Brannigan's Baby

‘We shall not be setting up house together. It seems, at present, that I have no option but to give you a room, but beyond that, you are entirely on your own. You can do your own cooking, and cleaning—’

‘The servants’ll look after me. That’s what they’re paid for.’

She turned on him sharply. ‘Cook and Myrna will not be looking after you! They’ve already gone—and they won’t be coming back. They were over retirement age and only stayed on as long as they did because they loved your grandmother.’

She turned on her heel and with the tray swinging from one hand, walked with purposeful steps back to the kitchen. There she began loading the remaining glasses onto the tray.

Once these were put away, she decided, she was going to soak in a hot bath and then have an early night. Her exhaustion had now intensified to the point where she knew that if she once sat down, she’d never get up again!

‘I tried to get into the attic,’ Luke’s voice came from behind, making her grit her teeth, ‘but it’s locked. Do you have the key?’

She didn’t look at him; continued to load the glasses. ‘What do you want it for?’

‘I remember my grandmother as being something of a pack rat, and there’s a faint hope that my own nursery furniture might be still up there—I know it used to be, when I was a boy. Do you happen to—’

‘It’s still there...along with an old stroller. But it’ll all be covered in dust. I’ve had no time to do any cleaning in the attic this past year, and Myrna wasn’t up to climbing those steep, narrow stairs.’

‘So...where’s the key?’

‘On the shelf above the door.’ Finally she turned. ‘You’re not going up there tonight? Even if you did bring the cot down, you couldn’t put your baby in it yet—the mattress will need to be aired, the woodwork washed down.’

He rubbed a hand against his nape, and she noticed, for the first time, that his eyes were strained, his expression weary. If he hadn’t been so arrogant and hostile, she might have felt a twinge of concern...or even sympathy.

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘In the morning, then.’

‘Where will you put the baby tonight?’

‘He can sleep with me.’

Lucky baby! she thought...and immediately felt a wave of shock; where had that thought come from! She turned abruptly and reached out for the tray, but in her haste she knocked over a crystal sherry glass. It fell to the floor, shattering on the terra-cotta tiles.

With a murmur of dismay, she crouched down, but as she scrabbled to pick up the pieces, she felt a prick of pain. She bit her lip as she saw blood beading on her finger...

A strong hand pulled her to her feet.

‘Here.’ Luke’s voice was gruff. ‘Let me see.’

He held her hand in his, squeezing the finger gently.

‘No glass in there,’ he murmured. ‘At least, I don’t think so...’

She struggled against a feeling of grogginess as he walked her over to the sink. He turned on the cold tap, and held her finger under it.

He was standing right behind her, so close she could feel the warmth of his body against her own. She could also hear him breathing. She felt the hair at her crown stir. And heard his breathing quicken.

‘You smell like peaches.’ His voice was low, sexy, seductive.

She wanted to move, but she was trapped between him and the sink. Besides, she doubted her shaky legs were capable of taking her anywhere. Her finger under the cold tap began to feel numb. She noticed the bleeding had stopped, and she tugged her hand free from his grasp.

He swung her around, and his eyes were dark. ‘Do you taste like peaches?’

He held her right shoulder with his left hand, and with his other, brushed a finger lightly down her left cheek; trailed it across to the corner of her mouth; let the tip linger. ‘I know you’d like me to find out.’

She wanted to jerk her face back, but his blue eyes had hypnotized her into immobility. ‘You’re crazy!’

‘I know you’re attracted to me. I could tell by the way your pupils dilated, when we were discussing who would sleep where—and with whom...’

His words drew all the strength from her body. ‘You’re crazy,’ she repeated, this time in a thready whisper.

‘Am I?’ The back of his fingernail scraped across her teeth. ‘And what about you? Are you ... greedy?’ His voice had all at once become angry, bitter. ‘As greedy...as your mother was?’

He’d been playing with her; testing her...

Cheeks burning with humiliation and resentment, she shoved him away from her abruptly.

He laughed, and the harsh sound grated in her ears. She wanted to press her hands to them, to blank out the sound. But she wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

‘If you’ll get out of here,’ she said in a glacial tone, ‘I’ll finish up. It’s been an exhausting day and I’m going to have an early night—’

‘I’ll clean up.’

‘No, I’ll clean up!’

‘You’ve already cut yourself once. You want me to have to play doctor again? You want more of that? Okay, then, go ahead.’

She couldn’t win; not with this man. But she really was all in; she felt as if she would keel over, any minute now—

Impatiently, he barked, ‘Well?’

‘All right. I’ll go.’ She hesitated. ‘But... what about...won’t you...need any help with...the baby?’

‘I can manage just fine, without having to resort to anyone...particularly a female...for help.’

‘Well, good for you! But don’t forget...I did offer.’

On her way out, she slammed the door behind her... hard.

A knockout. That’s what he’d called her.

And the image of her mother.

Green eyes dark with distress, Whitney drew the bristle brush through her glossy red hair one last time, before putting the brush down on the dresser. Then rising from the padded stool, she crossed to the wardrobe and slid open the bottom drawer. From under a pile of assorted cashmere sweaters, she extricated a silver-framed photograph.

A picture of her mother...and Luke’s father, Ben.

For the past thirteen years Whitney had kept it hidden. She’d taken it out only when she was alone...and had become adept at quickly tucking it away at the sound of Cressida’s light tap on her door.

She’d hated acting so furtively, despite doing so with the best of intentions... and even now, even knowing Cressida was beyond being hurt, she couldn’t help feeling guilty.

But there was no reason to.

She had done nothing wrong.

It was her mother who had done that. Adultery could never be excused, no matter the circumstances-

Whitney gave herself a shake and reined in her drifting thoughts. She must go to bed; she needed to get some sleep. Tomorrow, she’d have to cope with Luke.

Until Edmund Maxwell could get her the ammunition she required to get rid of her unwanted guest, she’d have to find a way to divide the house between them, so she could avoid him as much as possible. He would fight the idea, of course. He would want to have the run of the place as he had done when he was growing up. She’d better have her wits about her. He would be a crafty opponent.

Pushing herself to her feet, she crossed to the dresser and defiantly set up the framed picture.

There was no longer any need to hide it. Only one person in the world could conceivably be offended by its presence here at Brannigan House...

Luke.

And if she was sure of nothing else, she was sure of this: It would be a frosty Friday indeed before she’d ever invite that man into her bedroom!

‘Ah, you’re up.’ Luke closed his bedroom door behind him just as Whitney came out of her own room the next morning. ‘Do you normally lie in bed this late?’

Coffee. Whitney swept past him and made for the stairs. She always needed that first cup of coffee to get her going... but today, she needed it much more than she normally did, in order to be able to cope with this man.

‘One could hardly sleep with that racket you’ve been making in the attic,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘I assume,’ she added, as she ran down the stairs with his heavy tread not far behind her, ‘you found what you needed?’

‘Yup. Everything’s washed down, and I have the cot mattress airing in front of the living room fire.’

Hand on the banister, she jolted to a stop, and looked back up at him with an eyebrow cocked ironically. ‘So you’re not above setting a fire and getting it going?’

‘Needs must, when the devil drives.’

‘Whom.’

‘Whom what?’

“‘He must needs go whom the devil doth drive.’”

‘So...you got yourself an education while I’ve been away. And who paid for that, I wonder?’

She subjected him to a rigid glance but wasn’t so angry that she didn’t see, before she jerked her gaze away again, that he was wearing a crisp white T-shirt and black jeans. In that one glance she’d also noticed that his hair was still damp from his shower, and that he’d shaved; the cleft on his chin was now visible—a cleft she’d forgotten was there. Thirteen years was a long time, after all...and she’d been just twelve when she’d known him before.

Known him...she smiled self-derisively as she stalked to the kitchen...now that was a misnomer. She’d never known him. They’d lived in the same house for a few months, that was all—the most awful months of her life. She’d just lost her mother; and she’d cowed in terror as Luke had fought savagely with his grandmother over the elderly woman’s decision to give a home to this girl Luke hated so viciously.

The ongoing battle had culminated in that last, dreadful row, when Luke had called her those ugly names, yelling them at her, after describing her mother and Ben Brannigan in words she’d never heard before and didn’t understand.

But Cressida had heard ... and she had understood.

Shaking with anger, she’d ordered Luke to apologize or get out.

He’d shouted that he was going to leave.

And she’d called after him not to come back, then, till he was ready to say he was sorry.

He’d never, apparently, been ready to do so.

And it wasn’t till Whitney was almost fourteen that she realized Luke’s leaving had broken his grand-mother’s heart.

‘You ought to try to find him,’ Whitney had said one day, stumblingly.

‘I have my pride, child.’ Cressida had replied, her slender back ramrod straight as always. ‘I have my pride.’

And was it pride that had kept Luke away?

But even if she knew the answer to that, Whitney reflected, what good would it do now?

‘I’m going to make coffee.’ She pushed the kitchen door open and went in. ‘And then we’ll talk. We have things to discuss.’

He leaned back against the fridge as she poured cold water into the coffeemaker. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘about my grandmother. She’d been ill for some time?’

‘She fell a year ago and broke her hip. It seemed to be taking a long time to heal so the doctors ran some tests. They discovered a tumor—’ Whitney cleared her throat of a sudden huskiness. ‘Strong coffee okay with you?’

‘Stronger the better.’

She measured eight scoops into the filter, and switched on the coffeemaker. ‘She was very weak by the time they sent her home from hospital, and for the next ten months or so, she passed most of her time in bed.’

‘And in pain?’

‘Yes.’ Understatement of the century.

‘Why the hell didn’t you try to contact me?’

‘She didn’t want me to.’

He swore vehemently.

‘You had thirteen years.’ Her tone was heavily laced with accusation. ‘Why did you never come home?’

‘She told me to leave.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, you sound like a spoiled child! All you had to do was say you were sorry.’

‘I wasn’t sorry.’ He pushed himself from the fridge and crossed to the sink. Grasping the countertop edge with white-knuckled hands, he stared out the uncurtained window. ‘What my grandmother did—taking you in—was unforgivable.’

‘Your grandmother was a warm and compassionate woman.’ Whitney fought to keep control of her emotions. ‘I know it must have been hard for you to understand her actions—after all, you were only seventeen and had been very badly hurt—’

‘I wasn’t thinking of myself!’ He whirled around and his eyes reflected more than a decade of built-up pent-up resentment at her. ‘I was thinking of my mother. Of what they—my father and your mother—had done to her—’

‘Don’t!’ Shaking, Whitney put up her hands to stop him. ‘Please don’t let’s start all this over again. I do understand why you’re so resentful, but, Luke, for your own sanity you have to put it all behind you—’

‘Don’t you think I’ve tried? Don’t you think I’ve tried to forgive? To forgive and forget? What do you think it did to me, walking away from my grandmother, the one person in the world who meant anything to me? And now—’ he swung an arm out wildly ‘—to come back to this house, and find I’m too late—my God, it’s ripping me apart!’

Taut silence vibrated through the kitchen following Luke’s outburst, a silence suddenly broken by the wavering cry of a baby.

Whitney looked around confusedly.

Luke exhaled a heavy breath, and said wearily, ‘It’s the baby monitor. Over by the bread bin.’

She saw it then, a blue-and-white gadget, with a red light flickering.

‘I haven’t seen one of those before.’ Her voice came out stiltedly, but she kept going. ‘You leave one part in the baby’s room, and set the other up wherever you are?’

‘That’s right. I’ll just go up and fetch him...’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Troy,’ he said over his shoulder, as he left the room.

Troy. Short for Troilus? The names Troilus and Cressida were indelibly linked in literature; had Luke, despite his estrangement from his grandmother, remembered the elderly woman with love as he’d chosen a name for his son?

When he returned, the coffee was ready, and she’d just filled two mugs and put sugar and cream in her own.

She’d been determined to keep any communication between them on a purely impersonal and businesslike level, but she made the fatal mistake of looking at the baby in his arms.

‘Why...he’s dark!’

‘I guess you didn’t see him without his hat yesterday.’ Luke ruffled his son’s wispy black hair, and the child chuckled and blew out a bubble. His lashes were as dark as his hair, but he had his father’s blue eyes. He was wearing a red sweatshirt, with a pair of red corduroy dungarees.

He was beautiful, adorable...and he melted her heart.

‘Could you unhitch that tray,’ Luke said, ‘so I can get him into his seat? Those catches baffled me.’

It took Whitney a couple of moments to get the hang of them herself, but she finally managed. After Luke had seated the baby, she clicked it in place again.

‘So...’ She stepped back, uncomfortably aware of his closeness. ‘What does he have for breakfast?’

‘Today, he’ll have a banana and toast, some milk...’

‘I don’t have any bananas—’

‘I’ve brought enough food to last him a couple of days. Then I thought,’ he went on as he took a brown bag from the fridge, ‘you might drive me into town and I can stock up on supplies. My credit was always good at Stanley’s corner store, so I’m sure it’ll—’

‘Jim Stanley died years ago. His store was bulldozed, and you’ll find a superstore there now. You’ll have to go to the bank, if you’ve no money...and get a loan.’

He toppled the contents of the bag on the table: a bunch of ripe bananas, a small loaf of bread, a container of wheat germ, a pint carton of skim milk. ‘To get a loan, a person needs collateral. Looks as if I’m going to be depending on you for supplies. But Troy and I don’t eat much—do we, monster?’ He grinned down at the baby, and the baby grinned back—showing two small white teeth—as if they were sharing some huge joke.

Whitney felt a violent surge of resentment. So...Luke thought he could stay on here, living off her own meager bank account.

No way.

He’d already peeled a banana and diced it. Now he dipped the squares in milk, rolled them in the wheat germ and began setting them on the plastic tray. Reluctantly intrigued—not only by the economy of Luke’s movements but by his lean, tanned fingers with their smooth rounded nails—she wanted to stay and watch. Instead she set his coffee mug on the table along with the creamer and sugar bowl.

‘I’m going through to the living room,’ she said crisply, as the baby with intense concentration picked up a banana morsel. ‘I have some phone calls to make—’

‘You’ll be calling Maxwell, I guess, and asking him to make enquiries about me. Let me save you both some time.’ After wiping his hands on the seat of his jeans, Luke dug into his hip pocket and took out his wallet. Extricating a couple of business cards, he slapped one down onto the table. ‘Dale Gregg—loan officer at the bank where I stash my money...when I have any, and—’ he tossed the second card down on top of it ‘—Elisa Thomson, a lawyer who’s done some work for me recently. They both know my current financial status. I’ll phone them as soon as I’ve fed Troy, and ask them to cooperate with Maxwell when he calls. They’ll give him all the info you need.’

Whitney picked up the cards and read the addresses.

She looked up at him. ‘You’ve been in California, all this time?’

‘Land of surf and sun bunnies.’

‘A beach burn.’

His only answer to her scornful comment was a slanting smile.

‘So,’ she went on, ‘you’ve nothing to show for your thirteen years away but a tan, an empty bankbook, and—’

‘And a baby.’

Whitney shook her head. ‘Unbelievable.’

‘Isn’t he, though?’

‘Unbelievable that someone with your potential could have screwed up so badly,’ she snapped. ‘It’s commonplace to hear about the self-willed teenage girl who runs away from home because she refuses to live by the house rules—only to come back with her tail tucked between her legs and an illegitimate baby in her arms. It’s unusual to see a reversal of roles...but your case is a perfect example—’

‘You mean—’ his blue eyes were wide and innocent ‘—someone took advantage of me and got me pregnant?’

‘—and it’s people like you who are ripping apart the very fabric of North American society—’

‘Oh, I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration! I’m only—’

‘—with your irresponsible behavior! You want to have your fun, but when things go wrong, you want somebody else to bail you out. Bad enough you behave that way when you’ve only yourself to look after, but when you have a child—’

The baby whimpered.

Whitney jerked her head around and felt a stab of dismay. His little mouth was turned down, his lower lip was trembling and his tear-filled eyes were fixed on her with a look that said better than any words: ‘How could you!’

Which was exactly what she asked herself.

How could she possibly have forgotten that Troy was in the room? She was well aware of how awful it was for a child to have to listen to grown-ups fighting, yet here she was, subjecting this one to that very thing.

‘Babies,’ Luke said quietly, ‘pick up on bad vibes. When I’m around Troy, no matter how...difficult... things may be, I’ve always tried to maintain a happy and positive attitude. I’d appreciate it if you’d make an effort to do the same. The situation we’re in isn’t easy for either of us. Let’s just try to make the best of it, mmm?’

A painful lump swelled in Whitney’s throat, and though she tried to swallow it, it wouldn’t go away.

Luke went to crouch by his son, running a hand over his dark hair, and speaking reassuringly to him. Soothing him.

Whitney picked up her mug and walked unhappily out of the kitchen.

And as she did, she swore that, however long Luke stayed at Brannigan House, no matter how he infuriated her, she’d never lose her temper with him again.

At least, she amended, not in front of the baby!

CHAPTER THREE

‘EDMUND MAXWELL has gone on holiday and he won’t be back for two weeks.’ Whitney put her coffee mug into the dishwasher. ‘That should give you a breathing space. Time to look around for a job. Once you’ve got one, you can move out.’

‘A job?’

As she heard the amusement in Luke’s voice, Whitney turned to glare at him. ‘Yes, a job. As in “a paid position of employment?” Even beach bums have to grow up someday!’

‘Not necessarily.’ He shrugged and leaned back in his chair. ‘Anyway, who’d hire me? I’m a high school dropout.’

‘You could work as a laborer at a construction site—there’s a new housing scheme going up at the end of the lake. You look fit enough—’ she avoided looking at his wide chest and muscled arms ‘—and there should be no problem getting hired on.’

‘Is there a bus service up here now from town?’ Luke scratched his head. ‘Didn’t used to be...’

‘You can eventually buy a used car.’

‘What we have here is a catch-22 situation. If I were to find a job, I’d need a vehicle to get to it, but I wouldn’t be able to afford a car till I had more than a few paychecks in my hand. Besides, there is a problem...’

Troy sputtered, and spat out a few crumbs of toast. ‘—and as you can see,’ Luke went on dryly, ‘he’s not about to be overlooked.’

‘Enrol your son in a day care center. That’s what other people in your position have to do. Why should you have to be any different!’

Troy was scowling, as he looked from one to the other.

A scowl which reminded Whitney of her vow not to fight with Luke in front of the child.

She drew in a deep breath. ‘We’ll continue this discussion later, when the baby’s asleep.’

Luke got to his feet, and taking her arm in a firm grip, led her out into the hallway, letting the kitchen door swing shut.

‘This discussion will go nowhere.’ Tension tightened his voice. ‘If you think I’d leave my son with a complete stranger, you’ve got rocks in your head.’

‘No need to leave him with a stranger.’ Whitney tilted her chin challengingly. ‘Does the name Dixie Mae ring a bell?’

‘Dixie who?’

‘Five feet nothing, blond hair fluffed out to here, and breasts out to there?’

His quick grin irritated her. As did his lazily drawled, ‘Ah, now I remember. Dixie Mae Best. She was—’

‘One of your many girlfriends.’

‘Dix’s still around?’

‘Oh, yes, she’s still around. And she runs the Best Day Care Center in Emerald. She’s had a couple of bad marriages, but apparently she’s good with children.’

‘Is she still as...?’ Straight-faced, Luke sketched a couple of voluptuous circles with his hands.

‘Why don’t you look her up, and you can find out for yourself!’

‘I may just do that. But I tell you one thing, I’ll not put Troy in day care. The kid stays with me.’

‘Well, that cuts down on your options. You really—’

He cut into her derisive response. ‘Let’s go for a walk.’

‘A walk? I don’t want to go for a walk! I have things to do.’

‘When I was hiking up the road from town yesterday, I had a look at the vineyards. I want to have a closer look. And maybe you can explain why—’

‘If you want to talk business, talk to Edmund Maxwell when he gets b—’

‘The Emerald Valley Vineyard used to be one of the most profitable in the Okanagan. Don’t try to tell me it still is. What we have here is a vineyard full of baco noir, verdelet, and Seyve-Villard—grapes my father planted sixteen years ago—grapes that have little cachet in today’s varietal-driven market. Dammit, my grandmother should have seen what was happening! She should have anticipated—’

‘Your grandmother had been failing for some time before her accident. She hired a temporary manager, but he didn’t work out, and after that, she let things slide—’

‘Didn’t you take any interest in the vineyards? After all, it was Brannigan money that brought you up and has given you the high standard of living you enjoy here—’

‘Now just a minute! When I was teaching, I contributed more than my fair share to the household expenses—’

‘—and it’ll be the interest from Brannigan capital that will in the future keep you in the luxury you’re—’