Heart of the Valley

by Cathryn Hein

  ‘Why don’t you stay in the cottage another night? Then you’ll be able to keep an ear out yourself and you can help me clear up some of Nancy’s leftovers. There’s enough food in the fridge to last a week.’

  She gazed back at Robert, hesitant. It made sense to stop with Lachlan, but she’d already put him out enough. He was, as he’d explained that morning, an employee and, when it came to her, in a difficult position. She didn’t want him thinking she was exploiting his kindness.

  ‘With the fire being out for so long it’ll take ages for the dairy to heat up.’

  He was right, but still she hesitated.

  He lowered his head to look at her, a teasing smile curving his mouth. ‘The cottage has bread and butter pudding.’

  ‘I’ve been enough of a burden already.’

  ‘You’re not a burden, Brooke.’

  ‘I wish someone would tell that to Mark.’ She sighed and pushed off from the rail. ‘All right, but only because I wouldn’t like to see you get fat because you felt you couldn’t let Nancy’s cooking go to waste.’

  He patted his flat stomach as they headed to the cottage. ‘No chance of that. Metabolism of a bull.’

  Legs curled up under her, Brooke flicked through channels on the television hunting for something to watch while Lachlan finished tapping out emails on his laptop. The fire crackled and snapped, enveloping her in cosy heat and contentment. Dinner sat pleasantly heavy in her stomach. She’d barely eaten all week, but one sniff of Nancy’s heated leftovers and her belly had rumbled into life. By the time she and Lachlan had finished, poor Billy had been left only well-stripped bones and Lachlan was forced to make up his bowl with tinned dog food.

  Giving up on finding something decent, she settled on an American crime show, the cast of which seemed implausibly attractive. The lead detective had a chiselled jaw and a cocky swagger to match his athletic body, while the female profiler brought in to work with him tossed cascades of glossy hair and regarded the detective with limpid eyes. Sexual attraction crackled between them as they worked the case. Meaningful looks, sly touches, and hasty steps backwards as they reached the boundaries of their professional relationship underlined a lust the show’s writers would never allow to be consummated. If they were smart.

  But the mystery sucked Brooke in and before long she was sprawled belly down along the couch with her chin resting on her knuckles and her legs up and crossed at the ankles, mind rattling along with the characters.

  ‘It was the janitor guy,’ said Lachlan. ‘The one who slipped out the door at the start.’

  ‘I thought you were typing.’

  ‘I was, but it’s not hard to keep up with all those flashbacks they keep showing.’

  She focused back on the screen, not wanting to miss anything. ‘I reckon it’s the bloke with the puffed-up poodle, the one who reckons he heard the crash.’ She pointed as the camera panned to show the character staring at the building where the murder took place, a smug half smile quirking his mouth. ‘See. Look at that smile.’

  Lachie shook his head. ‘Janitor guy.’

  ‘Evil smiling poodle man.’

  They watched intently as the show raced toward its climax.

  ‘Shit,’ said Lachlan as the detective arrested poodle man.

  Brooke twisted to poke her tongue out at him.

  He reached across to tweak her big toe. ‘Hang on a minute, Miss Clever Trousers.’

  She swung round in time to see the detective cuff the janitor as well. But as the picture switched to the two men locked up in interview rooms, detective and profiler arguing over their guilt, someone thumped on the front door. Eyebrows raised, Brooke looked at Lachlan, who shrugged before setting his laptop aside and getting up to answer.

  The moment the door was open, Chloe’s voice filtered in and for the first time Brooke could recall, her heart didn’t skip with delight on hearing her friend. Instead a cold, shameful jealousy slithered its way into her gut and stayed.

  Chloe bounced inside, dark curls tumbling, pink-cheeked and red-lipped from the cold, casually sexy in a pair of black leggings and knee-high boots, and a long cream jumper that skimmed her hips and showed off her hourglass figure.

  She pointed a scarlet fingernail at Brooke. ‘You, my lying friend, are in trouble. You told us you only had a cold but we ran into Nancy outside of Kennedy’s just before and she told us you’ve been as crook as a dog.’

  As the ‘we’ registered Brooke broke into a coughing fit. By the time it passed Andrew was sitting beside her on the couch, leaning in close, eyebrows furrowed with concern.

  ‘Why didn’t you call me?’

  She reached for her water glass and took a sip, buying time to catch her breath and cope with the accusation staining his voice.

  Aware of his proximity, she carefully placed the glass back on the coffee table, using the movement as a cover to shift her body a fraction away from Andrew’s. ‘It was just the flu. Nothing serious.’

  ‘That cough isn’t nothing, Brooke.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘Really.’

  ‘Well, you know who the culprit was,’ said Chloe.

  ‘Could have been anyone. People were sneezing all over the place when I was in Muswellbrook the other week.’

  ‘No way. It had to be Jeremy O’Donnell.’ Chloe rolled her eyes when Brooke gave her a blank look. ‘In the salon. Friday night. Remember? Snot going everywhere. Little bugger’s given it to half of Pitcorthie by the sound of things. Not to me, though.’ She beamed at Lachlan. ‘I never get sick.’

  ‘Always a first time for everything,’ said Lachlan, throwing Brooke the tiniest of winks to remind her she’d said the same thing. ‘Now, can I get you a drink? Tea, coffee, beer, red wine? No white wine or spirits, sorry.’

  Chloe clutched his arm, smiling up at him, her body close. ‘Red wine sounds lovely.’

  The cold creature in Brooke’s stomach squirmed.

  Lachlan turned to Andrew. ‘Beer?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  His sympathetic gaze landed on Brooke. ‘Milky tea?’

  She shook her head, alert to Andrew’s watchfulness. The way he tensed at Lachlan’s considerate tone.

  Chloe followed Lachlan to the kitchen, leaving Brooke alone with Andrew. He looked rock-star gorgeous in a pair of skinny black jeans, a white T-shirt with a metallic silver motorbike motif on the front and a striped black and brown blazer with the sleeves pushed up. With his golden skin and sleek black hair, his perfectly formed mouth and dark naughty-boy eyes he was beautiful; yet Brooke felt nothing. No tingle across her skin, no lazy flip-flop of her stomach. Only the unselfconscious familiarity of someone she’d known and trusted forever.

  Yet in whose presence she could no longer relax.

  ‘You and Lachie seem to be getting on well,’ he remarked.

  ‘He’s been kind.’

  She stared at the crime show’s rolling credits. Whoever the killer was, she and Lachlan would never know.

  ‘I take it that monster in the end yard is your new horse.’

  ‘Yes. We picked him up today.’

  Andrew pursed his lips in annoyance. ‘Are you going to Sydney on Saturday?’

  Brooke sighed. She didn’t want to think about Saturday but her mother had already left several messages, all of which she’d replied to via SMS for fear of breaking into a coughing fit and alerting Ariel to her illness. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You should. If nothing else but to keep the peace.’

  ‘I know. I just don’t want to.’

  Andrew pressed his shoulder against hers. ‘I’ll hold your hand. I’m going down anyway. Mum has a runner in the Farnlee Handicap.’

  ‘I think it’ll take more than that to get me through the ordeal.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take care of your mother. Ariel adores me.’ He batted his eyelashes, back to his normal teasing self. ‘But how could she not?’

  ‘I’ll think about it. It’ll all depend on this ro
tten cough.’ And whether she could think up a decent excuse between now and Saturday.

  Chloe’s laughter tinkled from the kitchen. Brooke clenched her teeth and focused on her hands, ashamed of the ugly feeling that writhed each time she looked at Chloe with Lachlan.

  She knew her friend, had witnessed Chloe’s moves dozens of times, laughed at them and teased her over her brazenness, yet observing her with Lachlan now brought no amusement. Each hair flick, sexy smile and slow look from under perfectly mascaraed lashes only turned Brooke’s insides colder. Lachlan’s expression remained impassive, but she knew he’d crumble like all the others. No one was immune to Chloe. Not even Jackson, though he’d done his best to hide his attraction. She’d seen it, though, when he’d had too much to drink, and while Brooke couldn’t blame him – he was, after all, a typical bloke – each incident cut a little piece of her heart away.

  Lachlan returned with the beers, Chloe close by his side. She ignored his offer of a seat and perched on the arm of his chair, arm casually slung along the back, legs stretched out and her hip brushing his arm. Talk circled, led by Chloe, but Brooke barely participated. Her lungs felt tight, her insides chilled. The start of a headache pulsed at her temples.

  Andrew let out a long sigh and turned to Brooke, speaking quietly. ‘Looks like I can kiss my hair goodbye. I knew it was stupid to take her on.’ He leaned into her, head on her shoulder, looking up at Brooke with a puppy-like expression. ‘Will you still love me when I’m bald?’

  She smiled and tousled his glossy black cut, glad for his silliness. ‘Don’t worry, Chiang-man. It’ll grow back.’

  ‘I’ll be ugly.’

  ‘You won’t. Bald men are meant to be hot.’

  ‘White bald men, yes. Black bald men even more so. But Asian bald men?’ He shook his head. ‘We’re talking seriously unhot.’

  ‘Do you really think Chloe will do it?’

  ‘Come on, Brooke. What do you reckon? When was the last time someone knocked Chloe back?’

  ‘There was that guy at the Royal Easter Show last year.’

  ‘I meant straight men. Gay guys don’t count.’

  Brooke grimaced. ‘None that I’m aware of.’ She frowned. ‘So why did you make the bet if you knew you were going to lose?’

  He shrugged. ‘You know me. Couldn’t help myself.’

  But the words were said without meeting Brooke’s eye, leaving her wondering. She pressed her fingertips to the corners of her forehead and rubbed, willing the ache away. Everything felt out of kilter. She couldn’t work Andrew out. She couldn’t work herself out. The two people she loved most were acting weirdly. Chloe trying too hard; Andrew professing one thing then acting the opposite, making bets he didn’t have a hope of winning. As for herself, every second Chloe remained in the cottage only made her jealousy worse.

  The dull achy pulse around her temples became a pound.

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ she announced suddenly. She stood, legs stiff, and forced herself towards the hall door, each step weighed down with confusion and her swirling, ugly emotions.

  As she turned into the hall, she glanced back. Chloe’s head was turned, not toward Lachlan as she’d expected, but toward Andrew, the smile she’d worn since her arrival faltering. Andrew’s gaze was fixed on Lachlan, eyes stony and mouth set, hand tight around his beer.

  Which left Lachlan, the only one of the three looking at her.

  And, at that moment, the only one of the three she felt sure of.

  Eleven

  For once, Brooke was glad of the Saturday morning drive to Sydney. It gave her time to think and she had a lot to contemplate – the turbulence affecting her childhood friendships for one, her feelings for Lachlan another. Not to mention her family and its ill-judged protectiveness.

  The F3 freeway ground beneath her, through cuttings and over bridges, laden with traffic, although thankfully not as thick as on a weekday. Showers were forecast for later and, to the south, grey clouds edged into the azure sky. They looked like her head felt. Overloaded, bleak.

  She rubbed her hand across her hair and let it drop, irritated by her tangled emotions. A knot of anger, jealousy, shame, anguish and yearning, with the last as sweet as it was stupid.

  Both Chloe and Andrew had phoned the night before – Chloe to discuss her progress with Lachlan, Andrew to ask if she wanted a ride to Sydney. An unsettled night’s sleep on Thursday had done nothing to assuage Brooke’s irritation with either of them and she’d been terse, using faked excuses to get off the line. Now shame sucked at her insides. She had no right to be jealous of Chloe, and her unease about Andrew was unfair. What happened in the gooseneck didn’t preclude them from being friends. She was reading too much into everything.

  The freeway dipped, rolling down towards the Hawkesbury River and the huge bridge spanning it. The brown-green waters swept majestically on either side, the land tumbling to the edges as though trying to shake its coating of trees and shrubs into the water. She gripped the wheel as a semitrailer thundered past on the inside, building speed for the steep climb out, and she wished she had Lachlan’s easy confidence at the wheel. But the accident had stolen that, as it was slowly thieving everything else.

  Lachlan. She had to stop thinking about him in ways that were impossible. In a month, a year, at any time, he could be gone, building his dreams at Delamere. Forbes wasn’t far from Pitcorthie – four hours at the most – but it might as well be in another state. His heart pumped Delamere-tainted blood the same as hers did with Kingston Downs. Why start something that could never be finished? Better he sleep with Chloe, trigger their years-old pact of no trespassing on one another’s man-turf, and put himself out of reach of even her fantasies.

  On Thursday he’d come to her room after Chloe and Andrew had gone, knocking softly, leaning against the jamb, watching her as she sat on the edge of the bed, hands draped between her knees, shoulders slumped. ‘I have some paracetamol if you need,’ he’d said.

  ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘You sure?’

  She’d nodded, wishing he’d go away so she could think, but he stepped inside and crouched in front of her, taking her hands, thumbs rubbing the knuckles. And all she’d wanted to do was bury her face in his big chest and cry.

  ‘Brooke, if you need someone to talk to …’ He stopped and looked at her fingers for a moment, before raising his gorgeous, worried eyes to hers again. ‘About anything. I’m here.’

  Even now, she could still feel the longing his words had inspired.

  The traffic slowed as the climb out of the river basin exacted its toll on less powerful engines. Brooke indicated and changed to the outer right-hand lane as the Land Cruiser’s superior torque drew her past the other vehicles. In under an hour she’d be at Randwick, facing her family, trying to act normal when all the time she’d be waiting for the pressure to start, the subtle and unsubtle reminders that Sydney was the best place to repair her cracked life.

  She wished she could have explained to Lachlan, perhaps asked his advice, knowing he would think hard on any answer, but she’d fobbed him off with another ‘I’m okay’ and the excuse that she was tired. And then lay awake in the darkness, imagining what it’d be like to be Chloe, and hating herself.

  She’d avoided Lachlan yesterday as well, unable to look at him except to say thanks for mucking out the yards – a job she would have done but which he insisted on completing, citing her need for rest. The other times their paths had crossed, he’d regarded her with puzzlement, scrutinising her in that way he had. She kept her expression blank, giving him nothing, afraid of what she might reveal if she didn’t hold herself together.

  Even with the fire and the new insulation keeping in the heat, the dairy had seemed cold and soulless when she’d settled in for the night after almost a week away. Not once, in the years she’d been living alone at Kingston Downs, had she ever felt lonely. But the dairy smelled sterile, the atmosphere was cheerless and nothing, not her magazines and books, the equestrian
paraphernalia strewn around or the photographs of her beloved horses, could recreate the warmth and intimacy she’d experienced in the cottage with Lachlan. After a shower and an uninspiring dinner of eggs on toast, she’d slumped at the kitchen table tracing lines in the pine top, overcome with hollowness.

  Later, restless and tense after the calls from Chloe and Andrew, she’d trudged to the yards and perched on the rail of Poddy’s yard, the horse’s lovely head resting in her lap, and savoured the quiet contentment of his adoration. She’d whispered to him, revealing the secret stirrings of her heart, and gained succour from his steady loyalty, miraculously intact even after all the horror she’d put him through.

  A whicker from Sod had broken the spell. Poddy shifted, ears pointing to the cottage. Brooke cast a look over her shoulder and in the shadow of the verandah thought she saw a figure move, but by the time she’d slid off the rail and turned round it was gone. Lachlan – if he’d been there at all – had disappeared.

  Close to Royal Randwick, Brooke flicked the indicator and turned down Doncaster Avenue. She cruised past the discreet entrances of other trainers’ yards before arriving at the most discreet of all, Kingston Lodge. Only a small brass plaque next to the front door of the modest bungalow that fronted the road revealed this was home to a successful stable.

  A red-brick lane led down past the house and opened into a small carpark containing Angus’s Land Cruiser and Mark’s zippy Audi. Christopher Kingston’s Mercedes usually completed the trio of blue but to Brooke’s disappointment the space was empty. She glanced at the house – Angus’s residence and also the hub of the stables’ administration – but the blind in her father’s office was drawn. Unusual, but perhaps he’d merely finished office work for the day and had now ducked out on an errand.

  She slid in behind Angus’s and Mark’s cars, parking them in and leaving her father’s space free. She wouldn’t be there for long. The clock was already nearing ten and Ariel expected her at Bondi Junction at eleven.