Everything depended on Scott’s reaction.
And maybe Callum’s.
They reached the kitchen at the back of the house. It was huge and cluttered and Stella fell in love with it at first sight.
The reaction was so unexpected. All her life, she’d been walking into other people’s kitchens. There’d been a bewildering series of them during her childhood—dingy council flats, women’s shelters and foster homes. Until she’d moved into the little flat she shared with Lucy, she’d never lived in one place for very long. Their kitchen was neat and trendy, but she’d never felt an immediate rapport with a room the way she did now.
She loved it. Loved the long wall of deep, timber-framed windows of clear glass with dark green diamond panes in the middle, pushed wide open to catch the breeze. Loved the spellbinding views of the twilight-softened bush as it dipped down to the creek and climbed on the other side to majestic red cliffs in the distance.
She loved the huge scrubbed pine table in the middle of the room, home to a wonderful jumble of odd bits and pieces—a flame-coloured pottery bowl overflowing with dried gum nuts, a pile of Country Life magazines, a horse’s bridle and several bulging packets of photographs.
The collection of unmatched chairs gathered around the table enchanted her. With no effort at all, she could picture these chairs seating a party of happy, chatting friends or family. She could almost hear their bright, laughter-filled voices.
Standing in the kitchen’s corner, was an old timber high chair with scratched red paint. Stella couldn’t help staring at it, wondering…
‘You can park the bird cage on that high chair if you like,’ Callum said. ‘We only use it when my sisters bring their tribes to visit.’
She did as he suggested. ‘There you go, Oscar. You can have a lovely view of the gum trees and talk to all the other birds outside.’
Callum’s mouth twitched. ‘You don’t think he might get ideas about escaping?’
She glanced again at the bush and couldn’t help wondering if Oscar craved for freedom to explore that vast sky and all those trees, but then she shoved that disagreeable thought aside. ‘I look after him too well,’ she assured Callum primly.
He walked to the fridge. ‘Would you like a beer?’
‘No. No, thanks.’
‘Scotch, sherry, wine? I’m afraid I can’t manage any fancy cocktails.’
‘I won’t have any alcohol, thank you.’
He seemed surprised. ‘Cup of tea?’
‘Yes, in a minute. That would be nice, but first, please, you must tell me about Scott. How can I contact him?’
He stiffened and she felt a stab of panic. His face seemed momentarily grey and he turned quickly away from her and snatched a beer out of the fridge.
What’s the matter? What’s wrong? Her heart began to thud.
‘You’d better sit down,’ he said without looking at her. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got bad news about Scott.’
CHAPTER TWO
CALLUM fiddled with his unopened beer. His guts crawled with dread as he imagined Stella’s reaction to his news.
Scott’s dead. The words were so hard to get out.
Telling his parents had been the worst, the very worst moment of his life. Scott had been the baby of the family—everybody’s favourite. To tell his mother and father had meant inflicting unbearable pain.
If Stella was in love with his brother, she was sure to burst into noisy tears. What the hell would he do then?
‘Callum,’ she said, and her voice vibrated with tension, ‘I need to know what’s happened to Scott.’
He realised he was still holding the beer, rolling it back and forth between anxious hands. The last thing he needed on this night was another beer. Hastily, he shoved it back in the fridge and cleared his throat.
‘There was a mustering accident a few weeks back. Scott was flying a helicopter.’
She looked pale. Too pale. And she sat stiffly, without speaking, staring at him. Waiting.
‘I’m afraid Scotty was killed.’ He couldn’t keep the tremor from his voice.
At first he thought she hadn’t heard him. She just sat there, not making a sound, not moving.
After some time, she whispered, ‘No! No! He can’t be dead.’
He braced himself for the tears, eyeing the box of tissues on the bench to his right.
But she didn’t cry. She just kept sitting there looking stunned, while her face turned from pale to greenish.
‘I’m sorry to have to give you such bad news,’ he said, wishing she didn’t look so ill and wishing he didn’t sound so clumsy and obviously uncomfortable. Wishing she would say something. Anything.
Her hand wavered to her mouth and for a moment he thought she was going to be sick.
‘Are you OK?’
‘I—I—’ She tried to stand and swayed groggily before moaning faintly and collapsing back into her chair, her head slumped sideways.
‘Stella.’ Crouching quickly at her side, he touched her shoulder and to his relief she moved slightly. Her dark hair hung in a silky curtain hiding her face and, with two fingers, he lifted it away. Her eyes were shut and her skin was cool and pale.
Hell! She’d cared about Scott this much?
A hard knot of pain dammed his throat as he scooped her in his arms and, edging sideways through the kitchen doorway, carried her back to her room.
‘I’m all right,’ she protested weakly.
He didn’t answer. Her pale fragility alarmed him. In his arms, she felt too light, too slim. Too soft and womanly. He drew in a ragged breath as her satiny, sweet-smelling hair brushed his neck. One shoe fell off as he made his way down the hallway, and he saw again the delicate foot with its pretty blue toenails, the gypsy-like allure of her dainty ankle chain.
His chest tightened with a hundred suppressed emotions as he laid her on the bed and removed the other shoe.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered. Her grey eyes opened and they held his. A trembling, thrilling, silent exchange passed between them. She looked away. ‘I felt a little faint,’ she said and tried to sit up.
It only took the slightest pressure of his fingers on her shoulders to push her back onto the bed. ‘You’ve had a shock. Take it easy there for a minute or two.’
Lifting a crocheted rug from the chair in the corner, he spread it over her.
Outside
