‘Which is nothing more than self-pity, so don’t go there,’ she warned her head. ‘Think of Grant instead.’
Kate found herself hoping that Linda was good to him—that she understood his pain and could, in some small way, alleviate it.
Then wishing it was herself, not some unknown woman, who had the right to hold him when the memories crowded in on him and his eyes ached with unshed tears.
Cassie gave a quiet cry, prelude to the demand, and Kate leapt off the couch, then realised she’d forgotten to bring a dry nappy from the bedroom. Were there some still in the dryer? Or was that pack of disposables in the pantry?
She picked up the baby before her cries could bother Grant, dropped a kiss on her head and carried her through to the kitchen. Yes! Disposables. They’d do for one night. She changed Cassie on the kitchen table, marvelling at her growth and beauty, refusing to even contemplate the existence of baby-killing tumours.
‘It’s so rare, it certainly won’t happen to you,’ she assured her little one, then she lifted her into her arms and carried her back to the living room. ‘Statistically as unlikely as a tourist flight to the moon tomorrow.’
Cassie dropped off to sleep as she finished her meal, and Kate returned her to the crib, then stood, looking down at her. Thinking of another baby, and the aching loss she’d heard in Grant’s voice.
She tiptoed to the bedroom door and cracked it open. Grant lay in a tangle of sheets which were becoming even more tangled as he tossed restlessly. The breeze coming through the open door was cooler now, and she moved closer, thinking to straighten the top sheet and cover him as she’d covered her baby.
But he stirred as she tried to unwind the soft cotton material from around his legs and groaned, then shifted restlessly, his hand touching her arm. As if comforted by finding her, finding something to anchor him, he grabbed it and pulled her close, until she found herself nestled up against his body—again!
And thinking things she shouldn’t—again!
But Grant needed comfort, someone to hold onto until his dreams and pain subsided. Someone to be there for him in the dark watches of the night, when the death of his baby boy returned to haunt him.
OK, so she wasn’t the right someone but she was the only person available. And she loved him—there, she’d admitted it, so the least she could do was be there for him just this once.
She banished confused and confusing thoughts to concentrate on Grant—and his need—tonight. And moved closer so her body fitted itself to his, and she could hold him.
Grant knew it had to be a dream—it wasn’t the first. He’d had one just like it since he arrived back in Testament. But this time Katie felt real, and her sweet, soft body was snuggled up against him, as if this was where she was meant to be.
And if she was meant to be here, he could kiss her neck like this, and nuzzle that place below her ear where he’d discovered sensitive skin so long ago. And the buttons on the shirt she wore to bed seemed to have come undone, so he could touch her breasts, hold the heaviness, tease the nipple so she’d make the funny little noise of wanting only Katie had ever made.
So he kissed her, and it certainly didn’t feel like a dream. Surely in the dreams she hadn’t kissed him back.
Fuzzily, he began to remember—Katie on his bed, the papers dropping, Robbie’s photo.
More recollection—this was Katie’s bed, and Katie’s body stretched beside him.
No! She’d left earlier—it had to be a dream.
And if it wasn’t a dream, it was a disaster, for if there was one thing he knew above all others, he was only seconds away from making love to Katie Fenton. And leaving Katie Fenton—hard though it was going to be anyway—after making love to her would be well nigh impossible.
She was touching him, unbuttoning his shirt, running her fingers through the fine swirl of hair on his chest, sliding her hands lower…
But Cassie came with Katie, and he was already halfway to loving the tiny baby.
He tried to analyse the situation more rationally but the tight buds of her nipples brushing across his chest suggested she was as aroused as she must surely know he was.
Was she here because she felt sorry for him?
The thought was abhorrent, but he’d better mention it—just in case.
‘I don’t want pity, Katie.’
Damn! He hadn’t meant to say it that way, but it came out harshly enough for her to recoil, but, like Katie of old, she didn’t go far, standing up to his challenge with all her old defiance.
‘I am not offering you pity, Grant Bell, I’m offering you comfort, and if comfort includes sex, well, that’s on offer, too—just for tonight—because of Robbie.’
She’d sat up so he could see the upper half of her body silhouetted against the light from the veranda doors.
‘And if you’re worried about Linda, then so am I, but if she never knows than it can’t hurt her…’
Already confused by emotion, arousal and the still clinging remnants of sleep, the mention of some unknown woman’s name tipped Grant’s mind into total bewilderment.
‘Who the hell is Linda?’ he demanded, and felt, rather than saw, Katie recoil. She was out of the bed in a flash, positively gasping with whatever emotion his seemingly innocent remark had generated.
‘And to think I felt sorry for you!’ she snapped, snatching the sheet off the bed so swiftly she almost tugged him out as well, then holding it to her scantily clad body as she stalked out of the room.
‘Then it was pity,’ Grant snapped right back, but she was already gone and if she heard, she didn’t answer.
‘Damn and blast all women to hell!’ he muttered to himself as he sank back against the pillow. He’d remembered Linda now, but what he remembered far more clearly—far too clearly—was the feel of Katie’s body snuggled up to his, the ripples of sensory excitement in his skin as her heavy breasts had brushed across his chest.
His head ached, probably from the telling of Robbie’s story, which always brought with it such a burden of defeat. His desire refused to subside, so he was feeling pain down there as well, and his mind had ceased to function so he couldn’t work out where to go from here—what to do or say to make things right again.
Eventually he slept, but not before he’d heard Cassie cry and felt the familiar spurt of tension and remembrance the sound always caused.
Kate was in the kitchen, precautionary tales about drinking coffee while breastfeeding set aside as she gulped down a strong black brew. After a totally sleepless night, she needed something before she faced Mr McConagle.
It wouldn’t help with facing Grant, of course. Cyanide might, but she didn’t have any on hand and, anyway, it wouldn’t be right to leave Cassie an orphan.
The thought of her baby made her shiver. What had happened to all her good intentions—her determination to be the best possible mother for her daughter? Was nestling up to Grant in bed the way a responsible mother should behave?
Of course it wasn’t.
And as for him—and his ‘Who’s Linda?’.
What kind of man forgot his own fiancée’s name?
She was mulling over whether she was more angry with herself or Grant when the phone rang.
‘School bus accident at Four Mile Creek and the ambulance has taken Mrs Stubbs to Craigtown. I’m on my way. Can you come?’
Kate recognised the voice of Dick Harris, the police sergeant, and wasted no time assuring him she’d be there. As she dialled Tara’s number, Mr McConagle knocked and came through the back door.
‘Could you wake Grant and tell him he’s needed?’ she said to the handyman, then explained to Tara’s mother what was happening. ‘So could you send Tara over?’ she said into the phone. ‘Cassie’s not long been fed, and there’s boiled water in the fridge if she’s desperate before I get back.’
Grant appeared as she put down the receiver, Mr McConagle following.
Kate explained briefly, asked Mr McConagle to mind the baby until Tara
arrived and to let Vi know what was happening, then she led Grant out to the car.
‘Did Dick say how bad it was?’ he asked, steering her towards the passenger seat as he added, ‘I’ll drive.’
‘No, just that he needed us. It’s at the Four Mile.’
They drove swiftly and in silence until they were several kilometres from town when Kate saw emus stalking long-leggedly towards the road.
‘Emus,’ she warned, though she knew Grant had probably seen them, the silly birds racing along the verge as if in competition with the car.
Grant slowed, but couldn’t stop to see which way they might dodge as the thought of injured children was in the forefront of both their minds.
The birds, six in all, veered away, then suddenly one skittered back towards the car in a wild, suicidal dance.
‘Damn!’ Grant muttered, as the bird brushed into the side of the car. ‘Silly bloody thing!’
‘It’s probably all right,’ Kate told him, but her assurance didn’t soften the grim set of his lips. Remembering the emotional toll his telling of Robbie’s story must have had on him the previous evening, she understood an injury to the bird would take on extra significance. Hoping, needing to offer comfort, in spite of where that need had led last night, she rested her hand on his thigh and kneaded it gently.
The flashing lights on the top of the police car, and beyond that the red bulk of the fire engine, told them the crash scene had come into view, and the bus, tipped sideways into a ditch, told its own story. As Grant pulled up behind the police car, Kate grabbed her bag and leapt out.
‘We’ve got all but three of the kids out, and the driver’s also trapped,’ Dick told her, motioning to where volunteers, who’d apparently appeared from nowhere on the isolated country road, were comforting a group of resting children. ‘The firemen are using cutting tools.’
‘I’d better go in and see if anyone needs stabilising before he or she is moved,’ Kate said, putting down her bag and moving towards the bus.
Grant grabbed her arm.
‘Don’t be stupid! You check the ones who are out—I’ll go in there.’
She twisted out of his grip, and kept going.
‘Look at the bus—you’d never get in there. I’m smaller, I’ll go. You see to the others.’
For a moment she thought he’d argue, then he nodded and turned away, picking up her bag as he strode towards the huddle of children.
Kate squeezed through the emergency exit window at the back of the bus and crawled along the passage between twisted metal bars and vinyl seating. Ahead of her, a fire-brigade volunteer was using heavy pincers to cut metal away from a small boy, and farther towards the front another child whimpered.
‘A couple of our chaps are cutting towards the driver from the front, and once they get him out, we should be able to get the two kids from the seat behind him. This one’s legs are caught beneath their seat. He’s unconscious but he’s breathing and there’s no obvious blood loss.’
Kate reached around the man, feeling for the child’s wrist, feeling the rapid flutter of his pulse. Something grasped her arm and she saw blood on the small fingers. From where she was she couldn’t see the child but, knowing he or she was conscious, she knew she had to get closer, if only for reassurance.
She gave the fingers a reassuring squeeze, then said, ‘I’m coming, darling. I’ll stay with you.’
‘Can you let me past?’ she asked the man, whom she now recognised as Richie Webb’s father.
He wriggled closer to the seat and she squirmed past him, managing to turn so she could face the seat where the other two children were trapped. Outside, the wail of approaching sirens announced that at least one ambulance was finally arriving. Grant would get some help.
From where she was it became obvious the bus had rolled before coming to rest on its side, and the roof had caved in more seriously here in the front section. The trapped driver was hidden from her view by the back of his high seat, and the two children were wedged between it and their own seat, which had been squashed almost flat by the roof.
She pushed her hand towards what she could see of school uniform, felt the rounded leg beneath material, felt warmth and no wetness, and prayed the little one still lived. Then she edged closer into the narrow space and pushed her hand farther, finally encountering the arm of the second child. Once again small fingers found her arm, and then her hand, and, knowing there was nothing she could do until the driver was released, she held the little hand and talked about the day outside, the blue sky they would soon see when the roof was lifted off the bus.
The raw screeching of the power tools cutting into metal set her teeth on edge, and tightened the child’s grip on her hand.
‘It’s just a saw—probably your dad has one,’ she said, while behind her she heard Mr Webb grunt in exultation as the metal he was cutting finally gave way.
‘I can lift this one backwards now,’ he said to Kate. ‘Will you come out and check him?’
‘Dr Bell’s out there, but can you lift him, seat and all? Perhaps just drag the seat backwards and wait until the roof comes off so he can be checked before he’s moved. If he has spinal injuries, the seat will protect him. Do you need a hand?’
‘No, you stay there,’ the man said. ‘The roof’s moving so they must be close to lifting it. I heard Bob Willis’s crane arrive. It should be able to peel the top back as easy as opening a sardine cane.’
‘There are some similarities,’ Kate commented, then she felt the movement as well and a sudden rush of air as the roof was lifted and blue sky appeared above them.
Also Grant Bell. He glanced her way, nodded as if assuring himself she was OK, then turned his attention to the driver. An ambulance officer handed Grant a neck collar, then a short backboard, which Grant slid between the back of the seat and the driver’s body. Straps fastened around his chest and legs fashioned the board into a sling, and men with gentle hands lifted the injured man from his seat.
Within minutes the seat was also removed, allowing Kate her first glimpse of the two children behind it. The owner of the hand, a girl of about seven, smiled at her, but the lad beside her— ‘He’s my brother, he’s asleep’ —didn’t move.
Then Grant was there, helping Kate to her feet, then strapping a neck and back brace onto the girl before lifting her in his strong arms and stepping out of the bus to pass her to rescuers. Kate bent to examine the boy. His pulse was strong, and he was breathing, but a large bruise already darkening the skin behind his left ear suggested the cause of his concussion.
Kate felt his body, seeking blood, then ran her hands over his arms—the left one gashed but not deeply—and down his legs. His right ankle, which had taken the brunt of the driver’s seat when it had collapsed backwards, was certainly broken, but there was no other obvious damage.
‘You climb out, I’ll get him ready to be lifted.’
Grant was back, his hands on Kate’s waist, ready to lift her out as well.
‘I can manage,’ she told him, but he took no notice, and one look at the determination in his eyes warned her not to argue. Firm, warm, safe hands lifted her onto the outside of the bus where others helped her to the ground.
She crossed to the ambulance where the little girl was being treated, a catheter already inserted into her arm and a drip about to be attached.
‘Where’s Robbie?’ she asked, and Kate, though momentarily taken aback, quickly realised she must be talking about her brother.
‘The other doctor is bringing him out now,’ Kate said, brushing chips of safety glass out of the child’s tangled hair.
‘Will he be all right?’
Kate crossed her fingers superstitiously behind her back, and said, in her most definite voice, ‘Yes, he will.’
Then Grant was there, the child in his arms.
‘This is Robbie,’ he announced, smiling broadly at Kate. ‘He actually told me his name.’
Kate sighed her relief. Robbie must have remembered his na
me as he’d regained consciousness, which was an excellent sign. She tried not to think of Gareth, now convalescing at his home, and crossed her fingers again.
‘It doesn’t work, crossing fingers,’ Grant said, taking her hand and uncrossing them, then lifting the imprisoned hand to his lips and dropping a kiss on the palm. ‘What does work is medical knowledge most times, and love and faith at others.’
He paused then added, ‘And when those don’t suffice, it isn’t because we didn’t know enough, or do enough, or care enough, but because there’s some grand plan that we don’t understand, which decrees a person’s time has come.’
Kate was so startled by his words she gaped at him. This hardly sounded like the man so shattered by the death of his baby son he was about to dedicate his life to knowing more about what had killed him.
‘You don’t mean that,’ she said, bending to help the ambulance officer strap young Robbie gently onto the stretcher and roll it into position beside the one on which his sister lay. The children’s mother climbed in beside them, and the ambulance officer shut the door.
‘I didn’t for a long time,’ Grant said, his voice quietly convincing, ‘but I do now. Lifting this Robbie out, seeing him open his eyes, I remembered the good things about my Robbie, and thought of him without the depth of pain I hadn’t, until now, been able to avoid.’
Kate felt as if her heart might break—but whether with sorrow for the love she had for him but could never reveal to him or with happiness that he was started on a real path to recovery, she couldn’t tell.
She looked around, seeking some distraction, then realised the other children had already been transported, either home or to the hospital, where they’d be kept until checked again by either her or Grant.
‘We have to get back,’ she said, pretending she’d been thinking about work all along. ‘There’ll be a queue at the hospital and a lot of edgy patients in the surgery.’
Grant glanced her way but said nothing, merely collecting her bag and following her towards the car.
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