Combatting Fear

by Sandy Vaile

  Thank you for downloading this Simon & Schuster ebook.

  * * *

  Get a FREE ebook when you join our mailing list. Plus, get updates on new releases, deals, recommended reads, and more from Simon & Schuster. Click below to sign up and see terms and conditions.

  CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

  Already a subscriber? Provide your email again so we can register this ebook and send you more of what you like to read. You will continue to receive exclusive offers in your inbox.

  Contents

  Cover

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  More from This Author

  Copyright

  Guide

  Start of content

  Combatting Fear

  Sandy Vaile

  Avon, Massachusetts

  This story is for Paul, who encouraged me to reach for the stars. Thank you for regaling me with entertaining bedtime stories and leading by example.

  Chapter 1

  A post office box under an alias wasn’t much to go on, but no matter how slim the chance of finding his son, Micah had to take it.

  The Roman numerals on his Cartier watch read: 9:12 a.m. Crap, he’d wasted time sleeping. Using the front seat for leverage, he pulled himself into a sitting position, and the few clothes he’d had in his overnight bag slid off him—they’d been an inadequate substitute for a blanket. He rubbed a crick in his neck. Regardless of how comfortable the back seat of a Bentley was, a six-foot man did not fit horizontally. It wasn’t the first time he’d slept in a car though.

  Dodging all the wildlife between his new wind farm site in New South Wales to this backwater town in South Australia, had made the journey tenser than playing a game of Frogger. He’d arrived at midnight, exhausted, and the place had been shut up tighter than a preserving jar.

  In the morning light, Turners Gully was a charming rural township. There wasn’t a lot to it—the obligatory hotel and church aside—but there didn’t need to be, so long as . . .There it was: a kindergarten sign. The squat stone building was set a long way back from the road, as though surreptitiously nestling against the steep hillside would save it from detection.

  A deep creek ran along one side, shaded by vast willow trees, and period cottages flanked the other sides. He pulled into the car park, shoved the car door open, and heaved himself onto the footpath to stretch cramped muscles. A quick pat down of his crumpled clothes wasn’t much improvement, but finding a place to freshen up would have to wait. Past experience told him he needed to get onto the trail of his estranged wife right away.

  There were a couple of other cars parked out front, and squeals from children playing in the yard. Rowan might be there today. He could see him. Hold him.

  As he strode towards the rustic front door, the insidious question that had been burning its way up his esophagus for the past year pricked Micah’s psyche. How long did it take a young child to forget an absent father? If he didn’t find Rowan soon, it might be too late.

  Time and time again during the past year, he’d dropped everything to track his wife, Chelsea, across Australia. It was an unsustainable disruption to his business, and more than enough time with his son had been stolen. It was time to change this game of cat and mouse so the cat got the cream.

  • • •

  Rowan crouched in the kindergarten sandpit. Neve watched his pink lips vibrate with engine sounds as he pushed a yellow truck over miniature sand hills. Shaggy brown hair fell across his eyes, and she ached to push it back. Her throat closed and her chest heaved with a familiar emptiness.

  “Neve! Neve!” Rowan raced towards her, toy truck held high and face distorted with distress. “The tipper won’t work. It’s busted and I didn’t do it. It’s ’posed to tip.”

  He was fast dissolving into tears, as he often did when something didn’t go his way, and turned moist eyes, the colour of burnt sugar, towards her.

  She squatted to get on his level. “Okay, slow down, Ro. Let me take a look. I know how to fix engines, but I don’t think that’s the problem here.”

  “Is it busted?”

  His bottom lip quivered and her heart wrenched. He leant in for a better view of the repairs, his small, warm body soft against her arm, smelling of Vegemite and the eucalyptus leaves he’d played in earlier. He trusted her to solve his problems, at least while he was in her care. When he went home . . .well, that was another story.

  A raised voice inside the kindy caught her attention, but she couldn’t see what was going on from the yard. Annemarie would handle it. She turned back to the truck and held up a piece of wood for Rowan to inspect.

  “Look, there was a twig stuck under the tray,” she said. “Now you can tip it up and down.”

  “Yay! Thanks, Neve.” He raced back to the sandpit, engine sounds once again spluttering from upturned lips.

  The voice inside got louder. “I demand to see my son right now!”

  Adrenaline sprinted through Neve’s veins. The children and staff were her responsibility. She dashed across the yard, burst through the back door, and assessed the man looming over her second-in-charge, Annemarie. His hair stood up in erratic spikes, there was a dusting of stubble on his face, and his shirt was crumpled as though he’d just rolled out of bed in it. Fury hung in a cloud around him, vaporising from the angry heat of his skin.

  “Annemarie, would you mind taking the children outside to play while I speak to Mr. . . .?”

  His head snapped in her direction, and her breath caught. Haunted hazel eyes glared at her—eyes so similar to the small ones she’d just been looking into.

  She smiled tightly and proffered a hand to shake. Even in the grip of hostility, people usually felt compelled to abide by social graces. Treat them with respect and show sympathy, and even the most aggressive person usually calmed.

  “I’m Miss Botticelli, the kindergarten director.”

  He ignored her hand and turned to watch Annemarie hustle a few children out the back door. Neve ran through the key points of her managing aggressive behaviour training: listen, empathise and problem solve. First she needed to figure out if he was a physical threat. She felt for the phone in her pocket, in case she needed to dial help.

  Up close, she could see his dishevelled appearance was only on the surface. He was clean, his Italian loafers were new, the crumpled shirt looked to be silk, and there was a tiny LV embroidered on the pocket of his slacks.

  Christ, this guy’s wearing Louis Vuitton. Great, a Richie Rich who thinks he can throw his weight around. She clenched her teeth.

  His keen eyes were on the children outside, and then his posture relaxed. He
scrubbed a large hand back and forth across his face and blew out an exasperated breath. She waited until his gaze returned to her, and this time it looked fatigued.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten the children,” he said.

  “They’re not the only ones. My staff doesn’t appreciate being yelled at.” She raised herself to full height. It may be difficult to make five foot two look menacing, but if he thought he was going to get the better of her, he was sadly mistaken. She’d spent years cultivating the never say die attitude she admired in her father, and wasn’t afraid of height or strength. No one would harm the children in her care.

  Chapter 2

  Micah saw stubborn determination in the olive-skinned beauty standing before him. She had straightened her spine in a show of dominance, but her clenched fists gave her away. The last thing he wanted to do was frighten women and children. He just wanted to find his son.

  Through the wall of glass at the back of the room, he could see the kindergarten staff organising games for the children. Which one was his? Reflexively, he stepped towards them. The pint-sized woman moved with him. Despite the fact he could rest his chin on top of her head, her attitude was gargantuan. She may well hold all the power in this situation, but that didn’t mean he was leaving without Rowan.

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “Mr. Kincaid.” This time he offered his hand, and she tentatively wrapped her long, thin fingers around it. Her handshake was surprisingly firm, and the soft heat from it sent a strange thrill up his arm.

  “What is it you want, Mr. Kincaid?”

  “I’m here to see my son, Rowan.” He took another step towards the back door, and she moved again, blocking his path.

  “I can’t permit you to access any of the children without written consent from a parent, and if you continue to disregard my directions, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

  She was so close he could smell vanilla cupcakes and crayon. Her dark hair was pulled into a no-nonsense braid, with a soft fringe over watchful eyes. He took a deep breath and braced himself for the conversation he’d had many times before.

  “I don’t have written permission because I’m his father. His mother took him from me, and I have it on good authority that he’s in Turners Gully. I’m not leaving without him.”

  “Do you want me to call the police?” a small voice asked from the doorway.

  Micah glared at the blonde, and she recoiled. Bugger, he was being a heel, but desperation was a powerful driving force.

  Miss Botticelli smiled reassuringly at her colleague. “I don’t think that will be necessary. Will it, Mr. Kincaid?” Her expression remained composed, her voice steady. “I understand you have a grievance and I’m happy to have a calm conversation in my office, but I won’t accept abusive language or violent behaviour. Do you understand?” She turned intense eyes on him. Demanding and pleading at the same time.

  “Of course,” he said.

  She nodded for Annemarie to return to the garden, and then beckoned him towards another room. With shoulders set squarely, she strode past a bathroom that looked like it was made to accommodate dwarves, and into a cluttered office.

  “Take a seat.” She indicated a tubular blue chair beside the desk. “Would you like tea or coffee?”

  “No, thank you.” The coffee and chocolate bar from a nameless roadhouse in the middle of the night, still sat like lead in his belly.

  Miss Botticelli settled in another chair and took a pen and notepad from the desk. It had been stupid of him to lose control. Antagonism never achieved anything. In the business world, he relied on his ability to think on his feet and show restraint. It was this bloody situation with Chelsea that had pushed him past his limits.

  “You don’t mind if I take notes, do you? Just so I can make sure I understand the situation and work on a solution,” she said.

  Negotiation technique 101. He smiled. “I don’t mind.”

  “Now, you believe your son is enrolled at this kindy and his name is Rowan.”

  “That’s right. Rowan Kincaid, although he may be enrolled under another surname, like Matten or Smith. Maybe even Sharp.”

  “You must understand that I can’t confirm whether or not a child by any of those names is enrolled here. If there were, you would need proof of legal custody or written permission from the parent who enrolled him, in order to have access. So, you can see that my hands are tied.”

  “I’m well aware of your requirements.”

  “Mr. Kincaid, you must understand that my priority is the safety of these children. I can’t just hand them over to anyone who wants them. Custody disputes need to be sorted out in court and documentation provided to the kindy.”

  “What the courts don’t take into consideration is how easy it is for mothers to simply move and take their children with them. Father’s rights always come second.” He was on his feet again, pacing and tugging his hair.

  He needed to find a way to make this woman see that involving the authorities wasn’t the best course in the long run. It wasn’t just about what he wanted. It was about keeping his family close. He understood she was just doing her job, and kudos to her for standing up to him, but she didn’t have all the facts.

  “You don’t know what I’ve been going through. I don’t want to involve the courts, but I haven’t held my child in nearly a year. How do you think it feels to not be allowed in his life? To have him not know me?”

  If he walked out of there without some kind of information to bring him closer to Chelsea, he’d lose another three months of Rowan’s life, and that wasn’t going to happen.

  • • •

  No way was this man going to tower over her, making his demands, so Neve stood too. A gold wedding band glinted on Mr. Kincaid’s finger as he pulled at his brown mop of hair.

  “I’m really sorry about your problems, but there is no way I’m going to give you any more information without a court order,” she said.

  He stilled, jaw clenched, hands stiff by his side. She braced for another outburst and picked up the phone.

  The low growl of his voice was even more menacing than his shouting had been. “When Chelsea comes to pick him up and finds out I’ve been here, she will disappear overnight. I’ll be back to square one.”

  Intense eyes bored into her. She held her breath. Chelsea was Rowan’s mother, and although the woman had never specifically warned of an abusive husband, there had to be a good reason why she had left him. Although he struck her more as desperate than violent, after all, once he’d realised he was scaring the children, he’d reined in his temper. But Neve was no expert on domestic violence. It didn’t matter if he wore Louis Vuitton or Kmart, for her own safety and that of the children and staff in her care, she would treat him as though he were capable of cruelty until she had proof otherwise. Mr. Kincaid didn’t know whom he was up against.

  “I’m sure if you go to the police and explain the situation, they’ll help you contact her, but in the meantime, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” She held an arm in the direction of the front door.

  He snorted and shook his head. She half expected him to paw the ground like a bull ready for battle, but his broad shoulders slumped and he headed for the exit. She followed several paces behind and waved at Annemarie, who was watching nervously from the verandah.

  With one hand on the door handle, Mr. Kinkaid turned back, and the desperation in his expression took her breath away.

  “Please don’t do this,” he begged. “I promise I won’t cause any trouble or frighten the children. Just let me see him through the window. I need to see him.”

  He grasped her arm, and she stepped back from the contact. Not because she felt threatened, but because the intensity of his anguish made her want to comfort him. At that moment, he looked like a broken man.

  “Just one look. Please.”

  In a gentle tone, she held her ground. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  “I need to get my son back.”


  Slowly, she shook her head, and the despair in his eyes turned brittle. The muscles along his jaw flexed, and with shoulders thrust back, he strode through the door. Neve watched him cross the car park to a fancy-looking tan sedan. She made a note of the registration number as he got in, and waited there until the car turned onto the main road.

  There was a chance he might hang around the area, and there wasn’t much she could do about that, but she wasn’t going to let anything happen to Rowan.

  Chapter 3

  A steady stream of work utes and dusty four-wheel drives passed in both directions. Micah pulled out of the kindergarten car park and cruised up the hill behind a horse trailer. His stomach grumbled. With any luck, he could combine food with discovering more about the post box. It was registered in the name of Chelsea Matten. Not the surname she had taken when she married him, but he was alert to her aliases now. After all, this wasn’t the first town he’d followed her to, and he had a strategy. Talk to the locals and search the back roads; sooner or later, he’d turn up something useful.

  First he called his personal assistant to clear a couple of days in his schedule. She’d been on his staff for seven years, so he trusted her to hold the corporate wolves at bay in his absence.

  The general store was only a few hundred metres up the road. Another old stone building, this time with tan quoins, a galvanised roof, and bull-nosed verandah. He smiled at the pink geraniums swaying in baskets along the porch: his mother’s favourites. On the footpath, the scent of warm pastries reached him.

  “You look lost.”

  Micah turned towards a rumbling bass voice. “Pardon?”

  A middle-aged bloke wearing a battered felt Akubra, blue work shirt, and stubby shorts eyed him suspiciously. As though sensing his master’s mistrust, a liver-coloured kelpie yapped on the tray of a nearby ute.

  “Don’t get too many Bentley Flying Spurs around here,” the man clarified.

  Micah relaxed. “You know your cars. Would you like to look inside?”