Combatting Fear Read online

  A smile split the craggy face. “Hell yeah.”

  Micah opened the passenger door and pointed out the finer features of the interior. Then he popped the hood and they talked cylinders, horsepower and fuel economy. He was comfortable chatting to blue collar workers. Not only did he employ a lot of them, but he’d also been one once: dishwashing in a restaurant from the age of fourteen, and then a fly-in fly-out job at the Bulga Coal Mine.

  The Kelpie now wagged its tail and strained against the rope securing it to the ute, and the farmer finally thrust a calloused hand at Micah. “So, what are you doing in Turners Gully? Not much call for suits here.”

  “I’m visiting a friend. You might know her. Chelsea Matten?” It was safest to stick to her alias for now.

  “Yeah, I’ve heard the name but haven’t met her. I don’t come into town that often.”

  Micah smiled at the reference of the one-store, one-pub street as town. “You wouldn’t happen to know where she lives, would you?”

  “Don’t suppose I would.” The bloke pushed the rim of his hat back and narrowed his eyes. “You could ask Beth in the store. She knows everyone in town.”

  “Thanks.” Micah nodded and headed up the steps of the general store.

  Yes, he’d come a long way since labouring in a mine, and it had only been a chance meeting with the CEO that had opened up opportunities Micah had never dreamed of. Being taken under the wing of someone who had already found success was luck, but it had been his own efforts that had harnessed that opportunity to his advantage.

  There was a lot left to chance in life. In fact, he was relying on a lucky break to find Chelsea right now, but he wouldn’t sit around waiting for it to happen. He would use every resource available to him to bring his son home.

  • • •

  Neve scanned every corner of the gravel car park as she crossed to her car, aware for the first time how secluded it was. A narrow park with a deep creek flanked one side, and steep private properties were on two other sides. No sign of Mr. Kincaid. Maybe he wasn’t as persistent as she’d assumed.

  She got into her car and stopped it at the road verge to check for oncoming traffic. Her heart skipped a beat. The tan car was parked a short distance up the hill. It looked like she’d made the right choice with this plan to secret Rowan away.

  With a slow turn of her head, she faced the opposite direction, pulled onto the main road, and went hard left. Her deliberately unhurried pace didn’t expose the real panic inside. A hundred metres down the road; she checked her rear-view mirror and snuck down a dirt laneway.

  She left the car idling at the end of the lane, where Mrs. Burke waved gardening shears from her front yard.

  “Hello, Neve. Is everything all right?”

  Should she brush off the busybody or get her onside with a tidbit of information?

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Burke. Everything’s fine, but it would be great if you could pretend you didn’t see me.”

  “Oh, reeeally?”

  “We’re having a custody issue. Nothing to worry about.”

  “Of course. Mum’s the word.” Mrs. Burke pressed a withered finger across her bleeding lipstick. “It’s all very cloak-and-dagger, isn’t it? Just like a Ruth Rendell mystery.”

  “Umm, sure. Thanks for your discretion.”

  “You’re welcome, dear. Anything to keep the kiddies safe.”

  Neve peeked over the back fence of the kindy and beckoned to Annemarie and Rowan. She bundled the little boy into the booster seat in the back of her car and waved good-bye to Mrs. Burke.

  When she stopped at the intersection, she half expected to see Mr. Kincaid standing in the middle of the road with hands on hips . . .but he wasn’t.

  It was only a five-minute drive up the steep hill, along narrow, winding roads to Chelsea’s house. The two-storey McMansion was balanced at the top of Sugarloaf Hill with a panoramic view of Adelaide city and the coast.

  Another person with more money than sense. How anyone could justify a house that size for one family was beyond Neve’s comprehension. She parked by the portico, ignoring Chelsea, who tapped a sandalled toe in the doorway. Neve unbuckled Rowan. That brown hair, those chubby cheeks and innocent eyes. Rowan’s physical likeness to her late brother, Carlos, was uncanny—painfully so. The grief of losing Carlos and her mum had been buried deep, until Rowan had been enrolled at the kindy a couple of months ago.

  He grinned up at her as he slipped his hand in hers, and she led him up the stairs.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Matten.”

  “I hope you made sure you weren’t followed,” Chelsea snapped. “I’m terrified of that man, you know.”

  Neve narrowed her eyes. Chelsea didn’t look the least bit afraid. With one hand on the hip of a tailored pantsuit and ruby-red lips pulled into a thin line, she looked . . .inconvenienced.

  “You know I’d never let anything happen to any of the children. I snuck out the back, like I said I would.”

  Rowan yawned, and Neve tousled his mop of brown hair. “I think this little mite is tuckered out. He had a big day in the sandpit.”

  Rowan held up a sheet of paper with a crayoned landscape and stick figures on it. “Look at the picture I made, Mummy.”

  Chelsea gave it a cursory glance. “That’s lovely, Rowan. Now how about you go to your room so I can talk to Miss Botticelli.”

  Rowan crossed the marbled foyer and climbed the stairs, head bowed, tiny knapsack dragging beside him. If Neve had a child, she’d take every opportunity to let him know how special he was. No doubt Chelsea was too busy getting her nails sculpted and hair dyed to spend time talking about rainbows and butterflies. Right now the woman’s plucked eyebrows were arched high.

  “Now, I want to know exactly what Micah said.”

  Interesting that Chelsea was so sure of his first name, because Neve didn’t know it and hadn’t given her a description of Mr. Kincaid. Chelsea seemed quite convinced that the man was her ex-husband. And that was the other anomaly. Chelsea had called him her ex, but Mr. Kincaid was wearing a wedding ring. So either he was lying about how long he’d been chasing her or he’d remarried. The latter seemed like the most likely scenario, because someone that handsome and wealthy wouldn’t remain on the market for long. Not that his financial status personally appealed to Neve.

  “He asked to see Rowan Kincaid, Matten, Smith, or Sharp. I told him I couldn’t confirm if we had a child enrolled by those names, but he insisted his son was there.”

  A sly grin spread across Chelsea’s face.

  Neve continued. “I asked him to leave, but he parked on the street. I assume he was waiting to see you.”

  “Yes, well, you should be careful of him.”

  “Honestly, he looked more flustered than dangerous.”

  “Looks can be deceiving. Don’t you even think about telling him where I live.”

  “Of course I won’t.” A muscle twitched in Neve’s cheek. Chelsea always managed to rub her the wrong way. “Perhaps you should call the police if you’re so worried about Rowan’s safety.”

  “I am quite capable of managing the situation.”

  Hang on a minute, Mr. Kincaid had said . . .“You’re not going to leave Turners Gully, are you?” Neve asked.

  “I may have to take Rowan out of kindy until this blows over. I’ll let you know.” Chelsea stepped back and closed the door in Neve’s face.

  Chapter 4

  Neve needed to work off some of the day’s angst before going home to a different kind of tension, so she headed to Jack’s Shed. It was a long cry from an upmarket gym, with basic equipment on a cement floor and Jack’s house behind it. Simple—just the way she liked it.

  Jack was an unofficial social worker in the area. He stopped the local teenagers from spending all of their time driving around and tearing up trouble, by teaching them to box. He encouraged them to finish school and then helped them find work. Jack meant the world to a lot of people in Turners Gully, but he was even more than th
at to her. He was her tether to a normal life.

  She parked at one end of the forecourt and moseyed into the galvanised shed. There was a boxing ring at one end and free weights at the other. No programmable machines beeping complicated readouts, just effort and sweat.

  “Evening.” Jack Burton looked like your average grandpa in a singlet, with thin white hair slicked back from a deeply lined forehead and sagging jowls, but his arms were defined with decades-old muscle, and he could still go a few rounds with the best of them.

  She gave him a high five. “How’s business?”

  “Nothing since the midday crowd cleared out, so I can spot for you if you want. Make sure you’re not slacking off.” His sly grin defied his serious tone.

  “Just as well you’re here to keep an eye on me. Give me a minute to stretch.”

  There were no lockers, so Neve tossed her gym bag on the open shelving along the back wall and breathed through a few stretches, feeling the tension of the morning leave her body.

  Jack cocked his head at the sound of a deep, throaty rumble. Neve listened too. As it got louder, she recognised the unmistakeable thunder of a group of motorcycles. Tremors from the big engines vibrated through the soles of her feet.

  Jack scowled. “That’s the third time this month the Mutts have been through here.”

  “What would the outlaw bikie gang be doing in Turners Gully?”

  “Nothing good.”

  “How do you know it’s them? It might just be a group of Harley riders.”

  “I was out the front last week and recognised the insignia. I’ve seen it on the news before. Anyway, how’s your dad?”

  “Okay. He wouldn’t settle last night.”

  “Nightmares?”

  “Yeah. Sometimes I get tired of all the drama.”

  Jack rested a hand on her shoulder. “That’s only natural, but there’s no such thing as a normal family. You know that, right? They come in all shapes and sizes, and sometimes they aren’t even related.” He grinned, revealing a couple of gaps in his teeth from his boxing days.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. “You’re better than any real uncle.” She hugged him tightly, and when she let go, a rosy tint had crept across Jack’s cheeks. “Plus you understand Tony.”

  The truth was, it was nice to have someone to dilute the intensity of her dad’s anxiety issues now and then.

  “I know it’s been hard since you lost your mum and Carlos, but you’ve still got your dad and me. It’s more than some people have, love.”

  “I know. Hey, you should come over for dinner on the weekend.”

  “It’s a date, and I’ll bring the wine. Now quit gas-bagging and start pumping iron.”

  • • •

  Micah watched the blonde woman, Annemarie, lock the kindergarten door, get in her car, and drive away. Alone.

  “God damn it!” He banged his fists on the steering wheel.

  He’d hardly moved from his car all morning, other than to use the public toilet up the road. He’d seen Miss Botticelli leave the kindergarten an hour ago, but she definitely didn’t have anyone else in the car with her, so he hadn’t followed. At eleven thirty, parents had arrived to pick up their children. He’d made sure Rowan hadn’t left with any of them either, and he hadn’t see Chelsea.

  He fingered the binoculars on his lap. How the hell had he missed them? He’d been so sure that Rowan was in there. The tightness in his gut knotted into a solid lump.

  Someone had pulled a swifty, and he’d be the one to pay the price.

  Suddenly he couldn’t draw breath. He tried to drag in air, but his chest was trying to collapse in on itself. With one hand over his thumping heart, he shoved the car door open and stumbled onto the footpath.

  I’m having a heart attack. Not again!

  The doctor had assured him his heart was strong as an ox, but right now Micah felt feeble. With both palms pressed on the cool steel of the car roof, he lowered his head and closed his eyes.

  Breathe. It’s just a panic attack. All you have to do is breathe.

  The street sounds were muffled through the fog of oxygen deprivation, and his body swayed. Chelsea was going to be the death of him.

  He hadn’t suffered like this since he was a teenager. All this stress was making old fears resurface. It didn’t matter how many times he told himself that not being able to find Rowan wasn’t the same as abandoning him. It was too similar to the dereliction by his own father.

  But Rowan would understand. Wouldn’t he?

  Finally, Micah managed to suck in enough air to stop the scenery from rolling, but his cheeks felt hot in the cool air. Well, he wasn’t giving up. Rowan was close; he could feel his own blood pumping through his son’s tiny body somewhere nearby.

  “Damn her!” He slammed his fist into the car door and was satisfied by the small dent . . .for about two seconds. Then pain shot up his forearm and he spun in circles, shaking his hand. “This is all her fault. Shit, that hurt.”

  He inspected the raw scrape across his knuckles. Stupid move, and he couldn’t really blame Chelsea. Someone had to be encouraging her, because he’d never done anything to deserve this. And his best guess was the new boyfriend, Dave.

  It was the separation from Rowan that Micah couldn’t stand. He was usually a reasonable man . . .but even reason had its limits.

  He knew what it meant not to have a dad to look up to, to rely on, to love you unconditionally. I will not be an absent father!

  It felt like a week since Shannon had called about the post office box, but it was barely eighteen hours. He glared at the vacant kindergarten building. What he needed was to think this through logically. He’d go in the direction he’d seen Neve head earlier.

  The Bentley’s rear tires threw gravel across the intersection as he hauled the vehicle left. Driving aimlessly along back roads was nothing new. He had done it enough times hoping to spot Chelsea in other towns. Done it and hated it. The futility stripped his life down to an iced coffee and stale pastry from a service station, when he should be dining on medium-rare filet steak in his favourite restaurant on the wharf at Circular Quay or signing off on a multi-million-dollar wind farm deal. But all the money he’d worked so hard to amass amounted to useless excess if he couldn’t keep his family together.

  His cursed father had chosen to leave his family, but Micah wasn’t being given any options. When a man walked away from his wife and children, it left a huge hole of tattered self-doubts and insecurities. When that man was cruel enough to take everything with him—car, house, money—it meant going from a mansion to a caravan, from a full pantry to missed meals. Well, he’d exacted his revenge on his father, and he wasn’t going to fail his own family.

  The road climbed past hobby farms, wound around gnarled gum trees whose roots had lifted the bitumen, cleared a crest, and then descended again. Micah had no idea where he was until he spotted a familiar sign: Cabernet Bed-and-Breakfast. He’d been this way before. He stomped on the brake. Sleeping in the car again wasn’t appealing. He rubbed the persistent ache in his neck. He was a long way from the Hyatt. This would do.

  The steep driveway rose through an olive grove, flattened out at the top of the hill, and circled a manicured lawn. Standard roses played ring-a-rosy around a central fountain in front of a white-and-green bungalow with a lichen-stippled roof. He parked at the foot of the steps, climbed to the porch, and pressed a brass button beside a sign that read Office.

  A bell chimed inside, and quick footfalls approached.

  The door cracked open. “Good evening, may I help you?” A slender woman with long, iron-grey hair framing a softly furrowed face smiled up at him.

  “I’d like a room if you have one available.”

  Her wine-coloured lips thinned as she looked him up and down.

  Micah smoothed his shirt. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’ve been travelling.”

  She opened the door farther. “Oh, I can sympathise with that. I’m Mrs
. Travaglia. Won’t you come this way?”

  He followed her into a small room that was probably a converted lounge, where she slipped behind a reception counter. The office was small, but homely: a wire holder on the wall crammed with tourist brochures, a floral couch, a drink fountain, and jars of homemade jam on the counter. A second woman with long, dark hair sat at a corner desk, staring intently at a computer screen.

  “We pride ourselves on personal service and privacy at Cabernet Bed-and-Breakfast. How many nights will you be staying with us, Mr. . . .?”

  “Kincaid.”

  The woman at the desk straightened and glanced his way.

  “Can I book for two nights and see how I go from there?”

  “Of course. Now let me take down a few details, and then I’ll show you to your cabin. What was your first name, Mr. Kincaid?”

  “Micah.”

  The woman in the corner now turned all the way around to study him. He pretended not to notice and fiddled with a tourist brochure on the counter.

  “Would you prefer hot or cold breakfast provisions? A newspaper?”

  “There’s no need to bother with any services, thank you. I won’t be spending much time in the room.”

  Mrs. Travaglia finished writing in her book and took key number four from a hook on the wall.

  “I’ll show Mr. Kincaid to his room.” The other woman leapt to her feet, wide smile in place. “Hi, I’m Bronwyn Travaglia.” She held an elegant hand out for him to shake. “Don’t hesitate to let me know if there’s anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable.”

  The older woman sighed and handed the key over.

  Micah followed the talkative Bronwyn outside and around to the back of the house, where six wooden cabins nestled against the hill. She had the same long face, elegant movements and bone structure as the older Travaglia woman. In the cabin, she went to great lengths to show him every facility. He dutifully followed and approved of each area, ending back at the front door. He put his laptop on the circular dining table and gazed out the large front window. The cabin had a pleasant view of lush hills dotted with grazing cows and an olive grove. The perfect place to hide away from the business world for a few days.