Combatting Fear

by Sandy Vaile

  Bronwyn Travaglia lingered on the threshold. “I’m sure our little old bed-and-breakfast isn’t what you’re used to, Mr. Kincaid, but if there’s anything at all I can get you, don’t hesitate to call through to the house. Anytime.”

  Ah, so she recognised him. So much for anonymity.

  “Actually, there is one thing. Could you recommend a gym nearby?”

  “Oh, you’ll need to travel to Woodcroft for something like that. Let me show you on the map.” She pulled a tourist map from a slot on the wall and opened it on the dining table.

  “That looks like a long way. Isn’t there something closer?” He didn’t mean to sound ungrateful, but he really needed to work off some frustration, and think.

  Bronwyn frowned. “Well . . .”

  He nodded encouragement.

  “Jack Burton does have some basic gym equipment, but it’s just a shed and hasn’t even got a pool. I’m sure it wouldn’t be suitable.”

  She didn’t add “for someone like you” but he heard it anyway. It didn’t matter that he’d scratched his way out of poverty. People calculated his net worth from TV broadcasts and made assumptions.

  “That sounds fine, honest.”

  She marked the Woodcroft gymnasium on the map for good measure and then turned it over and sketched a mud map to Jack’s Shed.

  Micah thanked Miss Travaglia, showed her to the door, and shut it as she backed away, smiling like a Cheshire cat. He tossed his crumpled suit jacket onto the bed and threw on the only pair of shorts in his suitcase. With a hand on the front door, his phone chirped. A private number.

  “Kincaid.” There was a long pause. So long that he considered ending the call, but he could hear breathing. Probably one of the paparazzi hoping to record an abusive response or to keep him on the line long enough to trace the call.

  As he raised a finger to cut the line, a soft female voice said, “Hello?”

  The air in his lungs turned solid. “Chelsea, is that you?”

  “Yes. I . . .”

  “Don’t hang up, Chels. Let’s just talk for a minute.” The feeling of his chest being crushed intensified. It wasn’t the first time she’d called since she went on the run, but he’d never managed to keep her on the line long.

  “You’re here to take Rowan away from me,” she accused savagely.

  “I’ve never wanted that. You’re his mother, and I care what happens to you. All I want is to be involved in his life too. There has to be a way to figure this out.”

  “Do you really care about me, after all this time?” Her voice was small and pleading.

  “You know I do.”

  “Even though we’re not in love anymore?”

  He sighed. “Chels, you’ll always be important to me. We shared years and a baby. There’s no point in pretending we’re in love, but it doesn’t stop me from wanting what’s best for you. I’ll do anything you want except stay away from Rowan. We can’t go on like this.”

  “I’m ready to send Rowan home with you,” she said, “but I can’t come back to Sydney.”

  “That’s okay.” His heart took flight. “Rowan can spend a week at a time with each of us, or I’ll fly you over every other weekend. Whatever you want to do.” He perched on the corner of the large coffee table in the middle of the room.

  “I can’t handle going through the courts,” she said.

  “I know. We’ll work it out. I’m glad you called.”

  “Oh, yeah. I . . .”

  “Is Rowan all right? Are you?” He leant forward in anticipation.

  “He’s fine. I was just feeling a bit anxious and wanted to hear your voice.”

  “You know I’m always here for you, Chels. What’s bothering you?”

  “It’s silly, really, but I met some of the guys Dave works with. They made me uncomfortable.”

  He was suddenly alert to the evasive tone in her voice. “How so?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  Micah could feel her drifting away. His fingers tightened around the phone. “Trust your instincts. You wouldn’t want to put Rowan in any danger now, would you? Let me help you.” Click. “Chelsea? Hello? Fuck!”

  The pressure built in his head. The room swam as his brain was deprived of oxygen. He dropped to his knees and touched his forehead to the carpet.

  Breath in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breath out.

  At least if she wanted his help, he had a chance. But he needed to act before she changed her mind again or Dave changed it for her.

  Chapter 5

  Miss Travaglia hadn’t been kidding about Jack’s Shed being basic. Micah parked in front of the huge galvanised construction, half expecting to find blocks of wood and rope ladders inside.

  In the entrance, he let his eyes adjust to the poor lighting. There was a young guy pummelling a speed bag at one end and an old man supervising a woman doing chin-ups at the other. A long, dark plait bounced along her spine with each movement. Lycra shorts and a crop top exposed the definition of her muscles. He moved closer and then paused to appreciate the slender curve of her thighs, the contraction of her back as she squeezed, and the bulge of lean biceps.

  Despite her low body fat, she had a feminine shape that made his blood pressure go through the roof. Her breath rushed out each time she lifted her neck to the bar, and in as she slowly lowered her body. The control was impressive.

  She did eight chin-ups and then dropped to the floor. The old man slapped her shoulder and grabbed a medicine ball. They sat facing one another, feet touching, and did sit-ups while playing catch with the heavy leather ball.

  Micah couldn’t help but stare. The fluid movement of the woman’s body frustrated him in a whole different way from the irritation of today. This workout would need to be even more vigorous.

  “Would it be okay if I use the equipment here?” he asked as he approached them.

  The old man smiled. “I’ll be right with you, son.”

  The woman glanced his way and missed her next catch.

  “Ouch.” She jumped to her feet and took up the same tense stance she had at the kindergarten. “What are you doing here?”

  The old man’s casual attitude changed in an instant. He moved in front of her and narrowed his eyes. “You know each other?”

  “Did you follow me here?” She pushed past her protector and pointed at Micah.

  He crossed his arms. “Well, if it isn’t Miss Sneaky.” At least she had the good grace to look guilty. “I didn’t follow you. I’m here to work out, but I’ve suddenly lost my enthusiasm.”

  He strode from the shed and slammed his car door. The engine caught, and he gripped the wheel, ready to take off without even putting the seat belt on. Damn all five feet nothing of Miss Botticelli. If he’d followed her this afternoon, he’d have his son by now. Instead, he’d underestimated her, and now she had the upper hand. Of course she knew where Rowan was, but the chances she’d tell him were remote.

  He rested his forehead on the steering wheel as he breathed through the aggravation. There really wasn’t anywhere else for him to be right now.

  A soft tap on the car window drew his attention to Miss Botticelli’s dark eyes.

  “Are you all right?” she said.

  As though she cared. He shoved the door open before he knew what he was doing, and leapt from the car. Now mere inches apart, the warmth of her body stirred a crisp aroma like eucalyptus trees. He swallowed and took a step back.

  “Where the hell did you take my son?” he demanded.

  She sighed and stretched her neck from side to side. “Look, I already told you I can’t help. I would lose my appointment at the kindy.”

  “But you helped Chelsea, didn’t you?” He spat the words with such venom that she flinched.

  “No. I helped Rowan, not his mother.”

  What an odd thing to say. Almost like she had something against Chelsea. Hell, if Chelsea wasn’t taking care of Rowan . . .All the bloody money he’d thrown at her because he couldn’t stand
the thought of Rowan going without, and in truth, maybe to remind her what she was missing.

  Hey, she just more or less confirmed that she did have Rowan.

  Miss Botticelli stood there with hands on hips, her mouth a tight line. There wasn’t any point in arguing with this pocket-rocket.

  “Rowan is the only person who matters in this twisted little equation,” he said quietly.

  “Finally one thing we agree on.”

  “Look . . .can I call you something other than Miss Botticelli? It makes you seem like a school marm.”

  Dark eyes considered him with an unnerving criticality, like they would extract every angry word he’d ever flung at Chelsea, to be recounted as vindication of her duplicity. Frosty moments passed, until at last the lines around her mouth relaxed.

  “Neve.”

  An exotic name. “Nice to meet you, Neve. I’m Micah. Do you think we can talk this through sensibly?”

  “There really isn’t any more to be said. I sympathise with your plight, but there isn’t anything I can do to help.”

  “I know you’re worried about your job, but I’m really not a threat. I’m his father, and there isn’t a custody issue because both of us have full custody. Unfortunately, Chelsea is a bit confused about that at the moment. Can you imagine what it feels like to be separated indefinitely from someone you love?”

  It was supposed to be a rhetorical question, but Neve’s response was a pained whisper on the wind.

  “Yes, I can.”

  • • •

  Neve made a conscious effort to relax her shoulders. If Micah had found her at Jack’s Shed, then maybe he could find Chelsea’s house. Maybe Rowan was in more danger than she’d realised.

  She looked into his amber eyes and said, “Look, we’ve been over this before. I’m going home.”

  The force of his gaze scorched her back as she retreated. As fast as possible, she went into the shed, crammed her gym towel into her bag, and strode back towards her car.

  “Neve, wait.” Jack put a wrinkled hand on her shoulder. “It’s not a good idea to go anywhere with an angry man.”

  That pulled her up short. Strangely enough, she hadn’t thought of being in danger with Micah. Yes, he was frustrated, even desperate, but a threat . . .no, she couldn’t muster any real fear. “I’m heading home, alone.”

  They both turned to the sound of scuffed cement. Micah stood in the doorway, tall and leonine, but his expression was contrite.

  “Do I need to throw this guy off my property?” Jack mumbled under his breath.

  Neve giggled. “As fun as that sounds, I don’t think that’s necessary. I’d rather he worked out here than follow me anywhere.”

  She marched out the door without a word. Just when she thought she was safely past Micah, he grabbed her arm. She pivoted, glared at his hand, and it fell away.

  “You know, Chelsea called me this afternoon,” he said. “I’m worried about her. It sounded like she might be in trouble. I’d really appreciate it if you could tell her to get in touch again. We need to sort this mess out, amicably.”

  He held out a business card. It couldn’t hurt to take it, even if she had no intention of mediating a custody dispute. She nodded at him, pocketed the glossy card, and got into her car.

  Her gaze was focused resolutely on the ground as she reversed, but curiosity got the better of her, and at the last moment she glanced at the rear-view mirror. Micah’s profile was rigid, and the forlorn look in his eyes reminded her so much of little Rowan.

  Chapter 6

  A deep breath of country air filled Micah’s lungs, and he puffed it out in irritation. Neve Botticelli was never going to help him. It didn’t matter, because he’d always solved his problems alone.

  He still needed to burn off some energy though, so he braced himself and turned towards the old man in the makeshift gym. “Am I still allowed in?”

  The assessment he got was shrewd, and several awkward moments passed.

  Then the old man approached and held out a hand. “Jack Burton. This here’s my gym, of sorts.”

  They shook hands, firm grips increasing to uncomfortable.

  “There ain’t any fancy stuff. You still want in?” Jack said.

  “I’m happy with a punching bag and free weights.”

  “Right you are then.”

  Jack busied himself with tidying and sorting equipment while Micah threaded two twenty-kilo weight plates onto each end of a bar, locked them into place, and did two sets of twelve repetitions.

  “Another twenty?” Jack was already undoing the clamp and threading another disc on one end.

  A test maybe? Micah did another set of twelve reps, but held up a hand as Jack reached for another twenty-kilogram plate. “I might head to the exercise mats for a bit.”

  Jack sat quietly on the edge of a haggard boxing ring while Micah did sit-ups and squats, no doubt waiting for an opportunity to share a piece of his mind. The more sweat that poured from Micah’s body, the less he cared about what Jack might be thinking, and the more attention he paid to the burn in his muscles. The tension of a long day on Chelsea’s trail dissolved.

  He bent with hands on knees to catch his breath. After only a few hours of broken sleep in the back of the car last night, fatigue was setting in.

  Jack finally spoke. “What did you do to upset my girl?”

  My girl. Maybe this was her father, although there wasn’t much of a resemblance. Then again, the old bloke was so craggy it was difficult to tell what he might have looked like in his heyday.

  “It’s a misunderstanding, that’s all,” Micah said.

  “Look, you seem like a nice enough bloke, but Neve doesn’t need any trouble. She’s had enough to last a lifetime.”

  Micah wiped his face and neck with a towel and stared at Jack. “I’m not trying to cause trouble for her. I’m trying to find my son.”

  “And you think Neve knows where he is?”

  “I know she does, but she can’t violate professional confidences. I understand that, but I don’t like it.”

  Jack chewed his bottom lip. “Go easy on her. She’s real good with the kiddies but has a lot to deal with at home.”

  Really? Micah couldn’t imagine what kind of troubles Neve might have. An abusive boyfriend maybe, although she struck him as tougher than that. It wasn’t his business anyway.

  “Thanks, but I don’t need any coaching. I doubt I’ll see her again. If I don’t find what I’m looking for, I’ll be on my way soon enough.”

  “Back to the big smoke.” Jack nodded like he had Micah sized up, and escorted him to his car. He whistled appreciatively. “Nice ride. You rich or something?”

  Micah shrugged. “Something like that.”

  Jack laughed. “No wonder she doesn’t like you.”

  “What, is this the tall poppy syndrome or something?”

  “It’s much more than that.”

  Micah raised his eyebrows and waited for Jack to elaborate.

  “Someone rich took something from her once.”

  “And that’s my fault?” Let her think what she wanted. It didn’t matter to him.

  “Sorry, son, it’s nothing personal. She hates anyone with money.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Being right won’t make her see the flipside of the coin, mate.”

  Micah was used to being judged. Some women pawed him to get a piece of his wealth, others were more deceptive, but how dare Neve loathe him. She didn’t even know him.

  “So what the hell did she lose that was so precious it’s prejudiced her for all time?”

  Jack dropped his gaze to the floor and shifted his weight awkwardly. “I think you’d better ask her those sorts of questions.”

  He’d hit a nerve. “What, you can’t tell me because of father-daughter privilege?”

  “Ha! I’m not her father, sonny.”

  “Oh. I just thought . . .when you called her your girl.”

  “Just a friend of the f
amily.” Jack’s disposition cooled, and he retreated to the office.

  Damn, the last thing Micah wanted was an enigma to stoke his curiosity. What he needed to concentrate on was finding Rowan, not unravelling a brunette mystery, no matter how attractive.

  • • •

  Five kilometres out of Turners Gully, Neve stopped her station wagon in front of a wire gate. There was a property number but no name. Anonymous, just the way Tony liked it.

  She unlatched the gate, drove through, and closed it again. Smoke hung in the air as locals lit their pot-bellied stoves; even in early autumn it got cold at night. A dirt track meandered downhill through dense bush for about a kilometre, overlooking the Onkaparinga Gorge on the left. Several trails branched off to the right.

  Where the gum trees thinned, a mud-brick house wrapped around the contours of the land, its corrugated iron roof camouflaged by khaki green and beige paint. A tranquil place where the din of the world was kept at bay. She sighed. This was her sanctuary, although it hadn’t always been.

  When she first came to live with Tony, the two-room bush shack had had no creature comforts. It had seemed like purgatory to a twelve-year-old, but she had to give him credit because he’d immediately started making mud bricks and added more rooms. One housed a proper bathroom, and then her bedroom and study. Everything was handmade or salvaged. Minimalist.

  The moment she cut the car engine, Tony stepped onto the verandah. His dark eyes scanned the bush warily beneath sullen, bushy brows. They alighted on Neve, and laugh lines softened his features. His posture relaxed. Today must have been a good day.

  She gave him a tight hug. “Hi, Tony.” He’d given up trying to get her to call him dad long ago. “What did you get up to today?”

  “Hi, honey. Went fishing and caught us some bream for dinner.”

  He kissed her forehead, and the barbs of grey stubble scoured her skin. At sixty-five, Tony still had a mop of dark, curly hair, although it had receded to a deep widow’s peak. His olive skin and proud stance spoke of his Italian heritage, although he hadn’t bothered to continue with the language.