Snowy River Man

by Lizzy Chandler

  ‘Where is your mother now?’

  ‘She died five years ago, not long before I first started dreaming about lost boys.’

  Jack dragged back his chair and strode to the kitchen sink. He stared out the window into the darkness, struggling to tally what he was hearing with what he’d always believed had happened.

  A little over six years ago, Katrina’s mother had contacted him with the news that Katrina had given birth to his son. Robyn Delaney was minding the baby boy for her daughter who was in a clinic, she said. He assumed the ‘clinic’ was rehab and Katrina was detoxing, and Robyn had said nothing to alter the impression. According to Robyn, Katrina didn’t want anything to do with him. She wanted him either to take custody of the child, or for the boy to be adopted out to another family. Either way, she wanted a hefty financial settlement. He didn’t need to think for long. He agreed to the terms, even though it meant confessing everything to Ann-Marie.

  Even so, he arranged for a private investigator to track her down, and he flew up to Sydney to confront her. More than anything he wanted to know how she could abandon her own child.

  Visiting her at the private clinic, he’d been shocked by what he saw. She was so doped up that she couldn’t talk, didn’t recognise him. That had convinced him: there was no way she was capable of looking after herself, let alone their son. He met with Robyn Delaney, signed the documents and took the baby home.

  Incredibly, Ann-Marie had welcomed the child. By then, they’d both known she didn’t have long. More than anything, her unselfish acceptance of Nick, her willingness to help care for and love his child, had made him bitterly resent Katrina. Resent her for the hurt he’d caused a dying woman, his childhood friend, the woman he should never have married.

  But if Katrina was telling the truth, if she truly was convinced her baby had died, what did it mean? All this time, he’d believed she gave up her baby in exchange for the generous monthly cheque he continued to pay into a trust fund in her name. The agreement, drawn up by her solicitor, had her signature at the bottom. At least, he had assumed it was her signature. He hadn’t questioned her capacity to make the agreement, either. Not then, and not after.

  When she’d turned up this morning, his first thought was that she had changed her mind. He’d even imagined — hoped — that it had been her who had taken Nick, perhaps to get more money out of him. But if she truly didn’t know Nick was hers…what a monumental stuff-up!

  He had to tell her.

  Yet how could he, when he didn’t know all the facts? Katrina said she’d been hospitalised for sleep deprivation. That sounded dodgy, for a start. Didn’t addicts always try to minimise things? Weren’t they masters of denial? Or maybe it wasn’t addiction. Maybe it wasn’t even postnatal depression. That didn’t mean it wasn’t some other kind of mental illness.

  The medication must have been pretty heavy duty for it to have affected her memory so severely. A psychiatrist wouldn’t prescribe that stuff lightly. If she had been suffering from a mental illness and he told her what really happened, who knew how it would affect her? She was rattled just talking about it. The news might tip her over the edge.

  He couldn’t risk that. She’d been through enough.

  No. First, he needed to find out exactly how in hell her baby could have been taken from her without her knowing, and what consequences there might be for her once she knew the truth.

  In the meantime, he had to buy some time. Which meant he had to get her to stay.

  Chapter 7

  Katrina brushed away her tears, feeling unbearably alone. She supposed she ought to feel grateful that Jack had retreated to stare out the window, his back to her. At least it gave her privacy to cry. Instead, his detachment only added to her pain.

  What hurt most was the fact that news of the death of their child hardly seemed to touch him. He’d known all along about the baby. Had he believed she’d gone through with the adoption? Or hadn’t he given it a second thought? She doubted he could even empathise with her loss now. He had Nick, his legitimate son. The only child that counted.

  She picked up the cane and rose from the chair, her scrapes stinging, her bruises throbbing.

  ‘I’m going back to bed.’

  ‘Katrina, wait.’

  ‘What?’ Leaning on the cane for support, she struggled to hold herself together.

  ‘I can’t pretend to know how hard it’s been for you,’ he said in a low voice. ‘But I’m very sorry you had to go through…all that.’

  She couldn’t answer. Her throat was too constricted.

  ‘Even if your falling pregnant was a mistake —’

  ‘My baby wasn’t a mistake, Jack,’ she said, stiffening. ‘Maybe for you, but not for me. I’d made up my mind to keep him. I’d have managed somehow.’

  A pulse beat in his jaw. ‘Maybe you would have.’

  ‘It’s all academic now,’ she said, failing to mask the bitterness in her voice. She stepped toward the door and winced as pain shot up from her ankle.

  ‘Still giving you trouble?’ he asked, his voice surprisingly gentle, as if he really was the kind of man who might care.

  ‘It’ll be right.’ She turned away. ‘Good night, Jack.’

  * * *

  She had just tossed off her dressing gown and climbed back into bed, when she heard a rap at the door.

  ‘Hold on.’ She pulled on the cotton wrap once more, limped to the door and opened it a crack.

  It was Jack. The lamplight threw his face into relief, revealing its angles and planes. The green of his eyes appeared darker. His burnt skin looked bronzed and glowing.

  ‘Arnica.’ He held up a jar. ‘It’ll help reduce the swelling.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, appreciating his thoughtfulness. She opened the door and reached for the jar. As she did so, her robe gaped slightly.

  His gaze travelled downwards, his expression taking on an intense, rapt quality. Reflexively, she clutched the lapels across her chest. She had seen that look before. Then, the look had transfixed her. Now, it terrified her.

  ‘Goodnight, Jack.’ She tried to close the door.

  He put his hand up to stop her. ‘Katrina, I just wanted to say, what happened that weekend —’

  ‘Forget it,’ she said, gripping the door. ‘It was a long time ago.’

  ‘When I found you gone from the hotel room that morning and saw the newspaper, I realised what must’ve happened.’

  She lifted her chin. Hadn’t it been obvious?

  ‘You didn’t wait around long enough for me to explain.’

  ‘What was there to explain? You were engaged!’

  He grimaced. ‘I tried to contact you. You didn’t return my calls.’

  ‘The damage was already done. Besides, you could’ve found me, if you’d really wanted to. I wasn’t that hard to find.’

  His expression darkened, but he didn’t deny the truth of what she was saying. She was right, and she knew it. He hadn’t cancelled his engagement because of her, either.

  He opened his mouth, as if to say something, then closed it again. ‘Maybe we can talk about this another time?’

  ‘Maybe.’ She glared at him until he withdrew his hand and she could finally close the door.

  Her heart in her mouth, she leaned against the oak panels, listening for his footsteps retreating down the corridor. But she heard nothing. Was he standing there on the other side in the dark corridor?

  Pushing away, she stepped across the carpet, ignoring the ache in her ankle. A wild, reckless energy flooded through her. She didn’t understand him. When she first arrived, he’d barely been civil. Tonight he was conciliatory, almost gentle. What was she meant to think?

  For a moment she was tempted to throw the glass jar at the wall. Instead, she sat on the side of the bed, opened the jar and began smoothing the herbal balm over her hot flesh. The coolness of the cream soothed her. She imagined Jack’s hands caressing her, gliding over her foot and up her calf with long provocative strokes.
She fell back against the pillows, her breathing shallow, as his invisible touch caressed over her.

  No! She groaned aloud.

  Switching off the light, she slipped in between the cool sheets and willed herself to sleep.

  But it was as if she’d taken the genie out of the bottle. She lay in the darkness, feeling hot, restless. Unbidden, the memory of Jack and their lovemaking flooded through her. His gentle kisses and caresses, her first real taste of womanhood. Not that she’d been a virgin. She’d had her first experiences at seventeen with the older brother of a school friend. But those had been clumsy attempts compared to the long, sensual night of lovemaking with Jack.

  A swirling heat began in her midriff and spiralled out, sending awareness through her body. Her nipples hardened, her breasts swelled. She could almost feel his rough fingers on her naked skin.

  With an effort, she rolled onto her side, tucked her hands beneath her pillow, and ordered herself to stop. It took a while for her ragged breathing to subside, her heart rate to slow to normal.

  At least he’d apologised. Even if it had taken seven years. But what had he wanted to talk to her about? She would never know now. There wouldn’t be time for more talk. Tomorrow, she would get up early before anyone else, drive away from Yarrangobilla and be gone from Jack Fairley’s life forever.

  * * *

  That night, Katrina slept more soundly than she had in a long time. But still she dreamed.

  She dreamed that she was out in a dinghy on the lake. The sun was shining, the sky gleamed bright blue and the water looked glassy. Jack and Nick were in the boat, too, laughing and having fun.

  Out of nowhere, storm clouds gathered. Huge white-capped waves rose up and rocked the boat. Before Jack could grab the oars and row back to shore, the dinghy capsized, tipping Katrina into the icy water. Beneath her she saw Nick sinking. She reached out to him, tried to pull him back, but he sank down and down, beyond her grasp. Holding her breath, she swam after him, almost choking before she realised she could breathe.

  She could breathe underwater!

  At the bottom of the lake she discovered another world, far more magical than the one above. There a market was being held. On trestles fruits and vegetables from both spring and autumn tumbled in abundance.

  She pushed through the crowds and found Nick and Jack sitting at a long table among friends. When she joined them, everyone cheered and pointed to the sky. She glanced up and saw to her amazement that the sky had split into two. On one side was blue sky and sunshine; on the other, stars gleamed in the inky night. A voice chimed inside her head. Miracle.

  The dream faded.

  She woke up to sunshine streaming through the windows, feeling more rested than she had in a long time. She rolled over, luxuriating in the soft pillows, the fresh cotton sheets. An intense feeling of well-being welled up inside her, a tiny fountain of hope bubbling in her heart. She’d slept the entire night through! No visions. No nightmares.

  Swinging out of bed, she tested her foot. The swelling had gone down; Jack’s arnica cream had obviously worked. Her ankle was still tender, but she could put more weight on it now.

  Then she remembered what lay ahead of her that morning and her optimism ebbed. Her job was done. Jack’s son was safe. There was no reason for her to stay there now.

  * * *

  Despite getting to bed in the small hours, Jack was up at first light. After checking on Nick and finding his son sound asleep, he withdrew to the office to compose an email to his solicitor, Stefan Eriksson, in Sydney.

  He’d been too tired to make sense of everything last night; his thinking had gone around in circles. This morning, he had a better idea of how to go about things.

  The original agreement with Katrina had been handled by Eriksson’s office. Over the years since, they’d dealt with all correspondence and arranged for the payments to be made straight into the trust account established in her name. If anyone could tell him what had been going on, Eriksson could.

  Jack requested a copy of Katrina’s signature to be sent to him, as well as details regarding who had access to her bank account. He also asked the solicitor to contact Cammeray Private, to see whether he could find out when she’d been admitted and what for. It was the only way to judge whether she was telling the truth.

  Somehow, in spite of all logic, he had a sense she believed what she’d told him.

  He marked the email ‘Urgent’ and pressed ‘send’. The information would take time to gather. In the meantime, he’d have to be patient.

  Next he turned his attention to the tender for a local tourist development that he’d been preparing before the rodeo. It was due in at council by end of business the following day. There was still time to finish it, if he could concentrate. He went over the document, making changes, but soon his eyes glazed over. His mind kept drifting to other worries. Nick. Katrina. Somehow he had to persuade her to stay there long enough for him to discover the truth.

  Putting the document aside, he got up from his desk, stretched, walked to the bay window and latched back the glass. He breathed in the air, with its hint of eucalypt and pine. Outside, the grass looked brown from lack of rain. The only green patch was further down the hill, down near the family cemetery with its stand of tall pines. He’d often wondered whether it was fed by an underground stream running through the property down to the river.

  In the distance he heard a tractor’s dull rumble. Someone had survived the night without a hangover. Quite a few volunteers had dossed their swags outside the woolshed, but most were probably still crashed out. A voice coming across the courtyard from the kitchen reminded him that the rescue teams weren’t the only visitors who’d stayed the night at Yarrangobilla.

  Katrina was up already, too.

  * * *

  Dressed in a thin-strapped apricot top and tiered skirt, Katrina left her bedroom, feeling self-conscious as she walked through the grand old house. The portraits on the corridor walls seemed to look down at her as if she had no right to be there.

  If things had gone to plan she would have gotten away well before now, but her appetite had other ideas. Having skipped meals the day before, she couldn’t resist the tantalising smell of bacon, toast and coffee. She followed the scent to the kitchen where she discovered a short, stocky man with a crew cut, a huge apron covering his chest, his biceps bulging with colourful tattoos. He was flipping pancakes in front of the huge stove.

  He turned at the sound of her footsteps.

  ‘G’day,’ he said, giving her a gap-toothed grin. ‘You must be Katrina.’

  ‘And you must be Mike.’ She smiled.

  ‘I hope you’re hungry.’

  ‘I’m starving,’ she admitted, settling into a chair and looking at the feast he’d been preparing. Pancakes, toast, bacon, stewed apricots, coffee, fresh cream. Her mouth watered.

  ‘It’s the mountain air. I settled down here when I first got out of the navy. Couldn’t believe my appetite.’ He patted his generous stomach. ‘Never ate so much in my life. Dig in while it’s hot.’

  Katrina reached for a plate. It was warm, just out of the oven.

  Mike looked up, over her shoulder. ‘G’day, boss.’

  She froze as Jack strode through the doorway, his blonde hair swept back, his eyes like the cool green river flowing down below. With his jeans and white t-shirt, he looked ready for a day’s ride, but there were lines of tiredness around his eyes. She sucked in a breath, suddenly self-conscious about her frizzed-up hair and lack of make-up. Her outfit seemed all wrong, too. Her top outlined her shape too well, didn’t offer enough protection.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said.

  ‘Good morning.’ She nodded, looking down at her plate.

  ‘You want me to take a tray up to Nick, boss?’ Mike asked, sliding yet another pancake onto an already generous pile.

  ‘Give it a while,’ Jack told him. ‘It’s better if he sleeps in.’

  He pulled up a chair directly across from Katrina’
s. Which meant she virtually had nowhere else to look but straight at him. Her stomach muscles tensed. She should’ve got up and away earlier. Then she wouldn’t have had to share breakfast with him. But the temptation to roll over and sleep in a little had been too great. And she had to eat.

  She reached for a piece of toast at the same time as Jack. Their fingers brushed and an electric shock charged up her arm. He pulled back, nodding for her to take the first slice, his expression giving no sign that anything untoward had happened.

  She ground her teeth. Why was she so powerfully aware of him, while he could remain so cool?

  ‘How’s your ankle?’ he asked, taking a slice of toast.

  ‘Fine, thanks,’ she said.

  ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Very well. And you?’

  He paused, midway through buttering, the knife suspended in air. Suddenly, she realised how ridiculously formal they sounded. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, as if he was thinking the same thing.

  ‘Hey! What’s with the empty plate?’ Mike protested, stepping up beside her. She glanced up at him with a guilty expression. Somehow, even the tattooed ex-sailor seemed less threatening than Jack Fairley.

  ‘Come on, dig in,’ the cook prompted. ‘You said you were starving.’ He slid a pancake onto her plate, topping it with bacon and maple syrup. ‘That should fix you.’

  Katrina needed no more prompting, ploughing into the delicious meal. She really was famished.

  ‘Coffee?’ Jack asked, pouring a mug from the pot.

  ‘Thanks.’

  She watched him add milk and one sugar, exactly how she liked it. The certainty of his action gave her heart a jolt. Her gaze shot up to meet his.

  ‘You remember!’

  * * *

  Jack looked down at the coffee mug and realised what he had done. He did remember. He remembered everything about that morning, seven years ago. How they’d breakfasted out on the hotel terrace, with the moon setting on one side of the sky, the sun rising on the other. And earlier, when he’d woken in her arms, knowing he never wanted to leave.

  He remembered far more intimate things than simply how she took her coffee. He hadn’t forgotten the feel of her in his arms, or the taste of her lips. He looked up and saw surprise in Katrina’s eyes, and a sense of recognition. As if she knew what he was remembering, as if he had given himself away.