Christmas at Waratah Bay (10 page)

And now . . .

He’d hurt her. She’d sounded defiant, but he knew he’d hurt her.

He didn’t do relationships. Had he learned nothing?

A couple of days, he told himself. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve. Harold would come home, they’d have Christmas and then everyone would leave.

Life would settle.

Harold’s dogs were lying on the veranda behind him. Now, as if they sensed that he needed . . . something . . . they edged forward.

Katie’s dogs had been in the shadows as well and as if signaled, they headed for him as well.

Four dogs. Two more in the house and how many people?

He scratched ears—eight ears because a man had to be fair. He sat on and waited for the night to settle. The dogs settled around him.

He’d only ever wanted one dog. A man had to have limits.

After Christmas, he told himself, starting the eight ear scratch again. After Christmas he’d get those barricades up again, but with Sarah . . . With Sarah, those barricades had to go up now.

‡

C
hristmas Eve.

Even though he’d gone to bed late—really late—Max was up early, taking feed supplements to the cattle, clearing his head. When he got back, the house was stirring. Doug had the kids out on the veranda. They were sharing toast with the dogs.

The kids informed him Sarah was the toast maker so he went to find out.

She was wearing jeans and an oversized shirt. She had two tea towels knotted together and tied round her waist. She’d tied her hair up in some sort of bun, not very successfully. Wisps were wafting everywhere.

Gerome and Bing were sitting by the firestove in Bing’s basket, watching her every move. She had a pile of toast sitting in the oven and was making more.

She looked . . . happy.

She looked beautiful.

She looked up from the stove as he entered and she beamed. All the tensions of the night before had clearly been put aside.

“I got the fire lit. So cool—you have a stove with knobs on for recipes and the firestove for toast. I hope you didn’t mind me lighting it. Toast made this way tastes better than anything.”

He did. He remembered the first time he’d seen this farm. He’d arrived early-ish and Harold had invited him in for tea and toast. Max had seen the beach, seen the land, seen the cattle soaking up the sun on the undulating paddocks and by the time Harold had made toast, using the toasting fork before the open door of the firestove, Harold could have named his asking price.

And now . . . Sarah was sitting before the fire, toasting her toast, and he thought yep, she could name her price, he was buying.

Except he was sensible, and he’d made life decisions and . . . and . . .

And Sarah was pushing her chair sideways and tugging another up to join hers and a man was only human . . .

“Isn’t that a pile already made?” he demanded, looking at the open oven door where a plate was laden.

“Yeah, I can’t resist cooking. There’s heaps of bread, and I’ll buy more in town. It’s more fun to make your own.”

It was. He sat and cooked his toast, and Sarah got up and made two mugs of steaming tea and he sat feeling like Ma and Pa Kettle only Sarah didn’t look like any version of Ma Kettle he’d ever seen.

“I took some up to Katie,” she told him. “She’s having a lie in. Did you know this last pregnancy was a mistake? Three’s enough, they decided, but this little one snuck up when they weren’t looking. But this is it, Doug’s in for the chop.”

“She told you that?” How? The thought of asking such questions of his sister horrified him. Though he’d worried . . . Four kids would be straining their limited income—and energy—and he’d had visions of his mother . . .

*

“She’s not like
your Mum,” Sarah said, as if she could read his mind. “She’s lovely. Maternal, but not dumb. But oh, this pregnancy’s got to her, and she and Doug hate the city so much. I’m determined she’ll have a rest for the next few days. Now I’ve been making a list.”

She reached back to the table for her laptop. “I’ve found this awesome website. It has recipes even I can make. Look, doesn’t it look fabulous?” She pointed to a picture of a laden Christmas table, groaning with every conceivable Christmas food. “The recipes are all here. I just need ingredients. I’ll do a shop before I pick Harold up.”

He looked, dubiously. “It seems a lot of work.”

“It’s just recipes. How hard can that be?” She raised her toasting fork and grinned. “So far I’ve conquered toast and mince pies and spaghetti. Is there no end to my talents?”

He wouldn’t know. She took his breath away.

She was so darn close. He finished his toast, rose and headed to the far side of the table to butter it. Trying to collect himself. “You’ll need help bringing Harold home.”

“I can manage.”

“And if he falls?”

She hesitated.

“I don’t mind,” he told her. She looked crestfallen that she had to agree to his assistance.

“Okay.” She compressed her lips. “But I’ll go in now and do the shopping. You meet me later at the hospital. It might be easier getting him into your higher truck.”

“They’ll lend us a wheelchair. That’ll make things easier.”

“Really? How do you . . . ”

“I phoned earlier, just to check he was still okay to come.”

“He’s okay?”

“Just.” He hesitated. “He’s dying, Sarah.” There was no way he should sugar coat the truth.

“But not today.” She said it evenly, determinedly, and he knew that underneath the light xterior she knew what she was facing. “I can do this,” she said and her words were like steel.

“We can do this.”

“You really want to help?”

“Yes,” he said, and poured himself another mug of tea. “I’m not sure how he’ll go out of hospital. I couldn’t stop you promising it, though, so the thing’s done. And now it’s done . . . let’s make the best of it.”

“Together?”

“For better or worse, you’ve committed us. We’re in this together.”

*

She drove into
town feeling guilty. And sad. And sort of . . . disoriented. Gerome lay on the seat beside her. She’d booked him a vet-check first thing. Not that there seemed anything wrong with him, but she needed to be sure, and besides, she also needed to figure out inoculations or whatever for taking the little guy home.

Home. New York?

Not home.

“But home’s not here, either,” she told Gerome. They were driving along the beachfront. Where else in the world did you get such lush grazing land right on the sea? Waratah was stunning.

Waratah Bay Homestead was stunning.

Max Ramsey was stunning?

“And that’s what I don’t need to think,” she told Gerome. “He makes me so discombobulated I can’t think straight, and for the next two days there are no deviations allowed.”

Right. So if her mind kept wandering . . .

She wouldn’t let it. Gerome. Shopping. Harold.

Christmas.

That was her course and she needed to stick to it. She had to stick with it.

And she wasn’t allowed to think of Max Ramsey.

And one magic kiss . . .

*

His timing was
perfect. Max pulled into the hospital car park and Sarah was parking just ahead of him. Wow, he thought, thinking of his sisters and how their time for shopping always expanded.

“Well done,” he said, as he climbed out of his truck and she raised one beautifully groomed eyebrow.

“What do you mean, well done?”

“You said eleven. I didn’t think you meant eleven.’

“I told Harold eleven,” she retorted, heading for the hospital entrance with speed—like thirty seconds too late was far too late to be acceptable.

He fell in beside her, bemused. “How did the vet visit go?”

“Good. He’s severely malnourished but we knew that, and his leg is scraped from the fall but there’s nothing else wrong. He’s now had his baby injections and the vet’s given me online forms to fill in. He’s been terrific really, telling me how to get round some of the bureaucracy to get him home. He’s snoozing now. I’ve left the window open and the car’s in the shade. He should be fine as long as no one steals him.”

“No one will steal him.”

She stopped and glared. “Max Ramsey, are you saying my puppy isn’t adorable?”

He couldn’t. For the life of him he couldn’t. Puppy and mistress . . . “You really are taking him home?” he managed.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Okay, he’s adorable, but are you serious?’

“I don’t say what I don’t mean, and your adorable was trite. An empty compliment. I know insincerity when I hear it. It’s just as well he has me to love him.”

And what was there in that statement to make a guy’s heart kick in his chest? Nothing, he told himself as they headed for Harold’s ward. Nothing, nothing and nothing.

But still . . .

“Did you get your shopping done?” he asked weakly and she grinned.

“Every single thing, including the very last turkey in Waratah. You should see him—what a monster. Gerome’s guarding him as we speak.” She pushed open the ward door and stopped.

Harold was out of bed. He was perched on the visitor’s chair. He still had the oxygen cannula fitted, but that was the only sign that something was wrong. He was nattily dressed in his sports coat and good pants—had he persuaded someone to go to his house and collect them? He was beaming, and when he saw them his beam widened to practically split his face.

“You came.” And there was all the satisfaction in the world in that statement. “Both of you.”

“We’re taking the wheelchair in case you want to do a boundary check of the property or go to the beach,” Sarah said, heading to hug him. “And we have a surprise for you. We’re going to the big house rather than yours. We hope you agree. And can you cope with a bit of company?”

“Well . . . ” And to Max’s astonishment, when Sarah pulled away to let him greet his neighbor, the old man was looking a bit abashed. “I might have already organized that,” he said, sheepishly.

“You’ve what?” The change in Harold was extraordinary. Max hadn’t seen him so lit up . . . ever.