Miracle in Bellaroo Creek. Barbara Hannay

sorry.’

      Milla realised she was being carried in Ed’s arms with her face pressed against the solid wall of his chest. ‘I’m OK, Ed,’ she protested, although she was still feeling dizzy. ‘Put me down, please.’

      He was incredibly gentle as he lowered her to a chair. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

      ‘Yes, thank you.’ It wasn’t completely true. She was still dazed by the news.

      Harry couldn’t be dead. It was impossible. She felt sick and faint and she propped her elbows on the table and sank her head in her hands, trying to take the astonishing news in.

      Her husband was dead. The man who’d caused her so much initial joy and subsequent pain. Desperately handsome, dangerously charming, hurtful and selfish Harry Cavanaugh. Gone. For ever.

      When she’d left America she’d hated him. He’d lied and cheated on her one time too many, and in the worst possible way. In his final act of faithlessness, she’d come home unexpectedly early from an appointment with her obstetrician and found him in bed—their bed—with one of her so-called girlfriends.

      It wasn’t the first time and Milla knew she’d been foolish to forgive him in the past. Leaving Harry had been easy after that.

      But now...

      Death.

      No chance for forgiveness either way.

      Milla was aware that Ed had moved to the sink and was filling a glass with water.

      ‘Thanks,’ she said as he offered her the drink. She took a few small sips.

      ‘Milla, I’m sorry. I should have been more thoughtful—’

      ‘There’s no thoughtful way to break this kind of news. I made it difficult to be found, so it was good of you to come, Ed, to tell me face to face.’ She took another sip of water and forced herself to ask, ‘What happened? How did Harry—?’ But she couldn’t bring herself to say the dreadful word. ‘How did it happen?’

      ‘He crashed his plane.’

      ‘No.’ Milla flinched as she pictured the beautiful sleek and shiny jet—Harry’s pride and joy—crumpled. Burned. Harry inside.

      ‘It happened over the Mojave Desert,’ Ed said. ‘The funeral was last Thursday.’

      It was the same day she’d lost the baby. Remembering, she was so overwhelmed she had to cover her face with her hands. Sinking forward, she compressed her lips tightly to stop herself from sobbing out loud.

      By the time she was once again under control, Ed was at the side window, standing with his back to her and with his hands plunged deep in his trouser pockets as he looked out into the untidy, narrow alley between this shop and its neighbour.

      ‘I would have come back to the funeral,’ she said.

      Ed nodded. ‘I knew you would have, but we couldn’t find you.’

      ‘I’m sorry.’ She was. Truly sorry. Despite the many times Harry had hurt her, she still felt something for him, although she wasn’t quite sure what that something was.

      ‘Was there anyone else in the plane?’

      A muscle jerked in Ed’s jaw. ‘Yes.’

      ‘Not Julie?’

      ‘No,’ Ed said wearily. ‘Julie had already been passed over.’ He looked down at the floor and his throat worked as he swallowed, as if he hated what he had to tell her next. ‘It was Angela.’

      A groan broke from Milla. ‘Angela Beldon?’

      ‘Yes,’ Ed said unhappily.

      Another from her circle of so-called friends...

      Harry, you poor silly man...

      ‘It must be genetic, don’t you think?’

      ‘What’s that?’

      ‘The Cavanaugh male’s wandering eye.’

      Ed frowned. ‘You’re probably right.’ He sighed and turned back to the window, as if he hoped this difficult conversation had come to an end.

      He was every inch a Cavanaugh, with the family’s typically strong features and broad-shouldered muscularity. An inch or two taller than Harry, he was as dark as his younger brother had been fair, but, like the rest of the family, he had an indefinable masculine ruggedness that inevitably drew admiring glances from women.

      That was where the similarities ended, however. Ed was the serious, responsible member of the Cavanaugh clan. The Good Son, Harry had dubbed him, but, while Harry’s tone had been mocking, there’d been a hint of envy, too.

      Milla, for her part, had always been a little in awe of Ed, even a bit afraid of him.

      She was nervous now, realising that there had to be more to his sudden arrival in Bellaroo Creek than the delivery of bad news that could have been handled—now that they’d tracked her down—with a phone call.

      ‘I suppose you came all this way to talk about money,’ she said dully.

      Ed turned from the window. ‘It has to be discussed. Apart from anything else, we have to settle your inheritance.’

      She shook hear head.

      ‘As I’m sure you know,’ Ed went on, ‘my father placed certain restrictions on Harry. He made sure it was in your pre-nup.’

      Yes, Milla knew that Gerry Cavanaugh had learned hard lessons after being royally screwed by three wives. She had no intention of completing that pattern. ‘I don’t want Harry’s money.’

      Ed narrowed his smoky grey eyes as he studied her for long thoughtful seconds. Then he shrugged. ‘I know you gave up your right to the money when you left the marriage, but now that Harry’s...’ He swallowed unhappily. ‘Now that he’s...gone...you still have a claim as his widow.’

      ‘I said, I don’t want any of it, Ed.’ She was determined to manage on her own and she didn’t want money from anyone—not even her own parents, who would have happily helped her out if she’d let them. For now, she was pleased that her mother and father were safely overseas and unaware of her plans.

      Ed’s eyes widened as he stared at her, clearly taken aback by her claim. ‘Maybe it’s too soon for you to think about this.’

      Milla felt a stirring of impatience. She wasn’t playing games. She was deadly serious. She still had some money in her bank accounts and that was all she wanted.

      Most women would think she was crazy to knock back a fortune, and if she’d still had her baby to consider her reaction might have been different. But her take-home lesson from her marriage was that even Himalayan-sized mountains of money couldn’t buy the things that really mattered.

      Sure, money bought power and glamour and ease and moments of heady excitement, but in her four years of marriage and rubbing shoulders with the mega wealthy she’d never seen evidence that these things added up to genuine, lasting happiness.

      She only had to remember Heidi’s bone-deep contentment with her seemingly ‘boring’ life to reinforce this belief.

      ‘If you come back to the States,’ Ed said, breaking into her thoughts, ‘you and the baby will be much better off.’

      Shocked, she looked up swiftly. ‘You know about the—about my pregnancy?’

      ‘Yes,’ he said gently. ‘It’s wonderful news.’

      So Harry had told them, after all...

      ‘That’s why you’ve come, isn’t it? Old Gerry sent you. He wants his grandchild to live in America.’

      ‘It’s understandable, Milla.’

      ‘It’s not going to happen.’

      ‘Look,