A Miracle for His Secret Son / Proud Rancher, Precious Bundle: A Miracle for His Secret Son / Proud Rancher, Precious Bundle. Barbara Hannay
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her son slid from the arm of the chair and he set his plate and drink down on the coffee table.
‘Thanks,’ he said shakily, not quite meeting anyone’s gaze. ‘That’s great.’ Then he shot a nervous glance to Freya. ‘If it’s OK, I’m going to get changed and take a shower.’
This was so not what she’d expected, so out of character. Nick hardly ever volunteered to have a shower. Freya usually had to shove him into the bathroom. Now, she felt compelled to let him go.
The adults watched in uncomfortable silence as the boy walked from the room, sports shoes squeaking on the polished floors. Neither of them spoke nor moved until they heard Nick’s bedroom door close down the hallway.
Freya let out a soft groan. ‘That went well.’ She felt terrible for Gus. What must he be thinking? Of her? Of their son? ‘I’m sorry, Gus. That wasn’t quite the reception I imagined.’
‘Do you want to go and speak to him?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, feeling dazed. ‘I’m not sure it would help. I…I’ll try.’ Her legs felt as weak as limp rope when she stood. ‘Won’t be a moment.’
She went down the hall and knocked on Nick’s door. ‘Nick?’
‘I’m getting undressed.’
‘Do you want to talk?’
She heard the thump of his shoes hitting the floor. ‘Later.’
‘Don’t be long,’ she called.
When she went back into the living room, Gus gave an easy non-judgemental shrug.
‘The boy’s had a shock.’
‘But you’ve come all this way to meet him.’
To her surprise, Gus didn’t seem angry.
‘All in good time,’ he said smoothly. ‘Nick needs a chance to get his head around everything.’
Gus would know what Nick was going through, of course. He’d had a similar shock less than twenty-four hours ago.
As Freya picked up the coffee pot again, she gave him a grateful smile. ‘So…would you still like a cuppa?’
He was staring at her arm, frowning. ‘You did burn yourself.’
She’d been trying to ignore the stinging, but now she looked down and saw the angry red welt on the pale skin of her inner wrist.
‘You need to get something on that,’ he said. ‘Do you have burn cream?’
‘Oh—I have some of Poppy’s aloe vera growing in a pot. That’ll fix it.’
Frowning, Gus rose and followed her into the kitchen, watching as she snapped off a piece of succulent herb growing on the windowsill.
‘Here, let me,’ he said, taking the aloe vera from her. ‘That will be hard to manage one handed.’
Before Freya could protest, he was holding her arm, gently, ever so kindly. He squeezed the plant to break up the juicy fibres and began very gently to rub it over her reddened skin.
His touch sent an electric shiver trembling through Freya. She was remembering a time when they were young, when she’d had a coral cut on her ankle, and Gus had been so caring—just like this—washing the cut clean and making sure she got antiseptic straight onto it.
OK, so he’s a caring guy. I know that. It’s why he’s here. It’s why he’s been working in Africa for all these years. That’s no excuse for swooning.
‘Thanks,’ she said extra brightly when he was done. ‘That’s feeling better already. Now, about that coffee—’
Gus was still holding her arm. She was still flashing hot and cold. And when she looked into his eyes, she saw a look she remembered from all those years ago.
An ache blossomed inside her, treacherous and sweet, and she almost fell into his arms.
He let her wrist go and said, ‘I’d love a coffee.’
Just like that, the moment was gone and, as Freya crashed back to earth, she wondered if she’d imagined that look.
She went back to the coffee table, filled their mugs and handed one to Gus.
He sat down and took a sip and made an appreciative noise. ‘I remember now. You make very good coffee.’
She smiled faintly and sat very still, holding her coffee mug without tasting it, thinking about Nick, and Gus and…the repercussions of the decision she’d made all those years ago.
From down the hallway came the sound of a shower turning on. Freya and Gus exchanged cautious glances.
‘I’d always planned to warn him, to get him ready before he met you,’ she said defensively. ‘But you insisted on meeting him today.’
Gus sent her a strange look and took another sip of coffee. ‘You said Nick had a bad experience when he met your father.’
‘Yes. I think it’s safe to say he was quite disillusioned.’
‘Do you mind telling me what happened?’
She let out a slow huff. ‘Well…my father turned up here a few weeks before Christmas. He sailed into the Bay in a pretty little yacht called Poppy.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘You can picture it, can’t you? All smart white paint and lovely tanned sails.’
‘Like a romantic fantasy,’ Gus suggested.
‘Exactly.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Sean Hickey.’ Freya drank some of her coffee, then settled back in her chair, as if getting ready to tell a long story. ‘He certainly looked the part, all lean and sunburned, with a weather-beaten sailor’s tan. Quite handsome, actually, in a wicked, boyish way. White curly hair and bright blue eyes—and a charming Irish lilt to his voice.’
‘How did Poppy react to seeing him?’
‘Oh, she welcomed him with open arms, and she seemed to grow ten years younger overnight. Nick adored him, of course. I mean, he had another male in his family for starters.’
As she said this, she felt a stab from her guilty conscience. She’d always felt bad about denying her son a male role model. ‘Nick was seven at the time, and he was over the moon. Sean was the ideal grandfather—lively and friendly and full of fun, and very interested in his grandson.’
Gus regarded her steadily. ‘And you?’
‘Oh, I was beyond excited too. I had a father, at last.’ She avoided Gus’s eyes as she said this and her cheeks grew uncomfortably hot. She stumbled on, hoping to make amends. ‘Admittedly, Sean wasn’t quite the way I’d pictured my father.’
‘I seem to remember,’ said Gus dryly, ‘that you had a list of famous Australians who might have been your father.’
The heat in Freya’s face deepened. Gus hadn’t forgotten. She, however, had conveniently pushed that memory underground, hadn’t let herself think that Nick might feel equally deprived. Or worse.
‘Well, Sean wasn’t a film star,’ she said tightly. ‘He was more like a charming pixie, but he lavished praise on my paintings and I lapped it up. He even told me about an artistic grandmother who still lives in County Cork in Ireland.’
Gus smiled. ‘So that’s where your talent comes from.’
‘I’m not sure any more.’ Freya shrugged. ‘Anyway, he taught Nick how to sail, and he took the three of us out in Poppy, and we sailed to the islands and had lovely picnics. He even painted Poppy’s house for her.’ This was said with an accompanying eye roll. ‘Do you remember how Mum’s cottage used to look?’
‘Of course.