‘I know how exactly you feel, old girl.’ Reaching down, Max gave the Labrador’s head a good rub. ‘I can’t believe she left you, too. But I s’pose you won’t fit in a city apartment.’
This thought brought a sharp slice of the pain that had tortured Max since the previous evening, when he’d arrived from the stockyards to find Carrie gone, leaving nothing but a letter.
In the letter she’d explained her reasons for leaving him, outlining her growing disenchantment with life in the bush and with her role as a cattleman’s wife.
On paper, it wasn’t convincing. Max might not have believed a word of it if he hadn’t also been witness to his wife’s increasingly jaded attitude in recent months.
It still made no sense. He was blowed if he knew how a woman could appear perfectly happy for two and a half years and then change almost overnight. He had a few theories about Carrie’s last trip to Sydney, but—
The phone rang again, interrupting his wretched thoughts.
Damn.
Unfortunately he couldn’t switch off the landline the way he could his cell phone. And now his conscience nagged. He supposed he should at least check to see who was trying to reach him. If the caller was serious, they would leave messages.
He took his time going back through the house to the kitchen, where the phone hung on the wall. There were two messages.
The most recent was from his neighbour, Doug Peterson.
‘Max, pick up the damn phone.’
Then, an earlier message.
‘Max, it’s Doug. I’m ringing from the Jilljinda Hospital. I’m afraid Carrie’s had an accident. Can you give me a call?’
‘GOOD MORNING, MRS KINCAID.’
Carrie sighed as the nurse sailed into her room. She’d told the hospital staff several times now that her name was Barnes, not Kincaid. More importantly she was Ms, or at a pinch Miss, but she had certainly never been Mrs.
Now this new nurse, fresh on the morning shift, removed Carrie’s breakfast tray and set it aside, then slipped a blood pressure cuff on her arm. ‘How are we this morning?’
‘I’m fine,’ Carrie told her honestly. Already the headache was fading.
‘Wonderful.’ The nurse beamed at her. ‘As soon as I’m finished here you can see your visitor.’
A visitor? Thank heavens. Carrie was so relieved she smiled. It was probably her mum. She would set this hospital straight, sort out the mistake, and tell the staff that her daughter was Carrie Barnes of Chesterfield Crescent, Surry Hills, Sydney. And most definitely not, as everyone here at this hospital mistakenly believed, Mrs Kincaid of the Riverslea Downs station in far western Queensland.
The blood pressure cuff tightened around Carrie’s arm and she resigned herself to being patient, concentrating on the view through the window. It was a view of gum trees and acres of pale grass, flat as football fields, spreading all the way to low purple hills in the distance. There was also a barbed wire fence and she could hear a crow calling...
Carrie experienced an uncomfortable moment of self-doubt.
The scene was so unmistakably rural, so completely different in every way from her home in the busy Sydney suburb of Surry Hills. She was used to trendy cafés, bars and restaurants, small independent bookstores and funky antique shops. She had no idea why she was here. How had she got all the way out here?
‘Hmm, your blood pressure’s up a bit.’ The nurse was frowning as she released the cuff and made notes on the chart at the end of Carrie’s bed.
‘That’s probably because I’m stressed,’ Carrie told her.
‘Yes.’ The nurse sent her a knowing smile. ‘But you’re sure to feel much happier when you see your husband.’
Husband?
Carrie flashed hot and cold.
‘But my visitor...’ she began, and then had to swallow to ease her suddenly dry mouth. ‘It’s my mother, isn’t it?’
‘No, dear. Your husband, Mr Kincaid, is here.’ The nurse, a plump woman of around fifty, arched one eyebrow and almost smirked. ‘I can guarantee you’ll cheer up when you see him.’
Carrie felt as if she’d woken up, but was still inside a nightmare. Fear and confusion rushed back and she wanted to pull the bedclothes over her head and simply disappear.
Last night the doctor had told her a crazy story: She’d fallen from a horse, which was laughable—the closest she’d ever been to a horse was on a merry-go-round. A couple called Doug and Meredith Peterson had brought her to the hospital after this fall, apparently, but she’d never heard of them, either. Then the doctor told her that she’d hit her head and had amnesia.
None of it made sense.
How could she have amnesia when she knew exactly who she was? She had no trouble rattling off her name and her phone number and her address, so how could she possibly have forgotten something as obvious as the doctor’s other preposterous claim—that she had a husband?
‘I’m sure I’m not married,’ she told the nurse now, just as she’d told the other white coats last night. ‘I’ve never been married.’ But even as she’d said this, hot panic swirled through her. She’d seen the pale mark on the ring finger of her left hand.
When had that happened?
How?
Why?
When she’d tried to ask questions the medical staff had merely frowned and made all sorts of notes. Then there’d been phone calls to specialists. Eventually Carrie had been told that she needed CT scans, which were not available here in this tiny Outback hospital. She would have to be transported to a bigger centre.
It had all been so crazy. So frightening. To Carrie’s shame she’d burst into tears and the doctor had prescribed something to calm her.
Obviously the small white pill had also sent her to sleep, for now it was already morning. And the man who claimed to be her husband had apparently driven some distance from his cattle property.
Any minute now he would be walking into her room.
What should she expect?
What would her husband expect?
Carrie wondered what she looked like this morning. She should probably hunt for the comb in the toiletries pack the hospital had provided and tidy her hair. Then again, why should she bother to look presentable for a man she didn’t know? A man who made such discomfiting claims?
Curiosity about her appearance got the better of her. She reached for the bag and found the comb and mirror inside.
The mirror was quite small, so she could only examine her appearance a section at a time. She saw a graze on her forehead and a bluish-black bruise, but otherwise she looked much the same as usual. Except...when she dragged a comb through her hair it was much longer than it should have been. Not a neat bob, but almost reaching her shoulders.
When had that happened? And her hair’s colour was a plain brown. But she’d always gone to Gavin, the trendiest hairdresser in Crown Street, to get blonde and copper streaks, with the occasional touch of aqua or cerise.
Carrie was still puzzling over this lack of colour when footsteps sounded outside in the corridor.
Firm, no nonsense, masculine footsteps.
Her heart picked up pace. She shoved the comb and mirror back in the bag and felt