The Cattleman, The Baby and Me

‘Beattie made us a pot of tea and some Vegemite sandwiches.’ He lifted the plate of sandwiches towards her.

‘Ooh, yum!’ She seized one and bit into it. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, because I mean to eat this with more gusto than grace,’ she said, mouth half full.

He’d have smiled, but as he watched her devour half a sandwich and then reach for another his heart started to burn. ‘When did you last eat?’

‘Last night.’

He leapt up. ‘That’s not—’

He broke off when she put a finger to her lips and gestured to Harry. The child’s eyes were closed. In repose, Harry’s face lost its wariness. Liam’s heart burned harder. Part of him wanted to reach out and touch the child—make sure he was real. The greater part of him shied away.

Sapphie’s voice hauled him back. ‘When I found out the mail plane was doing its run today I didn’t have time for breakfast. And, while I grabbed plenty of supplies for the trip, both Harry and I felt a bit queasy on the plane.’

Liam opened his mouth, but she’d pre-empted his next question. ‘And, yes, we both drank plenty of water. Neither one of us is dehydrated.’

He sank back into his chair. Then slid forward to pour the tea. If she hadn’t eaten since last night…‘How do you take your tea?’

‘White and two, thanks.’

He handed her a cup, and then watched in fascination as she swallowed it down in three swigs. Beattie had used the good china—the cups were tiny. He poured her a second cup as she finished the rest of her sandwich. He held out the plate towards her again.

She took the cup with a murmured, ‘Thank you,’ but declined another sandwich. He set the plate back to the coffee table, aware of a vague sense of disappointment—it had given him a certain satisfaction to feed her.

She took a measured sip of her tea, eyeing him over its rim, and then straightened as if refusing to surrender to the sofa’s beckoning softness. She set the cup on the coffee table. ‘Liam, who do you think is Harry’s father?’

She didn’t want to make small talk, and he didn’t blame her. They didn’t have anything small to talk about. Harry might be small in stature, but not in any other sense of the word. She wanted answers.

Who did he suspect was Harry’s father? He dragged a hand down his face. Lucas, that was who. He bit back an oath. What a mess!

He stared back at her, tried to keep his voice measured, his breathing even. ‘I suspect that the child there is my nephew.’

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