A powerful and sweeping historical novel of love, loss, and hope, set against Australia’s vast sugarcane fields in the turbulent days after World War II.
1948: Change has come to every corner of the globe—and Rosie Stanton, returning home to northern Queensland after serving the war effort in Brisbane, plans to rescue her family’s foundering sugarcane farm with her unstoppable can-do spirit. Coming up against her father’s old-world views, a farm worker undermining her success, and constant reminders of Rosie’s brothers lost in the war, Rosie realizes she wants more from life and love—but at what cost?
Italian immigrant Tomas Conti arrives at a neighboring farm, and sparks fly as Rosie draws close to this enigmatic newcomer. When an enemy appears with evidence of Tomas’s shocking past, long-held wartime hatreds rekindle . . . and an astounding family secret sets Rosie’s world ablaze. At the dawn of a new era, Rosie must make her own destiny amid the ashes of yesterday—by following her heart.
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Books by Alli Sinclair
Midnight Serenade
Under the Spanish Stars
Under the Parisian Sky
Burning Fields
Novella
Dreaming of Spain
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Burning Fields
Alli Sinclair
LYRICAL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Contents
Books by Alli Sinclair
Burning Fields
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Meet the Author
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
A Reading Group Guide
Copyright
Lyrical Press books are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2018 by Alli Sinclair
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, and educational or institutional use.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Special Sales Manager:
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Attn. Special Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
LYRICAL PRESS Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
Lyrical Press and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.
First Electronic Edition: November 2018
eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0916-6
eISBN-10: 1-5161-0916-3
First Print Edition: November 2018
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0917-3
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0917-1
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
For my mum, Judy
Thank you for introducing me to the joy of reading and your unwavering support in all that I do
Chapter 1
Rosie Stanton leant her forehead against the bus window and tried to convince herself she wasn’t making the biggest mistake of her life. For twenty-five hours she’d bumped in and out of potholes on the bus ride from Brisbane to Piri River, the lush Queensland countryside keeping her company as doubt persisted in muscling in on her. Nineteen forty-eight should have been a year full of possibilities for Rosie, but now, after the unexpected collapse of her life in Brisbane, this post-war world was one of uncertainty. And now she was returning home to the town she’d avoided for three years.
Outside the window, sugarcane danced with the light breeze and fields stretched under an endless sky. The verdant landscape reminded her of an innocent childhood spent running through the fields, arms out wide, her brothers laughing and chasing. Time frayed memories but compounded heartache. Right now, all she could hope for was acceptance and understanding.
“Oh!” A male voice from the back of the bus made her turn around. A tall fellow with broad shoulders and beautiful olive skin stood in the aisle, wiping his navy-blue suit with a handkerchief. He directed a gentle smile at a young blonde mother who apologized profusely as she cradled her tiny baby. Judging by their polite interaction, they didn’t know each other well.
“You can’t sit there again.” The distraught mother pointed at the seat next to her. “It will ruin your suit.”
“It will wash, yes?” His thick accent made Rosie pay more attention.
“I’m so sorry,” the mother said, “but the smell of baby vomit won’t go away easily.” The child started crying and she held him close, making shushing noises, however her heightened state of agitation made the baby cry louder.
“Please.” He took the baby in his arms and sang quietly. Rosie couldn’t make out the words, but they were possibly Italian, a language she often heard in Piri River when workers came into town. The baby stopped fussing and gazed at the man, fascinated.
The mother reached for a small blanket and quickly wiped herself and the seat beside her. She stopped to take a few deep breaths and pushed a chunk of hair out of her eyes. “Thank you.”
The man gave a quick nod before passing the dozing baby back to her. He glanced at the seat. “Perhaps I should move.”
“It might be a good idea. And again, I’m so sorry.”
The man smiled, tipped his hat and grabbed a battered leather bag from the overhead rack. He looked around the crowded bus, his eyes finally resting on the only spare seat—next to Rosie.
She motioned for him to sit next to her. He made his way down the aisle, apologizing every time the bus went over a bump and he accidently hit someone with his bag. A trail of people were left rubbing their arms or heads, but no one seemed to mind.
The fellow, who appeared to be around thirty, reached Rosie, and went to place his bag in the jam-packed overhead rack. So, he sat down, cumbersome bag on his lap, and positioned himself so half his body was in the aisle and not encroaching on her territory. Despite his efforts, the stench of baby vomit assailed her nostril
s.
Rosie turned to face him and noticed the verandah of black lashes accentuating the gold flecks in his brown eyes. His dark, wavy hair framed a handsome face with a strong jawline and an intriguing scar under his eye. “That was very nice what you did back there.”
“It is what any decent person would do.”
“Perhaps.” Her time in Brisbane had proven that people were capable of many things, and not always good.
They fell into silence and Rosie returned to staring out the window, surprised at how much she’d missed the familiar houses, the smooth bark of the gum trees, the sun dancing on Piri River as it snaked through the valleys and mountains.
The rhythm of the bumping bus coupled with the warmth of the setting sun caused Rosie’s eyelids to close. She fought for them to stay open, but bus fumes, the smell of baby vomit and the stifling air inside the vehicle had a numbing effect.
Brakes screeched and Rosie was propelled forward. An arm shot across her body but it didn’t stop her head from smashing against the metal frame of the seat in front. The bus driver let fly with expletives that would make a sailor blush.
Rosie jerked back with a thud against the seat.
“Jeez.” She rubbed her skull and cursed the ache that now pulsed.
“You are all right?”
“I…” A sharp pain shot behind her eyes but disappeared quickly. “I’ll be fine. What happened? Why did we brake?”
He shrugged. “An animal? Maybe a kangaroo? Emu? Crocodile? Kookaburra?”
She let out a friendly laugh. “It’s good to see you know Australian animals. Did we hit it?”
“No.”
“That’s lucky.” Now fully awake, her inquisitive side surfaced. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
“I will be.”
The driver crunched the gears and the bus took off again, spewing more fumes into the cabin. She screwed her nose up and shook her head.
The man broke into a gentle smile and held out his hand to shake hers. When she touched his skin, the softness surprised her—no callouses or cuts like the men who worked the fields. “I am Tomas of Palermo by way of Roma, and soon to be of Piri River.”
“Piri River?” Her voice came out an octave higher.
“You know of this place?”
“Uh…yes. It’s where I live. Lived.”
“It is not your home anymore?” he asked.
“It is. Kind of.” Frankly, she had no idea.
“Oh?”
“I grew up in Piri River but I moved away a few years ago.” Rosie didn’t mention the reason she originally left was because of her post with the Australian Women’s Army Service as it was not a topic she felt comfortable discussing with someone of European heritage. During the war, Italians in Australia had been sent to internment camps and even though Italy had changed sides and became an ally, it was still a contentious subject for many people.
“You have not decided if you are staying or going? Do you not like the country?” he asked.
“I love it, but…” His eyes locked on hers while she tried to formulate an answer. “But things with my family are complicated.”
“All families are complicated, no? We are, after all, many personalities thrown together.”
“True.”
“May I ask your name?” He leant forward then quickly moved back. “I am sorry for the smell.”
“It’s fine, really.” Though her churning stomach told her otherwise. “I’m Rosie Stanton.”
“Is Rosie short for something? I hear Australians like to shorten names.”
“I’m Rosalie, but everyone calls me Rosie.”
When he smiled, it went all the way to his eyes. “To me, you look like Rosalie.”
“I do?” She laughed. “I won’t argue if you wish to call me Rosalie.”
Rosie had never liked the long version of her name, though there was something magical about the way it rolled off Tomas’s tongue.
“Piri River is a long way from Palermo and Rome,” she said. “What on earth brings you here?”
“Family.” His lips kicked up at the corners.
“How long have they been there?”
“Four hundred and ninety-eight days.”
“But you’re not counting,” she joked, then wondered if her humor might get lost with the cultural difference.
“I have missed my family very much,” Tomas said. The fading light fell on the small half-moon scar under his eye. Was it from the war? “I have heard Piri River is beautiful. My nonna always tells me about the fresh fruit, the blue skies, the smell of the rain after a long hot day…” Tomas gazed out the window, his fingers drumming against his bag.
The driver turned on the headlights as they entered Piri River proper. Reg’s Pub had closed for the evening, the dark green weatherboard and black shiny doors a welcome sight. Next to the pub, O’Reilly’s Service Station remained eerily quiet, the familiar red and yellow of the Golden Fleece logo still visible in the darkness. Across the road, a faint light could be seen burning at the back of Mitchell’s Bakery, where her old school friend Laney was no doubt toiling over the hot ovens preparing fresh bread for the next morning.
The bus bumped as it drove over the train line that led to the sugarcane mill, then the vehicle came to a shuddering stop. The doors swung open and Tomas stood and reached for the rack overhead. “May I assist with your baggage?”
She pointed at her new suitcase. He handed it to her and she quietly said, “Thank you.”
As she exited the bus she quickly looked back to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything. Tomas alighted just after her.
Clutching her suitcase, Rosie suddenly felt self-conscious in her fashionable floral dress, hat and gloves. In Brisbane, she’d felt perfectly at home in this attire, but now, returning to the town where fashion was a luxury and practicality a must, Rosie felt like a fish out of water.
The bus sputtered into life and left a trail of dust as it continued its journey north. Rosie rested her bag on the ground as she stretched her arms, legs and back. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed the humidity of northern Queensland. There was something comforting in the way the warm, damp air wrapped around her, like an extra layer, keeping her safe.
“Well, I’d best be off,” she said, mentally preparing herself for the long traipse to the farm.
“There is no one here to meet you?”
“No, and I’m absolutely fine with that.” She picked up her bag and adjusted it to distribute the weight more evenly.
Tomas wore a slightly puzzled expression as his gaze shifted in various directions.
“Do you know where you’re headed?” she asked.
“East?” He looked up and down the dark street.
“It’s that way,” she pointed in the direction of the cinema owned by the Fitzpatricks.
Tomas’s eyes stayed fixed on the art deco cinema painted in blue and yellow, sporting rounded corners. “It is beautiful.”
“It sure is. It was designed by a female architect in the 1920s. People travel for miles to watch movies here. It’s quite the experience.”
“It does not look like the cinema of a small town.”
“Which is what makes it so special.”
Bringing his focus back to Rosie, Tomas asked, “Which direction are you walking?”
“East.” Rosie smiled at Tomas, who looked so out of place in this small, rural town. “I guess we’re stuck with each other a bit longer.”
“I do not mind this predicament,” he said, a cheeky glint in his eye.
“You might not be saying that when you realize how far we have to walk. Come on, we might as well get started.” She nudged him playfully with her elbow, then chastised herself for the familiarity. He didn’t seem to mind, though, because he lightly nudged her back as they set
off down the deserted road.
Tomas reached for her suitcase. She shook her head. “It’s fine, thank you. I can carry it.”
“I have no doubt you can, but please, let me do this. It is my way to say grazie.”
“Grazie.” She let it roll off her tongue. “So, is Sicily an Italian province?”
“It is, but in Sicily we have our own language. Other Italians find us difficult to understand, though we have no problem understanding them.” Tomas smiled, apparently happy to take on the role of educator.
“I had no idea,” she said, feeling less worldly than she wanted. She’d always taken an interest in other cultures, but hadn’t quite made it to studying the nuances of Italy and its provinces. Growing up on her farm, Tulpil, she’d been surrounded by an array of nationalities—Pacific Islanders, South Africans, Polish and Czech—and her ear for languages meant she had a wide vocabulary that made conversing with the workers easy and enjoyable. Often, her father would ask her to translate. At least he had trusted her with that.
“Please.” He motioned for the suitcase once more, and she reluctantly handed it over.
“Thank you.”
Tomas slowed his pace to match Rosie’s. She couldn’t help sneaking furtive glances at her companion.
When they neared Mrs. Daw’s house, Rosie’s ears rang with a familiar, piercing sound.
“What is that?” Tomas furrowed his brows and looked skyward.
“Fruit bats.” She pointed at the mango tree in the front yard. “They’re sucking nectar from the fruit.”
“They are very noisy.”
“That’s how they see.”
Tomas stopped and placed the cases on either side of his feet. “How?”
“Bats see by echolocation.” She took in his blank stare. “They use high-frequency noises to locate objects around them as the sound bounces off the object.”
“They sound like children arguing,” said Tomas.
Rosie laughed. “Yes, they do.” She cocked her head in the direction of east. “We should get going.”
They left the screeching bats and the scent of mangos behind as they travelled farther into the night.
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