The Husband She'd Never Met

by Barbara Hannay

  ‘No, I don’t suppose so...’ he said, reluctantly.

  ‘I thought it might help my memory if I’m surrounded by familiar, everyday sights—or at least by things that should be familiar.’

  Max suppressed a sigh, suspecting that she was right, but knowing also that those same familiar things she was so keen to see would almost certainly displease her when her memory returned. If not before.

  ‘As I said, I’m willing to stay or to leave,’ he told her. ‘The apartment booking’s flexible, so whatever you prefer.’

  ‘Thank you, Max. I think I’d like to go...home.’ The word home was added shyly.

  Max swallowed. ‘Right.’

  The look she gave him now held a shimmer of amusement. ‘Are you always this obliging?’

  ‘Hell, no.’ It was a poor attempt at a joke, so he tempered the retort with an answering smile. ‘Make the most of my good mood while you can.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  IT WAS LATE in the afternoon when they arrived at Riverslea Downs. Max steered the vehicle off the highway and onto a dirt bush track and suddenly gumtrees crowded on either side, throwing striped shadows over the ground in front of them.

  Carrie felt quite exhausted, even though she’d dozed off and on for a great deal of the journey, but now she sat forward, suddenly awake and keen to see everything. This was Max’s land. Her land, too, if she was his wife.

  It was hard to believe that she potentially owned such a big slice of country. While she was growing up in Sydney their yard had comprised a pocket-handkerchief-sized front lawn and a small courtyard at the back. Now, the twists and turns in the track showed her glimpses of endless paddocks dotted with silvery hump-backed cattle. She had a vague idea they were Brahmans.

  Every so often she also caught sight of a stretch of river, wide and sleepy and gently curving, with sandy beaches and banks lined with bottlebrush and paperbark trees that trailed weeping branches low to the water.

  ‘I imagine it would be fun to canoe down a beautiful river like that,’ she told Max.

  ‘Yeah, it is.’

  His wry smile prompted her to ask, ‘Have we done that? Have we canoed down there?’

  ‘It was one of the first things you wanted to do after you arrived here. We paddled all the way to the junction at Whitehorse Creek and we camped overnight at Big Bend.’

  ‘Goodness.’ Carrie couldn’t remember having ever been canoeing or camping in her life—not even when she was in high school. And yet, as a child, she had been fascinated by the stories of Pocahontas and Hiawatha. She’d adored the idea of having her own canoe and paddling silently down beautiful rivers, stealthily gliding beneath overhanging trees or boldly discovering what lay around the next bend. ‘Did I enjoy it?’

  This brought another wryly crooked smile from Max. ‘You loved it.’

  She had no trouble imagining herself in a canoe, but the picture blurred when she thought about camping out in the bush and lying on the ground in a sleeping bag. She wondered if it had been a double sleeping bag that she had shared with Max.

  Damn. Almost every time she thought about her life with this man her mind seemed to zap straight to sex. The more time she spent with him the worse it got. Already her curiosity about their love life was driving her crazy.

  She was so aware—almost desperately aware—of Max’s physical presence. He was so very big and masculine. She found it impossible to ignore his size and strength, not to think about him as a lover. As her lover. She couldn’t help wondering about the secrets they’d shared in the bedroom.

  But she wished she could switch off these pestering thoughts. Until her memory returned it would be much more sensible to forget that Max was her husband. She should think of him as a polite stranger who was hosting her on his property for a day or two.

  Unfortunately the knowledge that this man really was her lover was like an electric current that couldn’t be turned off. It ran through Carrie, keeping her constantly feverish and aware of his broad shoulders and strong hands, of the way his hair sat against the back of his suntanned neck. Everything about him held her attention—the sensual curve of his mouth, the smoulder in his compelling blue eyes that hinted at private knowledge, at the secrets her memory had blocked out.

  It was all very distressing, and she was grateful now to be distracted when the track opened out of the dense bush into open grassland again. Ahead of them stood the homestead, surrounded by lawns and shrubbery and big old shade trees, and then paddocks of pale grass.

  Carrie tried to remember if she’d ever seen it before, but she could only recall photographs of Outback homesteads in magazines.

  As far as she could tell this one seemed pretty typical. It was low-set and sprawling, with timber walls painted white, an iron roof and deep, shady verandas on three sides. Hanging baskets of ferns made the verandas look cool and inviting, and she could see a table and chairs set outside on the grass under one of the shade trees.

  Beyond the house were weathered timber stockyards and an iconic Outback windmill, silhouetted against the orange afternoon sky, its sails circling slowly. There was also a cluster of sheds housing tractors and other farm machinery, and a cottage or two.

  As they drew closer to the house a dog—a golden Labrador—rose from the front veranda, gave a vigorous wag of its tail, then came racing down the steps and across the lawn towards them.

  ‘What a gorgeous dog,’ Carrie said.

  ‘She’s yours,’ Max told her. ‘Her name’s Clover.’

  ‘I called a dog Clover?’

  He shot her a quick grin. ‘You insisted.’

  She’d had a favourite book when she was very small, about a golden puppy called Clover. How she’d loved that book, and how amazing, now, that she was not only married to a man she didn’t know, but she owned a real-life Clover.

  Max pulled the car up on to a gravel drive in front of the homestead and Clover danced in happy circles, eager for Carrie to get out.

  Max was there first. ‘Take it easy,’ he ordered, reaching for Clover’s collar and holding her at his heel. ‘We’ve had a long journey and Carrie’s tired. We don’t want you bowling her over.’

  Grateful for his intervention, Carrie took a deep breath. She had never been a ‘dog person’, and Clover was large and seemed very determined to jump at her. Max opened the door for her and took her hand as she stepped down.

  The dog stood obediently still now, looking up at Carrie with eager brown eyes, panting excitedly, her tail waving madly like an over-wound metronome.

  ‘Should I pat her?’ Carrie asked.

  An emotion that might have been pain flashed in Max’s eyes. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘She’s not a working dog. She’s your pet—your companion. She’s been yours since she was six weeks old.’ With a grimacing smile, he added, ‘She loves a scruff between her ears.’

  ‘Right...’ Carrie knew it was foolish to be nervous. Clover had a very non-threatening, friendly face. In fact she was almost grinning. ‘Hey there, girl,’ she said, tentatively touching her hand to the top of the dog’s head. The hair there was short, not especially soft or silky. She gave a little scratch and managed not to flinch when Clover thanked her with a wet lick on her wrist.

  ‘She’s missed you,’ Max said, and he looked incredibly sad.

  ‘That’s...nice.’ Carrie couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  The dog stayed close, her warm body pressed against Carrie’s legs, as Max mounted the three short steps and crossed the veranda to open the front door.

  After a bit, Carrie followed him. ‘Is Clover a house dog? Does she come inside?’

  ‘Sure—especially when there’s a thunderstorm. She’s terrified of the noise. Particularly the lightning.’

  ‘Poor girl.’ Carrie offered her another comforting pat. I think I’
m going to like you.

  ‘Mostly she’s happy to loll about here on the veranda,’ said Max. ‘Or she loves running out on the lawn, chasing crows.’

  Carrie turned her attention to the verandas. There were several chairs, with blue and white striped canvas seats and extended arms and, in the corner, a cane dining setting. She thought how nice it would be to eat there, with the view of the paddocks and the distant hills.

  Beside the front door there was a pair of riding boots, dusty and well creased with wear. She imagined Max coming in from riding his horse and taking those boots off before he entered the house. On the wall was a row of heavy hooks, where battered and dusty Akubra hats hung, along with a dark brown oilskin coat and a bright yellow raincoat. She wondered if the raincoat was hers.

  The front door was painted white, with panels of red and blue glass. Max pushed the door open and Carrie saw a long hallway running deep into the house, giving a glimpse of a modern lemon and white kitchen at the far end. The tongue-and-groove walls of the hall were painted white, and the floor was polished timber.

  There was a large mirror on the wall, and beneath it a narrow table which housed a blue pottery bowl filled with water-washed stones and an elegant, tall glass vase holding lovely white lilies. Carrie had to look carefully to see that the lilies were artificial.

  Everything was very tasteful, very clean and tidy.

  This is my home, she thought. I’ve probably vacuumed and mopped this floor a hundred times. Max and I have eaten on this veranda, and no doubt I’ve prepared meals in that kitchen.

  But it was all so disappointingly strange and foreign. She remembered nothing.

  Not a thing.

  Despair washed over her like a drenching of cold water. It was such a huge let-down.

  She had been hoping that familiar surroundings would jog at least a spark of memory. Now, entering this unknown homestead, she could feel an anxious knot tightening in the centre of her chest. Surely somewhere in this house she would find things from her past? Things she recognised?

  ‘Go on in and make yourself at home,’ Max said, but his smile couldn’t quite hide the worried shadow in his eyes. ‘I’ll get our bags.’

  Carrie went down the hallway, looking into the rooms that opened off it. Most of the furniture in the lounge room and dining room was old. Antique, really. It looked as if it had been in the house for generations, but it was well cared for and quite beautiful, giving an air of timeless graciousness.

  At the main bedroom, Carrie stopped. This room was the room she’d shared with Max. Here they’d made love, and the very thought stole her breath.

  The room was especially lovely, with fresh white walls and gauzy floor-length, white curtains at the deep windows. The timber floor glowed a warm honey colour in the afternoon sunlight. The bed was covered by a white quilt, and the decorative touches in the cushions and rugs were in various shades of lime and green.

  The tastefulness of the decor no longer surprised her. She’d obviously grown up, moved on from the gaudy array of colours she’d loved in her teens and early twenties.

  As she stepped into the room Max appeared behind her with the luggage. He set the holdall with her things on the floor, just inside the door, and Carrie couldn’t bring herself to ask him where he planned to sleep. She couldn’t bear to go through all that silly stress and indecision again. It was easier to assume they would remain sleeping apart until her memory returned.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said simply.

  ‘Can I get you anything? Would you like a cuppa?’

  ‘I’d love one, Max, but I can get it. You don’t have to keep waiting on me. I’m sure I’ll be able to find my way around the kitchen. There are probably things you want to see to.’

  He nodded. ‘If you’re OK here, I’ll duck down to Barney’s cottage and explain how the land lies.’

  ‘How the land lies?’

  He looked embarrassed and gave a shrug. ‘About your memory loss and—and everything.’

  ‘Oh, yes—of course.’

  ‘His house is just beyond the machinery shed. I won’t be gone long.’

  Carrie nodded, but she felt ridiculously alone when Max left.

  * * *

  The old stockman was sitting on the veranda, making the most of the fading daylight as he mended a saddle, his aged blue cattle dog sprawled at his feet.

  ‘Hey, there,’ he called as Max approached. ‘Saw you drive in.’ He set the saddle on the floor and then looked up at Max, his grey eyes sombre and narrowed, as if he was trying to suss out the situation. ‘How’s Carrie?’

  ‘Actually, she’s pretty good,’ Max told him. ‘I had to take her into Townsville for tests, but there’s no sign of serious head injury. She doesn’t feel too bad, just a bit headachy and tired.’

  ‘That’s lucky.’

  ‘Yeah.’ They both knew plenty of horror stories about falls from horses. ‘The only problem is her memory,’ Max said. ‘At the moment she seems to have amnesia.’

  ‘Her memory’s gone?’

  Max nodded. ‘She shouldn’t be left alone. I’ve brought her back here with me.’

  The old guy’s eyes widened. ‘Here? To the homestead?’

  ‘She just needs to rest and wait, basically.’ Mac caught the look in Barney’s eyes and let out a sigh. ‘I know it’s a weird situation. It’s going to be tricky for a day or two. Carrie doesn’t remember anything about this place.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Zilch.’

  ‘Blow me down. So she doesn’t know about—?’ Barney stopped and gave a slow, disbelieving shake of his head. His mouth twisted in an embarrassed attempt at a smile. ‘So she doesn’t know how things are between the two of you?’

  ‘No.’ The admission brought a dark grimace from Max. ‘She doesn’t remember me at all. Can’t even remember how we met.’

  Tipping his hat back, Barney scratched at his head, a sure sign that he was flummoxed. ‘That’s a turn-up for the books.’

  He opened his mouth, as if he was going to say something else, but then seemed to think better of it. Instead, he stood with a worried little frown, letting his gnarled hands rest on his skinny hips as he stared off into the distant sunset.

  ‘So how are things here?’ Max asked. ‘Everything OK?’

  Barney blinked at the change of subject. ‘Yeah, sure. No problem, Max. I checked all the bores and the dams and took some molasses out to that mob in the western paddock.’

  ‘Good man. We should probably wean those calves in the next week or so.’ Shooting a quick glance over his shoulder to the homestead, Max said, ‘Anyway, I’d better be getting back now, to see if Carrie needs anything. I just wanted to let you know—to warn you about the situation.’

  ‘Yeah...thanks, mate.’ The grave expression in Barney’s grey eyes lingered for a moment, then abruptly disappeared. Next moment he was grinning. ‘You never know, Max, this accident of Carrie’s could have a really good outcome.’

  ‘You reckon?’ Max made no attempt to hide his doubt.

  ‘Why not? Carrie could be—I don’t know—like Sleeping Beauty or something. This could turn out all right.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bank on it, old fella.’

  ‘Don’t be a pessimist. I reckon it could be a godsend, and we’ll have you and Carrie back together like a flamin’ fairytale.’

  Max couldn’t hold back a bitter clipped laugh. ‘You mean she’ll wake up and realise I’m her prince?’

  ‘Why not?’

  Barney’s naive optimism was like a knife twisting in Max’s gut. ‘This is real life,’ he said grimly, and he turned abruptly, to escape the disappointment in his old friend’s eyes.

  * * *

  Carrie was tired, and she knew she should probably lie down. The doctor had told her to get plenty
of rest. She was too uneasy, though, too anxious to explore the mystery that was her new home.

  Nursing her mug of tea, she wandered around the house, studying the unfamiliar everyday items—the cooking utensils in the kitchen cupboards, the things in the bathroom, including a woman’s dressing gown hanging on a hook behind the door, and the dirty clothes basket overflowing with Max’s jeans and blue shirts. There were twin washbasins—one with a mug of shaving gear beside it and the other with a pretty bottles of creamy pink liquid soap and moisturiser.

  It was all so ‘settled’ and so strangely normal.

  In the hallway again, she stopped to study the paintings on the walls. There was nothing remarkable, but they were very pleasant—several landscapes, a bowl of tropical fruit and a vase of wildflowers set by an open window. Looking a little closer, Carrie saw that most of the paintings carried the same signature. Marnie Rossiter. She wondered if Marnie was one of Max’s relatives.

  In the lounge room she found a large portrait, also painted by Marnie, of a man who bore a surprising resemblance to Max. His father? Grandfather?

  So far she could find nothing that hinted strongly at her own presence in this house. She felt invisible—a generic wife.

  A small cyclone of panic started inside her. Perhaps this was a terrible hoax, after all. Max had kidnapped her.

  The silly thought had barely formed when she moved into the next room, the dining room, and saw a collection of silver-framed photographs on the old-fashioned sideboard.

  Oh, my God.

  Carrie hurried closer and there she was. Dressed as a bride, she was coming down a church aisle, arm in arm with Max Kincaid.

  Her hands were shaking as she carefully set her mug down on a mat and picked up the photo to study it more closely. Her dress was gorgeous, soft and floaty and romantic, with a sweet off-the-shoulder neckline. And Max looked heart-stoppingly handsome in a black tuxedo.

  But it wasn’t the clothes that grabbed her attention and held it. It was the shining happiness in her face. In Max’s face, too.