really sorry,’ he told her, while Shanni practised her glare some more.
‘I thought you’d run away,’ Wendy said.
‘I won’t. I told you.’
‘Men tell lies. Mum said that. Men always tell lies.’
There was another lengthy pause, worse than the last. Pierce tried to think of what to say. Nothing came.
The silence extended. The three of them were gazing at him like he was a maw worm. Wendy and Shanni…even Bessy.
Then, ‘You know, my dad doesn’t tell lies,’ Shanni said, thoughtful. ‘Honest. And I’ve known my dad for twenty-nine years. He makes mistakes—once he even left me at the ice rink for five hours cos he was reading a really good book—but he doesn’t tell lies. Are you hungry?’ she asked him.
Food was the last thing he was thinking of. Though, come to think of it…
‘I guess I am a bit.’
‘There’s cold sausages,’ Wendy said. ‘We cooked a lot for lunch cos we thought you’d be home. And Shanni made choc-chip cookies.’
‘Shanni’s made choc-chip cookies?’ He stopped looking at Wendy. Yep, he’d betrayed a trust, and somehow he had to figure out a way to retrieve himself—but there was nothing he could do about that right now. But somehow Shanni’s ice-rink story had lessened the tension. And sausages…Choc-chip cookies…
‘They’re my specialty,’ Shanni said modestly. ‘You didn’t have choc chips so we had to squash a block.’
‘The fire’s not lit.’
‘We lit it,’ Wendy said. ‘We had to light it to get hot water to do the dishes. And I’ve eaten five choc-chip cookies.’
‘You lit the fire? But the wood…’
‘Shanni chopped it. The boys stacked it. The wood box is full.’
Shanni had chopped the wood. She’d lit the stove. She’d made choc-chip cookies. He stared.
‘I know,’ she said, pseudo-modest. ‘Call me Wonderwoman.’
‘Ruby said you’re an artist.’ His tone was almost accusatory. He heard it, and tried desperately to retrieve himself. ‘I mean…’
‘I think I’m converting to wood chopping,’ Shanni said. ‘I’ve failed cows’ legs, and chopping vents anger.’
‘Anger…’
‘Now, why would I be feeling anger?’ she said, to Wendy rather than him. ‘To be brought here under false pretences…’
Whoa. Things were spinning away from him. ‘False pretences?’ he said weakly.
‘One baby,’ she said, and tugged Wendy against her in another display of the power of sisterhood. Men, the gesture said. The despicable species. ‘One baby does not equate to five kids. Ruby told me one baby. I rang you from my friend’s and you said one baby.’
Uh-oh.
‘I didn’t say one baby,’ he said weakly. ‘But, yeah, Ruby would have told you one baby. To be honest, when you rang I thought I’d get you here any way I could and try and bribe you into staying once you got here.’
Beam me up now, Scotty, he thought bleakly. I’m an outright bastard.
But suddenly they had a diversion. Bessy had been nestling against Wendy’s shoulder, content from her drive. But Bessy was eight months old. She hadn’t been fed since breakfast. She was a young lady with chicken pox.
Bessy suddenly recalled all this in one huge momentous wash of outrage. She opened her mouth, and she yelled.
‘Can you stay at least until we’ve fed Bessy?’ Pierce asked over the yells.
‘I’m staying until you’ve done some explaining,’ Shanni said grimly. ‘I need to murder you or I need to murder my Aunty Ruby, and I can’t figure out which.’
She should leave.
Since Bessy’s initial howl there’d been no time to do anything but run. There certainly hadn’t been time for explanations.
Bessy had needed feeding, bathing, soothing, more soothing, more feeding. The kids had needed baths and dinner. The cattle had needed feeding. Okay, Pierce had done that one on his own. Shanni had stayed in the kitchen and supervised the kids’ dinner while watching Pierce out the window.
There was a huge cow—a bull?—in the paddock closest to the house. Pierce had wheeled a vast bale of hay to the gate on a hand cart, opened the gate and spread the hay.
Wasn’t that dangerous? The cow had looked…looked…
Cute, she’d decided as Pierce had scratched it behind the ear. The big creature had almost purred, leaning its big body against Pierce until he staggered. Really cute.
Actually, not as cute as Pierce.
He was tall and lean and angular. His deep brown curls were unkempt and too long. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days and he had shadows under his eyes. His jeans and windcheater looked like he’d been sleeping in them. He looked almost gaunt.
Her impression of Pierce aged fifteen had been that the guy was hot.
Nothing had changed.
What wasn’t hot was five children.
But she did feel sorry for him. To be stuck with five kids…
It was his choice.
It was hardly his fault that his wife had died.
No, but…
‘What are you thinking?’ Wendy asked shyly. The kids were tucking into scrambled eggs like there was no tomorrow.
‘I’m thinking you guys have hollow legs. What have you been eating?’
‘Pie…Dad’s not a very good cook.’
‘Do you call him Pierce?’
‘Yes, but not in front of people,’ Bryce told her, scooping up another mouthful of scrambled egg and closing his eyes in bliss. ‘This hasn’t got a single bit of black on it.’
‘Scrambled eggs is my second specialty, after choc-chip cookies.’
‘Pizza’s Dad’s specialty,’ Wendy said. ‘But the last time we ordered it Dad forgot we didn’t have any cash and the pizza guy wouldn’t take a cheque or credit card and now he won’t come back.’
‘I can make pizza.’
‘You’re kidding.’ It was Pierce, standing in the doorway, surveying the domesticity before him with amazement. ‘You cook pizza?’
‘She means she gets those boxes in the supermarket and thaws them out,’ Bryce said wisely.
‘I do not,’ she said, taking umbrage. ‘I can cook them from the ground up.’
‘Will you cook us one?’ Abby asked.
‘Maybe tomorrow. If I get the ingredients.’
‘Will you stay then?’ Donald was the quietest of the kids. He’d hardly spoken since she’d arrived. He’d simply watched her. Even when she’d set them all to painting, she’d been aware that Donald had never stopped watching her. Now he asked his question and it was like a challenge.
‘For tonight.’ She blinked. Yeah, okay, she was committing herself, but where else was she going to sleep? ‘Tell me you have a spare bed.’
‘We have a spare bedroom,’ Pierce said.
‘It’s Mummy’s bedroom,’ Donald said, still gazing at her with that unwavering stare.
Mummy’s