скачать книгу бесплатно
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 from 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 Sapphie 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.’
Just as Emmy had said. But…
She stared at Liam, at the credit card statement he held, and her mouth suddenly went dry. ‘Liam, where is Lucas?’
He stared back at her with eyes as dark as tar. ‘Lucas is dead. He died eight months ago.’
All the strength drained from Sapphie’s arms and legs. She stared at his white-lipped face. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered.
He gave a curt nod.
She found it hard to bear witness to such naked grief. She knew Liam would resent the fact that she’d seen it, and would reject any attempt at comfort she made, so she turned to stare at Harry. Her throat went tight and her eyes burned
Poor Harry!
No! She refused to believe it.
‘The resemblance—it could be a coincidence! It doesn’t mean—’
‘We’ll have a DNA test done to make sure. It’ll put everyone’s minds at rest.’
‘But if Lucas was Harry’s father…’ She let the sentence trail off because she couldn’t bear to finish it.
‘They’ll be able to tell from my DNA how closely related I am to Harry.’
‘No! It doesn’t make sense.’ She had to find Harry’s father. She had to!
‘Emmy said you were Harry’s father, not Lucas. Why would she say that if…?’
He rested his head in his hands, suddenly looking as old as the ranges on the horizon.
Her fingers curled into her palms. ‘What?’ she whispered.
‘Lucas had me on a bit of a pedestal.’ The word ground out of him as if he loathed it. ‘He was only twenty-three when he died—fourteen years my junior. Our mother always called him her happy accident.’
A mother who had lost her son. For a moment Sapphie could barely see Liam through the sheen of her tears. She gulped them back.
‘After his accident, when we were at the hospital, I did hear that when Lucas went out on the town he’d sometimes introduce himself as me.’
She stared. ‘But why?’
He lifted one shoulder. ‘I never asked him. At the time there were more important things to worry about.’ He scowled, dragged his fingers back through his hair. ‘At the time I figured he was playacting at being the manager of Newarra—it was what he wanted more than anything. If it’s any consolation, I don’t think he deliberately set out to deceive your sister.’
‘But it still doesn’t mean he’s Harry’s father! This could all be a mistake.’
‘For the last four years Lucas was the family’s representative at the Perth Agricultural Show. He was definitely on Rottnest Island at the time you claim Harry was conceived.’
‘But—’
‘I know this isn’t the scenario you were expecting, or hoping for, but taken all together the facts tell their own story.’
All she could do was stare at him—this man who spoke such hard, unrelenting words. A tremble ran through her. Her fingers started to shake, and then her hands, her arms, her shoulders—she couldn’t stop them. The postcard fluttered to the floor. Harry’s father was dead.
No!
