A Bride At Birralee

Bloody hell! He mustn’t lose it and make a complete fool of himself in front of this woman, but the thought of Scott’s seed blossoming inside her made him feel damn emotional.

Scotty Roper was gone for ever, but he’d left behind a part of himself. And, God help him, Callum couldn’t block out the thought of his brother and Stella together—making that little baby—making love.

Whirling around again, he found that she was close behind him, standing with her hands clasped in front of her, as if she’d been thinking about touching him and hadn’t dared, or hadn’t wanted to.

‘Are you quite certain it’s Scott’s baby?’ he asked coldly.

The way she closed her eyes and compressed her lips told him she hated the question and hated him for asking. ‘It’s definitely his,’ she said, matching his cold tone. ‘And if you plan to stand there and make moral judgements about me, I’m going straight out that door and taking off for Cloncurry without even thanking you for your reluctant hospitality.’

‘OK. OK.’ He raised his hands in a halting action, then let out a long breath. Steam was pouring out of the kettle on the stove and he grabbed the opportunity to change the subject. ‘I’ll get you that cup of tea.’

In a weird way Stella felt better now Callum knew about the baby. It felt as if at least some of her burden was lifting from her shoulders.

Sharing the news with someone, even Callum, after keeping it to herself for so long brought instant relief. But she would have to make him promise not to tell the rest of his family—certainly not his father. Not the Senator!

He handed her a bright red mug and she took a seat at the table. Snatching the chair he’d kicked aside, he turned it back to front and straddled it. Stella tried not to notice the very masculine stretch of his jeans over his strong, muscular thighs. He propped his elbows on the top rung of the chair’s ladder back and held his mug in both hands.

She took a sip of tea. It was hot and sweet, just how she needed it. And her stomach seemed to accept it. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘this is my problem, Callum. You don’t have to worry about it.’

He eyed her thoughtfully. ‘Did Scott know about the baby?’

She shook her head.

‘And you came out here to tell him.’

‘Yes.’

His brown-gold eyes continued to study her with the intensity of a hawk. ‘What were you hoping? That he would marry you?’

Stella almost dropped her mug. ‘No. Not marriage.’ Did she imagine that slight relaxation of his shoulders?

‘Do you need help? Money?’

‘No!’ She stared at him, shocked. ‘And I’m not planning to get rid of it. Is that what you thought?’

He shrugged. ‘I’m just trying to understand.’

She wanted to believe him. It was actually a comforting idea—having someone who wanted to understand.

Perhaps he was more sensitive than he appeared on the surface. Perhaps she could trust him. Her chin lifted. ‘I know I’ll be a hopeless mother, but the least I can do is give this little baby life.’

Draining his tea, he rocked the chair slowly forward and set his empty mug on the table. When he straightened once more, his gaze lifted slowly. ‘What makes you think you’d be a hopeless mother?’

She felt her cheeks burn. She couldn’t tell him that. No way! Honesty had its limits. It would mean confessing about Marlene, her own mother, the source of most of her hang ups. It would mean dredging up those sordid stories about the way Marlene had failed over and over in numerous attempts at motherhood.

It had been the ongoing pattern of Stella’s childhood and it left her terrified at the thought of ever attempting to be a mother.

The pattern had always been the same. Marlene would plead with the welfare people that she could take beautiful care of Stella and stay clean and sober. She would promise the earth.

And, because the government policy was to keep mothers and children together wherever possible, they would give in. For a few months, life would be grand. Stella would go home to her mother’s new flat and they would eat meat with three kinds of vegetables and they’d go to the movies. They’d play music and dance in the lounge.

Marlene would wash her long black hair and she’d smell of lemon shampoo and talcum powder, and she would take Stella on her lap and read her stories about heroes. For some reason her mother had fancied tales about brave, fearless men.

At night, Marlene would tuck her into bed and tell her she loved her. And Stella would love her back fiercely, so fiercely she could feel her chest swell with the force of her emotion. Marlene was her mother, the very best mother in the world.

But then there would always be the black day when Stella came home from school and found Marlene incoherent and smelling of alcohol. Each day after that things would get worse…the house would turn into a pigsty…and there’d be a different man…She’d go hungry. Sometimes the man would be violent and she’d have to hide outside the house, crying and hungry, trying to sleep in the garage.

Eventually someone, usually a teacher, would report Stella’s condition to the authorities. They would take her away again and Marlene would be broken-hearted. She would sob that she wanted to be a good mother…

Stella had wanted her to be a good mother, too. Had longed for it. She’d hated Marlene for failing yet again…

It wasn’t the sort of story she could tell, certainly not to this earnest, solemn man, the son of Senator Ian Roper.

‘Are you saying you don’t want to be a mother?’

I’m terrified. I’m scared I don’t know how to be a mother.

‘I—I’ve worked very hard at my career.’

She saw his stony expression and she felt a distinct rush of resentment. It was impossible for anyone else to understand. She cast a frantic glance to the clock on the wall. ‘Don’t you have to go work or something?’

He rose to his feet slowly and she wished he hadn’t. When he looked down at her from his considerable height, she felt smaller than ever.

‘I’m waiting to hear from a ringer in Kajabbi,’ he said. ‘When he’s free, we’ll take the stock from the holding yards through to the road trains on the highway, but that probably won’t happen till tomorrow or the day after.’

He walked to the sink and deposited their mugs into it. ‘How about that dry toast?’ he asked with a glimmer of a smile.

She had almost forgotten about breakfast. ‘Thanks.’

As he dropped two slices of bread into the toaster he turned her way. ‘You shouldn’t leave this morning. You’ve barely had time to recover from the long drive up here. You should at least stay another night.’

He wasn’t being friendly or warm. Just practical. And the long journey had been exhausting. She hated the thought of heading straight back.

‘That would be sensible, I guess. Thanks.’

He brought her dry toast and spread his own with plenty of butter. It melted, warm and golden, into the toasted bread and Stella couldn’t help looking at it rather longingly. Her morning sickness was fading and she was feeling hungry again.

‘Sure you don’t want some mango jam? My sister Ellie makes it.’ He spread the bright-coloured fruit onto his toast and took a bite.

‘It does look rather good,’ she admitted and dipped her knife into the pot.

They munched for some time without talking. Then he said unexpectedly, ‘You’d better tell me about this career and these big plans of yours.’

She sent him a hasty, troubled look, then just as quickly looked at her hands clenched in her lap.

‘You never know,’ he said carefully. ‘I might be able to help.’

‘How could you?’