reached up a hand to finger it. ‘Do you know they make nappies in the most amazing range of colours now? I like them loads more than the plain old white ones, don’t you?’
He didn’t know what to say. A nappy was a nappy, as far as he was concerned. ‘You need to change him?’
She shook her head. ‘This—’ she pulled the nappy from her shoulder and glanced around the room at its vast array of sofas and armchairs ‘—is to save your furniture.’
‘It’s survived generations of children. No doubt it’ll survive generations more.’
‘Yeah, but only through the hard work of women like Beattie. If I can save her any work, then I will.’
For some reason that made him want to smile. ‘She’d think it a small price to pay for having a child in the house again, believe me.’ He glanced at Harry, and any desire he had to smile fled. He didn’t need a child at Newarra either. ‘You didn’t want to put him down for a nap?’
Her gaze darted away. ‘He’s unsettled. I wanted to keep an eye on him.’
He took a step towards her, noted the dark circles under her eyes and remembered how she’d said she hadn’t slept in two days. Suddenly he wished she could have all the sleep she needed. He could go and work on that new brumby for a couple of hours, as he’d planned before she’d turned up on his doorstep…or rather airstrip. They could talk once she was rested.
He opened his mouth, but she got in first. ‘May I take a seat?’
He deliberately hardened his heart, warned himself against going soft…especially where a woman was concerned. He and Sapphie Thomas had too much to sort out. He had too much to find out.
‘Of course…please.’ He motioned her further into the room and pointed to a sofa. ‘That one is particularly comfortable.’ And, from his armchair, it would afford him a good view of her face.
He watched her settle Harry back against the cushions, the orange nappy arranged around him. Liam kept his eyes on Sapphie’s face. It was easier than looking at Harry. His jaw tightened. The furniture at the Newarra homestead might survive several more generations of children, but none of those children would be his.
Some of the tension seeped out of him, though, as he continued to watch Sapphie. She was easy on the eye. She might not be conventionally beautiful—her mouth was too wide and her jaw too square—but her features were mobile and constantly changing, a play of light and shadow. Though perhaps there was more shadow than light at the moment. He frowned.
If she was aware of his scrutiny she gave no sign of it. Oversized sweater, buttons fastened again. She was telling him in no uncertain terms—hands off.
His lips tightened. That suited him fine. She didn’t need to tell him twice.
She showed Harry his bottle…smiled and talked nonsense…sighed when he didn’t respond. Harry took his bottle, though, rolling onto his side and suckling eagerly. Which reminded Liam…
‘Beattie made us a pot of tea and some Vegemite sandwiches.’ He lifted the plate of sandwiches towards her.
‘Ooh, yum!’ She seized one and bit into it. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, because I mean to eat this with more gusto than grace,’ she said, mouth half full.
He’d have smiled, but as he watched her devour half a sandwich and then reach for another his heart started to burn. ‘When did you last eat?’
‘Last night.’
He leapt up. ‘That’s not—’
He broke off when she put a finger to her lips and gestured to Harry. The child’s eyes were closed. In repose, Harry’s face lost its wariness. Liam’s heart burned harder. Part of him wanted to reach out and touch the child—make sure he was real. The greater part of him shied away.
Sapphie’s voice hauled him back. ‘When I found out the mail plane was doing its run today I didn’t have time for breakfast. And, while I grabbed plenty of supplies for the trip, both Harry and I felt a bit queasy on the plane.’
Liam opened his mouth, but she’d pre-empted his next question. ‘And, yes, we both drank plenty of water. Neither one of us is dehydrated.’
He sank back into his chair. Then slid forward to pour the tea. If she hadn’t eaten since last night…‘How do you take your tea?’
‘White and two, thanks.’
He handed her a cup, and then watched in fascination as she swallowed it down in three swigs. Beattie had used the good china—the cups were tiny. He poured her a second cup as she finished the rest of her sandwich. He held out the plate towards her again.
She took the cup with a murmured, ‘Thank you,’ but declined another sandwich. He set the plate back to the coffee table, aware of a vague sense of disappointment—it had given him a certain satisfaction to feed her.
She took a measured sip of her tea, eyeing him over its rim, and then straightened as if refusing to surrender to the sofa’s beckoning softness. She set the cup on the coffee table. ‘Liam, who do you think is Harry’s father?’
She didn’t want to make small talk, and he didn’t blame her. They didn’t have anything small to talk about. Harry might be small in stature, but not in any other sense of the word. She wanted answers.
Who did he suspect was Harry’s father? He dragged a hand down his face. Lucas, that was who. He bit back an oath. What a mess!
He stared back at her, tried to keep his voice measured, his breathing even. ‘I suspect that the child there is my nephew.’
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