by Janet Gover
‘G’day,’ she called as she walked towards the house.
The driver of the car turned to her. He was probably in his early forties, with neat hair and a suit and tie. She recognised him immediately, and her heart sank a little further.
‘Miss Lawson.’ He offered her his hand.
Liz wiped her hand on the thigh of her jeans before shaking.
‘I’m Richard Walker. I’m the loans manager—’
‘At the bank in Tamworth. Yes, of course. I recognise you. What brings you all the way out here?’
‘It’s about the Willowbrook loan account.’
‘I thought it might be.’
‘You’re very hard to get on the phone during business hours. I had a meeting in Scone. As you are so close, I thought I’d come by in the hope of a chance to talk.’
‘Then I guess you’d better come inside.’
She could feel him assessing her home as she led him past the wide stone front stairs and around to the back door, could almost hear him adding up the dollars and cents. She knew exactly when he looked up at the dark windows of the second floor. Windows that hadn’t been opened in an age. She bristled. What gave him the right to judge? Was he judging her too? Was he thinking that she looked as run down as the house, with the lines in her sun-browned face, the hair that she cut roughly herself and the creases between eyes that viewed the world so cautiously?
The door led into the kitchen. She didn’t take him through to the front of the house. She didn’t want his critical eye looking at those unused rooms. Nor did she lead him through to her office, because that was also where she slept most nights. Instead she indicated a chair at the wooden table in the centre of the kitchen.
He sat and opened his briefcase.
It wasn’t a long conversation, nor was it an easy one. Liz had pretty much known what Walker was going to say. Despite that, the papers he left on her kitchen table were devastating.
‘Please don’t leave it too long to get in touch with me,’ he said as he got in the car. ‘I knew your father. I liked him. Respected him. I’ll do whatever I can to help. But I have to answer to my bosses. And at some point—’
‘Thank you, Mr Walker.’ Liz shook his hand and sent him on his way as quickly as she could.
Before the car had even vanished down the driveway, she was striding towards the stables. Several elegant heads appeared as Liz walked past, but she didn’t stop to talk to any of them. She paused at the tack room long enough to collect what she needed, and carried it outside to a small paddock behind the main stable block. A bay horse saw her coming and walked over to meet her at the gate. There were grey hairs on his muzzle and around his eyes. He was pretty much retired, and spent most of his time dozing under the trees. But right now Liz needed to ride, and she knew better than to work any of her young horses when she was upset. And besides, Zeke was part of the memories that were driving her.
A few minutes later, she swung herself up onto his back and urged him on at a fast trot and then a canter. She had to stop to open a gate, but then she pushed the big gelding into a gallop, wanting the feel of the wind in her face and the sound of hooves on the rich black soil.
But even that couldn’t wash everything away.
Zeke was breathing heavily when they reached the highest spot on Willowbrook. Liz swung herself out of the saddle and looked across her home.
This was her favourite place in the whole world. Her heritage was here. A long curving line of stately river gums marked the creek. There were no willow trees on Willowbrook Station. Her Irish great-great-grandfather had named the place after the past he had left behind. He had embraced his new world and new life and ordered that no willows should ever be allowed to grow by the creek. To this day, none had.
The original wooden shack that Patrick Lawson had built by that creek was long gone, replaced by a two-storey building of soft golden stone that was considered one of the great houses of the Upper Hunter Valley. The house had grown and been extended by his descendants, mapping the rise of Willowbrook from a struggling one-man operation to one of the most famous horse studs in the country. From this distance, Liz couldn’t see the shabbiness that now marked its decline.
Between this high point and the house, sloping green pastures were dotted with dark shapes. Brood mares and yearlings. Australian Stock Horses all of them. Their bloodlines were among the best in the country. Willowbrook horses had won show championships and proven their worth in high country musters over and over again. There were far too few horses in those paddocks now.
When Patrick Lawson died, he asked to be buried on the highest point of the place he loved. His grave was the oldest in the small graveyard on the hill, where many of his descendants also rested. Liz had stood in this place with her father so many times, talking about the family and Willowbrook, it felt like he was still with her. In a way, he was. She tore her eyes away from the view to look at the two most recent stone crosses.
‘The land will never let you down, Lizzie.’ She could almost hear her father’s voice in the rustle of the breeze in the tall gums. ‘Respect it and treat it well. As long as you have this place, you will always have a home. When times are tough, even in the worst drought, hold on to the land. Sell your stock. Sell the shirt off your back if you have to, but never, never sell the land.’
Reluctantly she looked to the far side of the creek, feeling the usual tug at her heart, but today the pull was so much stronger. Through the trees she could see a cluster of buildings, and a small house, painted white. Those buildings and the land around them, land that had once belonged to Willowbrook, represented her greatest failure.
If only she could simply ride down the hill, cross the creek and knock on the door of that house. She so longed to lay her head on a strong shoulder and let someone else take the burden. Let someone take the pain away.
But she had given up any right to lean on that shoulder a long time ago.
She gently laid her fingers on the top of the nearest of the stone crosses.
‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ she whispered.
Something nudged her in the middle of her back, and she staggered forward a step. ‘All right, you don’t have to nag.’ She gathered Zeke’s reins and stroked his forehead. ‘Let’s get you back. You need a good rub down. And those youngsters need tending to.’
And then she was going to do something she hadn’t done in a very long time. She was going to talk to her sister.
ISBN: 9781489294319
TITLE: CLOSE TO HOME
First Australian Publication 2021
Copyright © 2021 by Janet Gover
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher:
Harlequin Mira ®
An imprint of Harlequin Enterprises (Australia) Pty Limited (ABN 47 001 180 918), a subsidiary of HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty Limited (ABN 36 009 913 517)
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth St
SYDNEY NSW 2000
AUSTRALIA
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
® and ™ are trademarks owned by Harlequin Enterprises Limited or its corporate affiliates and used by others under licence. Trademarks marked with an ® are registered in Australia and in other countries. Contact [email protected] for details.
romance.com.au
;