Barbara Hannay - The Husband She'd Never Met

She sat very stiffly against the propped pillows as he moved to the small table beside her.

She watched him, studying his face, searching for even the tiniest clue to trigger her memory—the shape of his eyebrows, the remarkable blue of his eyes, the crease lines at their corners. The strong, lightly stubbled angle of his jaw.

Nothing was familiar.

‘Are your belongings in here?’ he asked politely as he lightly touched the door to a cupboard in the bedside table.

Carrie found herself noticing his hands. They were squarish and strong, and slightly scarred and rough, no doubt from working in the outdoors and cracking whips, or branding unfortunate cows, or whatever it was that cattlemen did. She saw that his forearms were strong, too, tanned, and covered in a light scattering of sun-bleached hair.

He was unsettlingly sexy and she scowled at him. ‘You want to search my belongings?’

‘I thought perhaps...if you saw your driver’s licence it might help.’

Carrie had no idea if her driver’s licence was in that cupboard, but even if it was... ‘How will I know the licence hasn’t been faked?’

This time Max’s frown was reproachful. ‘Carrie, give me a break. All I want is to help you.’

Which was dead easy for him to say. So hard for her to accept.

But she supposed there was nothing to be gained by stopping him. ‘Go on, open it,’ she said ungraciously.

Max did this with a light touch of his fingertips.

If he really is my husband, his fingertips—those very fingertips—must have skimmed beneath my clothing and trailed over my skin.

The thought sent a thrilling shiver zinging through her.

There was something rather fascinating about those rough, workmanlike hands, so different from the pale, smooth hands of Dave the accountant...the last guy she could remember dating.

She quickly squashed such thoughts and concentrated on the contents of the cupboard—a small, rather plain brown leather handbag with a plaited leather strap, more conservative than Carrie’s usual style. She certainly didn’t recognise it.

Max, with a polite smile, handed the bag to her, and she caught a sharp flash of emotion in his bright blue eyes. It might have been sadness or hope. For a split second, she felt another zap.

Quickly she dropped her gaze, took a deep breath and slid the bag’s zip open. Inside were sunglasses—neat and tasteful sunglasses, with tortoiseshell frames—again much more conservative than the funky glasses she usually wore. Also a small pack of tissues, an emery board, a couple of raffle tickets and a phone with a neat silver cover. Sunk to the bottom was a bright pink and yellow spotted money purse.

Oh. Carrie stared at the purse. This she definitely remembered. She’d bought it in that little shop around the corner from her flat. She’d been bored on a rainy Saturday morning and had gone window shopping. She’d been attracted by the cheery colours and had bought it on impulse.

But she had no memory of ever buying the plain brown handbag or the neat silver phone. Then again, if the phone really was hers it could be her lifeline. She could ring her mother and find out for sure if this man standing beside her bed in jeans and riding boots truly was her husband.

Or not.

‘I need to ring my mother,’ she said.

‘Sure—by all means.’ Max Kincaid’s big shoulders lifted in a casual shrug. ‘I’ve already rung her to explain about the accident, so she’ll be pleased to hear from you.’

This did not bode well. He sounded far too relaxed and confident.

Carrie’s stomach was tight as she scrolled to her mum’s number and pressed the button. The phone rang, but went straight through to the voicemail message.

At least her mother’s voice sounded just as Carrie remembered.

‘Mum, it’s me,’ she said, trying to keep her own voice calm. ‘Carrie. I’m in hospital. I’m OK, or at least I feel OK, but can you ring me back, please?’

As she left this message Max waited patiently, with his big hands resting lightly on his hips. He nodded when she was finished. ‘I’m sure Sylvia will ring back.’

Sylvia. Max Kincaid knew that her mother’s name was Sylvia.

Feeling more nervous than ever now, Carrie picked up the familiar purse. While she was waiting for her mother’s call she might as well check the driver’s licence.

Please let it say that I’m Carrie Barnes.

The usual spread of cards were slotted into the purse’s plastic sleeves, and right up front was the driver’s licence. Carrie saw immediately that, while the photo was typically unflattering, the picture was definitely of her face. There could be no doubt about that.

And then her gaze flashed to the details...

Name: Carrie Susannah Kincaid.

Sex: Female.

Height: 165 cm.

Date of birth: July 8th 1985.

Address: Riverslea Downs station,

Jilljinda, Queensland.

Her heart took off like a startled bird.

Thud-thud-thud-thud.

Her headache returned. She sank back against the pillows and closed her eyes. This was either a huge hoax or the hospital staff were right. She had amnesia and had forgotten that she was married to Max Kincaid.

‘I don’t understand,’ she said.

‘You’ve had an accident, Carrie.’ He spoke gently. ‘A fall from a horse. A head injury.’

‘But if I can remember my name, and my mother’s name, why can’t I remember anything else... Why can’t I remember you?’

Max Kincaid gave an uncomfortable shrug. ‘The doctor is confident you’ll get your memory back.’

The problem was that right now Carrie wasn’t sure that she wanted her memory to come back. Did she really want to know that it was all true? That she wasn’t a city girl any more? That she lived on a cattle property and was married to this strange man?

It was far too confronting.

She wanted the reassuring comfort of the life she knew and remembered—as a single girl in Sydney, with a reasonably interesting and well-paid job at an advertising agency and a trendy little flat in Surry Hills. Plus her friends. Friday nights at Hillier’s Bar. Saturday afternoons watching football or going to the beach at Bondi or Coogee. Every second Sunday evening at her mother’s.

It was so weird to be able to recall all these details so vividly and yet have no memory of ever meeting Max Kincaid. Even weirder and more daunting was the suggestion that they hadn’t merely met, but were married.

Did she really live with this strange man in the Outback?

Surely that was impossible. She’d never had a hankering for the Outback. She knew how hard that life was, with heat and dust and flies, not to mention drought and famine, or bushfires and floods. She was quite sure she wasn’t tough enough for it.

But perhaps more importantly, if she was married to this man...she must have slept with him. Probably many times.

Involuntarily Carrie flashed her gaze again to his big shoulders and hands. His solid thighs encased in denim. She imagined him touching her intimately. Touching her breasts, her thighs. Heat rushed over her skin, flaring and leaping like a bushfire in a wind gust.

For a second, almost as if he’d guessed her thoughts, his blue eyes blazed. Carrie found herself mesmerised. Max’s eyes were sensational. Movie star sensational. For a giddy moment she thought he was going to try to lean in, to kiss her.

On a knife-edge of expectation, she held her breath.

But Max made no move. Instead, he said, matter-of-factly, ‘I’m told that you can check out of the hospital now. I’m to take you to Townsville. For tests—more X-rays.’

Carrie sighed.

He picked up the holdall he’d brought with him and set it on the chair beside her bed. ‘I brought clean clothes for you.’