Sarah's Baby (11 page)

She felt herself flush. “Conflict of interests.”
My interests conflicted with your grandmother's. She was determined to erase me from your life.

“‘I do believe her, though I know she lies,'” he quoted from Shakespeare. His eyes moved over her with hunger. Over her graceful body in the pink satin robe, lingering on the lilac-shadowed cleft of her breasts. “I'd swear you had a light beneath your skin,” he whispered. “It actually glows.”

“It's the pink satin,” she offered shakily, glancing around, not knowing what to do when she was assailed by an answering desire. Throughout her pregnancy, she'd dreamed of Kyall charging in like a knight of old to rescue her, vanquishing his grandmother. If only he had been there to share in her experience. If only she'd had his support. At least he'd been spared her terrible grief, although she knew in her heart he mightn't see it that way. She realized now that Kyall wouldn't have minded being “stuck with a baby.” Considering that neither of them had progressed to
finding other partners, they might just as well have waited a few years, then got married. She still couldn't work out how her baby had come to die, although she'd seen the death certificate. She'd done all the right things. She was young and healthy. Her baby had looked perfect. She couldn't understand it. And she couldn't get over it. There was no burial place to visit. Not even the baby's ashes to keep or to scatter. Ruth McQueen had taken charge of everything.

Ruth McQueen and Nurse Fairweather? Oh, yes, she had a lot of unfinished business in this town.

“Sarah, where are you?” Kyall asked. “Some far place where I can't reach you?”

“I was thinking. A bad habit of mine.”

“Don't drive me away. Don't, Sarah,” he begged. “I made one big mistake in my life. I don't want to make another. Come here to me.”

She went slowly, standing before him. He took one of her hands, kissed it. “What's made you the way you are, Sarah? I know you wanted to be a doctor. I know you're a good one. But don't you want a full life? Doesn't that mean family?”

“What do you want from me, Kyall? What do you expect from me?” Her body was trembling and singing both at the same time.

“A bloody sight more than I'm getting.” Roughly he pulled her down into his arms, hands very firm. “I want you to marry me. I've never wanted anything more in my life.”

Her face reflected conflict and the fever that was in her. If he knew about their child, he might hate her. He might attach rightful blame.

“You don't have to answer now,” he said, fearful he might lose her all over again. “But let me love you. I'm
done with words.” His hand clenched her hair. “Far better to make you ache for me.” His hand stroked her breast, taking its soft weight, his thumb seeking and finding the already erect nipple while sensation hammered away at him. What was romantic love? A sickness with no cure?

She moaned, unable not to. Still he didn't kiss her, holding her face away.

Finally, in an agitated flurry just as he intended, she lifted her arms to encircle his neck, a silken rope to bind him to her.

“What I want is you, calling up the magic.” There was no tenderness in his tone. More an edge of sexual hostility for the humiliations she had caused him.

Then, before she could say a word, he brought down his mouth to silence her, tasting the honey and lemon of her breath. How this woman assaulted his every sense! He wanted to do things to her he'd never thought to do with any other woman. He was desperate for her, straining her to him. His hand slid from her breast over the firm flesh of her stomach, moved lower…lower… He knew she wanted it because she didn't stop him. It was ravishing to know her body, but he wanted more, much more. He wanted it to be absolutely his. He wanted her heart and her soul.

Passion raged through him. He found and freed the single satin button that held the low V of her nightgown together. Then he peeled the fabric down, so that it pooled around her waist. “How beautiful you are.” He abandoned himself to the sheer erotic pleasure of looking at her. The flowering buds of her nipples were tight with arousal, pink at the edge, rose at the center. They demanded to be suckled. He lowered his head, his mouth eager and hungry.

She gripped his head, as his every nerve end twitched and sizzled. He could feel her body shaking convulsively at his ministrations. He could hear her utter his name on
one long-drawn-out moan. It was a powerful incitement to finish what he'd started. With a single move, he lifted himself out of the chair with her in his arms, carrying her off to the small bedroom. The bed had belonged to her mother. Even that thought couldn't distract him. Desire held him in its thrall.

His Sarah. His bright and shining light. His torment.

He knew he ought to ask her if her time was right, and he did, tension in his voice and a sheer, frightening drive.

Her “Yes!” burst out in a wrenching sob.

He stripped her gown from her. She lay perfectly quiescent as he did so. Possessively he trailed a hand up and down her gleaming skin—difficult to imagine a woman's body more beautiful—before stepping back to remove his own clothes and throw them on a chair.

Sarah in turn could only watch him, her own body burning with a fiery need that matched his. He was tanned all over. No band of pale skin. In the outback heat the male station workers thought nothing of skinny-dipping in the creek. It had been years and years since she'd seen his naked body. He'd been little more than a boy then. Now he was a man. Taller, broader of shoulder, with wonderful muscle density. His arousal was thrilling. Promise of what was to come.

Then he was beside her, turning her body toward him, flesh on flesh, enveloping her in his arms as if he were holding the most precious woman in the world.

“Sarah! My darling. Darling. Darling.”

She couldn't answer. The force of her hunger was holding her mute. He was where she desperately wanted him to be. Fused to her naked body. Her blood ran like wine. Soon he would be inside her.

She had no doubts of her love for him.

How have I lived without this?

“Come inside me,” she crooned.

 

F
OR LONG MINUTES AFTERWARD
neither of them spoke. Kyall lay on his back with Sarah's head resting on his shoulder, one arm like the lightest, most welcome pinion across his chest.

Finally he managed a few words. “I needed that to convince me you still want me.”

“Well, now you know.” She reached out to stroke his cheek. “My chosen one. My only love. I gave my heart to you so many years ago. Now it's impossible to take it back.” She bestowed on him her old secret smile.

“Then there's no question of your going away.” His hand grasped a handful of golden curls. “You have to stay with me and take over from Joe.”

“If the town wants me.”

“
Wants
you?” His voice lifted with elation. “Of course they want you. You're their favorite child grown up. I'm not asking you to stay at the hospital forever, Sarah. I know you have ambitions. Hell, I have them myself. I've been approached to go into politics.”

“Really?” She lifted herself on an elbow to stare at him. His eyes in the glow from the single lamp glittered like sapphires. “Politics have always mattered to you—the direction our country's taking.”

“Sounds all right to you?”

“Of course it does!” She looked at him proudly. “You have so much to offer. You can always oversee the McQueen operations. You have your mother and father, not to mention your grandmother. She's in her seventies, but she could go on forever.”

“Will you marry me?” He put a lot of determination into his voice. “Say it, Sarah.”

She bent forward and slipped the tip of her tongue into
his mouth, let it entwine with his. “You must let me think about it.”

“What's there to think about?” He eased her onto her back. “Our life should be full of love and hope. Hope for the future. I want children. I love children. I know you do, too. Let's build a life together. Starting now. Too much time has already got away. I'll never stop you from furthering your career. I'm too proud of you. We can manage. Others do. You have to say yes.”

Was it her moment to scatter all the radiance, the gold dust of dreams? Tell him how she'd had their baby but never seen its tiny lifeless body? He would surely blame her, for she had never ceased to blame herself.

“Sarah?” He raised her to him, almost crushing her, forgetting his strength. “What is it? What's haunting you?”

“Grief,” she admitted through the hard lump in her throat. “I'm full of grief. I can't seem to shed it.”

“I'm sorry. I'm not even giving you a chance, am I?”

“Hush!” The weight of her secret had grown unbearable. “I love you, Kyall. I want to be with you for always, but you must give me a little breathing space.”

“You have nothing to fear from my grandmother,” he told her as that possibility leaped into his mind. “I know people hate her. Sadly I can see why. But she will never hurt you.”

“What are you going to do? Shove her in prison?” For an instant she used the cutting edge of her tongue. “Maximum security?”

“I'll warn her. I think that'll be enough. Her problem is that she's jealous of you, Sarah.”

“Indeed she is. She wants to keep you for herself or marry you off to a woman she can control.”

“That's sick!” he groaned.

“It is,” Sarah quietly agreed, sinking back against the
bed. As always, she was chilled by any mention of that oppressive woman. “Your grandmother has a darkness in her that separates her from the rest of us. You can't even see into her eyes.”

Kyall ranged his long body beside hers, thrusting an arm behind his head. “I know that. I've lived with it all my life. Gran can't envision life without being the one in control. You threaten her, and she loathes that. But even if she opposes your taking over from Joe at the hospital, I'll block her. Trust me. I have my own supporters. My mother will present no problem. She will do as I ask.”

Sarah considered this wryly. “Are you sure of that? Your mother doesn't hear what she doesn't want to hear.”

Who knew that better than his father? His mother had perfected the art of selective hearing. “If you want Joe's job, it's yours,” he said with quiet emphasis. “But you can be sure of one thing.” He caught her chin, compelling her to look directly into his eyes. “After tonight I'll never let you go.”

B
ACK AT THE CLINIC
in Brisbane, Sarah lost no time handing in her resignation. It was received with such dismay, she might have found it gratifying—but she didn't. Despite her confidence in the decision, she felt torn about leaving her patients and colleagues.

Clinic head Peter Crawley, an attractive man with a reassuring face, threw off his glasses and leaned back in his leather chair. “Lord, Sarah! There can't be much for you way out there. It's still the back o' beyond. You'll spend your life treating snake bites and spider bites and the odd tourist with sunstroke. It's enough to make the eyes glaze over.” He looked across his desk at her, marveling at her decision. Sarah Dempsey was a valuable member of his team, a dedicated doctor who invested a heartfelt commitment to her work. The clinic would miss her badly on both a professional and personal basis.

“I was born there, Peter,” she reminded him. “I'll have plenty of patients with all manner of ills. Patients are the same everywhere. I'll keep up with the literature. Or try to. There's so much of it.”

“But, Sarah!” Peter Crawley was still desperate to talk her out of it. “In all honesty, how could you endure it? You'll go crazy! You're too bright to bury yourself in the bush. The patients here love you, especially the mothers and children. I can't imagine what we're going to do with
out you. Tell me I'm going to wake up and find this is all a nightmare.”

“You're a sweet man, Peter, but you know I'm not indispensable. I'll be very sorry to leave my patients and the clinic. We've all worked so well together. I can recommend a colleague of mine, though, a friend, Jane Kirby. We went through med school together. She's been looking to buy into the right practice. She'd be ideal to take over from me. I'll sound her out first, if you like.”

“Never. We want you.” Still in a state of shock, Peter Crawley brooded, staring down at the pile of medical files on his desk. “Someone's taken one of my files,” he announced irritably, flipping through them.

“Not me.” Sarah knew he'd eventually find it. “Of course you'll make your own choice, but Jane is very good with women and children.”

“Ah, dear!” Peter sighed painfully. “I'll consider it. We can meet with her and take it from there. When are you going to leave us?”

“When you have my replacement settled in, Peter,” Sarah assured him. “There'll be nothing left in disarray. I won't leave you in the lurch or abandon my patients overnight.”

“What a mystery woman you are!” Peter said, suddenly sighting the “lost” file on top of a cabinet where he'd left it. “I wish I could persuade you to change your mind.” He put his glasses back on to study her.

“There are things I have to do, Peter,” she explained in a serious voice. “I have to work my way through a whole maze of personal questions that have never really been answered. It's not just taking over at the hospital. It's an opportunity to sort things out. Sort my
life
out. I've learned that we can never escape the past.”

“No, indeed. As someone rightly said, the past is never past. You're not getting married, are you?”

“I have no immediate plans, Peter,” Sarah murmured, not looking up.

“There's a problem, isn't there?” Peter asked perceptively.

“Lots of them, actually,” Sarah confessed, but stopped there. She had long since got into the habit of keeping private matters to herself.

“I was going to ask, does this have something to do with the sudden death of your mother?” Peter questioned with care.

Mute for a moment, Sarah nodded.

“All right, all right.” Peter sighed. “If I can't talk you out of it, Sarah, it goes without saying I wish all the good fortune in the world. You deserve it.” Peter stood up regretfully, circling his desk. “We're all going to miss you.”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” she joked. “But I'll certainly miss you, Peter.” Sarah stood to face him.

He patted her shoulder. “You've got to keep in touch. And if you ever want to come back, I'll find a place for you. Now, what do you say to a quick cup of coffee? It seems to be quiet out there for once. And we have to tell Cliff and the rest, let alone the patients.” He shook his head. “They'll all be heartbroken.”

Sarah was so moved she couldn't speak.

 

A
S SWIFTLY AS
she'd delivered her resignation, Sarah sought from the national nurses' unions and agencies all information on a Margaret “Molly” Fairweather, now deceased, believed to have worked at St. Catherine's Maternity Hospital in Adelaide in the eighties and probably at a small private maternity hospital called Glen Ross in the town of Rockhampton some fifteen years ago. A day later
all the information she required was e-mailed back. It helped that the request had come from a registered medical practitioner.

Finally she knew. Finally she'd learned the identity of the midwife who had delivered her little Rose. The “spooky bird” that had hovered over her when she was fuzzy with dope. Nurse Margaret Fairweather was well regarded, it appeared, within the nursing profession. No blemishes on her professional name, no strikes against her anywhere. For inexplicable reasons Margaret Fairweather had chosen to retire to a remote outback town where she had no roots, no family, no friends (except Ruth McQueen?). A remote outback town where she'd gone quietly mad.

How had such a thing happened to a woman who, for most of her life had been a respected member of the nursing community? One would have to consider the onset of dementia, perhaps due to Alzheimer's, a global loss of intellectual function, the continuing destruction of neurons in the brain. Margaret Fairweather had been fifty-two at the time of her death. Not old. Still, dementia isn't always restricted to the very old.

But Mad Molly Fairweather had not been suffering from dementia. Two reliable witnesses, Harriet and Tilly, had confirmed that Nurse Fairweather had been quite capable of carrying on an intelligent conversation, driving a vehicle and getting herself periodically into town. Was all the raving to herself in the garden a descent into mental illness—or was she just plain lonely? Psychiatry wasn't Sarah's field, but she knew any number of psychiatrists she could talk to. Without question, Molly Fairweather had had something extremely distressing on her mind. Her episodes of disturbance—if the town's children were to be believed—were fairly frequent. In these long monologues, what did
she rant about? Sarah had to find out, although she expected she'd have to take a lot of the information with a grain of salt. Children were notorious for making up stories or embellishing their reports. Not only children. Ruby Hall, her mother's assistant in the store, had a well-deserved reputation for passing on complicated accounts of events that were half truth, half fantasy.

And what part did Ruth McQueen play in all this? It didn't take Sarah long to discover, via an Internet search, that Ruth McQueen had held the title deed for the old Sinclair residence since the death of her husband. Held it without interruption. The McQueens, in fact, had bought the property and hundreds of acres around it from the Sinclairs after their sad departure to Adelaide in the late 1800s.

So Nurse Fairweather had never purchased the property. She'd been Ruth McQueen's tenant all along. Why? What had brought the woman to Koomera Crossing? Why did Ruth McQueen allow her to occupy the house? What was the connection—if not the fact that Nurse Fairweather had been the midwife at Rose's birth?

And what about the birth itself? God, why hadn't her mother been with her? Why hadn't her poor little mother fought to be with her own child? Damn Ruth McQueen to hell! The baby's death certificate had said respiratory failure. It did happen. But why the unseemly haste to dispose of the body? Why the shockingly callous treatment of her? Surely even a woman like Ruth McQueen could pity a mother's loss. And the baby had been her own family!

There was so much Sarah knew nothing about. She'd gone into shock. And afterward? It had seemed pointless to ask any questions. Her little Rose was lost to her. Nothing would bring her back.

Now this important information. Was it possible there'd been a cover-up? Had Nurse Fairweather failed in her du
ties in some way? Had she accidently dropped Rose? That, too, happened. And worse. Drastic mistakes, most tragically, happened all the time. She'd seen her share. She'd seen the anger and despair afterward. The legal action. Nurse Fairweather must have had some hold over Ruth McQueen. It was the most logical explanation.

What?

Glen Ross, a private hospital, no longer existed. Sarah found out in a single phone call that the old maternity home had been demolished a dozen years ago and a motel built on the site.

But there had to be records somewhere.

No. Certainly not dating that far back. But Sarah, as a medical doctor, could easily access the registry of births and deaths, she was told.

Of course she could and did. She had the dates emblazoned on her brain. She even remembered a young woman in the room next to her at the hospital. Much older than she was. Mid-twenties. Maybe older. Stella. Like in Tennessee Williams's play
A Streetcar Named Desire.
That was the only reason she'd remembered it. That and the fact that she'd cried so loud and long Stella had confided in a nurse she couldn't bear it. Sarah had no idea of Stella's surname. But she did remember Stella had gone home with her baby, a little girl. Not that she'd actually seen Stella's child. She had literally been out of her mind with desolation.

Lucky Stella to be so blessed! Stella's girl would be exactly the same age as Sarah's Rose had she lived. Fifteen. In early adolescence. At school.

At fifteen she herself had become a mother. It had been no seduction game with Kyall. Not playing at sex, the way many teenagers did. The circumstances, the relationship had been extraordinary. They'd come together as if preor
dained. As though at that exact juncture in their lives they were to conceive another human being. She might have lost Rose, but Sarah remembered that her baby had been perfect. Perfectly formed. Her first cry was so robust it had been a wonder. What had altered so suddenly? So drastically? Only Ruth McQueen could supply the missing pieces. Nurse Fairweather was dead. Sarah was certain the answers were back at Koomera Crossing. Back with the stop-at-nothing Ruth.

 

A
T THE END
of the week, over dinner with Peter and her friend Jane, it was decided that Jane would join the Waverley Medical Centre, buying out Sarah's share. This enabled Sarah to pay off what was left of her initial bank loan, with several thousand left over. A hectic month after that, Sarah was ready to take up her new appointment as doctor in residence at Koomera Crossing Hospital. In all that time, she had spoken to Kyall daily, sensing—although she was never told—that he and his grandmother had been involved in a titanic clash over the town council's decision. Obviously Kyall had worn down his mother's resistance, but Sarah could just imagine how vehement even that might have been. The citizens of the town, on the other hand, had professed themselves thrilled that Sarah would want to come back to them, particularly as the town's doctor.

Joe, more consumed by his cancer with every passing day, breathed a great sigh of relief. Sarah would be taking over from him. He had brought her into the world. She was one of them—never an outsider. She would fit in wonderfully. Except for Ruth. Ruth, his once-passionate lover—he'd always known it was only the sex, for her, anyway—had been distant from him for years now. Still, before he departed this world, he intended to speak to her. He'd always had a dreadfully uncomfortable feeling about that
poor woman, Molly Fairweather. Somehow Ruth was mixed up in that. She'd only given him one sign, a mere flash in those brilliant fathomless eyes, like pretenses stripped away, but he'd seen enough. He'd always been acutely receptive to Ruth and her many moods. She offered few surprises. Sometimes he thought Harriet might have known or deduced more than she'd ever said. But then, Harriet was a very shrewd woman, a close observer of human nature. A man would've been far, far happier with a woman like Harriet, not that she'd ever looked sideways at him. All too late, anyway. He didn't have long to live. There was a palpable change in his body, the yellow-white eyes, the agony that periodically shook him, even while he was numbed by morphine. It signaled the end.

Joe wanted above all to stay alive until Sarah had taken over at the hospital. Sarah, from all reports—and he had made many inquiries over the years—would do good things. Kyall, too, was full of confidence in her. And renewed hope. Kyall and Sarah should marry and have children, as Joe was sure the Lord Himself had intended. The only threat to them was and remained…

Ruth.

Ruth walked a fine line between good and evil. Over the years, he'd had to force himself to confront a terrible truth. No one Ruth perceived to be an enemy was safe.

 

A
T SEVEN O'CLOCK
the following evening Joe presented himself at Wunnamurra homestead. It was a hard hour's drive out of the town, so he'd had a friend drive him. He was now quite incapable of making the trip himself. Ruth had taken him by surprise, suggesting he stay overnight. She knew perfectly well he was a sick man. “You looked so frail at Muriel Dempsey's funeral, Joe. I was so worried
about you!” He'd have dinner with the family, and Max would drive him back into town the following day.

So it was all arranged…with Sarah due to arrive in two days. Ruth, the accomplished actress concealing her own anger, remarked quietly to the family that she was glad Joe had called her. She certainly gave every appearance of being pleased. It would be good to have her old friend under their roof. Joe had done so much for the town. It would be a very sad day indeed when he left to spend his retirement—and what remained of his life—with a widowed sister. She and Joe had so much shared history.