by Sarah Barrie
She turned the car into the drive where light filtered through the trees, and small electric-blue wrens darted in and out of puddles and the undergrowth. The driveway curved through the dappled forest and around the dam she’d spotted from the road, the land opening up to accommodate an old farmhouse and grazing paddocks beyond. To the right of the house was a large shed and to the left, the road continued around a makeshift chicken coop and what looked suspiciously like the remains of a vegetable garden enshrouded in collapsed netting. A windmill spun lazily on the hill behind the house.
She stopped the car and examined the house. The rambling two-storey building was dilapidated. The ground floor was built of a plain brown brick, and the second appeared to have been added at a later date, its weatherboard a faded blue. The house had an iron roof and shuttered windows. A small wrought-iron table, cushioned chair, and several pots of wilted plants decorated a long front veranda, its floorboards sunken in some places.
The windows were all closed, curtains drawn – except one upstairs window, which was wide open. Though the curtains were closed, there was a gap between them no more than an inch wide. For a moment, as she stared silently up at it, she could have sworn a shadow moved behind them.
Clint’s warning echoed in her head. She blinked, stared harder, berated herself for her pounding heart. ‘Cut it out or this is never going to work.’ Her PTSD-induced hyper-vigilance was going to skyrocket in this place. The whole house had an unwelcoming, abandoned, somewhat creepy aura, which she should have expected.
Except the house looked more like it had been abandoned for centuries rather than just a couple of weeks. Fighting discomfort, she swallowed her nerves and searched for a positive. There was a garden of sorts in front of the veranda. It was well overgrown, but the Federation daisies and lavender should come back beautifully with a prune and some water. She would fix that up. If nothing else, she’d have a patch of pretty space while she stayed here. Gardening used to be a favourite pastime, and while she couldn’t afford to spend much on fixing the place, maybe she could turn it from dilapidated and ugly, to rustic and pretty for potential buyers. There was always a market for rustic, wasn’t there? And the surroundings were tranquil, appealing. She took a deep breath of fresh air and allowed the quiet to seep into her. She’d gotten herself here in one piece, the locals seemed friendly, and the place was okay. So far so good.
The frantic barking came out of nowhere. Startled, she scrambled with very little grace onto the bonnet of her car just as a black dog lumbered around the corner of the house. It sported a definite limp and its face was almost completely grey with age, but the noise coming from it was seriously strange: part deep and ferocious, part yip. She wasn’t trusting it for a second.
‘Ah … hi, buddy. Be nice. Please. I think there’s a good chance I’m about to inherit you.’
The dog stopped barking to sniff at her, but the yipping continued, increasing.
‘Oh God, there’s another one.’ For a full minute she sat where she was, wondering whether it was safe to get down. The yipping turned to a miserable keening howl, but a second set of teeth had yet to put in an appearance.
When a bell began to clang, she shook her head and hoped for the best. A brown-and-white goat with remarkably large horns trotted out from the cover of the overgrown vegetable garden.
‘Hello … I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to be in there – what is that?’
With a rumbling reminiscent of a small earthquake, a blur of black-and-white cows bounded into view, pushing and shoving noisily behind a fence by the shed. As she blinked in disbelief, she caught sight of a ginger-and-white cat popping out of the open second-storey window before making its way across the bullnose roof and dropping down onto the veranda.
‘All I need is an ark.’
As though divinely inspired, the sky began to spit with rain. ‘Oh, give me a break!’ Ally exclaimed, wondering whether Mavis was as crazy as she’d thought. ‘Looks like my two minutes of peace and tranquillity are over. You,’ she said to the dog, ‘back off. I’m getting down.’
Cautiously, she slid from the bonnet. Don’t show fear. She liked dogs, and more importantly, they usually liked her. This one sniffed manically at her feet and hands, then spun and plopped its butt down on her boots. The look she sent up at Alissa was a sublimely happy, stupid grin.
‘Okay, not so scary … Bess,’ she read on the tag. The wailing from behind the house intensified. It sounded desperate.
Tentatively, she stepped up onto the old veranda, more than a little concerned when it groaned under her feet. A quick check behind the house revealed a tan-and-white pup struggling uselessly at a massive chain that Alissa couldn’t help but think was overkill.
‘Oh … hello cutie. Just, settle, give me a sec!’ Trying to unclip it was next to impossible. The wriggling, squirming, frantic ball of happiness just wouldn’t keep still. Once free, it was a toss-up between carrying it and copping the face lick or putting it down and enduring the jumping and yipping. ‘You’re a lunatic,’ she complained, but laughed and scooped up the pup as she made her way back around the front of the house.
‘No! No! Shoo! Shit.’ The goat had one sleeve of her leather jacket in its mouth and was making alarming chewing noises. She put the pup on the ground and sprinted to the car. ‘Give that back!’ She quickly discovered the thing had a jaw like a vice. As she wrestled with it, the pup joined in, tugging at the zipper and growling joyously. The light rain became a genuine downpour.
Torn between the need to laugh and cry, Ally gave up on her jacket and bolted back to the shelter of the veranda.
She stood for a moment at the front door while the rain pelted noisily onto the iron roof. The two dogs and the goat trotted up to share the space and she recovered what was left of her jacket from the pup’s sharp teeth. A breeze blew up and the scent of the rain and the flowers was heavenly.
Even as she relaxed, she felt prickles bother the back of her neck. She turned quickly, examined the house, but she could see nothing that should have given her that sense of trepidation. A colder wind blew in, bringing the rain with it. She took a deep breath. ‘Okay,’ she told the animals. ‘I’m going in.’ The front door wasn’t locked and gave easily – too easily. The slightest touch on the handle had it swinging open. ‘Might be worth wedging that shut tonight,’ she mumbled to herself.
The kitchen was old – 1970s green, peeling yellow laminate cupboards and black-and-white checked lino. But the size was good. To her right was a long, narrow dining room that looked like it was never used. She walked into a short hallway. A staircase led to the second level and beyond the staircase, the house opened into a large sunroom with a lounge, a small table and an old television. Despite its age, the room was quite charming. Another room housed a sofa bed, a big bookcase and several boxes of knick-knacks. Two doors on the near wall revealed a tiny bathroom and laundry.
‘Not so bad.’ Her gaze turned back to the staircase. She should check upstairs.
She didn’t want to check upstairs.
Even against the rain, the house seemed so silent, so still.
Something moved up there.
She didn’t have to go upstairs, did she? She knew her reaction to the aura of the place was irrational, but that didn’t make it feel less real. ‘The cat. It was the cat.’ Her voice sounded too loud, but the thought was reassuring enough to have her climbing the stairs cautiously. A hallway ran the length of the top floor with a series of doors leading off it. There were two bedrooms, one obviously Mavis’s and the other a clean and tidy spare. Between them was another bathroom. The last door revealed a sewing room lined with cupboards filled with plastic bags and boxes. She leant against the white wood panelling that made up the walls and took a good look around. If she repainted and cleaned it up, it wouldn’t look too bad.
‘Well, no monsters, so looks like I’m moving in.’
It took three dashes through the rain to get her handbag, a suitcase, a tub of clean
ing supplies, a small esky of food and a box of fire alarms. The last she’d bought in a bulk pack at the hardware store. You could never be too careful.
The view out of the kitchen window showed what was left of the vegetable garden, and, over the tops of the trees, the crest of the hill on the other side of the road. Perched on its top was a sprawling sandstone home. Surrounding it were large trees, immaculate, terraced native gardens, a glass fence that she assumed secured a pool, and a perfect stretch of lawn. The surrounding paddocks were divided by gleaming white post-and-rail fencing. ‘Couldn’t you have lived there, Mavis?’ she muttered. With a shake of her head, she went looking for the shower.
It was cold and it didn’t even pretend to warm up. The water pressure was a drip or two better than a dribble. She let out a frustrated sigh.
She’d have to run back into town, find Clint, and get his son out. Hopefully it wouldn’t cost too much. There were things she was prepared to live without for a few days – a hot shower wasn’t one of them. And maybe while she was out there she’d find some takeaway somewhere. She didn’t like the look of the stove and her stomach was growling. She changed quickly and, thinking about her to-do list, walked into the hallway, drying the rain from her hair.
A massive silhouetted figure stood in the kitchen doorway, a large gun dangling from its hand.
CHAPTER
4
The scream clogged her throat and her body came to an abrupt and complete standstill. The figure was almost as tall as the doorframe and broad shoulders filled most of its width. His bulk was covered in a full-length coat, his head was partly covered by a large, wide-brimmed hat and his face was darkened by the light behind him.
She barely registered when the scream finally escaped, concerned only with galvanising her legs. They took her as far as the bathroom and she scrambled to lock the door, then leant against it, her gaze darting around the room. She’d locked herself in a room with no other doors, no window. Where was her phone? Damn it, she always had her phone. Shit.
She listened intently. There was only silence; a terrifying, absolute silence that had her shaking, sweating, struggling not to hyperventilate. Who was likely to turn up out here in the back of beyond with a big gun? She remembered Clint’s warning and her mind went wild with suggestions – none of them good.
A sharp rap against the door catapulted her from it. Frantically, she sought a weapon.
‘Go away! I’ve … called the police!’
There was a long, considering silence, then, ‘I suppose you must be Alissa Morgan?’
In her mind, she’d concluded the stranger must be a crazed, psychopathic, gun-wielding sexual sadist. Except … how would a crazed, psychopathic, gun-wielding sexual sadist know who she was?
‘Who – who are you?’
‘The guy who needs therapy for his name.’
Cameron William Blakely number three. She relaxed a little. ‘It does sound like you, I suppose. But I googled you. If your face isn’t the same, I’ll know.’
‘You looked me up? Cool. Are you coming out?’
‘Depends. If I apologise, will you let me live?’
‘Probably. Is this your standard greeting?’
‘Why are you carrying a gun?’
‘It’s a rifle. I saw a car. Came over to check it out.’
‘Is that your standard greeting?’
‘You didn’t tell me you were coming. Since word got out that Mavis has gone, there’s been some kids around. I thought you might have been one of them. I came down to scare you off.’
‘Good job.’
‘You scare pretty easily.’
‘Go back and pose in the doorway with the whole hat, coat and gun thing. I’ll take a photo. Take into consideration I just drove to the middle of nowhere and wasn’t expecting company.’
‘This is hardly the middle of nowhere.’
She pressed a hand to her chest, concentrating on slowing her breathing. ‘Actually, you’re right. I drove through the middle of nowhere on my way here. It took a very long time and I had visions of never reaching old age.’
‘Sounds like you came in on the old road. That was brave.’
‘Not brave, stupid. Because I didn’t charge my phone. I thought it would get me here, then it died. I drove through Nowheresville for hours thinking I would never escape. Are you aware the real Godzilla is a snake? I know, because I almost ran over it. It scared ten years off my life, but it didn’t eat me, so I guess I’ll reach old age after all. Just faster. That’s if you don’t shoot me. Who’s to say you’re not a psychopath?’
‘Did it say I was certifiable in whatever press release you read?’
‘No.’
‘Then it’s unlikely. They didn’t often leave much to the imagination. Are you planning on coming out anytime soon?’
Calmer, and curious enough from his comment to wish she’d read more about him, she slowly opened the door.
Her heart did a small somersault. Holy crap, the guy was bloody sensational. He’d taken off the hat, the coat, the boots – no wonder she hadn’t heard him approach the bathroom – but he was still enormous. He was older than in his picture. And not so polished. Through the shirt and jeans she got the impression of well-defined muscle, long limbs, broad shoulders. His face was all strong lines, chiselled jaw and square chin. His dark hair was short and neat, though his jawline sported a shadow she’d seen no evidence of in the photo. His eyes were a shade somewhere between blue and green and hinted at mockery.
Probably because of the way she was staring at him.
Embarrassed, she scrambled for something to say. ‘You’re, ah … very big. And not much like your picture.’
‘How did I look in my picture?’
‘Safer.’ With a wary glance, she stepped past, then spent the next half-dozen steps mentally fanning herself down.
The scratching and whining at the door made her automatically move to let the pup in. It scrambled on the floor, so Ally picked her up.
‘Any reason this little girl was chained up like a tiger?’
‘She kept getting off and trying to follow me home. I was worried she’d get lost, or hit by a car or something.’
‘Do you have a dog?’
‘No.’
‘Take this one.’ Ally shoved the pup at him and she immediately settled in his arms. ‘Match made in heaven, she likes you.’
He absently stroked the pup even as he shook his head. ‘She’s valuable – a granddaughter of Bess out there. Best working-dog lines in the area. Mavis had only had her a few days before she had to leave. But I don’t need a working dog.’
‘Does it look like I do? I’ll have to find homes for them. Unless I can persuade whoever buys this place to keep them on.’ He frowned. ‘You’re selling straight away?’
‘If I can find someone with more money than sense.’
He considered that for several seconds. ‘Mavis loves this place. Wouldn’t leave it until she had absolutely no choice. You own the property, but these animals all belong to her.’
She caught the admonishment in the tone, reminded herself he was Mavis’s solicitor. ‘Does she have someone organised to take them?’
‘The last time she updated her will was just after David’s death. She left the property and everything on it in the hands of the church. But of course, it’s not valid, because she was only to inherit if both of you passed away. I don’t think she’s organised anything else.’
She was hoping I’d die. Ally refused to let the knowledge bother her. ‘Okay … so how about a foster for now with a strong possibility for adoption?’
When he lifted his brow, she sighed heavily. ‘Look, I don’t want to seem harsh, I don’t, but Mavis isn’t coming back and I don’t do animals. Unless she’s organised homes, I’m going to have to find them some.’
He put the pup down and walked to the door. ‘Let me talk to Mavis again about what she wants done. If she does need you to sort it, I know someone will want the pup, for su
re. As for the rest … the belties would sell easy enough, old Gus down the road might take Chester, he has a couple of goats already. He’d probably give you a fair price for the pigs, too, to fatten for Christmas. Chickens could go to the monthly poultry auction. I guess Violet’s going to be your main problem. No one wants an unsound old horse – except the knackery.’
All the blood drained from her face and, legs unsteady, she fell into a chair. ‘There’s a …? I can’t have a –’
At the sight of her pale cheeks and panicked eyes, his brow dropped into a puzzled frown. ‘Horse? Well, you do. Violet is Mavis’s old stock horse.’
‘I can’t do that. Maybe the rest but – not that.’
‘I thought Mavis told me David owned a horse-training facility. He was a big-time showjumper, wasn’t he?’
And I was a pretty big-time dressage rider and the stables were just as much mine, but who cares? She closed her eyes as panic clutched at her chest. She needed to calm herself. Again. Focus on something else. One thing at a time, work through it.
‘Okay. Okay, wait … just … hold on.’ She put her fingers to her eyes and pressed them there. ‘What’s a beltie?’
‘The cows – they’re Belted Galloways. Rare breed of beef cattle.’
‘And I have pigs?’
‘Round the back. A sow with a litter.’
‘God. And if I sell them to Chester – no, Gus – he’d kill them?’
‘You can’t eat them breathing.’
‘What about Bess?’
‘She’s very old. Can’t imagine it would be kind to try and rehome her now. You’d probably have to think about putting her to sleep.’
‘And …’ She released a slow breath. Just ask. ‘The other one … the … Violet. Old, you said. Unsound.’
‘Mavis won’t put an animal down, even if it’s best all round. Violet’s been stuck in the cattle yards out back for a couple of years.’
‘So. The rare breed cattle are going for beef, the pigs for bacon, the – Violet for dog food and the dog for, well, worm food. I’ve been here five minutes and murdered everything.’