A figure walked down the stairs beside her.
‘Jack? You okay, mate?’
He blinked. Wayne came into focus, hobbling onto the gravel. He nodded tiredly. It had been a long day.
‘Yeah, I’m okay.’
‘All the motels are booked out,’ his cousin told him. ‘Katrina needs a bed for the night. I’ve offered to put her up over the valley, but for some crazy reason she’d prefer to stay here.’
‘I didn’t say that, Wayne,’ Katrina put in quickly. ‘I thought I’d —’
‘Of course you can stay,’ Jack cut in. It couldn’t do any harm. He wouldn’t have to have any contact with her. ‘I promised Nick I’d find you somewhere.’
She tilted her head, her dark curls swinging. It was a mannerism of hers, he remembered. He remembered, too, the feel of her in his arms, soft and vulnerable. He could almost sense the imprint of her softness on his body, as if she had left part of herself behind. He tightened his jaw, surprised at the strength of his imagination. He was so tired, he was hallucinating.
‘Well, then,’ Wayne said. ‘I’d better get Auntie Gwen back home. Then it’s off to the woolshed.’
Katrina turned to him, her voice rising in alarm. ‘I thought Mrs Harrington lived here?’
‘She used to,’ he said. ‘Now she’s living in the new place across the valley with me. We call it the servants’ quarters.’
‘It’s hardly that,’ Jack murmured. ‘And technically you’re living with her.’
He’d built the new house specially for Ann-Marie’s mother after he and Ann-Marie got married. Although Ted Harrington, Gwen’s husband, had left her stony broke, Jack had made sure she was comfortable. Wayne was lucky his aunt gave him the run of the place.
‘Yeah, well, see you guys in the morning, eh?’ Wayne waved.
‘Those cows down in the creek paddock won’t shift themselves,’ Jack said.
‘I’ll drop by here on my way down,’ he said, giving Katrina a wink. ‘Can’t let you leave without saying goodbye, can I?’
Once Wayne was gone, Jack turned to Katrina. ‘Is your car unlocked? I’ll fetch your things.’
* * *
Katrina stood in the turning circle, her mind spinning. What was she doing? Staying the night under the same roof as Jack Fairley. She should have booked her accommodation in advance.
When he opened the trunk and hauled out her travel suitcase, he glanced at her. Was he surprised at its size? She hadn’t known whether to pack for cool weather or hot. In the end, she’d piled in clothes for all weathers, and chucked in her laptop as well. Now it looked as if she’d been preparing to stay for a week.
‘I’ll show you to the guest room.’ He walked up the stairs, put the suitcase on its runners and led her along the corridor to the southern gable of the house. Opening a dark panelled door, he turned on a light. ‘This is it.’
The room was huge.
A four-poster mahogany bed stood in the centre between two bay windows. A bevelled mirror hung above an oak vanity to one side. Beyond that was a walnut wardrobe, a stool with a pretty tapestried cover, and an old armchair with a lace antimacassar draped over it. The wide floorboards gleamed with polish. The bed cover and pillows were a delicate white-on-white rose pattern. An en-suite led off to one side.
It was a beautiful, classically old-fashioned room.
He left the suitcase beside the bed, crossed to the windows and unhooked the curtain ribbons. The pink silk drapes fell, hiding the darkness outside.
‘This used to be my wife’s,’ he said, turning to face her.
She shot him a glance. His wife’s? Hadn’t they slept together?
‘She grew up in this house.’
‘Oh!’ Heat rushed to her face at her mistake. Of course. This must have been her room as a child, and it had been redecorated since. As if Jack’s sleeping arrangements with his dead wife were any concern of hers!
‘Wayne’s right,’ he said without emotion. ‘You do look a lot like her.’
‘So I gather.’
He stared at her hard, as if trying to imprint his wife’s image over her, looking for the differences.
Was that why you made love to me that night, Jack? She wanted to blurt out. Because I looked like your fiancée? She stopped herself. The past was past. There was no point dragging it up now.
He withdrew to the door.
‘You’re welcome to come across to the woolshed, if you’re up to it. I’m sure there are people there who’d like to thank you.’
‘Thanks, but with this ankle, I’d rather rest.’
‘I’ll get the cook to bring you something. You must be starving.’
‘Actually I’m not all that hungry,’ she said. Too wound up. She’d barely eaten a thing all day, but her stomach was knotted tight. She wouldn’t be able to swallow a thing if she tried.
‘Well, if you change your mind…’
‘I think I’ll just get straight to bed.’
A light flared in his eyes and his gaze grew speculative. He didn’t glance at the queen-sized bed, but she had no doubt that where his mind was instantly focused.
And so was hers.
She pictured him stepping up close, his body firm against hers, imagined him reaching behind her neck and slowly unzipping her shift, starting at the neck and trailing down to her waist, his fingers tingling on her back. She imagined him pushing the shift from her shoulders and letting it fall to her ankles, unclasping her bra and lowering his face, taking her breast in his mouth. Her lips parted, her entire body melting as he sucked her nipple.
‘If you do feel like something later,’ his voice startled her, ‘the cook’s quarters are off the kitchen. There’s a buzzer by his door. His name’s Mike.’
She blinked and the world came back into focus. Jack was still standing at the door. He hadn’t moved.
Clutching her arms across her chest, she turned away, stunned by the vividness of the fantasy. Alarm shot through her. She was tired, sure, but not that tired! Not tired enough to start hallucinating.
‘I could bring you a hot drink,’ he offered. ‘Might help you sleep?’
‘No!’ she said quickly. ‘Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll have any trouble dropping off.’
‘Sure. Sleep well, Katrina,’ he said, turning away.
* * *
But she was wrong. Although she was dead tired, she found it impossible to sleep.
After tossing and turning for over an hour, she climbed out of bed and limped to the window, opening it to the cool night air. Music and laughter drifted across from the woolshed.
Maybe a hot drink would help?
She pulled on a cotton dressing gown, collected the cane and made her way to the kitchen. To her surprise, the copper-hooded lamp over the long table was already switched on and Jack was standing by the sink, pouring hot milk into a mug.
He turned, registering her presence. ‘Can’t sleep?’
She shook her head.
‘Want some cocoa?’
‘Do you have herbal tea?’ she asked.
‘There’s chamomile.’
‘That’d be perfect.’
She watched as he took another mug from a hook beneath the cupboard, twisted the lid off a glass jar and extracted a teabag before pouring in hot water. He put the mug on the table.
‘Thanks, Jack.’ She picked it up and turned towards the door.
‘Katrina?’
She stopped in her tracks, closing her eyes. What was it about this man that had such power over her? She shouldn’t be staying the night there. Since she was staying, she ought to be having as little to do with him as possible, especially given her X-rated imagination. But she couldn’t help herself.
‘Yes?’ she said, turning to face him.
He leaned back against the sink, his hands resting at his sides on the shiny stainless steel. His green eyes gleamed; his blonde hair glinted in the coppery light. He looked gorgeous, sexy, and totally out of place in the tidy kitchen, as if he’d
just jumped out of the saddle and was looking for a place to toss down his swag.
‘Why don’t you take a load off?’ he asked, nodding to a chair. ‘I’d like to talk.’
She hesitated. She didn’t want to talk to him. She didn’t want to sit within ten metres of him. But she couldn’t very well refuse the peace offering. He’d been through a lot in the last two days. He’d lived on the edge, come close to losing his son. Even if he was Jack Fairley, he was still a human being. Perhaps he needed someone to talk to? To debrief with after his ordeal? She couldn’t deny him that.
She sat at the head of the table, several places away from where he took a chair. Far enough to feel marginally safe. An old kitchen clock on the wall spaced the silence with a loud ‘tick-tick’. Through the windows, from beyond the veranda, seeped the eerie blackness of the rural night.
He twisted his mug in his hands, staring down at it, as if it had the script for what he wanted to say.
‘Wayne said you’ve helped the police find lost children before,’ he said at last. ‘Is that right?’
Her shoulders sagged as she expelled a breath. Of course. That’s what had brought her there. That’s what he was interested in. Nothing more profound than that.
‘A few times. But not for a while now.’
‘There must be dozens of lost children each year, Katrina,’ he said. ‘Why those kids in particular?’
She hesitated, her heart squeezing tight. They had all been boys, the same age as her own son would have been. But she wasn’t going to tell Jack that.
‘They were the ones I dreamed about,’ she said.
‘You dreamed about all of them?’ The sudden alertness of his manner struck her. His interest wasn’t simply idle curiosity, she sensed. He had an agenda in asking. But what?
‘Mostly. Sometimes I just felt things.’
She didn’t feel comfortable talking about her psychic experiences to anyone, let alone Jack Fairley. People who showed an interest often saw her as a curiosity. Others tried to make her feel like a fraud. The ones who really understood were those who’d gone through something similar. They understood how unnerving it could be.
‘Will you tell me about it?’ he asked.
She bit her lip. How could she explain to a sceptic? What would be the point?
‘Katrina?’
‘Sometimes I have a dream. Other times I’ll see an item about a missing child in a newspaper or on TV, or hear a news bulletin on the radio, and I’ll get a feeling, a sense about where a child might be. Often it’s like a picture in my mind, like with the mineshaft. I have been wrong, but most times I’ve been able to give the police some idea where the child might be. Mostly they’ve been in and around Sydney.’
‘So why do you think you dreamed about Nick?’
Why? The question stabbed her chest, an invisible blade twisting. Why, other than the fact that she’d spent seven years trying to put his father out of her mind?
‘I have no idea.’
His eyes narrowed, as if he sensed the lie. But what good would it do to tell him what had happened all those years ago, the consequence of their recklessness? Especially when the baby had died.
‘Can you tell me what I’m thinking?’
‘I’m not a mind reader, Jack. I have a gift, that’s all. A very modest gift.’
‘When did you first notice you had it?’
She shifted in her seat, feeling more and more uncomfortable.
‘As an adult, I’d have to say seven years ago,’ she admitted. ‘That was when I first started having…visions.’
‘Visions?’
‘For want of a better word.’
She didn’t have to go into all that now. Especially with Jack. She didn’t want him to think she was crazy.
‘Seven years ago?’ he repeated.
She tensed. What did he want her to say? That making love with him was enough to blow her mind? Literally?
‘Was it?’ he asked. Katrina rocked back, stunned by the question. She hadn’t realised she’d spoken her thought aloud. She was more exhausted than she realised. Swallowing, she rose unsteadily to her feet. She had to get out of there.
‘Jack, I really must —’
‘Sit back down, Katrina. It’s important.’
Mutinously, her legs buckled beneath her and she collapsed back onto the chair. A silent order issued from deep within her heart. Go! Get out of there! Quick! But she couldn’t move.
‘That morning after the night we spent together,’ he said. ‘What happened exactly? Tell me everything.’
‘You know what happened.’ Her voice sounded hoarse.
‘Remind me.’
Memories flooded back. Her waking in his arms, stupidly contemplating a future together. They had breakfasted out on the hotel terrace, overlooking the harbour. The water had never looked so blue. The sunshine glinted off the white sails of the yachts cruising the bay. When Jack went in to have a shower, she picked up the morning paper and flicked through the society pages.
Why had she done that?
She had never bothered before. Unlike many of the girls she had gone to school with, she’d never been overly interested in fashion or society. But that day, she’d turned to the society pages and her life had fallen apart. Alongside several photos from the Bachelor and Spinster’s Ball had been an announcement: Mrs Gwen Harrington of Yarrangobilla Station is happy to announce the engagement of her only daughter, Ann-Marie, to local grazier and long-time family friend, Jack Michael Fairley.
And a photo of Jack and his bride-to-be.
Remembering that moment now, she imagined she could still hear the shower beating down, the cry of seagulls, the smell of the frangipani in the hotel-room vase. Her own pulse thundering in her ears. The shock and humiliation of the discovery.
Without waiting for Jack to come out of the shower, she’d got dressed and stumbled down to the lobby to catch a taxi home. Only later did her sense of outrage and hurt explode. How dare he? By then it was too late to confront him, to tell him what she thought of him. That was the last time she had seen Jack. Until today.
‘We had a brief affair, Jack,’ she said, swallowing the pain. ‘A one-night-stand. End of story.’
‘There was more to it than that, Katrina.’
She gripped the table edge with both hands. Why did he want to go over all this? To relive her humiliation? Or did he suspect something? Could he have found out about the baby?
‘What about the rest of it?’ He leaned forward in his chair.
She tensed, her throat constricting. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Cammeray Private.’
Her heart banged against her ribcage. Cammeray Private was where her mother had taken her a few weeks before she was due to give birth, and where she had convalesced for weeks afterwards. The name conjured up all the trauma and anguish of that time. They had been the worst months of her life.
‘How do you know about that?’ she asked, her throat dry.
‘I visited you.’
‘No!’ She shook her head, dread funnelling through her. The idea that he had seen her, that he was aware of what she had been through. It wasn’t possible. ‘How did you even know I was there?’
‘I did some detective work after your mother contacted me.’
‘My mother?’
‘She said you didn’t want to have anything to do with me, but I couldn’t let it go at that. Then, when I saw you…you were so out of it. I asked the nurses what was wrong and one told me you were coming off some pretty heavy-duty drugs. I didn’t even realise till then that you were an addict.’
‘I wasn’t! That was prescription medication. It didn’t agree with me.’
Scepticism flickered across his face. ‘What was it for, Katrina? Postnatal depression?’
Postnatal? Horror crushed the breath from her lungs as what he said sank in. All this time, Jack had known she’d given birth to their child. Yet he’d said nothing, made no effort to share her pain. Even when she�
�d turned up her to help find his son.
‘You knew about the baby?’
‘You really don’t remember seeing me?’
‘The medication…it affected my memory. But I wasn’t depressed, Jack. Those visions I mentioned. They mostly happened in dreams. Through my pregnancy it was almost nightly. I got to be so sleep-deprived, I was terrified it would harm the baby. Mum was afraid I wouldn’t cope with a newborn and wanted me to consider adoption, but I wouldn’t do that. Being hospitalised and going on medication seemed like a better option. I was prepared to do anything to keep my baby.’
‘So why didn’t you?’
‘It didn’t come to that.’ She broke off, the old grief choking her. She turned away, not wanting him to see her pain. ‘Our baby died, Jack. I…I lost our little boy.’
* * *
‘Died?’ Jack sat back, stunned, and stared as tears brimmed over and fell down her cheeks. Her face was pale, her whole body trembling.
‘He was stillborn. Our beautiful baby boy.’
‘You saw him?’
‘Of course. That is, I…I’m sure they showed him to me.’
‘What do you mean, Katrina? Either you saw him or you didn’t. It’s a pretty basic question.’
She looked up at him, obviously surprised by the frustration in his voice.
‘I’m sorry.’ He backtracked. ‘I’m trying to understand.’ He wasn’t angry at her. He was angry at the whole situation. How could she not know what had happened to her own child?
‘The medication they put me on affected my memory. There are huge gaps from that time.’
‘What do you remember?’
‘I remember when it first hit me. That my baby wasn’t with me. That he’d died.’ She blinked back tears.
‘When was that?’
‘It didn’t really sink in until I left the hospital and went back to the clinic. They started weaning me off the meds. Up till then, it’s all a blur. I knew, of course. My mother had told me. But I didn’t want to believe it. After the clinic, I went to live with my mum for a few months. Until I felt well enough to go back to work and move into my own place.’
Snowy River Man Page 6