One-Night Pregnancy Read online

  At one point she had to stop because of a burning stitch in her side, and she fell over once. Only the rope stopped her from cartwheeling down the incline.

  Fortunately they were level with each other, and she caught sight out of the corner of her eye, during the regular sweep of his torch, of a rock he didn’t see. A rock that looked to be teetering dangerously, directly above them. With a high-pitched yell, she cannoned into him, catching him off-balance and pushing him with all her might. They rolled away only inches from where the rock passed on its deadly way down the hillside.

  Just as she felt she could go no further, they reached some flat ground, a grassy little plateau, and another sweep of the torch revealed a shed below the hillside, at the far end of it.

  ‘Oh, thank heavens,’ she breathed, but sank to her knees in utter exhaustion. ‘I just need—a—little break, though. Not long,’ she assured her companion, her voice coming in great gasps.

  He came to stand over her and shone the torch down on her. She couldn’t read his expression. She couldn’t actually think straight, she just did as she was told.

  ‘You hold this,’ he said, and gave her the torch. She took it, and was completely unprepared to be hoisted to her feet and then up into his arms.

  ‘But—but—what are you doing?’ she stammered as he started to walk. ‘I really—’

  ‘Shut up, Mrs Smith,’ he recommended. ‘You’ve actually been rather amazing yourself, and you probably saved my life. It’s the least I can do. Would you mind directing the torchlight forward?’

  Bridget hastily repositioned the torch so he could see where he was going, and unwittingly began to relax. More than that, she had to admit to herself that it was heaven. His arms felt amazingly strong; she felt amazingly safe. And she had seriously to doubt she could have covered the remaining ground on her own two feet, because she felt as weak as a kitten.

  They reached the shed.

  ‘It’s locked,’ he said as he put her down. ‘But on a night like tonight, and since we’re not here to rob anyone, I don’t suppose they’d mind if we do this.’ And with a single stroke of the axe, pulled from his belt, he broke the padlock.

  ‘Yes, well.’ Bridget blinked a little dazedly. ‘You’re probably right. And we can always replace things.’

  He looked down at her with a faint smile. ‘We can, indeed. After you, ma’am.’

  Bridget shuffled into the shed and made a sound of heartfelt approval at what she saw. In fact she discovered herself to be feeling a lot less sandbagged as she looked around.

  It was an old shed, and didn’t look particularly solid, but there were bales of straw stacked high against one wall, a double bed against another. There were some paraffin lamps, hanging on hooks, a kettle and a primus stove, some chipped mugs and a tea caddy standing on an upturned tea chest. There were racks of neatly sorted horse gear: headstalls, bridles, saddles and brushes. Three old thin towels hung on a railing, along with two light horse rugs.

  There was also a wood-burning stove, with a chimney going through the roof. It was packed with paper and billets of wood.

  ‘Glory be,’ Adam remarked. He raised his voice against the drumming of rain on the tin roof. ‘In these conditions you could call this place the Numinbah Hilton.’

  Bridget chuckled. Then she sobered. ‘Those children—’ she began.

  ‘Bridget.’ He turned to look down at her. ‘We did our best. It’s a small miracle we weren’t drowned in the process. They will be fine, riding it out somehow. Just hold onto that thought.’

  ‘But I was wondering—there must be a road to here, and maybe we could go for help.’

  ‘I had the same thought,’ he said. ‘Do you have any idea where we are?’

  ‘Well, no, but—’

  ‘Neither do I,’ he broke in. ‘In fact I’m thoroughly disorientated after all the twists and turns that creek took. We could get even more hopelessly lost, whereas in the daylight this could be a good point of reference. We may even be able to flag a passing helicopter. There’s bound to be some State Emergency Services scouting the area after a storm like this. But, listen, just in case there’s a house attached to this paddock and shed, I am going to scout around a bit. As for you—’ he scanned the dirty, sopping length of her ‘—first of all, do you have any sprains, strains, fractures or the like?’

  Her eyes widened. ‘No, I don’t think so. Just a few bruises and scrapes.’

  ‘OK—now, you may not approve of this suggestion, but it’s an order, actually, and you can hold it against me as much as you like.’ For a moment there was a rather mercilessly teasing glint in his eyes.

  She stiffened her spine against that glint. ‘What order?’ she asked with hauteur.

  He studied her tilted chin and smiled briefly. ‘I don’t know if you noticed a tank at the corner of the shed, collecting rainwater from the roof?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Well, it’s there, and it’s overflowing. After I’ve gone, go out, take your clothes off, and stand under the overflow pipe. Wash all the mud, blood and whatever off yourself, then stand under the water for a couple of minutes. Do your bruises a world of good. But I’ll get the fire going first.’ He turned away.

  ‘I—’ she started to say mutinously.

  ‘Bridget,’ he returned dangerously over his shoulder, ‘don’t argue.’

  ‘But I’ve got nothing to wear!’

  ‘Yes, you have.’ He pointed to one of the railings. ‘You can wrap yourself in one of those horse rugs.’

  He did get the fire and three paraffin lamps going before he left.

  ‘Take care,’ she said. ‘I—I’m not too keen about being left on my own here. Naturally I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you, either.’ She grimaced. ‘That sounds like an afterthought if ever I heard one! But I do mean it.’

  He inclined his head and hid the smile in his eyes. ‘Thank you. I won’t be going too far. Not only because I don’t want to get lost, but also because I don’t want the torch to run out on me.’ He touched her casually on the cheek with his fingertips. ‘You take care too.’

  She watched him walk out of the shed into the rainswept night and swallowed back the cry that rose in her throat—the urge to tell him she’d go with him. Swallowed it because she knew that her brief resurgence of energy, such as it was, would not survive.

  So she forced herself to examine his suggestion—or order. She looked down at herself. She was a mess of mud, his shirt was caked with it, and below her legs were liberally streaked with it.

  It made sense, in other words, to get clean. If only she had something else to wear afterwards other than a horse rug…

  It was like the answer to a prayer. Some instinct prompted her to look under the pillows on the bed, and she discovered a clean pair of yellow flannelette pyjamas patterned with blue teddy bears.

  Under the second pillow was a pair of men’s tracksuit pants and a white T-shirt.

  ‘You beauty!’ she breathed. ‘Not only can I be comfortable overnight, but I won’t have to be rescued wearing a horse rug. And not only that, my fellow traveller can be decent and dry too—which is important, I’m sure. OK. Onward to the shower, Mrs Smith!’ And she marched out of the shed.

  It was a weird experience, showering beneath an overflow pipe in the middle of the night, in the middle of a deluge, in the altogether, even though there was a brief lull in the rain.

  She took a lamp with her, and found a hook on the shed wall for it. It illuminated the scene, and she could see a huge gum tree on the hill behind the shed, plus the ruins of some old stone structure.

  Definitely weird, she decided as the water streamed down her body, and freezing as well. But at least the tank stood on a concrete pad, and there was a concrete path to it from the shed door. She’d also discovered a bucket tucked behind the tank, with a piece of soap and a nailbrush in it.

  Did someone make a habit of showering from the rainwater tank? she wondered. Not that it would always be overf
lowing, but it had a tap. Maybe they filled the bucket from the tap and poured it over themselves?

  She didn’t stay around much longer to ponder the mysteries of the rainwater tank, but skipped inside and dried herself off in front of the fire. Then she examined herself, and, satisfied she would find no serious cuts, donned the teddy bear pyjamas.

  ‘Sorry,’ she murmured to the owner of the pyjamas. ‘I’ll get you a new pair!’

  And then she turned her attention to the primus stove and the possibility—the heavenly possibility—of making a cup of tea.

  Adam came back just as she was sipping strong black tea from one of the chipped mugs.

  ‘I’ve just made some tea. I’ll get you some. Any luck?’

  He peeled off his waterproof. ‘No—where did you get those?’ He eyed the yellow pyjamas patterned with blue teddy bears.

  She explained, and pointed out the track pants and T-shirt. ‘You know, I can’t help wondering if someone lives here at times.’ She poured bubbling water onto a teabag in the second mug and handed it to him.

  ‘I think you could be right—thanks. There’s no house nearby, but there’s evidence of some foundations. They’re probably using the shed while they build the house. The driveway leads to a dirt road—it’s now deep mud—with a locked gate.’

  ‘There may be horses out there—maybe fenced in.’

  ‘I hope there are, so long as they’re safe. The owners may come to check them out.’ He put his cup down. ‘You obviously took up my suggestion?’ He inspected her clean, shiny face.

  ‘I thought it was an order.’

  His lips twisted. ‘What was it like?’

  ‘Weird,’ she said with feeling. ‘But if I could do it, so could you.’

  ‘Just going, Mrs Smith,’ he murmured.

  Bridget watched the shed door close behind him and found herself standing in the same spot, still staring at the door a good minute later, as she visualised the man called Adam showering as she had done beneath the rainwater tank overflow. It was not hard to visualise his powerful body naked, that fine physique sleek with water…

  She blushed suddenly, and moved precipitately—only to trip. She righted herself and castigated herself mentally. Anyone would think she was a silly, starstruck schoolgirl! All right, yes, she might have come out in sudden goosebumps, but at twenty-three surely she had the maturity to recognise it as a purely physical reaction to a dangerously attractive man? Besides which, she was allergic to dangerously attractive men who turned out to be less than likeable—wasn’t she?

  All the same, when Adam came back from showering wrapped in a towel, and she turned away while he dried himself in front of the fire and donned the track pants and T-shirt, she was aware of him again in her mind’s eye. In a way that again raised goosebumps on her skin and caused her to feel a little hot.

  Stop it, Bridget, she commanded herself.

  An hour or so later another heavy storm broke overhead.

  It was close to midnight.

  Adam and Bridget were dozing side by side on the double bed when lightning illuminated the shed and a boom of thunder reverberated directly overhead, or so it seemed. Bridget woke and rolled towards Adam with a little cry of fear. He put his arms around her, but she started to shake with barely suppressed sobs.

  ‘It’s only another storm,’ he said, and stroked her hair.

  ‘I know,’ she wept, ‘but haven’t we been through enough? And I can’t stop thinking about those kids out there in this!’

  ‘Hush…Listen, I’m going to put some more wood on the fire. Then I’ll be right back.’

  He was as good as his word, and when he came back, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, he piled the pillows up behind them and pulled her loosely into his arms. ‘Tell me about yourself, Bridget. What do you do? Where were you born? What do your parents do?’

  ‘I work in a television newsroom. At the moment I’m everyone’s gofer, but I’m hoping for better things.’

  She shuddered as another crack of thunder tore the night but soldiered on.

  ‘I was born in Brisbane. My father died in an accident a few years ago, and my mother has remarried. She lives overseas at the moment. I did a BA at Queensland University, majoring in journalism. My father was a journalist, so I guess that’s where I get it from.’ She paused to consider for a moment.

  She did enjoy her job, but had she inherited her father’s passion for journalism? She sometimes stopped to wonder whether it had been her admiration for her father that had moved her to pursue the same career rather than a deep, abiding feel for it. She often found herself feeling restless, and as if she’d prefer to be doing something else—but what?

  Adam broke the silence and the train of her thoughts.

  ‘Now for the question of Mr Smith.’ He looked at her with suspicious gravity.

  Bridget bit her lip. ‘There is no Mr Smith. The ring…’ She fingered the chain around her neck. ‘It’s my mother’s, but since I didn’t know you, it seemed a good idea to invent a husband.’

  ‘I wondered about that.’

  ‘Why? I mean how could you tell I was lying?’

  He considered. ‘You have very revealing eyes. It also sounded like pure invention.’

  Bridget blushed faintly.

  He traced the outline of her chin lightly. ‘So, no romantic involvement at the moment?’

  Perhaps it was the storm raging overhead, perhaps it was the reassuring warmth of his proximity, but for whatever reason Bridget found herself telling Adam things she’d not told another soul. Things to do with how she had fallen madly in love at twenty-one, how it had led to an affair—a first for her—and how it had been a disaster.

  ‘He changed,’ she said sadly. ‘He became possessive, and yet…’ she paused ‘…oddly critical of me. But that was probably because I didn’t—well—I didn’t seem to be very good at sex. I think a lot of that was to do with the fact that I would really rather have waited—until we’d got engaged at least.’

  She heaved a heartfelt sigh and continued. ‘I—it didn’t take that long for me to discover I’d gone to bed with a man I didn’t seem to like much. Oh, he was good-looking, and fun to be with, but…’ She trailed off. ‘He became rather scary when I broke it off.’ She shrugged. ‘All of which amounts to the fact that I haven’t tried again—I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.’ She looked into Adam’s blue eyes, now thoroughly red-faced.

  ‘Maybe it needed to be told?’ he suggested, and stroked her hair. Creep, he thought at the same time, but didn’t say it. He did say, ‘Things could be quite different with the right man.’

  Bridget looked unconvinced, but didn’t pursue it. ‘Why did I talk about it now, though?’

  He stretched out his legs and pulled the one blanket around them. ‘It’s been quite a night. Fear, stress, physical exertion, highs and lows, and now an almighty electrical storm.’

  It’s more than that, Bridget thought. There’s something about this man that really appeals to me. He not only makes me feel safe, he makes me feel interested in him, as if I really want to get to know him and—

  She stopped her thoughts there. And what? She was very conscious of him physically, she answered herself, and she just couldn’t seem to help herself. Alive to all sorts of little things—like his hands. I love his hands, she decided suddenly. And the way his eyes can laugh, the way his hair falls in his eyes sometimes.

  ‘Not only that,’ he went on, and took his hand from her hair to rub his jaw ruefully, ‘what it makes you, Mrs Smith, is simply very human. We all make mistakes and some dodgy judgements.’

  Bridget thought for a moment, then said, ‘I guess so.’

  He grimaced at the lack of conviction in her voice. ‘But there must be more to Bridget Smith.’ He raised his voice as the thunder growled overhead. ‘Tell me about your likes and dislikes. What makes you tick?’

  ‘I’m very ordinary.’ She paused and cast him a suddenly mischievous little look. �
�Well, I do a lot of things fairly competently, but to date nothing outstand-ingly—although I’m living in hope that my true forte is still to make itself known.’

  He laughed. ‘What about all the things you do fairly well?’

  ‘Let’s see. I paint—at one stage I thought I might be the next Margaret Olley, as I love painting flowers, but not so. I also like doing landscapes. I play the piano, but any hopes I would be the next Eileen Joyce were dashed early on. Mind you, I still enjoy doing both. I once thought I’d like to be a landscape gardener. My parents had a few acres and I loved pottering around the garden.’

  She paused and thought. ‘And I ride—I love horses. I don’t have any of my own, although I did have a couple of ponies as a kid, and I help out at a riding school for disabled children. I seem to have a rapport with kids. Uh…I read all the time, I enjoy cooking, I enjoy being at home and pottering—oh, and I sing.’

  ‘Professionally?’ he queried.

  She shook her head, her eyes dancing. ‘No. I did believe I might be the next Sarah Brightman, but again not so. That doesn’t stop me from singing in the shower and anywhere else I can manage it.’

  ‘Sing for me.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Why not?’

  So she sang a couple of bars of ‘Memory’, from Cats, in her light, sweet soprano. When she’d finished she confessed she was mad about musicals.

  ‘You sound like a pretty well-rounded girl to me,’ he said, with a ghost of a smile still lurking on his lips. ‘In days gone by you would have had all the qualifications to be a genteel wife and mother.’

  ‘That sounds really—unexciting,’ she said with a gurgle of laughter. ‘But it’s probably in line with what one of my teachers told me. She said to me, “You’re not going to set the world on fire academically, Bridget, but you are a thoroughly nice girl.”’ She looked comically heavenwards. ‘Unexciting, or what?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ He grinned, and dropped a kiss on her forehead. ‘It’s nice to be nice, and I think you are nice.’