A Miracle for His Secret Son / Proud Rancher, Precious Bundle. Barbara Hannay

it would become impossibly difficult. Taking a deep breath, she folded her hands carefully in her lap.

      ‘I really am very grateful that you’ve come here, Gus. I know you must be puzzled, but I’m hoping that you might be able to help me.’

      ‘You said it was a matter of life and death.’

      She nodded.

      ‘I hoped you were being melodramatic.’

      ‘Unfortunately, no.’

      The last remnants of Gus’s smile vanished. Leaning forward, he reached for her hand. ‘Freya, what is it? What’s happened?’

      His touch was so gentle and he looked so worried she had to close her eyes. She hadn’t been able to broach this subject twelve years ago, and it was a thousand times harder now. Just thinking about what she had to tell him made her heart race and her stomach rebel.

      ‘Gus, before I tell you, I have to ask—are you married?’

      It was the worst possible moment for the waiter to return. Wincing, Freya dropped her gaze while the drinks were set on cardboard coasters in front of them.

      She reached for her purse, but Gus beat her to the draw.

      ‘My shout,’ he said.

      ‘But I owe you. You’ve come all this way.’

      He was already handing money to the waiter and she didn’t feel strong enough to argue. Instead, she thanked him and stirred her drink with a slim black straw, making the ice cubes clink and the slices of lemon and lime swirl.

      Frowning, Gus touched the tips of two fingers to the frosty outside of his beer glass. ‘I can’t help being curious. What does my marital status have to do with your problem?’

      She felt her cheeks grow hot. ‘It…could…complicate everything. If you were married, your wife might not want you to help me.’

      Heavens, she was making a mess of this and Gus looked understandably puzzled. She wished she could find a way to simply download everything she needed to tell him without stumbling through explanations, or grasping for the right words, or the right order to put them in. Surely, negotiating world peace would be easier than this.

      Clearly bewildered, Gus shot a glance to her left hand. ‘What about you? Are you married?’

      ‘Still single.’

      His eyes widened. ‘That’s a surprise. I thought you’d be snapped up by now.’

      I never gave them a chance, Freya thought.

      Gus set his glass down and eyed her levelly. ‘I was married three years ago,’ he said.

      She had steeled herself, determined not to mind, but this wasn’t just a matter of hurt pride. She did mind. Very much. Now Gus would have to discuss her problem with his wife and how could she be sure another woman would be sympathetic?

      Gus swallowed, making the muscles in his throat ripple. ‘My wife died.’

      ‘Oh.’ A whisper was all Freya could manage. She was swamped by a deluge of emotions—sympathy and sadness for Gus mixed, heaven help her, with jealousy for the woman who’d won his heart. ‘Gus, I’m so sorry. Were you married long?’

      ‘A little over a year. We met when we were both working in Africa. My wife, Monique, was French—a doctor with Médecins Sans Frontières.’

      So his wife had been clever, adventurous and courageous, and filled with high ideals. In other words, she was exactly like Gus. She’d been perfect for him.

      ‘That’s so sad.’ To her shame, Freya was torn between compassion for Gus’s pain and her relief that one hurdle had been removed.

      Gus said grimly, ‘I guess you’d better tell me what this is all about. What’s your problem?’

      Her heart took off like a steeplechaser. ‘Actually, it’s my son who’s in trouble.’

      ‘Your son?’ Gus repeated, clearly shocked.

      All the worry and tension of the past weeks rose inside Freya and she felt like a pressure cooker about to blow its lid. Her lips trembled, but she willed herself to hold everything together. She mustn’t break down now.

      ‘So you’re a single mum?’

      She nodded, too choked up to speak.

      ‘Like your mother.’

      She managed another nod, grateful for the lack of condemnation in his voice. Of course, Gus had never been a snob like his father. He’d never looked down his nose at Sugar Bay’s hippies.

      Just the same, his observation was accurate. Freya had followed in her mother’s footsteps. In fact, Poppy had actively encouraged her daughter into single motherhood.

       We can raise your baby together, darling. Of course we can. Look at the way I raised you. We’ll be fine. We’re alike, you and me. We’re destined to be independent. You don’t need a man, love.

      Unfortunately, Poppy had been wrong. The terrible day had arrived when neither of them was able to help Nick—and Freya had no choice but to seek help from this man, his father.

      Gus was watching her closely, his expression a mixture of frowning puzzlement and tender concern. ‘Are you still in contact with the boy’s father?’

      It was too much. Her eyes filled with tears. She’d waited too long to tell him this—twelve years too long—and now she had to deliver a terrible blow. It was so, so difficult. She didn’t want to hurt him.

      She had no choice.

      Clinging to the last shreds of composure, she looked away from him to the flat sea stained with the spectacular colours of the sunset. She blinked hard and her throat felt as if she’d swallowed broken glass.

      Beside them, a party of young people arrived on the balcony, laughing and carefree, carrying their drinks and calling to each other as they dragged tables together and sat in a large happy circle. It was a scenario Freya had seen many, many times at the pub on the Sugar Bay waterfront. Once, she and Gus had been part of a crowd just like that.

      Terrified that she might cry in public and cause Gus all kinds of embarrassment, she said, ‘I’m sorry. Would you mind if we went somewhere else to talk about this? We could go for a walk, perhaps?’

      ‘Of course.’

      Gallantly, he rose immediately and they took the short flight of steps down to The Esplanade that skirted Darwin Harbour.

      Offshore, yachts were racing, bright spinnakers billowing, leaning into a light breeze. The same breeze brought the salty-sharp smell of coral mingled with the scent of frangipani blossoms. The breeze played with Freya’s hair and she didn’t try to hold it in place. Instead, she wrapped her arms protectively over her front as Gus walked beside her, his hands sunk in the pockets of his light-coloured chinos.

      ‘Are you OK, Freya?’

      ‘Sort of.’ She took a deep breath, knowing that she couldn’t put this revelation off a second longer. ‘You asked if I’ve been in touch with my son’s father.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘I haven’t, Gus.’

      She slid a wary sideways glance his way and she saw the exact moment when he realised. Saw his eyes widen with dawning knowledge, and then a flash of horror.

      He stopped walking.

      The colour drained from his face as he stared at her. ‘How old is this boy?’

      His voice was cold and quiet, and Freya’s heart pounded so loudly it drummed in her ears.

      ‘He’s eleven—almost eleven and a half.’

      Gus shook his head. ‘No way.’

      He