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Standing slowly, she said, ‘You’ll be closing the kitchen windows, won’t you?’
He frowned. ‘I don’t usually bother.’
‘But—with Oscar in here—and the snakes and—everything.’
Callum almost grinned. ‘Oh, yeah. The snakes. OK, I’ll close the windows.’
CHAPTER THREE
STELLA was sick the next morning.
As Callum came back from the holding yards, striding through the dewy bluegrass with Mac at his heels, he heard unmistakable sounds coming from the bathroom.
They stopped him dead in his tracks. She was supposed to be heading off this morning. Leaving him in peace. But how could he send her packing if she was sick?
He kicked at a loose stone and sent it rolling down the incline. Instantly alert, the blue heeler watched its descent then seemed to decide it wasn’t worth chasing.
Callum watched it, too, as it bounced from rock to rock before disappearing into the scrub on the creek bank. This sickness of Stella’s was rather unusual. The fainting last night and now this…
Perhaps she had a simple stomach bug, but she’d woofed down that tucker last night without any problems. He frowned. That was how his sisters had been when they’d been expecting. Fine one minute, then suddenly dizzy or racing to the bathroom.
Was she pregnant? No, surely not.
His head shot back. She damn well could be pregnant.
The more he thought about it, the more he was sure he’d hit on the truth. Of course she was pregnant. That was why she’d hightailed it all the way from Sydney looking for Scott. That’s why she’d been so upset.
Damn and blast you, little brother. What have you gone and done now?
If Stella was pregnant…If she was carrying Scott’s child…If she was planning on heading back to the city…disappearing again as quickly as she’d appeared…taking Scott’s baby with her…
He slapped his palm against the rough trunk of a bloodwood tree and stared blankly into the distance, while tumultuous thoughts raged. Thoughts of Scott, of his family, of his own guilt and grief, his parents’ heartbreak.
Thoughts of Scott in Stella’s bed.
Groaning, he kicked another loose stone. Distasteful as it was, he had little choice; he had to ask her. If Scott was leaving behind a son or daughter, he needed to know.
Fists clenched, he turned reluctantly and marched towards the house.
Stella was in the kitchen, hovering in front of the stove and squinting at the dials. She was wearing denim cut-offs and a simple white T-shirt and her feet were bare except for the silver ankle chain with its blue glass beads.
She turned and smiled at him warily. ‘Good morning.’
He nodded. ‘Morning. Did you sleep well?’
‘Like a log, thank you. I didn’t realise how tired I was.’ She pointed to the stove. ‘I thought I’d make a cup of tea, but I haven’t quite worked out how to drive your stove.’
‘It’s fairly straightforward,’ he muttered.
‘Uh-uh.’ She shook her head. ‘An electric kettle is straightforward. A stove this size requires a licence to operate. I’m surprised you have something so complicated way out in the bush.’
‘We needed it when all the family lived at home.’ He reached past her to flick appropriate switches. ‘My mother takes her cooking seriously.’
Stella gave a wry grin as she shrugged. ‘I’m afraid I’m a victim of the microwave era. If it doesn’t light up with little messages telling me what to do, I’m lost.’
She ran slim fingers through her shiny black hair. Her hands, like her feet, were elegantly shaped, although her fingernails weren’t painted. The movements of her fingers in her hair made the silky strands shift and fall back into place. To Callum, the gesture seemed as natural and pretty as a jabiru stretching and folding its glossy wings.
‘What would you like for breakfast?’ he asked, unhappy to find himself still thinking about her hair, her hands, her feet.
She grimaced. ‘I’m not sure. I thought I’d just try a cuppa to start with.’
‘You’re not hungry?’ he challenged.
‘Not really. Maybe some dry toast.’ She looked away.
He took a deep breath. ‘You were sick—just before.’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Nothing? Are you sure it’s nothing, Stella?’
Her head swung back quickly and her grey eyes were defensive as she stared at him. ‘Of course I’m sure.’
He knew she was lying.
‘I can’t let you head off on the long journey back to Sydney if you’re not well. And if you can’t manage more to eat than dry toast—’
She turned swiftly away from him again. He couldn’t be sure but he thought she seemed to be trembling.
‘Stella.’
She shook her head as if she wanted him to leave her alone. Then her chin lifted and he saw again the same haughty strength that he’d sensed in her yesterday. Or was it just stubbornness?
When he stepped towards her, she continued to keep her back to him, but he settled his hands firmly on her shoulders and forced her to turn around, too tense to take his time searching for delicate ways to pose his question. ‘Stella, are you pregnant?’
‘No!’ she snapped and she tried to jerk her shoulders out of his grasp. ‘Anyway, it—it’s none of your business.’
He kept a tight grip on her shoulders. ‘If you’re carrying my brother’s baby, I consider it my business.’
Her eyes blazed with sudden anger. ‘Why? What would you want to do about it?’
‘Are you telling me it’s true?’ His breathing felt suddenly constricted. ‘You are pregnant?’
He let go and she jumped back quickly, like a trapped animal escaping.
‘I’m telling you it’s got nothing to do with you. I don’t want you or your family trying to take over my life just—just because—’
‘Just because you’re having Scott’s baby,’ he finished for her. Out of the blue, he felt his eyes sting and his throat close over. Spinning on the heel of his riding boot, he marched away from her, clear across the room, kicking a chair out of his way as he went.
Bloody hell! He mustn’t lose it and make a complete fool of himself in front of this woman, but the thought of Scott’s seed blossoming inside her made him feel damn emotional.
Scotty Roper was gone for ever, but he’d left behind a part of himself. And, God help him, Callum couldn’t block out the thought of his brother and Stella together—making that little baby—making love.
Whirling around again, he found that she was close behind him, standing with her hands clasped in front of her, as if she’d been thinking about touching him and hadn’t dared, or hadn’t wanted to.
‘Are you quite certain it’s Scott’s baby?’ he asked coldly.
The way she closed her eyes and compressed her lips told him she hated the question and hated him for asking. ‘It’s definitely his,’ she said, matching his cold tone. ‘And if you plan to stand there and make moral judgements about me, I’m going straight out that door and taking off for Cloncurry without even thanking you for your reluctant hospitality.’
‘OK. OK.’ He raised his hands in a halting action, then let out a long breath. Steam was pouring out of the kettle on the stove and he grabbed the opportunity to change the subject. ‘I’ll get you that cup of tea.’
In a weird way Stella felt better now Callum knew about the baby. It felt as if at least some of her burden was lifting from her shoulders.
Sharing the news with someone, even Callum, after keeping it to herself for so long brought instant relief. But she would have to make him promise not to tell the rest of his family—certainly not his father. Not the Senator!
He handed her a bright red mug and she took a seat at the table. Snatching the chair he’d kicked aside, he turned it back to front and straddled it. Stella tried not to notice the very masculine stretch of his jeans over his strong, muscular thighs. He propped his elbows on the top rung of the chair’s ladder back and held his mug in both hands.
She took a sip of tea. It was hot and sweet, just how she needed it. And her stomach seemed to accept it. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘this is my problem, Callum. You don’t have to worry about it.’
He eyed her thoughtfully. ‘Did Scott know about the baby?’
She shook her head.
‘And you came out here to tell him.’
‘Yes.’
His brown-gold eyes continued to study her with the intensity of a hawk. ‘What were you hoping? That he would marry you?’
Stella almost dropped her mug. ‘No. Not marriage.’ Did she imagine that slight relaxation of his shoulders?
‘Do you need help? Money?’
‘No!’ She stared at him, shocked. ‘And I’m not planning to get rid of it. Is that what you thought?’
He shrugged. ‘I’m just trying to understand.’
She wanted to believe him. It was actually a comforting idea—having someone who wanted to understand.
Perhaps he was more sensitive than he appeared on the surface. Perhaps she could trust him. Her chin lifted. ‘I know I’ll be a hopeless mother, but the least I can do is give this little baby life.’
Draining his tea, he rocked the chair slowly forward and set his empty mug on the table. When he straightened once more, his gaze lifted slowly. ‘What makes you think you’d be a hopeless mother?’
She felt her cheeks burn. She couldn’t tell him that. No way! Honesty had its limits. It would mean confessing about Marlene, her own mother, the source of most of her hang ups. It would mean dredging up those sordid stories about the way Marlene had failed over and over in numerous attempts at motherhood.
It had been the ongoing pattern of Stella’s childhood and it left her terrified at the thought of ever attempting to be a mother.
The pattern had always been the same. Marlene would plead with the welfare people that she could take beautiful care of Stella and stay clean and sober. She would promise the earth.
And, because the government policy was to keep mothers and children together wherever possible, they would give in. For a few months, life would be grand. Stella would go home to her mother’s new flat and they would eat meat with three kinds of vegetables and they’d go to the movies. They’d play music and dance in the lounge.
Marlene would wash her long black hair and she’d smell of lemon shampoo and talcum powder, and she would take Stella on her lap and read her stories about heroes. For some reason her mother had fancied tales about brave, fearless men.
At night, Marlene would tuck her into bed and tell her she loved her. And Stella would love her back fiercely, so fiercely she could feel her chest swell with the force of her emotion. Marlene was her mother, the very best mother in the world.
But then there would always be the black day when Stella came home from school and found Marlene incoherent and smelling of alcohol. Each day after that things would get worse…the house would turn into a pigsty…and there’d be a different man…She’d go hungry. Sometimes the man would be violent and she’d have to hide outside the house, crying and hungry, trying to sleep in the garage.
Eventually someone, usually a teacher, would report Stella’s condition to the authorities. They would take her away again and Marlene would be broken-hearted. She would sob that she wanted to be a good mother…
Stella had wanted her to be a good mother, too. Had longed for it. She’d hated Marlene for failing yet again…
It wasn’t the sort of story she could tell, certainly not to this earnest, solemn man, the son of Senator Ian Roper.
‘Are you saying you don’t want to be a mother?’
I’m terrified. I’m scared I don’t know how to be a mother.
‘I—I’ve worked very hard at my career.’
She saw his stony expression and she felt a distinct rush of resentment. It was impossible for anyone else to understand. She cast a frantic glance to the clock on the wall. ‘Don’t you have to go work or something?’
He rose to his feet slowly and she wished he hadn’t. When he looked down at her from his considerable height, she felt smaller than ever.
‘I’m waiting to hear from a ringer in Kajabbi,’ he said. ‘When he’s free, we’ll take the stock from the holding yards through to the road trains on the highway, but that probably won’t happen till tomorrow or the day after.’
He walked to the sink and deposited their mugs into it. ‘How about that dry toast?’ he asked with a glimmer of a smile.
She had almost forgotten about breakfast. ‘Thanks.’
As he dropped two slices of bread into the toaster he turned her way. ‘You shouldn’t leave this morning. You’ve barely had time to recover from the long drive up here. You should at least stay another night.’
He wasn’t being friendly or warm. Just practical. And the long journey had been exhausting. She hated the thought of heading straight back.
‘That would be sensible, I guess. Thanks.’
He brought her dry toast and spread his own with plenty of butter. It melted, warm and golden, into the toasted bread and Stella couldn’t help looking at it rather longingly. Her morning sickness was fading and she was feeling hungry again.
‘Sure you don’t want some mango jam? My sister Ellie makes it.’ He spread the bright-coloured fruit onto his toast and took a bite.
‘It does look rather good,’ she admitted and dipped her knife into the pot.
They munched for some time without talking. Then he said unexpectedly, ‘You’d better tell me about this career and these big plans of yours.’
She sent him a hasty, troubled look, then just as quickly looked at her hands clenched in her lap.
‘You never know,’ he said carefully. ‘I might be able to help.’
‘How could you?’
