Starting Over
Susanne Bellamy
www.escapepublishing.com.au
To my mother-in-law, Kathleen, who passed away during the writing of this story, and whose warmth and acceptance, generosity and wonderful hospitality are greatly missed.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Epilogue
Chapter One
Serena Quinlan drove along the rutted driveway of Mindalby Saddlery and pulled up beside a cinder-block outbuilding with a corrugated iron half-wall. Her hands locked in a white-knuckled grip around the steering wheel; her heartbeat raced like a Melbourne Cup winner. An inch closer and the roaring B-double on the edge of the outback town would have dispatched her to kingdom come. Her stomach clenched and she tasted the bitter breakfast coffee in the back of her throat. If she was going to be sick, it wouldn’t be in her car. Forcing her hands to release their death grip on the steering wheel she switched off the engine, pushed her door open and stepped onto hard baked dirt. The tangerine Honda was coated in red dust and a starburst crack crazed the upper corner of the windscreen. Turning her back on the damage, she stumbled around the front of the car and perched on the bonnet. Heat from the engine rose like a welcome blanket and she drew the warmth into her shaking hands.
What on earth had possessed her to head west in search of the father she’d never met? The drive from Sydney had unrolled like an endless, flat ribbon of bitumen on which time had lost all meaning. Until her mother’s illness had changed her priorities, the idea of chasing across the country to find the man whose genetic material she carried had never crossed her mind. But the spectre of being left alone had spurred her on.
Long overdue time off for a holiday salved her conscience. She’d left her best friend and business partner Meg in charge of their Aussie clothing designs business. ‘I won’t be gone long, Meg. I’ll be able to check out the set-up for the festival and get a feel for the place.’
‘Forget work for once in your life and do something just for you. Your mum’s getting better now. Go find out where you came from.’
Was this town her father’s home?
Serena’s breathing slowly returned to normal as she surveyed the dry grass and dirt patches of the backyard and the drunken paling fence separating the corner block from the road. A tall, ghostly white gum tree occupied the back corner. Between its base and an outbuilding, a woodpile was neatly stacked beside a solid chopping block. Buried in a sawn-off stump, an axe angled up defiantly.
According to her city-loving mother, she had connected with a man who came from a place like this. And now Serena was in Mindalby to find him and maybe forge her own connection. Her dispirited gaze took in the drought-affected garden and her heart sank. Maybe letting Veronica Carter, the fashion store owner, talk her into using the local saddler to make belts and a handbag wasn’t such a good idea. On the way into town closed shops and the crowd gathered at locked gates had given her a bad vibe.
She took another deep breath and tried to calm herself, but she was still shaken by the encounter with the truck. That truck driver deserved to be booked. ‘Blast and damn him.’
‘Who, me?’
At the sound of a deep, male voice, she turned and took several quick steps around the car. ‘I’m Serena Quinlan, the—’
She came to an abrupt halt.
Water dripped from shoulder-length black hair and a stubbled jaw onto a well-muscled pair of shoulders and chest. The rest of his body was lost to view behind the corrugated iron half-wall.
Serena followed the line of the man’s arm to a tanned hand gripping the edge of the wall. A strong hand, a workman’s hand. Soap bubbles ran down his forearm and dripped from his elbow into a muddy pool beneath wooden slats. A sliver of bare thigh flashed into view.
‘Pass me that towel, will you?’
Serena met his dark-eyed gaze before she registered what he’d said. ‘Towel?’ She blinked and looked around. A towel with the Manly Sea Eagles emblem lay on the ground near her feet. Looking from the towel to the man her inner turmoil fled, replaced by amusement. She’d caught the saddler bare-arsed in his outdoor shower.
A gust of wind rolled the towel further out of his reach.
‘Any time soon would be good, unless you’re comfortable talking to a bloke in the buff. Doesn’t worry me, but—’
Laughter threatening, Serena scooped up his towel and held it out. ‘Maybe not at our first meeting.’
‘Sounds promising.’ As he took the towel, his broad fingers brushed her hand before he disappeared behind the wall. The touch of a stranger shouldn’t have warmed her cheeks the way it did. She didn’t react to men—in the buff or not—with that hunger exhibited by Meg at the sight of bare skin and muscles.
Except, apparently, this time she had, but it was nothing more than the shock of having been almost run off the road. She walked to the car in a daze, opened the rear door and grabbed her design portfolio from the back seat. Paul Carey was closer to her age—thirty at most—than she’d expected from his very correct and courteous emails. His voice—baritone with a lilting quality she associated with singers—set off small flares of anticipation as she contemplated the meeting ahead.
He emerged from the outside shower, towel firmly in place around his hips, and gestured towards a door bearing a workshop sign. ‘Sorry I wasn’t dressed. I’m Paul Carey.’ He held out a hand. Barefoot he was six feet plus, topping Serena by half a head in her city-slicker high-heeled boots. Dark hair sprinkled his chest and then angled down in a thin line that disappeared below the edge of the towel.
‘Ms Quinlan?’ Amusement lurked in eyes the colour of dark chocolate and the corner of his mouth twitched as he held out his hand.
Clearing her throat, she shook his hand and met his gaze. ‘Nice to meet you. I’m Serena.’ Goosebumps rose on her arms and she shoved her hands into her jacket pockets. The wind was picking up, carrying dust and stinging particles of grit on chilly gusts. Paul Carey must be freezing in nothing more than a towel. Her gaze landed on his chest and two small, peaked nipples.
‘Come in. I’ll put the kettle on.’ Paul indicated she precede him to his workshop and she strode across the rutted, dry strip of grass to the back door. The heat in her cheeks ran over her ears and down her neck. What a way to conduct business.
She stepped through the doorway into a brightly-lit workshop at odds with the neglect in the yard. The floor and workbench were clean, and every tool had a place. Country and western music played softly in the background. Scents of leather and linseed oil pervaded the air and she savoured the lingering waft of coffee that reminded her she hadn’t eaten for several hours.
Paul closed the door behind him and dragged a stool from beneath a workbench. He filled the kettle that sat beside the work sink and switched on the power. ‘Help yourself. There’s tea and coffee, and there might be some milk left if
you’re lucky. I’ll be back in a minute.’
Serena gripped her portfolio and risked looking at him again. The play of toned muscles beneath tanned skin held her gaze.
Paul grinned and raised an eyebrow. ‘Unless you prefer—’
She turned abruptly and hooked a mug from the shelf above the sink and waved it in his general direction. ‘I’m fine—it’s fine. Go get dressed. Do you want tea or coffee?’
‘Coffee, black, no sugar. And don’t mind Jack. He’s friendly.’ He opened a door and headed down the corridor. Serena tipped her head to one side, her gaze fixed on Paul Carey’s backside before the door swung closed, cutting off her view.
At least being dumped by her fiancé hadn’t resulted in her losing her appreciation for a fine male body. One point to her over Max Zinsky, the arrogant bastard.
In the far corner, an elderly black and white collie raised its head and smiled at Serena, and she let go of the thoughts of her broken engagement. ‘Hi, Jack. Hijack?’ She smiled and set her portfolio on the table. Kneeling beside the dog she held out a loose fist for him to get her scent.
He licked her hand and whined but made no move to leave the rug.
‘You’re a handsome fella, aren’t you, Jack?’ She gave him soft words and scratched under his chin until the kettle whistled. As Serena wandered back to the bench to make the coffee, she imagined clothing Paul from the small range of men’s designs in her new cotton collection for the Mindalby Cotton Festival. Sand-coloured stonewashed jeans and a resort-style white shirt open to reveal his chest, with bare feet …
She splashed hot water onto instant coffee granules, filling both mugs. It was a good feeling for work to occupy front and centre of her mind again. The past few months had been horrendous. Her mother’s illness and the break with Max had stifled her creativity. Veronica Carter’s invitation to design for the festival was a lifeline in the sea of misery her life had become.
A commission in the very part of New South Wales her biological father had come from felt like divine intervention.
She returned the kettle to its stand, and a single drop of water ran down the spout. The image of Paul leaning around the corrugated iron, a random line of drops rolling down his chest, had provided an interesting distraction. At least she’d forgotten her close shave with the B-double.
Flapping the neckline of her fine-knit top, she fanned her face. In the space of one dropped towel Paul had obliterated the ex-Max-factor from her mind.
She picked up a spoon and stirred sugar into her coffee, remembering the ripple of Paul’s muscles above the towel, the lean hips and long legs. And his cheeky, larrikin grin. She wrapped both hands around her mug and smiled as she sipped.
Therein lay a problem.
Paul Carey was very appealing.
***
Paul dragged a clean shirt over his head and zipped his jeans. Serena Quinlan was attractive; a green-eyed, red-haired beauty who’d looked at him with interest when he’d poked his head around the edge of the shower shed. Sure, losing his towel wasn’t his fault but he could have handled it better instead of making a string of suggestive remarks.
Way to go, Carey. Pretty girl sees you starkers and all you can do is shove your foot in your mouth.
He had to be the biggest idiot on the planet. Shaking his head, he stuffed his feet into a pair of scuffed boots before running a brush through his hair. It curled onto his neck and water dripped under his collar. He needed a haircut, yet one more thing he’d let slide while he’d worked after hours in the saddlery on his first major commission for Don Carter.
Talk around town was angry after today’s creditors’ meeting. Paul just wanted his money but no one had seen the mill owner since the plant shut down last week. After he’d finished with Ms Quinlan, he’d visit the Carter house in search of the mill owner. He stretched muscles tight from bending over the workbench, tossed the brush onto the dresser in the makeshift bedroom behind the saddlery office, and strode down the hall to his workshop. ‘I’m sorry about—’
Words died in his mouth. Serena stood in the open doorway looking out at the wasteland that was his backyard. A brief burst of sunlight outlined a pair of long legs encased in black tights and high-heeled black boots that were part of his favourite fantasy. He bit back a groan. How had he missed seeing them before?
Right—the lost towel.
She turned and met his gaze. ‘Coffee’s on the bench. Strong, black, no sugar, right?’
He nodded and headed to the sink on autopilot. Picking up the mug, he drank a mouthful, registering its heat a moment too late.
‘Be careful, it’s—’
‘Hot. Yeah, I noticed.’ Mouth burning, he set the mug on the sink. ‘So, while it’s great to meet you face to face, why are you here?’
Serena’s lips parted and a look of dismay settled on her face. ‘Oh no. You didn’t get my text message yesterday?’
‘Text?’ His hand reached automatically into his empty pocket.
‘If you’re looking for your phone, it’s on the shelf behind your head.’ She pointed past his left ear before wrapping both hands around her mug again.
He thumbed the phone on. A simple black and white, two-sentence statement and question winked onto the screen. Which he’d missed because, when he was working on the panels, nothing else registered. ‘I lose track of time when I’m working on a project. Clearly I also forget to check my messages. To answer your question, yes, it’s fine to call in.’
‘Phew, that could have been awkward.’
‘More awkward than coming across a naked man before lunchtime?’
Serena grinned, the sort of grin that reminded him of the warmth of the summer sun and happy holidays. She bent over the panel he’d half completed that morning. ‘What are you working on?’ She reached out, stopping short of touching the leather. With a tilt of her head and a sideways glance, she asked, ‘May I?’
‘Sure.’
She stroked the leather with her fingertips, tracing the lines of stalks supporting heavy cotton bolls. Her gaze flicked up and met his. ‘What sort of leather are you using?’
‘Jersey hides for the soil and white Brahman for the cotton bolls. After I finish, I’ll apply a wash of leather dye to create an illusion of golden afternoon light to the sky.’
She nodded and ran her hand over the completed section. ‘This is stunning. How many panels have you planned?’
‘Four stages of cotton production, so four panels. It was commissioned by Don Carter, the major stockholder in Mindalby Cotton. My deadline is the Cotton Festival in September.’
‘Carter? Is that Veronica Carter’s husband?’ Meeting the owner of the dress shop at a buyers’ show in Sydney had been fortuitous on more than a professional level. It had given her the excuse, and the motivation, to take time off work and head west on her quest. ‘She’s a lovely woman.’
‘Veronica’s his first wife. They’ve been divorced for years.’
‘Speaking of cotton, I saw a crowd at the gates of the mill as I drove in. What’s going on?’
‘Ah, that—the mill closed its gates last week.’
‘For good?’
He looked at his work where it lay on the bench, expensive, and unfinished, the embodiment of his secret hopes and dreams. Would Don Carter be around to pay for the panels? A weight settled in his stomach at the thought of the money tied up in this commission.
And the dreams and reality dependent on its completion.
‘It’s looking pretty bleak. Look, I’m sorry I didn’t get your message sooner. I hope you didn’t make this trip because of the festival.’
Serena shook her head, but her glance skittered to her portfolio. ‘Partly. I’m on holiday here in the back of Bourke, not just checking up on my leather-goods manufacturer. But with the mill closing, does that mean the festival will be cancelled?’
‘I’m not sure. Feelings in town are running high right now. I don’t think anyone is thinking much beyond this week.’
&nb
sp; Especially his younger brother; like most of the cotton farmers in the district, Hayden was desperate and angry. But Paul knew his brother well and how quickly he could fire up. He was worried he would do something rash. News from the creditors’ meeting this morning was already getting around. How long before Hayden heard the news and exploded?
‘Paul?’ Serena’s voice cut into his dark thoughts.
What were we talking about?
Her hand rested on the table next to his work. A safe topic.
‘Sorry, I’ve just got a lot on my mind. I’ve had a request for a series of photos at this stage of the panel creation for a feature in a national newspaper; the photojournalist is supposed to be flying in sometime this week.’ Paul’s stomach knotted and his creative side curled in on itself. Marketing himself was the worst part of being an artist. Maybe talking about his work hadn’t been such a great idea. He hunkered down in front of Jack, lying on a soft rug in the warmest corner of the workshop, and scratched his ears. Jack grounded him and gave back love unstintingly.
Serena kneeled on the floor at his side. Jack sniffed and licked her hand.
‘He likes you.’ Jack was always a great judge of character.
‘I like him. How old is he?’
‘Sixteen and three-quarters and still going strong. How old is that in human years? Older than Gramps, I reckon.’ With a final pat for Jack, Paul stood and crossed to the workbench. He picked up a sheet to cover the panel. Collaborating with a fashion designer—especially one as attractive as Serena—was a distraction he could do without.
‘Okay. Assuming the festival goes ahead, does seeing my work reassure you about my ability to make the accessories for your outfits?’ He traced the outline of the last cotton boll he’d inserted. Beneath the rough pads of his fingertips, the leather was cool and smooth and he visualised the completed image—a panel of sun-drenched fields bursting with row upon row of white cotton ready for harvest.
‘It certainly does. Looking at this panel—’
She ran her hand lightly across the leather again and her green eyes took on a faraway look. Green with flecks of amber. How could he capture that shading in leather?
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