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And then she heard it too. A car coming up the drive.
Her heart started to thud. Mac was home? She bounced upright, spilling water. She wanted to race towards the sound in the same way Bandit had.
Pride, she lectured herself, leaning against a veranda post as if she hadn’t a care in the world. She did her best not to bounce. She had no hope whatsoever of keeping the smile from her face, though. Mac was home! She couldn’t wait to hear a about the plans he and Ethan had made. She wanted Mac to be filled with hopes and dreams and plans for the future. She meant to figure large there.
Mac manoeuvred the car along the rutted driveway. He didn’t stop to let Bandit into the cab—which, given Bandit’s over-the-top exuberance, was probably wise. Jo remained leaning against her post even when he pulled the car to a halt at the front of the house.
She wanted him to see her standing there, tall and proud in the sunlight, elevated by the veranda, and she wanted to make him hungrier than he’d ever been in his life.
When he pushed out of the car, though, that thought fled. She raced down the steps towards him, appalled at his pallor and at the darkness that seemed to drag his eyes deep into their sockets. She took his arm. She’d have hugged him, but he shook her off.
‘Not now, Jo.’
She tried not to take it personally. ‘You look ill. Do you need a doctor?’
He shook his head.
‘Then how about you put your feet up and I’ll get you a sandwich and a beer?’
‘I’m going to take a shower.’
He hadn’t even taken the time to pet Bandit, but he did let the dog follow at his heels.
Lucky Bandit.
Mac and the dog disappeared inside the house. Jo lowered herself back to the step. Things had evidently not gone well in Sydney.
She closed her eyes. Patience. She’d let him shower and rest without pestering him, and later she’d put some good food in his belly. By then he might be ready to talk. Between them they’d find a solution to this setback.
She pushed to her feet. Spaghetti and meatballs. Comfort food. That was what they needed.
* * *
Mac closed his eyes as the stinging spray from the shower rained down on him, but he couldn’t get the image of Ethan out of his mind. That image was burned there to torment him for all eternity.
Six months on and the nineteen-year-old still had to wear a bodysuit, was still in pain. Mac closed his eyes and braced his arms against the tiles.
Six months might have passed, but Ethan had taken one look at Mac and growled, ‘Go away,’ before turning his back.
Six years—sixty years—wouldn’t be enough to erase the harm Mac had done.
And then Diana Devlin had walked in and it had all gone to hell in a handbasket from there.
He scrubbed shampoo through his hair, digging his fingers into his scalp, wishing he could trade places with Ethan, if only for a day, to give him some respite.
Ethan’s doctor had taken time to talk to Mac. Mac had well and truly wanted out of there by that time—going to visit Ethan had been a grave mistake—but the doctor had at least been able to assure him that the upset wouldn’t impede Ethan’s recovery.
That was something, at least.
In fact the doctor had said Ethan’s recovery was going better than any of them had hoped. He’d even implied that Ethan could have gone home weeks ago.
Ethan hadn’t wanted to. The doctor hadn’t said as much, but Mac had read between the lines. They were keeping him in for ‘psychological assessment’—those had been the actual words. Not unusual in these circumstances, as it happened.
Mac twisted the taps off and seized a towel, scrubbing it over his face and hair. They thought Ethan was in danger of committing suicide. No wonder Diana hated him.
The accident hadn’t just damaged Ethan physically. It had damaged him mentally. That was Mac’s fault.
An ache stretched his throat. He’d never be free from that. Never.
He threw down the towel and dressed in the nearest things to hand—worn jeans and a faded sweater. The days of bespoke suits and designer clothes were behind him. He stood at the window and stared out. Eventually he roused himself and spun back to face the room.
He hung up his towel, put his dirty laundry in the washing basket, unpacked.
You can’t put off going downstairs forever.
Weight slammed to his shoulders then, threatening to crush him. Earlier, when he’d pulled the car to a halt at the front of the house and had seen Jo standing in the sunshine, proud and magnificent, his chest had cracked open and split down the middle like a hewn log.
He paced from one side of the room to the other, hands clenched and muscles corded. For as long as he owed such a debt to Ethan he didn’t have the right to pursue his own happiness. He pushed both hands back through his hair, fighting for breath. What he had to focus on was making enough money to ensure Ethan was looked after.
