their all-wheel drive. Home through the familiar countryside, with fields of wheat shimmering in the soft breeze and with ewes and new lambs grazing in the morning sunlight.
Home to a sprawling low weatherboard house, painted white and surrounded by wisteria-covered trellises, flower gardens and trees.
They adored their comfy, rambling farmhouse with its sunny, north-facing kitchen and its huge fireplace for winter. Together they’d established the vegetable gardens and chickens that Milla had always wanted, as well as a newly planted orchard that meant so much to Ed.
And now a spare bedroom had been painted white with bright colourful trims.
As Ed turned off the main road down the gravel road to their farm Milla felt a rush of happiness and a sense of fulfilment beyond her wildest dreams.
Her parents were arriving in two days’ time to admire their granddaughter and to help her settle into motherhood. Gerry and Maddie Cavanaugh were coming the following month. Since Ed’s marriage they’d come down under every six months, alternating with Ed and Milla’s trips to the US, and each time Milla and Ed saw Gerry he seemed happier and more deeply content.
‘All Maddie’s work,’ he told them with a grin.
‘Now,’ said Ed as he pulled up at the front of their house. ‘There’s one more surprise here for you.’
She grinned, thinking of more long-stemmed roses. Or perhaps a bottle of champagne.
‘You won’t have to cook for the next three months,’ Ed said.
Milla blinked at him. ‘Are you offering to look after our meals?’
‘I don’t have to. Our freezer’s full to overflowing. Just about every housewife in the district has turned up here with a foil-covered casserole.’
‘Wow,’ Milla said softly. ‘That’s amazing.’
‘Not so amazing considering everything you’ve done for this community.’
Perhaps that was true, but it had all been fun.
Milla suspected that she would remember this moment for ever as she climbed out of the vehicle and as she watched Ed carefully extract their baby girl from her capsule. Her heart was as light as a dawn breeze as she hooked her arm through her husband’s and the three of them went inside.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from The Courage to Say Yes by Barbara Wallace
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CHAPTER ONE
“HEY, WHERE DO you think you’re going?”
Pudgy fingers gripped Abby’s wrist. She froze, hating herself for her reaction. “Let go of me, Warren,” she said.
Her ex-boyfriend shook his head. “I’m not done talking to you.”
Maybe not, but Abby was done listening. “There’s nothing more to talk about.” At least nothing she hadn’t heard a dozen or three times before.
She tried to yank her arm free, but Warren held fast. “Since when do you tell me what to do?”
His fingers dug into the top of her wrist. He was going to leave a mark, dammit. “Warren, please.” The plea slipped out from habit. “The customers...”
“Screw the customers.” A couple heads turned in their direction. Abby didn’t dare look to see if Guy, her boss, had heard, too.
“This is your fault, you know?” Warren told her. “I wouldn’t have to come down to this—” he curled his upper lip “—this diner if you weren’t being so childish.”
As if his pouting and tantrums were the height of maturity. Abby knew better than to say anything. Hard to believe she’d once considered this man the answer to life’s problems. Now he was the problem. One hundred ninety-five pounds of unshakable anger. Why couldn’t he let her go? It’d been six weeks.
When it comes to us, I make the decisions, babe. Not you. That’s what he always said.
How on earth was she going to get loose this time?
“Hey, Abby.”
The sound of her name cut through the breakfast din, and made her pulse kick up yet another notch. Abby knew the speaker immediately. The photographer. She’d been waiting on him for the past dozen days. Always sat at the back corner table and read the paper, his expensive camera resting on the chair next to him. Quiet, hassle-free. Good tipper. Hunter something or other. Abby hadn’t paid close attention. Whatever his last name, he was heading toward them, weaving his way through the tables with a graceful precision. Warren was not going to like the interruption.
“You want something?” he asked, before she could.
“I could use some more coffee.” Hunter directed his answer to her as though her ex had never spoken. “That is, if you can pull yourself away from your conversation.”
“Um...” She looked to Warren, gauging his reaction. After six years, she’d become an expert on reading his facial expressions. The telltale darkening of his eyes wasn’t good. On the other hand, she knew he preferred discretion, choosing to do his bullying in private.
“You heard the man. He needs fresh coffee,” Warren replied. “You don’t want to keep your customers waiting.”
Leaning forward, he placed a kiss on her cheek, a marking of territory, as much for her benefit as Hunter’s. Abby had to fight the urge to wipe the feel of his mouth from her skin. “I’ll see you later, babe.”
His promise made her stomach churn.
“Nice guy,” Hunter drawled from behind her shoulder.
“Yeah, he’s a real peach.”
She rubbed her aching wrist. What made her think she could walk away, and Warren wouldn’t try to track her down? Just because he told her repeatedly that she was a worthless piece of trash didn’t mean he was ready to give her up. As far as he was concerned, she was his property.
Warren’s car pulled away from the curb. He was gone, but not for good. He’d be back. Later today. Tomorrow. A week from tomorrow. Ready to beg, scream, and try to drag her back home.
Oh, God, what if she wasn’t in a public place when he returned? Or if he decided to
do more than beg and scream? There were all sorts of stories in the news....
Her breakfast started to rise in her throat. She grabbed the chair in front of her.
“You okay?” she heard Hunter ask.
“F-fine.” For the millionth time in six weeks, she pushed her nerves aside. Worrying would only mean Warren still had control. “I’m fine,” she repeated. “I’ll go get your coffee.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he replied. “I’m good.”
“But you said...” She stopped as the meaning of what he’d done dawned on her. He’d interrupted on purpose.
“You’re welcome.” Hunter turned and headed for his usual table.
Abby didn’t know what to say. She should be grateful. After all, he’d just bailed her out of what could have become a very difficult situation. In all her years with Warren, no one had ever stepped up to help her before. On the other hand, she hadn’t asked for his help. He’d just assumed she needed it, as though she were a helpless little victim.
Aren’t you?
No. Not anymore. Despite what the situation looked like.
Oh, but she could just imagine what someone like the photographer thought, too. Her hand still shaking with nerves, she ran it through her hair before looking over at the back table. There sat Hunter, sipping the coffee he didn’t need refilling. With his faded field jacket and his aviator sunglasses perched atop his thick brown hair, he looked exactly the way you’d picture a photographer. If you were casting a movie, that is. One where the daredevil photojournalist dodged bullets to get the shot. To be honest, his whole outfit—worn jeans, worn henley—would seem silly on anyone who didn’t look like a movie star.
It didn’t look silly on the Hunter. He had the cheekbones and complexion to rival any actor in New York City. Might as well throw Los Angeles in there as well, Abby decided. The build, too. Whereas Warren was soft and doughy, Hunter was hard, his body defined by angles and contours. Small wonder Warren had backed off. Her ex might be a bully, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew when he was outclassed.
Too bad she couldn’t get Warren to back off so easily.
“Abby, order up!” Guy stuck his craggy head out of the order window and slapped the bell. “Get your butt in gear. You want to stand around, you can go find a street corner.”
As if this job was much better. She moved behind the counter to pick up the two plates of scrambled eggs and bacon Guy had shoved onto the shelf. “What about the home fries?”
Guy slapped a bowl of fried potatoes in front of her. “Next time, write it on the slip. And while you’re at it, tell your boyfriend if he wants to visit, he can order like everyone else. I’m not paying you to stand around talking.”
“He’s not my— Never mind.” She grabbed the potatoes, wincing a little at the pressure the extra plate put on her sore wrist. No sense arguing a losing point.
“Ignore him.” Ellen, one of her fellow waitresses, said as she walked by. “He’s like a bear with a sore head this morning.”
What about the other mornings? “No change there then.” Abby went to serve her customers before Guy blew another gasket. Miserable as her boss might be, he was the only employer who’d been willing to hire an inexperienced waitress. Life with Warren hadn’t left her with too many marketable skills, unless you counted walking on eggshells and knowing how to read bad moods. This job was the only thing keeping her from complete destitution. Without it, she might actually end up standing on a street corner.
Halfway through her rounds topping up customers’ cups with fresh coffee, Abby felt the hair on the back of her neck began to rise. Someone was watching her. With more than the usual “trying to get the waitress’s attention” stare. Automatically, her head whipped to the front door. Empty.
She didn’t like being studied. In her experience, scrutiny led to one of three things: correction, punishment or a lecture. With a frown, she looked around the room until her eyes reached the back table where Hunter was sat. Sure enough, his attention was focused directly at her.
For the first time since she’d begun waiting on him, she took notice of his eyes. A weird hybrid of blue and gray, they looked almost like steel under the diner’s fluorescent lighting. She’d never seen eyes that color. Nor had she been looked at with such... Approval wasn’t the right word. It definitely wasn’t the disapproval she was used to, either. She didn’t know what to call it. Whatever the name, it caused a somersault sensation in the pit of her stomach.
Finally noticing he had her attention, Hunter nodded and held up his bill.
Abby’s cheeks grew hot. Of course. Why else would he be looking for her other than to settle his bill? Warren’s visit had her brain turned backward. After all, it wasn’t as if she was the kind of woman who turned heads on a good day, let alone today. Her face was flushed and sweaty. And her hair? She’d given up trying with her hair hours ago.
She made a point of approaching his table on the fly, figuring she could grab his credit card and sweep on past, so as to avoid any awkward conversation. Considering his intervention earlier, she doubted there could be any other kind.
Unfortunately, as soon as she reached for the plastic, his grip on the card tightened.
“Is there a problem?” she asked when he wouldn’t let go.
“You tell me.” His eyes dropped to her wrist. To the bluish-red spots marked where Warren’s fingers had been.
Dammit. She’d hoped there wouldn’t be any evidence. Letting go of the credit card, Abby pulled the cuff of her sleeve down to her knuckles. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Do all your knishes look like eggs over easy?”
“What?” His question made no sense.
“The bill says I ordered blueberry knishes and rye toast.”
“Sorry. I gave you the bill from two tables over by mistake.”
“Again.”
“Again,” Abby repeated. That’s right; she’d made the same mistake with him yesterday. She wondered if she’d messed up any other tables. Guy would kill her if she did. Again.
“Happens when you’re distracted.”
“Or busy,” Abby countered, refusing to take the bait. She was trying to put Warren out of her head, and while she wasn’t having much luck, talking about him wouldn’t help.
Taking her order pad from her pocket, she flipped the pages. “Here’s yours,” she said, tearing out a new page. “Eggs over easy, bacon and whole-wheat toast. Same as every day. You want me to ring you up?” The sooner he settled his bill, the sooner he’d leave. Maybe then she could pretend the morning hadn’t happened.
“Please.”
Hunter noticed that this time when she reached for the card, she snatched it with her right hand, keeping her left still tucked inside her sweater. How hard did you have to squeeze someone’s wrist to leave a bruise, anyway? Pretty damn hard, he imagined. A man had to have some serious anger issues to grab a woman that tightly.
Sipping the last of his cold coffee, he watched Abby ring up his bill, the sleeve of her sweater stretched almost to her fingertips. A poor attempt at hiding the evidence.
He’d known the minute the guy walked in that he was a first-class jerk. The overly expensive leather jacket and hair plugs screamed needy self-importance. It took him by surprise, though, when the jerk approached Abby. If anyone could be considered jerkdom’s polar opposite, it was his waitress. Since his return stateside, Hunter had spent his meals at Guy’s trying to figure out what it was that had him sitting in the same section day after day. Certainly wasn’t the service, since Abby messed up his order on a regular basis.
Her looks? With her overly lean frame and angular features she wasn’t what you’d call conventionally pretty. She was, however, eye-catching. Her butterscotch-colored topknot had a mind of its own, always flopping in one direction or another, with more an
d more strands working their way loose as the day progressed. The color reminded him of Sicilian beaches, warm and golden. Luckily, Guy was lax about health-code regulations. Be a shame to cover such a gorgeous color with an ugly hairnet.
She had fascinating eyes, too. Big brown eyes the size of dinner plates.
The bell over the front door rang. Hunter watched as she stiffened and cast a nervous look toward the entrance. Worried the jerk would return? Or that he wouldn’t? Could be either. For all Hunter knew, his butterscotch-haired waitress had a big old dark side and liked being manhandled. Nothing surprised him anymore.
Well, almost nothing. He’d managed to surprise himself this morning. Since when did he step into other people’s business?
A soft cough broke his thoughts. Looking up, he saw Abby standing there, coffeepot in her grip. Her right hand again. “Wrist sore?” he couldn’t help asking.
“No.” The answer came fast and defensively. “Why would it be?”
How about because she’d had the daylights squeezed out of it? “No reason.”
If she wasn’t interested in sharing, so be it. Wasn’t his business, anyway. “Can I have a pen? For the receipt.”
Her cheeks pinked slightly as she handed him the one from her pocket. Hunter scribbled his name and began gathering his belongings.
“Thank you.” The words reached him as he was hanging his camera strap around his neck. Spoken softly and with her back turned, they could have been for the thirty percent tip. Or not. He saved them both the embarrassment of responding.
* * *
Distracted didn’t begin to cover Abby’s mental state for the rest of the day. She spent her entire shift expecting Warren to tap her on the shoulder. By the time she finished work, she’d managed to mess up four more orders. Not all the customers were as forgiving as Hunter, either. Guy was ready to run her out the door.
“Make sure your head’s on straight tomorrow,” he groused when she clocked out.
Miracle in Bellaroo Creek (Bellaroo Creek!) Page 16
