Rancher's Twins: Mom Needed Page 11

  She wanted freedom, not complications. Why would she put her heart at risk when she had a fabulous job lined up to go home to?

  Please don’t read too much into it he’d said.

  How could Gray kiss her into oblivion simply to shut her up? What was his problem? Where was the crime in asking him about his school? Or about his lack of books, for that matter.

  He knew schools and books were her thing, and just because—

  Oh, my God.

  A sudden chill skittered down Holly’s spine as all sorts of puzzling things about Gray suddenly started to fall into place.

  The lack of books in the Jabiru homestead. The fact that he’d never heard of Winnie-the-Pooh. His reaction in New York when she’d suggested he should read to his children. The way he’d waved away menus, and brushed aside the Central Park pamphlet—

  Could he have literacy problems?

  She stole a glance at him now…at the snug stretch of denim over his thighs to his strong, sun-weathered profile.

  Gray Kidman…expert cattleman, gorgeous, take charge of anything…

  Surely he couldn’t be illiterate?

  It was hard to take in.

  But if he’d grown up out here, miles away from schools and possibly without a tutor, it wasn’t too much of a stretch to believe that he might never have learned to read. He probably knew a few words that enabled him to function— Departures and Arrivals in airports, for example—but beyond that—

  Holly remembered his mother’s lack of warmth. What had her role been in her son’s early years? Had the tension between them started decades ago? Holly knew from her teacher training that literacy problems often stemmed from emotional issues connected to early schooling experiences.

  She also knew that illiterate people could still be incredibly astute and competent—and Gray was clearly intelligent and gifted. He made up poetry in his head. How many people did that? With Ted’s bookkeeping help, he managed his business very successfully.

  Her soft heart ached to think that a proud and capable man like Gray could have a problem he’d felt compelled to hide, managing superbly in spite of it.

  Then again, she might be overreacting—jumping to totally incorrect conclusions.

  The last of the daylight was turning the paddocks to pink and mauve as they pulled up outside the homestead. Crickets and katydids were already singing their dusk chorus in the trees by the creek.

  Anna and Josh, freshly bathed and in their dressing gowns and slippers, came running down the front steps to greet Holly and Gray, while Janet hurried after them like a fussy mother hen.

  ‘They’ve been no trouble,’ Janet assured Gray. ‘They’ve been busy in the school room for most of the day.’

  ‘I thought they’d be playing with their puppets,’ he said.

  ‘The puppets have had a good airing, but mostly they’ve been doing their homework.’

  ‘Homework?’ Holly frowned. ‘But I didn’t set any homework.’

  ‘Well, they’ve been beavering away on some kind of writing project for the puppet house.’ Janet laughed. ‘I’m definitely renaming them Shake and Speare.’

  ‘We’re going to have a puppet show after dinner,’ Anna explained with great excitement. ‘And there’s a part for everyone.’

  Out of the deep pockets of her cherry-red dressing gown, she pulled folded sheets of paper and, glowing with pride, the little girl separated three pages for Holly, three for Janet and three for Gray.

  Each sheet was covered in photocopies of her best printing.

  ‘You’re Hector Owl, Daddy, and I’m Timothy Mouse and Josh—’

  Holly didn’t hear the rest. She was too busy watching Gray and the dawning horror in his eyes.

  Her heart galloped as she looked down at the paper in her hand. Clever little Anna had written a rudimentary play script with a list of characters and lines of dialogue beside the characters’ names.

  It was the sort of creative writing exercise the twins had been encouraged to try at their progressive school in Manhattan, and Holly wanted to be thrilled for them. She was thrilled, actually, but she was also very worried about Gray.

  Were her suspicions about his literacy correct? Was this his personal D-Day?

  Judging by the sudden paleness of his complexion and the unhappy twist of his mouth as he stared at the paper, the answer was…

  Yes.

  Her heart broke for him as she watched him force a crooked smile.

  ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘A play. Aren’t you two clever?’

  ‘You have to put on your growliest voice,’ Josh informed him.

  ‘I see.’ Gray tapped the paper and blew out his cheeks thoughtfully. ‘So have you changed much of my original story?’

  ‘We’ve changed lots!’ exclaimed Anna. ‘See!’ She pointed importantly to her script. ‘You can read it all here. We’ve made up a whole new story, so we can have the owl and the mouse, as well as a frog and a wombat and a pig. There are parts for everyone.’

  Gray looked decidedly ill.

  CHAPTER NINE

  GRAY looked down at the script in his hand, fighting hot panic. It was covered in Anna’s childish, clever printing and, as always, he could catch a word here or there, but then the letters of all the other words blurred. He couldn’t breathe. His heartbeats hammered in his ears.

  I’ve got to get a grip. I can’t lose it now.

  As casually as he could manage, he said, ‘But you can’t have a puppet play without puppets and you don’t have an owl puppet, do you? I’ll have to make one before you put on the show.’

  ‘No need, Dad,’ said Josh. ‘Janet’s already made us an owl. She’s made it out of a tea cosy.’

  Gray was very familiar with the brown and yellow knitted cosy that Janet used to keep the breakfast teapot warm, and he could imagine how easily it would have converted into a perfect owl puppet.

  ‘Your play sounds very exciting,’ Holly told the children in her best kind-but-firm nanny voice. ‘But, right now, your father and I need to collect our picnic things from the truck and put them away, and then we have to get cleaned up for dinner.’

  Grateful for her intervention, Gray turned back to the vehicle to fetch their backpacks. To his surprise, Holly came with him.

  ‘Organise a phone call,’ she said cryptically out of the corner of her mouth.

  ‘A phone call?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her gaze was very steady, her dark eyes huge and shining with determination. ‘If one of your friends calls you straight after dinner—an important business call that you have to take in your study—you’ll miss the puppet play, but the twins will get over their disappointment.’

  Gray stared at her, stunned.

  Holly smiled gently and placed her hand on his wrist. ‘Janet and I will play puppets with Anna and Josh. We’ll send them to bed happy.’

  Oh, God, Holly knew.

  She knew everything.

  Gray’s throat tightened on a razor-sharp knot of shame.

  Holly knew. She’d guessed the weakness that hurt him so deeply he couldn’t even bring himself to name it in his private thoughts.

  Today he’d kissed her in a desperate bid to stop her from talking about it. Now he was in danger of being exposed in front of his children and he didn’t deserve Holly’s help, but she was offering him a lifeline.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said, resisting an urge to sweep her into his arms. ‘A phone call’s a good option. Thank you.’

  He spoke more gruffly than he’d meant to. Then he slammed the door on the back of the vehicle and swung his pack over one shoulder.

  He couldn’t look at Holly as they walked back into the homestead together. It was hard to accept that the shame he’d successfully covered up for more than twenty years was finally out in the open. Right now, he couldn’t bear to see Holly’s lovely eyes brimming with sympathy.

  He felt like such a fraud. This evening Holly was saving his bacon, but what would happen tomorrow and the day after that? He coul
dn’t keep hiding the truth from his children. The fate he’d always feared had now arrived, and he had no choice but to brace himself for humiliation.

  Around eight-thirty, Holly tapped on the door to Gray’s study.

  ‘Who is it?’ he called cautiously.

  ‘It’s Holly.’

  ‘Come on in. The door’s not locked.’

  When she pushed the door open she found him sitting at his desk in a pool of lamplight. He rose stiffly from the chair, giving the surprising impression that he’d aged in the hour and a half since dinner. He had a sad and caved-in air, as if he’d received a terrible blow.

  ‘Are the children in bed?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, all tucked in.’

  ‘Are they happy?’

  ‘As pigs in mud.’ Deliberately, Holly smiled as if nothing was wrong. ‘They were disappointed you couldn’t join them in the fun, but they understood about the phone call.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He spoke with almost formal politeness.

  She felt compelled to warn him. ‘Anna and Josh are treating this evening’s performance as a dress rehearsal.’

  ‘Right.’ Gray’s mouth twisted in a wry attempt at a smile. ‘So they still plan to have a grand performance?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. With a full cast, including the hero, Hector Owl.’

  His mouth tilted again, faintly. ‘When? Tomorrow night?’

  ‘That’s what they’re hoping.’

  He nodded glumly and looked so unhappy Holly was moved to the edge of tears.

  ‘Don’t worry, Gray,’ she said quickly. ‘I can help you with this. I’m actually quite good at this sort of problem.’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m quite sure you’re a brilliant teacher, but—’

  ‘Before you say but, take a look at this.’ She pulled a folded sheet of paper from the pocket of her jeans and, as she handed the sheet to him, she drew a deep breath, hoping it would calm her. She was almost as nervous as he was.

  Gray unfolded the sheet and swept a brief glance down the page. His mouth tightened. ‘What is this?’ His blue gaze flicked to her, flinty with anger and despair.

  ‘It’s your poem, Gray. I’ve printed it out for you.’

  ‘My poem?’ His eyes flashed disbelief, but then he looked down at the page again.

  Holly held her breath as she watched him—the formidable, proud cattleman standing in the middle of his study, with photographs of prize bulls on the wall behind him and a shelf full of silver trophies that he’d won for campdrafting.

  Now, with his shoulders braced, boots planted firmly on the Oriental rug, he was frowning at the sheet of paper with deep concentration…

  And then…she saw his lips begin to move as he followed the words across the page, sounding out each familiar syllable beneath his breath.

  I’ve…crossed…harsh…country…parched…and…red…

  Her throat stung to see this big, capable man reduced to small boy vulnerability. She swallowed and blinked madly, not daring to shed tears in front of him.

  He continued on until he reached the bottom of the page. When he finished, he looked up, a dazed kind of hope shining in his eyes.

  His throat worked and deep colour stained his cheekbones. ‘I’m sorry. I should have offered you a seat.’ He indicated the sofa against the wall, deep and inviting with plump vermillion and green striped cushions. ‘Please, sit down, Holly.’

  As she obeyed him, he returned to the chair at his desk and, almost immediately, as if he couldn’t resist it, he began to read his poem again.

  When he finished he looked up. ‘So…how does this work? Is it like a code? If I become familiar with these words, do you think I can use them to decipher all the others?’

  ‘That’s one of the tools you can use,’ Holly said. ‘As for the puppets, I can easily go through the play with you, and we can rehearse your lines the way actors do. It’s not exactly a three-act Shakespearean drama. Anna and Josh probably won’t even notice if you ad-lib the odd line here and there.’

  Gray nodded slowly, then pulled out the sheets of the play script from a drawer in his desk. A tiny spark shone in his eyes and he sent her a playful wink.

  ‘Okay, teacher. I’m game if you’re game.’

  He came and sat on the sofa beside her.

  It was fun—way too much fun, really. Holly loved every minute of sitting with Gray, trying to ignore the tingles his proximity caused as she read through the script with him.

  It didn’t take long for him to get the gist of the simple little story and his character’s role, and only a little longer to learn his lines. He had an excellent, well exercised memory.

  Afterwards, they sat in the late night silence, basking in a warm sense of accomplishment.

  ‘Anna’s so clever, isn’t she?’ Gray said, looking down at the script with bemusement.

  ‘She’s your daughter, Gray.’

  ‘She’s her mother’s daughter. Chelsea was clever and creative.’

  ‘And so are you.’

  As she said this, she saw the shutters come down on his face.

  ‘It’s true,’ Holly insisted. ‘You’re every bit as clever as Chelsea, or your children. You’re missing one skill set—that’s all—and I think I can help you with that.’

  With a groan, he launched to his feet. Holly jumped up beside him. ‘I’d be sorry to see you run away from this again.’

  He sent her a sharp glance, piercing, almost venomous.

  Holly stood her ground. ‘You’ve learned your lines tonight and you’ll get through the play tomorrow with flying colours. But what about all the times after that? You know there’ll be more challenges.’

  ‘I’ll manage.’

  ‘Yes, you will. You’ve managed very well for a long time, but you’d manage so much better if you could read and write.’

  There. She’d brought the harsh truth out into the open.

  A terrible sound broke from Gray as if something inside him had fractured. His face contorted with pain and Holly felt her heart stand still. The tears she’d been holding back spilled down her cheeks. This was so hard for him. She had said out loud the words he couldn’t bear—that he couldn’t read or write.

  Had she been too cruel?

  She’d only spoken up because she was sure she could help him. If she was strong enough—if they were both strong enough—she could get him through this. And then he’d be free…

  Savagely swiping away her tears, she reached out and touched Gray’s arm.

  ‘Why don’t we just talk about it?’ she said gently.

  He answered with a groaning sigh.

  But Holly wasn’t prepared to give up. ‘I’m guessing that something happened when you were little. Can you tell me?’

  He shook his head. ‘What’s the point?’

  ‘It could be important. I know you’re intelligent and exceedingly capable, which means there’s probably an emotional reason why you didn’t learn to read. Have you ever talked to anyone about this?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not even with Chelsea?’

  He shook his head.

  Holly wasn’t surprised. She’d often suspected that her cousin had fallen in love with Gray’s gorgeous looks, but had been unable to meet his deeper needs. Which meant he’d carried this burden alone for too long.

  ‘I’m no shrink,’ she admitted. ‘But I think talking about it might be the first step.’

  ‘Talking? You want me to lie down on the couch and talk about my childhood?’ He stared at her, jaw stubbornly jutting forward.

  Holly held her breath, and waited. Then, to her relief, she saw a glimmer of a smile.

  ‘All right, Dr O’Mara. I may as well give it a shot.’

  Gray didn’t actually lie on the couch, but they both made themselves comfortable. He poured them both a Scotch, which Holly wasn’t used to drinking but, to be companionable, she sat nursing her glass.

  Gray took a gulp from his glass. ‘Okay—where do you think I should start?
’

  ‘Did anyone ever begin to teach you to read?’

  Gray sighed. ‘My mother tried.’

  Holly remembered the woman she’d met at Sydney Airport and the obvious tension she’d sensed between mother and son. ‘Was she living here with you at Jabiru?’

  ‘Yes. We had the lessons—if you could call them lessons—right here in this room. I hated it,’ Gray said. ‘I loved my mother, of course, but I used to dread our reading sessions.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I knew they were a chore for her, and she was always impatient. I used to panic, trying too hard to please her, but then I’d be slow and she’d get frustrated, and she’d end up in tears.’

  Oh, Gray. Holly hated to think of that poor little boy trying to please his difficult mother and failing dismally.

  Gray downed the second half of his Scotch and set the glass aside. ‘It didn’t help that my mother hated living out here. She and my dad had terrible rows almost all the time. They were heading for divorce, although I didn’t realise it. Then my reading—or rather my lack of it—became a huge issue during their pre-divorce wrangling. My mother blamed my father. He blamed her.’

  ‘They argued about your reading in front of you?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ he said bleakly. ‘But even when they were behind closed doors, I could still hear their raised voices. I felt so guilty. I was the cause of all their unhappiness. I knew if I could read they’d love each other again and everything would be okay. But my mother had already washed her hands of me.’

  He stood and went to pour another drink, then changed his mind and came and sat beside her again. ‘No point in getting sloshed over something that happened years ago.’

  ‘You can have mine if you like.’ Holly held up her glass. ‘I’ve only had a few sips. I’m not much of a Scotch drinker.’

  He took it with a watery smile. ‘Thanks.’ After a sip, he said, ‘You’re right. I think it does help to talk about this. I’ve never really allowed myself to think about it.’

  ‘I can see how the reading broke down,’ she told him. ‘You developed an emotional block about it.’

  ‘My writing was just as bad. The crunch came just before my mother left Jabiru. I wanted to beg her to stay and I thought if I wrote her a letter and told her how much I loved her that of course she’d stay. No question.’