‘I guess.’ She could even afford it now, she thought. She’d been earning for a while now and with the sale of her mother’s small house… Maybe she could.
‘It says there’s an obstetric conference happening.’ Dusty’s face was alight with excitement. ‘Is that why you’re looking? The nineteeth to the twenty second of December. Mum, that’s cool. School finishes on the fifteenth.’
‘You don’t want to go to a conference with me.’
‘I bet we can’t afford to go unless it’s for work,’ Dusty said wisely. ‘You never do anything not for work. Or for Gran. Or for me.’
‘Maybe I can make an exception. We could find lots of places that are warm. Maybe you could ask for that for Christmas instead of finding out about your dad.’
And her son’s face closed. ‘I want to find out.’
‘Dusty, we can’t.’
‘You said we’d have two weeks’ holiday for Christmas. I bet we could find something out in two weeks.’
‘I’d rather go somewhere warm.’
‘Then let’s do sleuthing and then go somewhere warm,’ Dusty said, sliding his hand into hers. ‘We can sleuth really fast.’
‘Dusty…’
‘You have to help,’ Dusty said, smiling his gorgeous ten-year-old smile; the smile she’d disconcertingly just seen on the screen before her. ‘I bet you’d like photos, too. It can’t be nice not having any pictures of Dad. I’m sure you want some.’
She didn’t.
But then…she knew where Dusty was coming from. Her own father had died when she was twelve. The albums filled with pictures of her father holding her, playing with her, had assumed almost supernatural importance.
She tucked her son back into bed. Threatened him with no Santa if he didn’t stay. Went back downstairs and stared at a stranger’s smile; a smile that she knew like it was part of her.
Kill two birds with one stone? It looked a great conference. She could ‘just happen’ upon Ben there, tell Dusty who he was, then they could have a week on the island when everyone left.
She glanced through the window into the night. Sleet was slashing the frozen streets.
Tropics. Turtles. Sun.
A wildlife sanctuary… She read a little about it. Apparently it was independently run by three women, fiercely passionate about their cause. The care and rehabilitation of injured wildlife.
Her father had been a park ranger. She’d been brought up with animals; with passion for their care.
Cassowary Island had been decimated by a cyclone fifteen years ago. Efforts were being made to re-establish the cassowary population; to restore the native flora and fauna.
Echoes of her childhood. Echoes of her father’s passion.
She’d love to go to this island.
And Dusty? He’d been silent and clinging since his grandmother had died. The need to find out about this uncle might be part of his grief, she thought. Insecurity. A need for a wider sense of family than just she could give him.
There was little chance that any Oaklander would give him any sense of family, she thought, but still… It might help if she showed him she was doing her best to help. The holiday itself would be wonderful for them both, and if they went to this conference he could see his uncle without it being a big deal.
Good idea, or an unmitigated disaster?
Or an unmitigated disaster?
How could it be a disaster? Ben Oaklander had no hold on her. He was nothing to do with her. She didn’t need him as she’d needed his brother.
So go take a look, show Dusty where he got his smile and then walk away. Even if Ben reacted coldly—which she’d expect—they’d have an awesome holiday afterwards to make up for it.
They might even have fun. Heaven knew, they deserved it.
It was only…
She glanced back to the computer, to the conference blurb. To Ben Oaklander’s image.
The Oaklander smile.
It was no longer dangerous—surely?
It couldn’t be.
CHAPTER TWO
SATURDAY morning a month later, they were halfway between the north coast of Australia and Cassowary Island.
Ben Oaklander was sitting not ten yards away from her.
She was feeling…weird. Confrontation wasn’t supposed to happen this fast.
The conference wasn’t due to start until Monday. A hover craft had been organized to bring delegates to the island on Sunday night, so the daily ferry was almost empty. It held a skipper, a deckhand, two elderly women who looked to be wildlife carers—the ‘Cassowary Island Habitat’ emblem on their jackets gave them away—and one solitary male who sat in the bow and read.
Who happened to be Ben Oaklander.
She’d known who he was the minute she and Dusty had climbed aboard. Dusty hadn’t noticed. He was blown away by the ferry, the sea, the prospect of what was before them, and the guy on the foredeck in casual clothes was a long way from the formal, suited headshot she’d shown him on the net.
But Ben’s profile was unmistakable. Jeans, T-shirt, faded trainers. A body to die for.
A true Oaklander.
Gorgeous.
Also aloof and arrogant.
He’d thanked the crewman who’d helped lift his impressive computer gear aboard, he’d assisted one of the elderly ladies who seemed to be limping, but he’d shrugged off her thanks, cut off her attempts to chat, settled in the bow and read.
His body language said, Leave me alone, I’m not interested.
Well, she wasn’t. He was Nate’s brother and apart from a tiny amount of idle curiosity, she’d pass him in the street and move on.
Except that he was stunning. Silhouetted against the morning sun his profile was one of pure strength. He was a darker, stronger, harsher version of his brother. Don’t mess with me, his profile said, and she remembered his appalling father and she thought she wouldn’t.
She should tell Dusty—and she would; this conference was all about letting Dusty see this guy—but not yet. Not in the close confines of the boat. She’d told Dusty his uncle would be there as one of the conference attendees but how to introduce them took some thinking about.
She didn’t feel exactly ready. She wasn’t actually sure that she would be ready.
Dusty had enough to think about right now, she told herself. He was practically bursting with excitement as they approached the island.
They’d timed their arrival early, to settle, to find things for Dusty to do while she attended the conference; to simply enjoy themselves.
It seemed Ben Oaklander had the same idea.
But by the look of the textbook in his hands… Enjoyment? Heavy didn’t begin to describe it.
Jess thought of the medical journals on her bedside table, gathering dust. She hadn’t brought a single one.
This was why this guy was a leader in his field, while she was simply a doctor who delivered babies the best way she knew how.
She glanced again at the forbidding profile. Then she glanced at Dusty, who was watching dolphins. The similarity was almost frightening.
Keep it simple. Would the best plan be to introduce herself right now, explain what Dusty needed and go from there?
She didn’t quite have the courage. The sight of this guy… She hadn’t expected to feel like this.
An Oaklander…
Dusty had been photographing the dolphins. Now he turned and started photographing the ferry. Everything in the ferry.
‘Not the guy in the bow,’ she told him. ‘He looks like he wants to be left alone.’
‘I’m not being a pest,’ Dusty said virtuously. ‘I’m only taking pictures. Of everything.’
Everything. She couldn’t argue with that.
Maybe he was being paranoid but he didn’t think so. He was being watched and the sensation was unnerving.
A woman was glancing at him covertly—a woman who almost took his breath away. Maybe it was the morning, the sunlight glinting off the sea, but the sight of her glossy, chestnut-colour
ed curls, rippling a little in the soft sea breeze, her laughter at something the child said, the simplicity of her clothes, the maturity on her face that belied the fact that she looked little more than thirty—the total effect was breathtaking.
And beside her…a small boy who looked like Nate.
He was imagining things. Yes, the little boy was blond and blue eyed, just as Nate had been. He had the same wavy hair, the same cheeky grin. But he wasn’t Nate. He was ten or eleven years old and he belonged very firmly to the woman beside him.
The child had the woman’s build, slim, fine featured, almost elfin. She was wearing jeans, a plain white T-shirt and plain white sandals. The only note of colour was a simple, sea-green scarf knotted casually around her throat. It was the same colour as her eyes.
Alone she’d have had him riveted.
But still his attention went back to the child.
Memories of Nate… Unwanted memories.
Once upon a time he and Nate had been friends, two years apart, ganging up against their bully of a father and their icy, aloof mother. But then Nate had figured what would please his father, following in his footsteps, and Ben had left.
Yeah, well, that had been a long time ago. There were lots of blond-headed kids in the world. He turned back to his text.
He could sense the little boy’s camera raising, aiming.
He looked up as the camera clicked. The child let the camera drop to his knee. Gazes locked.
The child gave a tentative smile.
Nate!
The woman…
She intercepted his look, flushed, took the child’s camera. ‘Sorry,’ she said smoothly, liltingly, and she smiled, a smile which wasn’t the least like the child’s. ‘We bought Dusty a new camera for the holiday and he’s practising. He doesn’t have the legal ramifications of point and shoot covered. We’ll delete that shot if you like.’
Her smile might not be like her son’s but it was a good one. Her smile said smile back.
He couldn’t make himself smile. The child’s face.
Nate.
Suddenly he was eleven years old again. His mother’s words: ‘Forget your brother. Your father doesn’t want you—he and your father are one family, we’re another.’
Only he and his mother weren’t a family. He’d been used as a possession to be claimed in a messy divorce. Nothing more.
‘I’m Dusty,’ the child said, happy to chat. ‘Who are you?’
The child wasn’t Nate. He needed to pull himself together.
‘I need to read,’ he said, almost reluctantly. Even without the unsettling resemblance to his brother, there was something about the pair of them that made him want to know more.
No! This woman looks like a single mother, his antenna was saying. What about his resolution? No women for Christmas.
But his antenna was still working overtime.
Nate…
There were a million children in the world who’d look like his brother, he told himself. Get over it.
‘Sorry we bothered you,’ the woman said, and smiled again, and her smile was almost magnetic.
That smile…
Back off. Now.
He was being dumb. ‘It’s fine,’ he said, gruffly. Why not tell the child his name? ‘And I’m…’
‘Leave the gentleman alone,’ the woman said. ‘He wants to read.’
His thoughts exactly. Only they weren’t…exactly.
Uh-oh. Jess was feeling disconcerted, to say the least. She’d had no idea the presence of this man could have such an effect on her.
He was an Oaklander. What was it with this family?
Danger.
But then, thankfully, one of the elderly ladies, the one with the limp, produced a baby wombat from inside her jacket, and started to feed it.
This event was so extraordinary Dusty’s interest switched in an instant. Yes! The last thing Jess wanted was introductions all round.
Had Nate told his brother about Dusty’s existence? She suspected not, but his father might have relayed his dealings with her. Her name might mean something.
As did the fact that Dusty looked like Nate.
But the brothers hadn’t been close. In fact, Nate had shown nothing but disdain for his big brother.
She should relax. It was unfortunate that they were on the same boat, but the trip would soon be over. She could figure out how to introduce them when she had herself more together. And meanwhile…
A baby wombat…
Fascinated herself, she moved closer.
The woman had been wearing a sleeveless fleece jacket, which had seemed a bit unnecessary on such a fabulous day. Now she realised why. The wombat had been tucked into a pouch, taking warmth from the woman’s body. It was still snuggled in the jacket which was now being used as a blanket.
The creature was tiny, the size of a man’s fist. It was pink-bald, with fur just starting to develop across its back. It lay cradled in the fleece, while its carer patiently encouraged it to attach to the teat of what looked like a miniature baby bottle.
‘It’s a wombat,’ Dusty breathed, edging closer to the woman, fascinated. ‘A baby. Where’s his mum?’
‘His mother was hit by a car,’ the younger of the women told them. ‘Horrid things, cars.’
‘You’re taking him to Cassowary Island to look after him?’
‘It’s a wildlife shelter,’ the woman said, talking to Dusty as if he were an adult. ‘There are no predators for wombats over there. He’ll be safe.’
‘What are predators?’
‘Things that want to kill wombats.’
Dusty inched closer still, and so did Jess. The other woman also had a bulge under her jacket. As she tried not to look, it…moved.
‘You both have passengers,’ she breathed.
‘Don’t tell the skipper or we’ll have to pay,’ the wombat lady said, chuckling. The name tags on their uniform said they were Marge and Sally. Marge, the wombat lady, looked to be in her late seventies. She looked drawn, Jess thought suddenly, the professional side of her kicking in. In pain? But all the woman’s attention was on the wombat she was feeding. ‘We smuggle our babies all the time,’ she told Dusty.
‘The skipper knows,’ the lady called Sally retorted. ‘We’re not doing anything illegal. But they do need to be carried under our jackets.’
‘Why?’ Dusty was riveted.
‘Body warmth,’ Marge said. ‘Pop your hand under your T-shirt and tell me that’s not a warm, soft place to keep a baby.’ She cast him a shrewd look. ‘If you like, after he’s fed, I’ll let you wear the pouch until we reach the island. If you promise to be careful.’
‘Oh, yes…’
‘How old is he?’ Jess asked.
‘About two months,’ Marge told her. ‘He was born about the size of a jelly bean. He had no hair, and his skin was thinner than paper. But like all baby wombats, after he was born he’ll have managed to wriggle into his mum’s pouch. Normally he’d stay in his nice, safe pouch for about eight months but this little guy has a horror story. His mum was hit by a car and killed. It was only because a passerby knew to check her pouch that he came to us.’
‘You’re using a special formula?’ Jess was crouched on the deck, watching the tiny creature feed, as riveted as her son.
‘In an emergency we can give normal powdered milk, half-strength,’ Marge said. ‘But now he’s with us, we give him special wombat formula. Sally has a half-grown echidna under her vest. They’re both mammals. They drink milk but they need their own milk. Cow’s milk is for baby cows.’
‘And for us,’ Dusty said.
‘Not when you were tiny,’ Marge retorted. ‘I bet you had your mum’s milk.’
‘Did I?’ Dusty demanded.
‘I… Yes,’ Jess said—and for some dumb reason she blushed. Which was stupid. As natural a thing as breastfeeding. What was there to blush over in that?
But…an Oaklander was listening.
He’d abandoned his reading a
nd strolled along the deck to see.
Ben Oaklander…
‘Every species has its own particular milk,’ he growled, but his voice was softer now, no longer repelling. ‘Designed exactly for that baby.’
‘So my mum’s milk was designed for me?’ Dusty demanded of him, and Jess saw Ben start a little, as if he hadn’t expected to be drawn into a conversation with a child.
She watched him turn professional as a way to deal with it. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to talk but the sight of the little creature had drawn him in. He squatted and touched the tiny wombat, stroking him lightly with one long finger, all his attention on the baby. ‘Yes,’ he said, softly, looking at the little wombat and not at Dusty. ‘When you were born, your mother had immunity from the germs she meets every day. By drinking her milk as a baby, you’ll have been safe from those germs, too.’
‘Are you one of those obstetricians?’ Sally asked him. ‘One that’s coming to the conference?’
‘I am.’ He stood, retreated a little, starting to look as if he was regretting coming over, but the women weren’t letting him off the hook.
‘We might need you,’ Sally said, casting a questioning glance at Marge. ‘We’re so pleased you’re all coming. We were sort of hoping to meet one of you.’
‘I doubt I’m much good at delivering wombats,’ he said, and the thought had him relaxing a little. The sunlight glinted on his dark hair. His eyes were narrowed against the sun, and he looked suddenly at ease.
Why had he been defensive at first? What had he thought, Jessie wondered—that she and Dusty were somehow intending on intruding on his private space? Or… She glanced at Dusty and then at Ben. The similarities were really marked. Maybe he’d seen.
‘We have a dog,’ Marge said, a bit shamefaced. ‘A pug. She’s sort of…pregnant.’
‘She’s very pregnant,’ Sally retorted. Sally was a wiry little woman with a mop of grey curls, considerably younger than her friend. Late sixties? ‘Dogs aren’t allowed on the island, but Pokey is fat and quiet and no threat to anything. She belongs to Marge’s sister, but Hilda had to go into a nursing home last month. Having her put down would have broken her heart. And because we run the shelter…’
Dynamite Doc or Christmas Dad? Page 2