Joan Kilby - The Cattleman's Bride

He reached blindly for a towel and blotted the water from his face and hair. Opening his eyes, he saw her and for an instant froze, towel clutched against his chest. “G’day.”

“Hi.” She folded and refolded her list. “Are you going to get Becka?”

He nodded and reached for his shirt, bunching it in his fist. “Want to come?”

“No. Thanks.” She noted the odd, intense light in his eyes and wondered if it was obvious she found him attractive. “I thought I’d make dinner if you would show me how to work the woodstove.”

“Nothing wrong with the electric stove.”

“Let’s just say the woodstove inspires me. Mind if I raid the pantry?”

One corner of his mouth lifted as he slicked back his damp sun-streaked hair. “Go for your life.”

LUKE PULLED INTO Abby’s driveway and jumped out of the car. Doors were never locked in Murrum and friends and family didn’t wait for a formal invitation, so he knocked once on the front door and went in. “Abby? Becka?”

No answer.

He wandered through the kitchen and looked out the window into the backyard. Becka and Abby were on their knees in the vegetable patch, staking up tomatoes. Stepping out the back door, he called, “G’day.”

Abby glanced up and pushed a strand of gray hair off her forehead. “Hello, Luke. We’re almost done.”

He glanced eagerly at Becka, ashamed at how much he longed for her to run to him the way she used to. Daddy, Daddy, see what I did.

Now she only glanced up without smiling before going back to the tomatoes. Any encouragement at all and he would have given them a hand. But he might as well not have been there for all the notice they took of him.

“Don’t mind me,” he muttered, and retreated into the house.

He helped himself to a glass of water from the tap and sat at the kitchen table. There was the usual clutter: a stack of paid bills, Becka’s hair ribbons, a half-done crossword puzzle. At the end of the table, above the salt and pepper shakers and the tomato sauce bottle, hung one of Caroline’s watercolors of a desert landscape. A mutual love of the desert had brought them together, but it hadn’t been enough to bind them. Nor had his love.

The painting reminded him that this house had been hers before she’d died. Abby had taken it over, as she’d taken Becka over.

Idly, he flipped open the photo album. There were Caroline and her parents, Caroline and Abby…He turned the page to see old photos of Abby as a young woman. She wasn’t unattractive really, although her one brown eye and one blue eye were disconcerting. Too bad she’d never married and had children of her own since she loved them so much. He seemed to recall Caroline’s saying something about her being in love with Len and never getting over it.

He flipped the pages. Caroline painting. Caroline pregnant. They hadn’t planned to have a baby, but when she’d gotten pregnant he’d thought they would be a family. Turned out she’d wanted to travel, not settle down.

Luke flipped another page, to find an unsealed envelope tucked into the crack. He slipped out the photo that was inside—one taken of Caroline in the hospital after she’d had Becka. He frowned. Something was odd about this. He peered closer, hardly believing his eyes.

Caroline’s face had been cut out of the photo and a picture of Abby inserted in its place.

Oh, God. He dropped the photo and jumped to his feet. Though the room was stifling, a chill swept over his body. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath.

Unbelievable. Impossible.

He looked again.

It was true. He thought he was going to be sick right here on Abby’s kitchen floor.

Voices at the door. He crammed the photo back in the envelope and slammed the album shut.

Abby came through, smiling, scraping the red earth from her feet. “All done. Time for a cuppa before you go?”

His mouth was dry. He couldn’t say a word. Abby, humming, ran water into the electric kettle. She was so familiar, yet suddenly a stranger.

Becka. His baby. All blond ponytail and coltish legs under her shorts. What lies had Abby told her?

“Becka, get your things. It’s time to go.”

“Relax, Luke,” Abby said. “You’ve got a couple hours of light left.” She hovered over the girl. “Wash your hands, dear. Use the nailbrush. A little more soap. That’s right.”

“Sarah’s making dinner.” He struggled to keep his voice normal, unaffected by the rage building inside. “Becka—now, please.”

She turned away from the sink, wearing her aggrieved-princess look. “Do I have to?”

“Yes.” He waited for her to dry her hands and leave the room. Gave her another five seconds to get to the far end of the house. “Abby—” he began.

“So Sarah Templestowe is making dinner, is she?” Abby’s voice turned coy, her mismatched eyes watching him. “That sounds cozy.”

Luke refused to be sidetracked by Abby’s sly remarks. She was always digging for information, making something out of nothing, then seeming oddly pleased when there really was nothing. Nothing lasting, at any rate.

“I looked at your photo album.”

She smiled pleasantly and reached into the cupboard for cups. “Did you hear Sandy Ronstad had her baby?”

“Abby.” His hands clenched. “Why did you cut out Caroline’s photo and replace it with your own?”

Her body gave a kind of jolt, but she didn’t answer right away. The cups trembled in their saucers as she set them on the table. “Whatever are you talking about?”

He flipped open the album and waved the envelope at her. “Did you show this to Becka?” If she had, so help him, he’d—

“I’m not surprised Sarah Templestowe would move in fast on a handsome bachelor,” Abby continued, her voice wavering but still sounding determined. “Look at her mother. Taking off with that American after only a few weeks. Poor Len. She broke his heart.”

Luke gripped her shoulders, stopping just short of shaking her. “Did you tell Becka you’re her mother?” he demanded in a fierce whisper.

“Of course not.” Abby pressed her fingers to her temples. “That would be crazy.”

“Then why did you put your photo in Caroline’s place?” Abby covered her ears with her hands. “Answer me,” he ordered harshly.

“She’s all I’ve got, Luke. Don’t make me give her up.”

“It’s time, Abby. We agreed after Caroline died that Becka would come to live with me when she turned nine.”

“Nine was just an arbitrary number. She still needs a mother—” she quailed under his fierce scowl “—figure.”

“She needs her father, too,” Luke said, hardening himself to her beseeching gaze. He couldn’t get the image of the defaced photograph out of his mind.

“Dad!” Becka called from her old room. “I need help.”

Luke glared at Abby and strode down the hall to Becka. She was struggling with her overnight bag and two shopping bags full of clothes.

“What’s all this?” he asked.

“Aunt Abby bought me some dresses and stuff.”

Luke pulled out a handful of slippery blue fabric with spaghetti straps. “Is this a nightgown?”

“It’s a party dress. Isn’t it cool?”

“You’re only nine. You’re not going to parties dressed like this. Leave it.”

“Da-a-a-d.”

Abby appeared in the doorway. “Let her have them, Luke. She should have something fun and pretty in her wardrobe.”

He turned on her. “You shouldn’t have done this, Abby. Not without asking me.”

“Rubbish! Men have no idea how to shop for young girls. Do they, Becka?” She stroked Becka’s hair and the girl smiled up at her.

“Take…them…back. She doesn’t need party clothes out at the station. She needs jeans and T-shirts and boots.” Luke tossed the shopping bags on the bed as though they were contaminated.