by Sandy Curtis
Drew said nothing, just nodded in sympathy. A deep melancholy swept over Emma. She tried to push the emotion aside. She'd seen grief, felt grief, too often to succumb to the chains it could create.
'I have a bedroom to clean up.' She stood. 'You probably want to clean up, yourself.'
Drew stroked the stubble on his cheek. 'A shave, and a shower if possible, would be great.'
'A shave I can arrange. But I'm sorry, the shower is out. You can't get your back wet, and you'll have to wear plastic bags over your hands to have a wash.'
'What?' Drew raised one eyebrow. 'No sponge bath from my personal physician?'
That exact thought had already plagued Emma. She knew it would be far easier for Drew if she bathed him. But the memory of her reaction to his kiss warned her it would definitely not be easy for her. She bent down and picked up the pieces of the smashed plate and dropped them in the bin. She turned to Drew as she walked into the hallway.
'I'll put what you need in the bathroom.' Her voice was coolly professional, but she couldn't help the smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. She suspected what he needed wasn't just a shave and a shower.
She hurried away before Drew could comment.
It was awkward shaving with plastic bags over the dressings on his hands, but Drew was passably pleased with the result. Even running a comb through his tangled hair gave a pleasure that surprised him. In the heat of his prison shed, sweat had trickled itchy trails through his hair and bristles. The chains had prevented him from scratching them. A minor irritation, but it had reinforced his feeling of helplessness.
The sensation prickled in his scalp again. He dug his fingers into his head, rubbing in a slow determined massage, and fought against the memory of darkness, the feeling of suffocation. It was only when his breath escaped in a rush that he realised he had been holding it in anticipation of the appearance of his captor.
He almost succumbed to the temptation of standing under a hot shower and washing away the grime of the past week, but ran a small amount of warm water into the bath instead. Keeping his feet out of the water proved more difficult than he'd thought, but the relief at finally being clean again was worth the effort. He'd only been teasing Emma about the sponge bath but, as he imagined her soft hands on the more intimate areas of his body, he was pleased, but perversely disappointed, she had refused. He knew he wouldn't have been able to control his reaction if she'd touched him.
Emma called out to him through the closed door just as he stepped from the bath. He wrapped a towel around his waist, cursing the restriction of his bandaged hands, and opened the door.
If he'd been less observant he would have missed the gleam of desire that shone briefly in her eyes as she looked at his now clean-shaven face, and his heart soared in response. Each time he saw her he wanted her with a fierceness that amazed him. But the way she seemed determined to keep him at arm's length frustrated him badly.
She held out a bundle of clothing. 'From J.D. He said something about there being a bit more room.'
Drew's eyes narrowed at the innocent look on her face - he suspected she wouldn't have missed the meaning behind J.D.'s comment.
In her other hand she held a plastic jug. 'Would you like me to wash your hair? I know how hard it is to feel really clean if your hair's dirty.'
His rapid agreement had as much to do with desire as a need for cleanliness. Even though he told himself he should be concentrating only on discovering the identity of his would-be killer, he seemed unable to stop the ache in his chest that formed at even the thought of Emma.
Her fingers massaged his scalp as he leaned over the handbasin. He could feel the soft outline of her body pressed lightly against his. It took an immense effort of concentration to ignore his body's reaction and listen to her words.
'In a lot of places where I worked, there was no running water, or little water because of drought or war. I used to tie my hair up and wear a hat to try to keep my hair clean. Washing it was an impossible luxury when people were dying from lack of water.'
Drew had a mental image of Emma working in a grass hut in a dusty jungle clearing, ministering to the sick and injured. From what he'd seen of her already, he sensed she would be irritated by the lack of amenities only if it hindered her treatment of her patients. If her treatment of him was any indication, she was a compassionate physician.
Emma poured clean water through Drew's hair, then towelled it dry. She had told herself that offering to wash his hair was a kindness she would have given any other person, but she knew she was lying. She wanted to touch him. Touch him, apart from the necessity of cleaning and bandaging his wounds.
Touch him in ways she hadn't touched a man in a long, long time.
Too long without sex she castigated herself. Any man would look good.
'Do you have a pen and paper?' Drew asked.
Emma looked up from where she knelt before the stove, pushing wood into the firebox.
'In the desk drawer in the living room. Why?'
Drew shrugged, J.D.'s cotton short-sleeved shirt allowing him freedom of movement without catching on the dressings on his back. To Emma, the blue of the shirt seemed to pale in comparison to his eyes. They were a deep shade of blue, with a piercing intensity she felt impaled her each time he looked at her.
'I've been going over in my mind where I could have come in contact with this devil, but I can't recall ever meeting someone who resembles him. I thought if I made a list of everyone who'd ever threatened me, it might give the police somewhere to start.'
'Everyone? Just how long would this list be?'
Drew chuckled. 'Hopefully not too long. But in my profession you tend to make enemies without meaning to.'
'What if he comes here, Drew? What will you do?'
The tiny frown lines between his eyes tightened. 'I've been thinking about that, Emma. And to tell you the truth I'm scared.'
'Of what he might do to you?'
'No.' Tension invaded his body, and a sudden savage glint shone in his eyes. 'Of what I might do to him.'
Two hours later, Drew tossed down the pen in disgust. It didn't matter how many names he wrote down, how many convictions he cross-referenced against the prison sentences given, he couldn't pin-point a likely suspect. Not one of his clients, convicted or acquitted, had been anywhere near the physical size of the devil.
There had to be a reason the devil wanted to kill him, but he was no closer to identifying him than he'd been as he lay in that stinking shed and tried to figure it all out.
Emma hammered the last nail into the boards crossing the broken window in the spare bedroom. Drew had offered to help clear away the debris caused by the cyclone but she had refused. She needed time to think, to work out what she was going to do with the property.
Two months ago, her father had slapped his Will down on the table where she'd been going through the mail, sorting the bills into what was possible to pay and what would need a phone call asking for more time.
'You'd better keep this, Emma,' he'd muttered. 'Or I might lose it like I've lost everything else.'
She'd felt a surge of pity for him then, an aching sense of loss for the man who would never again be her father. She'd stood up and gone to hug him, only to see his expression change.
'I want steak tonight, Patricia,' he'd growled at Emma. 'Why aren't you cooking it? Always playing with those damn paintings.' He'd walked away, shaking his head. 'Can't eat paintings. Can't eat paintings.'
It had been the last time her father had said anything rational to her, even if he had confused her with her mother.
When she'd felt emotionally capable of doing so, she'd read the Will, and learned her father had left everything to her.
She'd felt like a noose had tightened around her throat.
Emma made sandwiches for lunch. Drew made the coffee. She started to tell him to leave it to her, but recognised his need to do something.
She felt vaguely guilty that she hadn't offered him some
counselling about the ordeal he had been through. After all, it was something she had done before with trauma victims while she had been treating their physical wounds. But something in her shied away from becoming too involved with Drew. A deep-seated instinct warned her that the empathy she usually shared with her patients could very easily turn into something far deeper with this man.
Drew cradled his mug in both hands. 'How long had your father had Alzheimer's?'
'A long time, I think. It had come on so gradually no-one realised. He'd never been an easygoing man and he just seemed to get more cantankerous. I hadn't seen him for about eighteen months when I got a letter from J.D. saying he'd taken Dad in to see a doctor. Apparently he'd deteriorated quite quickly after a bout of flu.'
'You and J.D. - you're good friends.'
It was a question. Emma looked at him, surprised at the intensity of the look on his face.
'J.D. and my brother were friends. After Matthew died, J.D. took on the role of big brother. My parents divorced when I was seventeen - I was away at university. J.D. kept in touch - letters, phone calls. I always relied on him to keep me up to date on Dad.' Sorrow showed briefly on her face. 'Dad was a lousy correspondent.'
'Did he leave a Will?' At her startled look he quickly apologised. 'Sorry. Professional curiosity.'
'He left everything to me. The house, the property, what little stock is left - and enough debts,' she finished bitterly, 'that I'll have to sell everything to pay them. I never wanted anything from him. I don't care about the money. But I grew up here. This is home.' She stood up, gestured to Drew to follow. 'I want to show you something.'
In the living room, Emma waved her hands at the photographs lining the walls. Drew had noticed them that morning but hadn't paid them much attention. They were all of horses - beautiful, sleek horses. He knew enough about horses to know these would never work a property or be bought as pets.
'Once, we owned one of the most successful thoroughbred breeding studs in the country. We weren't big, but Dad's expertise was respected. He knew all there was to know about horses. Unfortunately he knew very little about people.'
'Your mother included?'
'Very perceptive, Counsellor.'
Drew shrugged. 'It's easy to be perceptive about other people. Harder about yourself.'
It was an observation Emma agreed with. She'd always found it hard to analyse and come to terms with her feelings about her father. She suspected she could have the same problem where Drew was concerned.
The dogs, Jess and Ned, had relinquished their guard over Emma's father's grave and moved onto the front veranda. Drew discovered this when he pushed open the front door that afternoon and was greeted by low growls and a warning bark. It didn't take him long to get Jess to accept him, but Ned wouldn't allow him within patting distance.
The steady rain drummed onto the tin roof in a never-ceasing cadence. Drew looked out at the debris from the cyclone still littering the water-soaked yard. He's out there! Somewhere out there in the valley, or perhaps further away. Someone who'd decided that I had to die.
The door banged behind him. Emma propped her father's rifle against the wall, took her Driza-bone off the hook and pulled it on. 'I have to check the horses,' she explained.
Drew reached for the other coat. 'I'll go with you.' He saw she was about to protest. 'I don't think you should go alone.'
The meaning of his words hung in the air.
Finally she nodded.
Emma blinked to adjust her vision as they walked into the stables. The odour of newly turned earth mingled with hay and dampness.
She glanced down at her father's grave. Tears stung her eyes but she resolutely walked past. A welcoming whinny greeted her as they reached the two horses J.D. had returned. She placed the rifle against a wall, hung her hat on a peg.
'Hello, Quest.' She rubbed her hand against the forehead of a chestnut-coloured mare. The horse snickered, her soft lips searching Emma's other hand for the treat she knew would be there.
The black horse in the end stall reached its head around, its large brown eyes hopeful. Emma moved along, murmured a greeting, proffered the treat. She smiled as the horse nuzzled her coat, searching for more. 'Don't be greedy, Solomon,' she chided.
She turned back to Drew.
Her heartbeat froze in her chest as he lifted the rifle towards her head.
CHAPTER FIVE
Noise exploded in Emma's head.
Something moist spattered over her hair, her cheek.
The horses reared, squealed in fright.
Emma stumbled against the stall door, her ears ringing from the blast. Drew brushed past her and leaned over to pick something up from the hay.
Her shock beginning to fade, Emma noted the grim line of his mouth. Even in the dim light she could see the paleness of his cheeks beneath the tan. Her gaze travelled down to the long body dangling from his hand. Its tail brushed the hay at his feet.
The coffin-shaped head had been partially severed from the gleaming brown body. Blood dripped onto the paler belly.
'Taipan,' she breathed.
Drew nodded. 'He must have come in through the roof looking for somewhere dry or something to eat. He was sliding down the wall. You probably startled him - he'd drawn back to strike when I fired.'
Emma shuddered. Isolated as they were, she wouldn't have had a chance of survival if the snake had bitten her. It would have been a horrible way to die.
'Thank you.'
His lips smiled an offhand 'You're welcome.' But she read the fear in his eyes, the realisation of how close she'd come to death. Shock spiralled in the pit of her stomach. She thrust it away, gathered herself together. She ignored the hand he reached out in comfort.
'Let's get these horses fed. Tomorrow I want to check on Mary Johnson - a neighbour further up the valley. She's pregnant - due next week. J.D. checked on her straight after he'd left here earlier. He said she's okay but scared about the pregnancy.' A worried frown creased her forehead. 'It's her first.'
Emma was washing up the dishes from their evening meal when Drew walked into the kitchen with a candle in one hand and a notebook in the other. The kind of notebook a child might take to school.
'Emma, I think you should look at this. I think your father was trying to keep a diary.'
Emma dried her hands. 'Where did you find it?'
'In your father's dresser. It had been pushed to the back of the drawer.' He looked at his feet. 'I was searching for some clean socks to cover the bandages.'
Her fingers refused to reach out and take the notebook Drew offered. A diary. Her father's thoughts. A glimpse into his mind, his feelings.
Then she smiled grimly. It more likely contained his thoughts on how the horses were breeding.
She took the book from Drew, sat at the table and opened the cover. The kerosene lamp flickered yellow across the angular scrawl. She didn't notice Drew leave the room.
The first entry was dated nearly two years before.
I think I'm losing my mind. Clients are abusing me for not carrying out instructions they insist they've given me - but I can't remember. Chores are done that I have no recollection of doing. And today I found myself driving out the gate with no idea of where I was going or why.
Is it the loneliness? So many years with Patricia and Emma gone. So many empty days and nights. The only times when the emptiness goes are when Emma comes to visit. But she doesn't stay for long. I don't blame her. I long to tell her how proud I am of her, how much I love her, but the words won't come. Too many years of never saying what was in my heart. Oh God, how I regret it. Perhaps if I'd been kinder I might not have lost my beloved Patricia. If only
The first entry ended abruptly. Emma turned the page, her hand trembling. Her father was proud of her! He loved her! If only he had told her. If only…
The second entry was dated eight months later. The writing had deteriorated.
I hate what I am becoming! Lord knows I have never been a patient man
but today I yelled at J.D. when he wanted to take me to the doctor. He's a good neighbour, only trying to help. And I don't feel well. Perhaps I'll go. In a few weeks.
Two months later, another entry.
J.D. is right - I must see a doctor. But I'm frightened. The loneliness is unbearable. Perhaps Emma will come home. I haven't seen her for so long. Her letters are wonderful but sometimes I can't understand them. Is it her writing? Is it me? I'm afraid to find out, but now I'm more afraid not to.
The last entry was dated the following day:
Alzheimer's! Is this what I am to be reduced to? A stupid old man with a mind of a child? Or no mind at all? Tomorrow I will settle my affairs, update my Will, and put an end
This entry was also unfinished.
put an end
What had her father meant? Put an end to his loneliness by contacting her…or her mother…or committing suicide?
Had his disease actually prevented him from taking his own life? How ironic if he hadn't been able to remember that was what he was going to do.
All those years she had thought he hadn't wanted her there, that he had preferred to be on his own, to run things by himself. And all that time he was lonely. A sad, lonely old man. Trapped by his inability to communicate his love, his need.
If only she'd known.
She remembered when J.D. had driven her home after picking her up from Cairns airport. Her father had been in the yards, working the mare. She'd called to him, and he'd turned. For a moment she thought she'd seen tears in his eyes. He'd walked towards her, arms lifting as though to hug her. Then he'd mumbled a greeting and turned back to the mare.