by Mandy Magro
‘True love,’ she whispered to herself. She had been searching for true love since she was seventeen, it was just that all the guys she had dated over the years seemed more concerned about being in love with themselves than falling in love with her. Now at twenty-two, she craved falling deeply in love, feeling what it was really like, the overwhelming kind of love that leaves you breathless, that moves heaven and earth, makes you do crazy things; someone you would die for, someone who would die for you. Now that, to Taylor, was true love.
Was she, like her parents had repeatedly told her, naive and crazy for thinking she could make an honest life for herself in the country? Maybe they were right. Or maybe she was just the black sheep of the family. Perhaps she was more like her biological father. If it were true, she was glad of the fact. She didn’t want to be like her upper-class family, stressing about every little detail in life, mapping out the year ahead, pretending to be something or someone she wasn’t. No, she wanted everything opposite to that, to them. She wanted to feel free, to let life lead her where it would. An irrepressible sixth sense confirmed she was meant to be a country girl and follow in her real father’s footsteps, not her stepfather’s. Her passion for everything country was deeply embedded in her. It was a compulsion she couldn’t shake, and one she could no longer ignore, much to her mother’s annoyance.
Taylor wiped the gathering tears from her eyes. God, she wished she had known her dad. Wished he hadn’t passed away. All she knew of him was that he was a stockman and that he had died in a mustering accident, a single black-and-white photo of him holding her as a baby the only evidence he had even existed. She didn’t even know his name. Her mum, Grace, and her grandparents refused to speak of him. They told her he was a bad man best left in the past. She resented them for that. How could they be so cruel to not even talk about him as she was growing up? It had caused massive arguments but her mum had never budged, had never revealed a thing. What could he have done that was so terrible? He looked like a really genuine bloke in the snapshot, his broad smile showing how proud he was of the new bundle in his arms. And her mum looked really happy standing beside him, undeniably in love.
Her heart sinking as she thought about her dad, Taylor switched off the Jeep’s ignition, the haunting melody of ‘Wish You Were Here’ by Pink Floyd vanishing, leaving her sitting in ear-ringing silence. Sometimes she wished she could pull on a pair of massively flared jeans and go back in time to live in the peace-loving seventies. Bands like Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin were among her favourites, along with her country idols like Waylon Jennings, Johnny Cash and Dolly Parton — but the hunky and extremely talented Adam Brand was at the top of her country music list. Adam’s voice melted her insides, and word had it he was a very approachable and down-to-earth guy, the stardom he’d reached not having gone to his head at all. She would give almost anything to meet him in person, maybe even sing for him, if she had the guts, to find out what he thought of her vocal abilities. Her friends were forever telling her how talented she was, but they were biased; getting approval from an accomplished musical artist was a whole different ball game.
Glancing over at her Hungarian Vizsla, Floyd, Taylor smiled adoringly. His need for a toilet break was apparent as he whined and gently scratched at the passenger door, so she reached across him, tugged at the door handle and shoved it open. Floyd bounded from the Jeep, running around in circles, his reddish hunting nose to the ground in search of the perfect spot to cock his leg, the golden rust-colour of his coat almost merging with the colour of the road.
Taylor giggled, thankful for his company. Floyd was a typical Vizsla: robust, lean, lively, loyal, gentle-mannered, fearless and — most importantly of all — very protective of her. He’d been Taylor’s mate for six years, her sixteenth birthday present, and she couldn’t imagine a day without him by her side.
Sliding from the driver’s seat, Taylor stretched her long limbs, her butt numb from spending almost nineteen hours behind the wheel, nine hours of it yesterday. A quick stop at a roadside hotel last night had allowed her a restless sleep on what felt like a bed older than her before she had hit the road again early this morning after a greasy breakfast of bacon and eggs. Placing her hands deep in her jeans pockets, she wandered up to the signs, weighing up which way she should go, a weird yet wonderful feeling of excitement washing over her. It was as if the land was reflecting her inner confusion, offering her — literally — a crossroads. Exhilarating, liberating and scary all rolled into one.
A weathered sign pointing to the left read ‘Waratah Station’ and an equally worn one pointing to the right read ‘Driftwood — 38 kilometres, population 712’. Hmm. Waratah Station sounded very alluring but Driftwood sounded out of the ordinary, picturesque. The name suggested it was nearer the ocean, which was odd, seeing this was primarily northern cattle country. Taylor’s curiosity was piqued.
Pulling her wild tresses of waist-length strawberry blonde ringlets into a ponytail, Taylor motioned to the left with a wide sweep of her arm. ‘Well, Floyd, what do you reckon? Do we go this way like a pair of crazies, deeper into the magnificent countryside and towards a station we have no idea about, or do we go right, towards the town of Driftwood, where there will most certainly be a fuel station, and a bed?’ Taylor felt her tummy rumble. ‘Oh, and possibly a pub with steak, chips and salad?’
Floyd barked his reply, his tail wagging zealously.
‘Yep, that’s what I thought. Driftwood it is then. Let’s just hope we have enough fuel to make it there, bugger having to walk in the dark — I’d be shitting myself.’
Jay Donnellson smiled wearily at Frank Forester, Driftwood’s one and only copper, as the officer passed him an extra-strong black coffee across the desk then sat down opposite him, a frown creasing his middle-aged features. An uncomfortable silence settled, each waiting for the other to speak. Jay knew there was a lecture coming his way, and he probably deserved it.
Jay picked up the cup, his swollen knuckles throbbing, and took a lengthy sip as Frank tapped the desk with his fingers. ‘Cheers, Frank,’ Jay said, trying his best to break the silence but to also avoid the inevitable conversation.
‘No probs, Jay,’ said Frank, his office chair creaking as he leant back and folded his arms. ‘I’m starting to think you like being arrested, considering you’ve been in here twice these past few weeks. What’s going on with you? Is the stress of everything that’s happened catching up? ’Cause if it is, I’m all ears. Sometimes it helps to talk about it.’
Jay shrugged casually, not knowing how to reply. Jay didn’t want to talk about his father’s sudden death; about his older sister running off to a high-paying job in the city and leaving all the farm work to him; about Becky, his childhood sweetheart, leaving him for another man; about his mothers’ heavy drinking; about almost losing Waratah Station — which had been in his family for five generations — to the clutches of the bloody bank. Hell, he didn’t want to accept that this was his life at all, his shitty, demanding, depressing, and problematic life. He took a few more sips from his bitter coffee, wishing Frank had offered milk and sugar.
No wonder he didn’t have a woman to share his life with. Five months after moving in, Becky had run for the hills, unable to cope with the stress of being a cattleman’s girlfriend, and straight into the arms of a rich city boy. She didn’t even have the decency to say goodbye, had just left a note, like he wasn’t even worth her breath. She’d broken his heart. He was still trying to mend it, and trying to get over his bitterness towards the human race, because lately, all anyone seemed to do was break his heart. Even his own mother — whom he loved dearly — had her moments, her binge drinking creating a massive rift in what used to be a loving mother-son relationship. Wasn’t it enough for him to lose his dad without having to worry about losing his mum as well?
Thank God he had Tom Connors back on the station to help him out — he’d be up shit creek without him. Tom could be a cantankerous bugger when he wanted to be but Jay thought of hi
m like a father. He’d been the head stockman at Waratah for going on twenty years and Jay had the comfort of knowing that Tom wasn’t going anywhere; Tom swore he would be taking his very last breath on the station.
Frank raised his eyebrows and Jay groaned. He didn’t want to talk about it with Frank — or anyone else, for that matter. What good would it do anyway? Couldn’t he just keep on pretending that this life he was living was someone else’s? Pretending he was all right and handling everything like a bona fide countryman should, with a stiff upper lip and balls of steel. That was what his father would have expected of him, so that was what he was trying to do. Jay wanted his dad to be proud of him.
‘I’m okay, Frank, but cheers for asking. Nothing going on in my life I can’t handle.’ Jay pinched the top of his nose, a killer headache suddenly arriving. Considering he had been up before the crack of dawn to muster his cattle, it had been one long day. ‘Anyway, both times I’ve been in here it hasn’t been my fault. Last time was because I was trying to stop a fight at the footy and this time was because I knocked some bloke out who was beating on his missus out the back of the pub. The bloody coward, picking on a woman. Scum of the frigging earth blokes are who do that. I’m glad you’ve locked him up. I hope you throw away the key.’
Frank released a long, drawn-out breath. ‘Believe me, I agree, and I wish I could throw away the key. But still, you can’t go around clouting people, Jay. It’s against the law. You’re lucky the bloke didn’t press charges tonight considering the mess you left him in, or you would have found yourself in court. And Lord knows we don’t need you being shipped off to jail. Who’d look after Waratah then, and your dear mum? I may have been your father’s best mate but I can’t change the law to suit you. I have to uphold it. Honestly, Jay, it breaks my heart having to arrest you in front of everyone.’ Frank leant over and squeezed Jay’s shoulder. ‘Come on, mate — you’re not that guy. You’re far from it. I believe in you. You just gotta start believing in yourself.’
Jay hung his head, angry and ashamed for letting Frank down. Again. This man was like an uncle to him. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll try harder to curb my temper from now on. Promise.’
Frank pushed himself up, the legs of the chair scraping against the worn lino floor. ‘Please don’t give some of the old residents in Driftwood any more reasons to gossip. Remember, you have no control over what’s happened in years gone by, but you do have control over your future. Yes, your life has had more downs then ups these past few years, but you can get through all of it and come out on top in the end. You’re a good man, Jay. Why not show the townspeople that instead of giving them the wrong impression.’
Jay nodded solemnly, staring at the floor. ‘I’ll try, I really will.’ He glanced up at Frank, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped. ‘But, in actual fact, I don’t care what people think. I am who I am. Besides, I have nothing to prove — to any bastard.’ Jay reclined, hands fastened behind his head, determination creasing his brow.
Frank whistled through his teeth as he placed his hands on the table, smiling for the very first time that night. ‘With that glint in your eye, you remind me so much of your father right now. You are definitely your father’s son, so alike in everything you do.’ Frank picked up his cup and swigged the last of the coffee. ‘Anyhow, I’d better get back to it, loads of paperwork to do. Do you need a lift home? I can get one of the ambulance blokes to drive you back.’
‘Nah, I only had a couple of beers at the pub and that was, um.’ Jay looked at his watch, eyebrows raised. ‘Shit! Three hours ago. I can’t believe it’s nearly ten-thirty. I’ve got to be up in less than six hours to start it all over again. I have cattle to load onto the truck before first light, so they get to the saleyards in time.’
‘Well drive safe, you hear. And watch out for the roos this time of the night. Bloody crazy buggers are all over the roads.’
‘Righto. Will do.’ Jay stood and shook Frank’s hand.
‘Stay out of trouble, Jay, and say g’day to your mum for me.’
‘Sure thing. You should come and visit one of these days and say g’day to her yourself, though. She’d like that. So would I. We don’t live that far from here, you know.’ Jay noticed Frank looked a little uncomfortable with the invitation. He paused for a moment, waiting for a reply, but silence hung heavily once again and Frank avoided his gaze. Jay picked his Akubra up from the desk and sauntered over to the front door of the police station, halting briefly as he and Frank exchanged a farewell nod.
Jay stepped into the soothing darkness of the balmy summer evening, confused by Frank’s sudden awkwardness. He seemed to be avoiding Waratah Station these past few months and that worried Jay. He used to call out all the time for a cuppa. Jay pulled his keys free of his jeans pocket. He didn’t have the energy to think about anything other than getting home to his bed. Why did everything have to be so goddamn hard and when was life going to give him the break he’d been silently praying for?
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ISBN: 9781488742743
TITLE: Country at Heart
First Australian Publication 2014
Copyright © 2014 Mandy Magro
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilisation of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher:
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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.
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