Something to Talk About (Rose Hill, #2)

by Rachael Johns

  He sat bolt upright in bed.

  Where the hell was Mrs Norris?

  Although he set it out of habit, not once since he’d been the sole owner of the cat had he actually needed his alarm. Without fail she’d woken him well before he needed to get up—either by jumping on his chest and swishing her tail in his face or scratching on the screen door and meowing so loudly he couldn’t go back to sleep.

  He tried to recall if she’d been inside or out when he’d arrived home just after 2 am, but he’d been so dog tired after searching through scrubland at the edge of town that he’d just fallen into bed, clothes and all. What if something had happened to Mrs Norris? Jools would kill him. He immediately pushed that thought aside—she wouldn’t kill him because he wouldn’t tell her—but it didn’t stop him from feeling anxious. The cat was such a damn pain in the arse but the thought of not having it around …

  He flung back the covers and strode across the room to open the door. He’d barely registered the fact that it was closed, and he didn’t remember shutting it, when the smell of bacon wafted towards him. His mouth and stomach groaned but his spine prickled with unease as he slowly walked down the hallway, glancing around for something he could use as a weapon. The best he could find was an ornate glass vase, but surely a burglar wouldn’t be cooking breakfast?

  And then it hit him.

  Mrs Lord! It seemed implausible that she could have made it this far out of town, never mind actually found her way home without any of them catching sight of her, but miracles did happen, and he couldn’t think of any other likely explanation. Unless one of the single women had decided to surprise him with breakfast?

  No, surely even Adeline Walsh wouldn’t go to that extent.

  He loosened his grip on the vase and crept closer to the kitchen as quietly as he possibly could. If it was Mrs Lord, she’d probably think he was the intruder and he didn’t want to scare her.

  ‘Is that you, Harold?’

  Ferg almost jumped out of his skin at the sound of the decidedly elderly voice. Before he had the chance to work out how to reply, an old woman appeared in the doorway. She was wearing loose grey pants, a floral blouse, a red apron, which he knew came from one of the kitchen drawers, and some slippers, which looked as if they’d seen better days. Her white hair was cut short in standard elderly woman fashion and there were a few strands of hay or something scattered through it. He braced himself for her shock and fear at seeing a stranger, but instead her whole face lit up, smile lines crinkling at the edges of her eyes.

  ‘Hello, love, ready for some breakfast?’

  ‘Um …’ He guessed Harold had to have been her husband.

  ‘Cat got your tongue?’ She chuckled as she stepped forward and took a hold of his arm. Her paper-thin skin felt soft against his and when he glanced down, something inside him squeezed a little at the almost bluish tinge and the veins clearly visible.

  ‘Sorry, still half-asleep,’ he said as he let her lead him into the kitchen.

  ‘That’s my Harold, always busy busy busy. Take a seat and I’ll get you a cup of tea.’

  As he lowered himself into a chair, Mrs Norris waltzed into the kitchen and straight over to Mrs Lord.

  ‘Hello, dear little thing.’ She wobbled slightly as she stooped to stroke Mrs Norris’s head and Fergus tensed, ready to intervene if the cat took a swipe, but breathed a sigh of relief as she purred loudly and weaved herself in and out of the old woman’s legs instead.

  What the?

  ‘I know you don’t like cats in the house, love,’ said Mrs Lord, ‘but this poor little thing was scratching at the door this morning.’

  Poor little thing? Ferg struggled to contain a snort.

  ‘Absolutely starving,’ she continued. ‘I gave her some milk but couldn’t find it in me to throw her back out. Maybe she could stay and catch mice for us?’

  ‘Sure,’ Ferg didn’t know what else to say at the pleading expression in her soft brown eyes.

  ‘Oh, thank you!’ She threw her arms around him. ‘You act like such a grumpy goose but you’ve got a heart of gold really. Now, let me get your breakfast.’

  Ferg watched as Mrs Lord turned back to the stove and poured eggs she’d obviously already whisked into a saucepan. Behind it, bacon sizzled in a frying pan, little droplets of fat spitting up into the air. He glanced at the clock on the wall. He needed to notify the authorities that she was okay.

  ‘I’m just popping to the loo. Back in a moment.’

  ‘Don’t be too long, or your tea will get cold,’ she scolded, her tone good-natured.

  ‘I won’t,’ he promised as he ambled out of the kitchen then made a mad dash down the hallway and into the bedroom. He closed the door quietly behind him and snatched his mobile off the bedside table. He was searching for the number of the Walsh Police Station when he heard a clatter and a shriek from the kitchen.

  Still gripping his phone, Ferg hurried back to find the frying pan on the floor, bacon scattered everywhere and Mrs Lord clutching her hand against her chest.

  ‘Fuck. Have you burned yourself?’ As he spoke he rushed across and turned off the stove before anything else got burned.

  ‘No need for language like that, Har … Har …’ Her eyes widened and suddenly filled with fear. ‘You’re not Harold.’ She backed away slightly as if he were an angry bull. ‘Who are you? What are you doing in my house? Harold! Harold!’ Her gaze darted around the room and Ferg was unsure whether she was wondering why Harold wasn’t coming to her rescue or looking for something to use against him in self-defence.

  He needed to calm her, but he also needed to see her hand, assess how bad the burn was and treat it asap. ‘It’s okay, Mrs Lord,’ he said, holding up his hands as he took a tentative step towards her. ‘I’m a friend. My name’s Fergus and I’m not going to hurt you.’

  ‘Do you know Harold?’ she asked, her voice still wobbly and her face contorted in distrust.

  He decided a white lie was forgivable in the circumstances. ‘Yeah, he’s a top bloke. And very lucky to have such a gem like you for a wife.’

  As her lips twisted ever so slightly at the edges, he took another step.

  ‘Could you let me have a look at your hand?’

  She hesitated a moment and then slowly reached out, turning her palm up to show him. Her skin was already red raw and beginning to bubble. It was a massive effort not to wince but he didn’t want to make her any more anxious.

  ‘Let’s get that under some water.’ He led her across to the sink, turning the cold tap on full bore and then gently guiding her upturned hand under it.

  ‘I’m such a silly duck,’ she said as water streamed over her red raw skin and tears trickled down her cheeks. ‘Harold always calls me his clumsy chicken. Do you think he’ll be back soon?’

  Ferg glanced at his phone, which he’d tossed onto the table when he’d seen her hand. ‘I’d say so, but maybe we should take you to the hospital to get that checked out.’

  ‘No.’ She all but shrieked and yanked her hand from under the tap. ‘I’m not going to the hospital! I’m staying right here in my house. You can’t make me go!’

  ‘Okay,’ he said, adopting the calm but firm voice he usually reserved for difficult or distressed children. ‘Okay, but you need to put your hand back under the water and I’m going to find something to treat your burn.’

  Reluctant to leave her but not seeing he had any choice—she’d freak if she heard him calling an ambulance—he headed into the bathroom, closed the door behind him and called triple zero.

  Chapter Twelve

  Tab had a heavy heart as she came in from the milking and yanked her dirty old gumboots off. Ever since moving to Rose Hill, she’d done a lot less farm work and she missed it. But today the quirky personalities of the cows and the monotonous work of getting them on and off the milking machine didn’t bring her peace the way it usually did.

  She couldn’t stop thinking about Mrs Lord being out there somewhere, alone. Anything
could have happened to her. She could have fallen and broken something. She could have been bitten by a snake. She could have stumbled into a dam. Some sicko could have picked her up and be doing who knows what with her. The more time passed, the more likely the possibility that the old dear had met some kind of unfortunate end. Despite broken sleep due to worry, Tab planned on having a quick shower, borrowing a change of clothes from Meg and then heading into town to join the search again. But as she pulled her phone out of her pocket to undress, it started ringing.

  Her heart leapt as she saw Triple Zero on the screen and when she punched in her code to access the conference call, many of her fellow volunteers were already on the line. They let out a collective sigh of relief when the operator told them that Mrs Lord had been found at her old house, but that she’d suffered a bad burn from a frying pan and as a result had become a little agitated.

  No wonder, Tab thought, being alone with Fergus was enough to agitate anyone and the poor woman must have been terrified to find a strange man in her cottage. Once the operator had relayed all the information, the volunteers talked among themselves, determining who was available to attend the callout. Boots and Funky volunteered and although the prospect of seeing Mr Mc-Rude-and-Grumpy didn’t fill Tab with warm fuzzies, she couldn’t do nothing when she was so close.

  ‘I’ll head there now,’ she offered, ‘and see if I can put her a bit at ease before you guys arrive.’

  ‘Thanks, Tab, you’re a star,’ Funky said before they disconnected the call.

  She grabbed the farm first-aid kit, said a quick goodbye to Meg and Ned and was on her way. As she drove the short distance to the Lord’s farm, she fumed at the thought of the old woman’s injury. Where was Fergus when she’d been cooking up a storm? Surely he couldn’t be that deep a sleeper that he hadn’t heard someone break and enter his house.

  And how the hell had she even got there? Someone must have given her a lift. No way she could have walked twelve kilometres without becoming dehydrated, and surely someone out of the hundreds who were looking would have seen her. So where had she spent the night? Why hadn’t they seen any sign of her when they’d been searching the farm yesterday evening? It was a mystery and one she wasn’t sure they’d ever find the answer to.

  She turned at the now faded sign that read HM and VE Lord and drove as fast as was safe on the gravel drive, parking under a jacaranda tree by the cottage a mere five minutes after she got the call.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Fergus said as they met each other on the front porch. All he wore was a pair of black shorts and a white chesty singlet and it was hard not to stare at his bare legs and arms.

  Tab forced herself to be civil. ‘I’m a local St John’s volunteer.’ She held her chin high as she spoke, bracing herself for his surprise that they’d let someone with only one functional arm sign up. He probably thought they’d done so out of pity. But he nodded, and the expression in his eyes looked more like relief than scepticism.

  ‘The ambulance is on its way, but I stayed at Lawson and Meg’s last night, so it made sense for me to come straight here and see what I could do first.’ Tab went to step past him, but Fergus blocked her way and held the door handle firmly.

  ‘She’s okay.’ His voice was low, almost a whisper, and annoyingly it sent a pleasurable shiver down her spine. ‘I’ve had her hand under cold water for the last ten minutes and I found some burn gel pads in the bathroom cabinet, which I’ve just applied. They’re a little out of date but I figured they were better than nothing. She doesn’t seem to be in too much pain but she’s very adamant that she doesn’t want to go to the hospital, so …’

  Tab sighed. It wasn’t surprising, but it could make getting her into the ambulance difficult. ‘Okay. Thanks for the heads-up.’

  Fergus stepped aside and held the door open for her. It led straight into the living room and for a second, she startled. She’d just assumed he’d have put his own mark on the cottage, but it still looked as if an elderly couple lived there.

  Mrs Lord was sitting on the floral sofa, a crocheted rug and a rather large, semi-long-haired cat on her knee. One of her hands was resting on a cushion, the palm upturned sporting a burn pad, the other gently smoothing the cat’s fur. That was until she noticed Tabitha.

  ‘Who are you?’ Her voice was shaky, her eyes wide.

  Tab summoned her warmest smile. ‘I’m Tabitha Cooper-Jones from next door.’

  Mrs Lord frowned and shook her head. ‘Tabby is only a little girl.’ She looked to Fergus. ‘What’s going on?’

  He crossed the room in two strides, lowered himself onto the sofa beside her and put a reassuring arm around her shoulder. The cat swiped out its paw and scratched his leg, its fur standing up, but Fergus ignored the blood it had drawn on his leg. ‘It’s alright, love,’ he said in the gentlest voice she’d ever heard. ‘You just haven’t seen Tabby for a few years, but hasn’t she grown into a lovely young lady?’

  Tab averted her gaze from Fergus’s bare skin—she wasn’t here to apply first aid to a cat scratch—as slowly a smile appeared on Mrs Lord’s face. ‘Oh yes, I see the resemblance to your mother now. How is she? I haven’t seen her in a while, I don’t think.’

  A lump welled in Tab’s throat. Although her mum had passed away well over a decade ago, the pain never really went away. ‘She’s … She’s fine.’ Tab decided a white lie was kindest. ‘She’s just really busy at the moment.’

  Fergus looked straight into Mrs Lord’s pale blue eyes. ‘Tabitha would like to take a look at your hand. Do you think that would be okay?’

  ‘I’m not going to the hospital.’

  He nodded. ‘Let’s not worry about that right now.’

  ‘Okay.’ Mrs Lord glanced down at her hand and then smiled tenderly at Fergus. ‘Whatever you think is best.’

  Tab took that as an invitation to get closer. Carrying her first-aid kit, she went to kneel in front of the sofa, so she could get the best access.

  ‘Careful,’ Fergus warned. ‘Mrs Norris isn’t the friendliest of felines.’

  Mrs Lord frowned. The two women replied at the same time.

  ‘We’re not calling her Mrs Norris and what do you mean she’s not friendly?’

  ‘Mrs Norris from Harry Potter?’ Tab vaguely remembered Ned saying something about a class theme. If Fergus was that much of a HP fan that he named his cat after a character, it would be very hard to continue to disapprove of him.

  ‘Who is Harry Potter?’ added Mrs Lord, once again looking anxious and confused.

  ‘Sorry.’ Fergus cleared his throat and smiled again. ‘What do you want to call her?’

  ‘I think Buttons is a lovely name for a cat, and this one is cute as a button.’

  Personally, Tab had never understood that phrase—what was so cute about buttons?

  But Fergus nodded. ‘Great name. Buttons it is.’ He looked to her and mouthed, ‘Be careful.’

  ‘Hello, Buttons,’ Tab said, reaching out to scratch the cat under its chin. Although she’d witnessed its earlier swipe, it looked so content sitting on Mrs Lord’s lap that it didn’t seem much of a threat. A loud purr immediately emanated from the fur ball.

  ‘She likes you,’ said Mrs Lord, visibly relaxing.

  ‘Wonders never cease,’ Fergus muttered. ‘Must just be me.’

  Tab looked up and met his gaze, wanting to convey that if he treated the cat like he treated her, no wonder it didn’t adore him, but something inside her jolted as she looked into his warm caramel eyes. It was impossible to ignore the sadness she saw there.

  She immediately looked back to Mrs Lord. ‘Let’s take a look at that hand.’

  The old woman winced as Tab gently lifted the burn gel pad so she could take a peek. Youch. She tried not to wince at the red raw skin beneath, already boasting some vicious-looking blisters.

  ‘I’m going to replace this pad with a new one,’ she said, knowing Mrs Lord would be less likely to panic if she was kept informed, ‘and then I’m goi
ng to wrap it with a bandage, which will make it easier to keep it there.’

  ‘Want some …’ Fergus began but then snapped his mouth shut as Tab reached down to open the first-aid kit.

  It was obvious he was going to ask if she needed help, and while she conceded he might do that with anyone, she had a burning urge to prove herself to him. Still, holding the gel pad in place while keeping an elderly arm from shaking, and also wrapping a hand gently but firmly enough to do its job, was tricky even for those with two functioning hands.

  She grabbed the bandage from the kit and handed it to him. ‘If you could open that for me, that would be great.’

  He did as she asked and then she got him to open the gel pad as well. Surprisingly, the cat stayed on Mrs Lord’s lap as Tab removed the old pad and discarded it on the floor. The old woman’s hand shook, and Fergus reached out and held it as Tab lowered the pad onto what she guessed were second-degree burns.

  ‘Thanks.’ She held out her hand for the bandage and as he gave it to her, she kept Mrs Lord informed. ‘Now I’m going to wrap your hand, okay?’

  Her patient was thankfully distracted by the cat and didn’t seem to notice how awful her burn was. Tab’s hand shook a little as she carefully wound the bandage, Fergus shifting his hand as necessary. Part of her wished she could have done it herself, but there were more important things than pride. And she’d never admit it, but they actually made quite a good team.

  ‘Thank you, Tabby,’ Mrs Lord said when she was finished. ‘I’m sorry to have wasted your time. I feel so very foolish. Now, can I get you a cup of tea?’

  Tab and Fergus exchanged looks.

  ‘Thanks, but I’m fine.’ Tab smiled.

  At the same moment, Fergus said, ‘How about I make the tea?’

  She nodded. It was probably a good idea to keep Mrs Lord as calm as possible while they waited for the others to arrive with the ambulance.

  While Fergus headed into the kitchen, Tab reached out again to stroke the cat. It had the softest fur—no wonder Mrs Lord found it calming.