Heart of the Valley

by Cathryn Hein

  Brooke shook her head. Between the champagne and nibbles at the hairdresser’s and the rich restaurant food, she’d already had far too much. And she wanted air. She could still feel ‘Brookie’ prickling between them, itching her skin and making her fingers twitch with the urge to scratch herself raw until the memory of it faded.

  Fortunately the ‘surprise’ her mother had organised made her forget soon enough. At first she was dismayed to discover Ariel had booked her a long session with one of the city’s top stylists, but either the stylist had been well briefed or she was a mind-reader. The clothes she chose were in colours Brooke liked and in styles that didn’t make her feel like one of those wannabe heiress types who the gossip mags so liked to tease for their ‘wardrobe malfunctions’. Even Brooke was surprised at how much she enjoyed the session, though where she’d wear most of the clothes, she had no idea. She rarely attended the races these days and her social life in the Valley amounted to not much more than outdoor barbecues and her usual Thursday night drinks at the Pitcorthie pub with Chloe and Andrew. But Ariel insisted this was her special treat, and despite Brooke’s protests, forced the bags of clothes into her arms.

  After a quick stop at a local greengrocer, they returned home, chattering about friends, relatives, the yard, and other trivial matters as they prepared dinner. The subject of Brooke’s horses remained carefully avoided, and though she thought it a little odd – the topic typically hovered at the forefront of their conversations – sheer relief helped offset her qualms. Plus the day had been too lovely to spoil with upsetting talk.

  The first to arrive from the yard was Mark. He strode into the kitchen, looking, as he always did, like a stockbroker. Of the Kingston men, he was the shortest, but his body was honed from hours spent in the home gym he’d installed in his Coogee apartment, and his blue-grey suit emphasised the width of his hard-worked shoulders. His white collar perfect, much like his contrasting blue tie, with its University of Sydney tie clip. To Brooke’s surprise he’d let his hair grow a little, taming the natural curls with gel so it sat up in trendy dark spikes. It made her immediately wonder if her brother had unlaced a bit. Maybe he’d found a girlfriend?

  Mark smiled and gave her a dutiful dry-lipped kiss, but like everything about it him, it contained no warmth. ‘Good day?’

  ‘Great, thanks. And you?’

  He shrugged, hands dug into his trouser pockets. ‘Same as always. Money coming in, money going out.’ He tossed her a look. ‘Too much of it in some places.’

  Brooke’s jaw turned rigid. Mark was the family’s business manager and the cost of running Kingston Downs was his favourite bugbear, especially now they were only using it for long-term spelling. But he tended to forget how much income the hay crop generated, and while Brooke might not be performing her duties as well as she once had, she was hardly an expensive employee.

  ‘Mark,’ Ariel warned softly, and to Brooke’s astonishment he said no more. Usually once he started, her brother didn’t let go, quizzing her about the diesel or fertiliser bill, or questioning the necessity of soil tests – whatever issue he’d decided needed attention. Constant nags that never failed to raise Brooke’s hackles and did nothing to improve their thorny relationship.

  Half an hour later, Angus turned up, bottle of red wine in hand and a huge grin on his face. Tall and rangy like his father, his navy wool jumper with its gold Kingston Lodge Racing logo reeking of horses, he enveloped Brooke in an angular but warm embrace. ‘How’s my favourite sister?’

  She poked him in the ribs. ‘Your only sister.’

  Showing no respect for her new hairstyle, Angus ruffled her head. ‘Still my favourite.’ He peered at her closely, nose half-screwed up. ‘Is that makeup you’re wearing?’

  Brooke held her palms against the blunt ends of her bob and bounced the cut while striking a pouty pose. ‘Yes, and I’ve even product in my hair.’

  ‘You look like a girl.’

  ‘Probably because she is,’ said Ariel, closing the oven door after stirring the casserole and coming over to kiss Angus. ‘And a gorgeous one at that.’

  ‘Gorgeous? Brooke?’

  Brooke smacked him lightly in the chest. ‘I can be when I choose.’

  ‘The trouble is,’ replied Angus, ‘is that you never choose.’

  Brooke shrugged. ‘No much call for it on the farm.’

  For a tense moment, Angus, Mark and Ariel all exchanged a look before Ariel clapped her hands and began to shoo the boys into the lounge to wait for their father, following them out to set the plates on the table.

  Hushed words flowed from the lounge. Frowning, Brooke picked quietly through the cutlery drawer, trying to keep the rattle to a minimum so she could listen in. The conversation didn’t sound friendly. Rather, it sounded like people trying to express their anger, but quietly. She stopped and placed the cutlery on the bench, and pressed her finger to her wrist, willing away her tension while telling herself nothing was wrong. She was just being oversensitive.

  She turned to face the lounge as the murmurs ceased. Her mother appeared grim-mouthed at the door before spying Brooke and hastily setting a pleasant smile on her face.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ Brooke asked.

  Though her mother’s smile remained, it didn’t reach her eyes. ‘Just the boys arguing over nothing, as usual. Now, I think we deserve a glass of wine after our big day, don’t you?’

  Brooke almost said no. She wasn’t being oversensitive. Something wasn’t right. It hadn’t been all day, and the unrelenting buzz of anxiety warned her she needed to keep her wits, but as she opened her mouth to refuse the front door banged. In seconds, her father had her in his lanky embrace.

  ‘How’s my girl?’ he said, planting a fat kiss on her cheek before holding her at arm’s-length. ‘Well, aren’t you looking glamorous?’ He winked at Ariel. ‘Give your mother a run for her money. Did you have a good day?’

  ‘Yeah, it was great.’

  ‘Well, that’s good then. So how are things at the farm?’

  Ariel handed them each a glass of wine and disappeared into the lounge with her own glass and two bottles of Corona, leaving them to chat. As Brooke told her father about what she’d been doing, which, to be fair, in the dead of winter wasn’t much, her tension eased. His gentle manner and air of solidity, characteristics that made him so good with horses, calmed her far better than any alcohol could.

  ‘And how’s Poddy?’

  At the mention of Poddy Brooke’s throat thickened. She ducked her head to hide her sadness. ‘He’s okay.’

  Her father stroked her hair in comfort. ‘It hurts, I know.’

  But he didn’t know. No one did. Every time she looked at Poddy the guilt almost floored her.

  ‘I found a friend for him,’ she said, pulling herself together. ‘A Shetland mare.’ She smiled a little as she thought of the fat, shaggy-maned pony. ‘I think they’re in love. Poddy follows her around like a puppy, but he’s so much happier now he’s not being bullied by the others.’

  Christopher Kingston smiled, transforming his face. He wasn’t handsome like Ariel was beautiful. Years of early mornings, hard work and outdoor life had left him weather-beaten, with a face full of crags and broken capillaries. Neither did he possess Ariel’s slender elegance, but he was fit and looked healthy for his fifty-four years, and carried himself with the calm confidence of a successful man content with his place in the world.

  Bar Andrew and Chloe, he was also the only person Brooke could tolerate talking about the accident.

  ‘I’m glad. For you both. Is Sod still playing up?’

  ‘A bit. Not as bad as he was but he still won’t float.’

  ‘He needs time to forget what happened. Like you.’

  Brooke shook her head. ‘I won’t ever forget.’

  ‘No. But it’ll get easier. You’ll see. And a break from there will do you good.’

  She frowned. What break? She was only in town overnight and then under sufferance. She loa
thed leaving Poddy alone. If it weren’t for Chloe’s promise to look after things she wouldn’t even be here. But any questioning about what he meant was stymied by the oven timer ringing and the return of her mother and brothers to the kitchen.

  Ariel refused help; instead she ordered Brooke and her brothers to sit at the dining table while she and their father dished up. Brooke settled in her usual seat alongside Angus, casting surreptitious glances at her brothers. Both wore subdued expressions, as though steadying themselves for something distasteful.

  Her finger crept to her wrist. Digging her finger in, she counted to three and hauled in a breath. ‘Okay, what’s up?’

  Angus and Mark shared a look, Angus giving his head an almost imperceptible shake, before focusing on her. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Don’t give me that.’

  His mouth turned grim. ‘We’ll talk about it later, okay?’

  Panic welled in her chest. She let go of her wrist. The pressure point wasn’t working. Nothing was working. Everything was wrong. ‘No. I want to talk about it now.’

  ‘Later, Brookie,’ said her father, leaning across to place the salad bowl on the table. He touched her shoulder. ‘It’s fine.’

  But it wasn’t fine, not when her brothers looked like that and not with ‘Brookie’ crawling over her skin like a million ants. Her hand fluttered to her throat. What the hell was going on?

  One by one the plates were laid. Her parents took their seats. Angus’s red wine was poured. The salad bowl handed around. Seasoning and dressing passed. Ariel’s Middle Eastern-style chicken casserole wafted scents of tomato and saffron in Brooke’s nose, but did nothing to encourage her appetite. She poked at the food while her family attempted stilted conversation and threw looks her way.

  Though no one seemed keen on their dinner, the men acted overly keen to help clear up. Leaving Brooke and her mother at the table they congregated in the kitchen, clattering plates noisily.

  She stared at Ariel. ‘It’s bad news, isn’t it?’

  Her mother leaned across the table for her hand. ‘Not bad news, Brookie.’

  Brooke jerked it out of reach. She didn’t want false comfort. She just wanted the truth. ‘Don’t lie, Mum. Anytime anyone calls me Brookie, it’s bad.’

  Ariel looked toward the kitchen. One by one, the men stopped what they were doing and filed back to the table. Solemn-faced, they settled, Angus with his arm draped along the back of Brooke’s chair and his fingers lightly touching her back.

  Ariel looked at Christopher and then at Brooke. ‘You know how worried about you we are, don’t you?’

  Brooke remained silent, her jaw clenched tightly shut.

  Mark filled the gap. ‘And I’m sure you also appreciate that your little issue with transporting horses has caused the yard logistical problems, and we’ve had to make adjustments. Very expensive adjustments.’ He spoke soberly, but Brooke heard a hint of relish in his voice and her loathing for him deepened. ‘But it’s been four months now and the time has come for you to face facts. You can’t do the job you’re paid for and it’s affecting the business. It’s time you moved to Sydney, got sorted and made yourself useful. After all, you’re not going to make any sort of business out of showjumping. You can’t even drive to events.’

  ‘Cut it, Mark.’ Her father settled his sympathetic gaze on her. ‘It’s only temporary, love.’

  ‘It might not be,’ interrupted Mark. ‘There’s interest there. Serious interest.’

  Brooke fought the tide of cold dread creeping up her body towards her brain. She blinked, trying to clear the approaching fog and stave off the pounding that grew louder in her head with every frightened beat of her heart. She had to stay rational. In focus. She had to fight this.

  ‘What interest? What are you talking about?’

  ‘We’ve had an enquiry about the farm. From a solicitor acting on behalf of someone looking for property in the area.’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head, air compressing in her lungs, making it hard to breathe. ‘No.’

  ‘You can move back here,’ said her mother. ‘Bring Sod with you, and together we’ll make you and him better. You went through a terrible trauma, Brookie. You know it’s affected you badly and you’re not yourself. You need to heal and you can’t do that on your own.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with me. I told you, I’m fine.’

  ‘Been driving the float lately, Brooke?’ asked Mark.

  ‘You can go and get —’

  Angus grabbed her shoulder, keeping her in place. ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Brooke, love,’ said Christopher, ‘we’re not doing this to hurt you. You’ve been hurt enough. But we all feel this is for the best.’

  ‘Whose best? Yours?’ She stabbed a finger at her father, then redirected it toward Mark. ‘His? Because it’s certainly not for mine.’

  ‘Brookie.’ Ariel reached out, her eyes wet with distress, but it was nothing compared to the distress Brooke felt. This was her life they were ruining. How could they not see that?

  Brooke hauled in breaths, trying to calm herself. She dug her finger into her wrist, silently repeating her mantra – the only thing she had left to cling to now even her father had set her adrift.

  One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three.

  ‘I’m fine. Yes, I have a problem with towing the float but I’m working on it. Other than that, I’m perfectly normal. I appreciate your kindness, but honestly, I’m fine.’

  Ariel shook her head. ‘I don’t think you are, Brookie.’

  ‘Stop calling me Brookie. It’s driving me insane!’

  Mark rolled his eyes. ‘Oh for God’s sake, calm down. It’s not the end of the bloody world.’

  Hatred shot like quicksilver through her veins. She cast a death stare at her brother while her parents shared a look.

  Her father spread out his hands. ‘I’m sorry, love, but it’s all arranged.’

  Every millilitre of blood in her brain shot south. She faced her father, swaying slightly as her head emptied. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He means,’ said Mark, ‘that we’ve already employed a manager to take over.’

  ‘So unemploy him.’ She stared at each of them. ‘Pick up the phone and call whoever it is and tell them the job’s off.’

  No one made a move. Stubborn silence roared.

  She slapped her palms on the table. ‘You can’t make me leave!’

  ‘You’ll have to,’ said Mark. ‘The cottage is part of the deal.’

  She shook her head, tears flooding her cheeks. ‘You can’t do this. Kingston Downs is my home.’ She pointed to her chest. ‘My home!’ She turned to Angus, her ally, and clawed at his shirt. ‘You can’t let them do this to me. Tell them, Angus. Please. Tell them they can’t do this.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I really am.’

  And with those simple words, her heart broke.

  Three

  The moment Lachie spied the timber post-and-rail fence delineating the roadside boundary of Kingston Downs his heart began to beat faster. Keeping one eye on the road, he surveyed the passing landscape, admiring the lush paddocks and immaculate fences, so different to Delamere, his parents’ property west of Forbes in the Jemalong Irrigation District, four and a half hours away. A short distance on, he slowed as he saw the curved, dark brick entrance with its blue and gold Kingston Lodge Racing sign.

  He flicked the indicator and turned into the drive. As the ute straightened, he took one hand off the wheel and brushed it down his thigh. Stupid to be nervous, but despite his eagerness for the job, he was. The place looked so upmarket it made him feel inadequate, like a mongrel invading a pedigree show.

  The expensive timber and coated-wire fence continued either side of the drive and into the distance, enclosing laneways, small paddocks and rows of shrubby windbreaks. In the paddock to the right, two winter-coated horses grazed on verdant, hock-high pasture. Hearing the crunch of tyres on the graded gravel road, they jerked their heads up to eye his red Toyota
Hilux, ears pricked as they stared. He wondered how much they were worth. Probably more than he’d earn in his lifetime. Even with their thick coats and dropped bellies they looked like prime horseflesh, all noble-headed and strong-boned and possessing the look-at-me quality of champions.

  He flicked a look at the Jack Russell terrier sitting next to him on the passenger seat. The dog’s little black eyes glittered bright with anticipation. ‘What do you reckon, Billyboy? Pretty flash, huh?’

  Interpreting Lachie’s words as permission to leave his perch, Billy released one of his trademark sharp yips and scrabbled over Lachie’s legs to rest his paws on the door and stare out the window.

  With a smile, Lachie wound down the window to let Billy sniff the air. A blast of cold hit them both, pinning Billy’s black and tan ears back and making him squint. Neither of them cared. Excitement was enough to keep them warm.

  Lachie tickled Billy under the chin as the dog’s clever gaze raked the surrounds, and his little white body quivered with wound-up energy. So much to explore, so many things to sniff, chase and yap at. A veritable dog funhouse.

  And Billy needed a bit of fun. They both did.

  He veered right, following the drive past an outdoor dressage arena surrounded by a low white rail, its sand surface smooth and raked of tracks. Beside it, another arena, this time enclosed by a tall timber post-and-rail fence and containing multicoloured showjumping fences arranged at various heights and angles. On the other side of the drive, fronted by a broad expanse of yard and as perfect as everything else at Kingston Downs, stood a large blue Colorbond barn with six horse enclosures, each with its own shelter, running down the side. Only one horse was in residence, a heavily rugged animal that followed his progress with its ears pricked and nostrils flared.

  Further ahead, overlooking a scraggly-looking lawn and mulched garden beds filled with shrubs, stood Lachie’s new home. Under the bright late-winter sun the timber cottage appeared even prettier than the first time he saw it. Its panelled walls glowed white, the window frames dark blue, and he could easily imagine himself kicking back on the front verandah with a cold beer on a hot day.