Her smile might not be like her son’s but it was a good one. Her smile said smile back.
He couldn’t make himself smile. The child’s face.
Nate.
Suddenly he was eleven years old again. His mother’s words: ‘Forget your brother. Your father doesn’t want you—he and your father are one family, we’re another.’
Only he and his mother weren’t a family. He’d been used as a possession to be claimed in a messy divorce. Nothing more.
‘I’m Dusty,’ the child said, happy to chat. ‘Who are you?’
The child wasn’t Nate. He needed to pull himself together.
‘I need to read,’ he said, almost reluctantly. Even without the unsettling resemblance to his brother, there was something about the pair of them that made him want to know more.
No! This woman looks like a single mother, his antenna was saying. What about his resolution? No women for Christmas.
But his antenna was still working overtime.
Nate …
There were a million children in the world who’d look like his brother, he told himself. Get over it.
‘Sorry we bothered you,’ the woman said, and smiled again, and her smile was almost magnetic.
That smile …
Back off. Now.
He was being dumb. ‘It’s fine,’ he said, gruffly. Why not tell the child his name? ‘And I’m …’
‘Leave the gentleman alone,’ the woman said. ‘He wants to read.’
His thoughts exactly. Only they weren’t … exactly.
Uh-oh. Jess was feeling disconcerted, to say the least. She’d had no idea the presence of this man could have such an effect on her.
He was an Oaklander. What was it with this family?
Danger.
But then, thankfully, one of the elderly ladies, the one with the limp, produced a baby wombat from inside her jacket, and started to feed it.
This event was so extraordinary Dusty’s interest switched in an instant. Yes! The last thing Jess wanted was introductions all round.
Had Nate told his brother about Dusty’s existence? She suspected not, but his father might have relayed his dealings with her. Her name might mean something.
As did the fact that Dusty looked like Nate.
But the brothers hadn’t been close. In fact, Nate had shown nothing but disdain for his big brother.
She should relax. It was unfortunate that they were on the same boat, but the trip would soon be over. She could figure out how to introduce them when she had herself more together. And meanwhile …
A baby wombat …
Fascinated herself, she moved closer.
The woman had been wearing a sleeveless fleece jacket, which had seemed a bit unnecessary on such a fabulous day. Now she realised why. The wombat had been tucked into a pouch, taking warmth from the woman’s body. It was still snuggled in the jacket which was now being used as a blanket.
The creature was tiny, the size of a man’s fist. It was pink-bald, with fur just starting to develop across its back. It lay cradled in the fleece, while its carer patiently encouraged it to attach to the teat of what looked like a miniature baby bottle.
‘It’s a wombat,’ Dusty breathed, edging closer to the woman, fascinated. ‘A baby. Where’s his mum?’
‘His mother was hit by a car,’ the younger of the women told them. ‘Horrid things, cars.’
‘You’re taking him to Cassowary Island to look after him?’
‘It’s a wildlife shelter,’ the woman said, talking to Dusty as if he were an adult. ‘There are no predators for wombats over there. He’ll be safe.’
‘What are predators?’
‘Things that want to kill wombats.’
Dusty inched closer still, and so did Jess. The other woman also had a bulge under her jacket. As she tried not to look, it … moved.
‘You both have passengers,’ she breathed.
‘Don’t tell the skipper or we’ll have to pay,’ the wombat lady said, chuckling. The name tags on their uniform said they were Marge and Sally. Marge, the wombat lady, looked to be in her late seventies. She looked drawn, Jess thought suddenly, the professional side of her kicking in. In pain? But all the woman’s attention was on the wombat she was feeding. ‘We smuggle our babies all the time,’ she told Dusty.
‘The skipper knows,’ the lady called Sally retorted. ‘We’re not doing anything illegal. But they do need to be carried under our jackets.’
‘Why?’ Dusty was riveted.
‘Body warmth,’ Marge said. ‘Pop your hand under your T-shirt and tell me that’s not a warm, soft place to keep a baby.’ She cast him a shrewd look. ‘If you like, after he’s fed, I’ll let you wear the pouch until we reach the island. If you promise to be careful.’
‘Oh, yes …’
‘How old is he?’ Jess asked.
‘About two months,’ Marge told her. ‘He was born about the size of a jelly bean. He had no hair, and his skin was thinner than paper. But like all baby wombats, after he was born he’ll have managed to wriggle into his mum’s pouch. Normally he’d stay in his nice, safe pouch for about eight months but this little guy has a horror story. His mum was hit by a car and killed. It was only because a passerby knew to check her pouch that he came to us.’
‘You’re using a special formula?’ Jess was crouched on the deck, watching the tiny creature feed, as riveted as her son.
‘In an emergency we can give normal powdered milk, half-strength,’ Marge said. ‘But now he’s with us, we give him special wombat formula. Sally has a half-grown echidna under her vest. They’re both mammals. They drink milk but they need their own milk. Cow’s milk is for baby cows.’
‘And for us,’ Dusty said.
‘Not when you were tiny,’ Marge retorted. ‘I bet you had your mum’s milk.’
‘Did I?’ Dusty demanded.
‘I … Yes,’ Jess said—and for some dumb reason she blushed. Which was stupid. As natural a thing as breastfeeding. What was there to blush over in that?
But … an Oaklander was listening.
He’d abandoned his reading and strolled along the deck to see.
Ben Oaklander …
‘Every species has its own particular milk,’ he growled, but his voice was softer now, no longer repelling. ‘Designed exactly for that baby.’
‘So my mum’s milk was designed for me?’ Dusty demanded of him, and Jess saw Ben start a little, as if he hadn’t expected to be drawn into a conversation with a child.
She watched him turn professional as a way to deal with it. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to talk but the sight of the little creature had drawn him in. He squatted and touched the tiny wombat, stroking him lightly with one long finger, all his attention on the baby. ‘Yes,’ he said, softly, looking at the little wombat and not at Dusty. ‘When you were born, your mother had immunity from the germs she meets every day. By drinking