She swiped a hand across her eyes and sniffed hard. This pregnancy thing had a lot to answer for.
Scritches turned to her and yowled softly.
‘Pretty amazing, huh? C’mon, you’ve got legs, you can walk.’ She strode down the hall, clicking off the lights, her night-time fears embarrassing in the daylight. Fortunately she had no one to impress but Scritches.
As she stepped out of the back door, the light barely brushed the rear garden, rendering it soft and lovely—and nothing at all like the fearsome dingo-inhabited wilderness of last night. A low stone wall, like the one she’d spied from the kitchen window, separated the garden, thick and lush with flowering plants, from the farmyard beyond.
A six-foot-high, barbed-wire-topped fence would have been better.
Scritches leaped from her arms to explore the pile of sand he’d scratched up the previous evening, so Roni sank onto a rock alongside a small fishpond. The cat prowled through the greenery and then sat on the moss alongside her, dabbling at the water. As a fish broke the surface, sucking his paw, he sprang back, shooting her a look of astonishment.
Roni clicked her fingers and he stalked sulkily toward her, smoothing against her shins. ‘Not the fearsome hunter type, are you? We’re a pair of city slickers.’ The cat jumped onto her lap, settling to watch the piranhas from a safe distance. ‘Don’t get too comfortable. We need to head into town and find somewhere to live while we sort out whatever these stupid tasks are. It’ll be better there; there’ll be traffic and people and noise. More us.’
She started to push the cat off, then froze as a thought hit her: Derek Prescott held the purse strings, and with Marian clearly expecting her to stay right here, he would hardly fork out for a motel. With only a thousand dollars to her name, she wasn’t keen on anteing up for it either. So, until she found out what the tasks were, she was stuck. She’d not felt so damn trapped since—no. She wouldn’t allow the thought. ‘C’mon, Scritch, let’s go eat our misery.’
Scritches spent a concerned fifteen minutes perched precariously on the side of the enamel tub as Roni showered. Then he inhaled his food at double speed while she laboriously followed the directions on a sachet of porridge. She microwaved the oat–milk blend and nibbled it from the tip of a teaspoon. Not too bad for her first home-cooked breakfast.
Scritches flopped bonelessly as she carried him back to the bedroom and deposited him on the windowsill. ‘Okay, puss. I’m headed out there. The great unknown.’ She tapped the glass and he pressed his nose against it, scrabbling as he lost his balance. She propped him back up. ‘No need for you to escort me, but be good, okay? We’re visitors. Well, sort of.’ At least until her fantasy of waltzing in here and straight back out with a bucketload of cash was realised. ‘Go to sleep, or do something equally non-house-destroying.’ The house held a vast amount of furniture, any piece of which the cat might decide needed renovating. She considered locking him in the bedroom rather than letting him roam but decided it would be a brief holiday treat for him to stretch his legs in about fifteen times the space her apartment offered. Make up for the plane ride.
Roni let herself out of the front door, onto the broad verandah. Although the sun shone full on the front of the house, the iron roof curled in a deep arc, shading the brick paving. As she had anticipated, a table and chairs sat to the right of the door, the floral cushion Marian had described on one wrought-iron seat, the other sporting a plain calico pad.
Roni crossed her arms, gripping her elbows. Gooseflesh rippled her skin at the thought that a woman she had never met had sat right there, writing her a letter. She drifted closer and ran her fingers along the back of her aunt’s seat. Then she moved to the opposite chair, edged it from the table and sat, staring at her invisible aunt.
She should nurse her resentment at Marian’s manipulation, but it was hard to disregard the note of appeal each letter held. That, and trust.
Not that she wanted anyone’s trust. It was one thing she’d learned neither to give nor expect.
The birds’ deafening chorus had dulled to muted tweets and calls. Though she couldn’t see any sheep in the paddocks, pushed against the wall beneath the table was a wooden crate with a ragged blue blanket in the bottom. The lamb’s box. What had Marian called it? Cow, or something equally obscure. No, Goat.
With Marian dead, the farmer had probably turned the sheep into hamburgers, or whatever it was sheep were destined to become.
The throb of a vehicle jerked her attention to where the driveway curled from invisibility on the far side of the stone sheds to meander across the front of the house. Birds darted across the lake, then swooped up to settle on top of a shed as a dusty white ute rattled across the cattle grid rather more quickly than Jim had the previous day.
It had to be the farmer, Matthew Krueger. If he was half as decrepit as his car, he’d be lucky to last out here a day longer than she did.
As the ute pulled alongside the lake, a long-haired collie scrambled from the tray, then the driver unfolded from the vehicle. He heaved a sack from the back, tossed it on one shoulder and crossed to throw open the door of the nearby shed. Chickens flocked from the building, then turned in a feathery wave, following the farmer back in like he was the Pied Piper. A short, piercing whistle sounded, and the black-and-white collie bounded back up onto the tray, racing from side to side of the vehicle, tail wagging like a banner.
A ragged nail hooked a loose thread as Roni scratched the scars on her arm. She had slipped her worn-through sleep shirt back on after her shower, but the deep verandah hid her from view, and surely no one would come knocking this early.
Except— She started from her chair as the farmer re-emerged from the shed and strode up the yard. Toward the house. As she wavered halfway between standing and sitting, wondering at her chances of pretending not to have seen him and ducking inside, his long-legged gait ate the ground between them. Winding between the rose bushes and lavender that hedged the verandah, he ignored the three broad steps and vaulted onto the porch. ‘Veronica? Matt Krueger.’
He moved intimidatingly close, his bulk leaving her no room to straighten, putting her at an instant disadvantage. Her muscles tensed, her stomach churning with the memory of powerlessness, and she dropped back into her seat as his callused palm engulfed hers. Scritches yowled at the window, and she jerked her hand free, folding her arms protectively across her chest. ‘It’s Roni. Krueger? So your dad’s the farmer here?’
It was hard to understand his reply with the blood buzzing noisily in her ears, whirling with sounds of alarm. She was alone out here. Alone with him.
But he was only one man, she soothed herself, her fingers plucking nervously at the skin on her forearm. Only one. She’d never been scared of just one man.
Krueger tilted his akubra to the back of his head, eyes hidden behind dark aviators. ‘Dad? No. He died a few years back.’
Roni tightened her lips. She’d had a particular image of the farmer in mind—basically a wizened version of Elmer Fudd—and this giant, with his standover tactics, didn’t conform. ‘You run the place, then?’
‘Wouldn’t say I run it; Marian definitely wore the pants.’ He turned to watch as ducks emerged from the shed and launched themselves onto the lake. ‘That is, she was the boss. Guess you’re figuring on taking over?’
She took the opportunity to jerk to her feet, longing for the familiar safety of a shop counter between them and Rafe’s reassuring presence at her back. Krueger’s question had to be loaded. He’d be aware that, per the terms of the will, if she hung around for ten years, he got to leech from the farm income the whole time. But if she completed the tasks and sold the property, he would be instantly out of a job. ‘Maybe. Though I’m not sure how the current arrangement works.’
‘Sharefarming, you mean?’
‘Whatever you call it.’
Krueger swiped a hand inside the collar of his forest-green shirt, then stretched his neck from side to side, apparently weary of her conversation. �
��Marian provided the land and I provide the labour. We split any additional expense and income fifty-fifty.’
Equal shares now, but if she chose not to complete Marian’s tasks, he would get a larger portion, and she would be dependent on him providing for her. Her fists clenched: her baby would be dependent on him. Hell, no. She’d never let that happen. ‘You know this area pretty well?’
‘Grew up round here, so, yeah, as well as anyone.’
‘You’d know the local real-estate agents, then?’
Krueger shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, his tone abrupt. ‘Sure. You thinking of renting the house out?’
She looked across the yard, fiddling with the edge of her shirt. None of his damn business. ‘Haven’t decided.’ The cat yowled again and she frowned. ‘Scritches, shush.’
The farmer glanced toward the marmalade smudge plastered against the glass. ‘Handsome cat. Reckon that’s about the only animal Marian didn’t keep round here. Hungry, or just likes to get in his two cents’ worth?’
‘Both, always. I got the impression from Marian’s letters that you disapproved of her love of animals?’
Krueger lifted a shoulder, a lazy grin inexplicably curling one corner of his mouth. ‘I’d be pretty much the last person to disapprove, but she did have a habit of taking in every stray she came across.’
What the hell? Was he having a dig at her? Insinuating she was one of Marian’s strays? Instant fury shot through her. Maybe she was overreacting, but it’d been a hell of a week, and she didn’t need to be trying to discern his subtext or worrying about his ulterior motives. ‘Well, I’ve loads to get done. So, if you don’t mind …’ She flapped her hands toward the yard, trying to vanquish him from her personal space.
He paused for a moment, but his tone remained steady. ‘Sure. Your aunt left a list of what I’d need to show you.’
Her aunt? So much for family secrets. The realisation that he’d probably known Marian was her aunt before she did further fuelled the irritation his attitude had stirred. She jerked her chin at him, her tone as tight as her lips. ‘Show me?’
‘The yard animals aren’t my responsibility. They’re Marian’s pets, though I’ve been looking after them since she passed. She said you’d take over. We’ll head out now, if you like.’
Nice of Marian to make that assumption. ‘I’m going to grab a long-sleeved shirt, then. Sun’s already got a bite.’ If she had to be walked through these tasks, she needed to put on something with slightly less unplanned ventilation, courtesy of one of Scritches’ anxiety attacks.
‘Sure thing.’ Krueger dropped his hat onto the wrought-iron table with the air of a man who had no intention of going anywhere soon.
She fought to disguise her annoyance. No point getting him offside before she had to. ‘Do you want a coffee?’
‘Did you find any?’ He shoved back a lock of dirty-blond hair as it fell across his sunglasses. ‘Marian was a tea fan. Even managed to get me onto the stuff.’
‘I’ve not had a chance to look. You kind of caught me on the hop.’ Maybe he’d get the hint he wasn’t exactly welcome at this hour. Or any other.
Krueger seemed unperturbed by her tone. ‘Ah. I know where her stash is. I’ll put the kettle on while you get ready. Wear boots. The browns are out early this year.’
‘Browns?’ She opened the front door, aware of him directly behind her.
‘Brown snakes. Good crop year before last, made for a mouse plague. Means more snakes this year.’
‘Are you serious?’ She swivelled to point at the screen door that had slammed shut behind him. ‘I need boots because they’re just running around out there?’
Krueger hooked his sunglasses onto the front of his shirt, revealing ice-blue eyes. ‘Not so much of the running,’ he smirked. ‘Spring, they’re looking for mates. They can be a little feisty, but make enough noise and they’ll clear out of your way.’
‘If I see a snake, I’ll be making a noise all right. Wherever you live, you’ll hear me.’ The removal of his sunglasses had created an uncomfortable intimacy and she quickly headed down the hall, pointing ahead. ‘Kitchen’s that way.’
‘Yeah, I got it. And about seven kays,’ Krueger called as she ducked into her bedroom.
‘Seven what?’ She pulled on her bra and a clean shirt, and dragged a comb through her hair. Then she scooped up Scritches to hide behind as she entered the kitchen.
Krueger had unearthed a china teapot and was measuring loose-leaf tea into it as the kettle came to the boil. ‘I live about seven kilometres away. Everything on the opposite side of the main road is mine. Runs parallel to your property.’
Not that she’d wanted to know anything about him, but—her property? He was the first person to call it that, and the thrill was unbelievable. She’d never owned anything larger than a couch, and maybe that didn’t even count, given she’d salvaged it from a roadside throw-out.
His hand dwarfing the rose-flowered porcelain, Krueger added two cups to the table and poured water into the pot.
Determined to take charge, she dropped Scritches onto a seat and poured the tea.
Krueger’s lips quirked. ‘Coffee drinker?’
‘Always. How can you tell?’
‘You didn’t let the tea brew. Or strain it. Marian will be turning in her grave.’
The rare cups of tea sold in Rafe’s shop went out with the teabag tag hanging over the edge of the foam beaker. ‘Crap. Pour it back in?’
‘Don’t worry about it. I promise not to tell.’
Roni’s fingers locked on the teapot lid; was he inferring that he considered himself the keeper of her family secret?
He pulled out a chair at the head of the table and settled into it. Scritches leaped onto his lap and the farmer rubbed him under the chin, finding a spot that turned the cat into a drooling mess. ‘You’re a mighty fine fella, aren’t you?’
Scritches purred, and Roni tried not to frown. ‘Come on, Scritch, down from the table.’ She clicked her fingers and pointed to the floor, cringing as she realised her error: he never obeyed. ‘You said Marian left a list?’
The farmer unbuttoned the pocket of his shirt and pulled out a fold of paper. ‘Yup. Fairly basic. Pretty much feeding and watering, for now.’ The brief warmth had left his tone.
‘For now?’
Shoulders hunched, though he still crowded the kitchen, Krueger observed her over the fragile rim of his teacup. ‘You’ve only got a few kinds of fowl at the moment. Chickens, bantams, ducks, a peacock and his harem. And Goat, of course. But you’ve missed the brunt of lambing season, so no bottle-raising.’ Careful not to dislodge Scritches, he eased an envelope from the back pocket of his jeans. She immediately saw her name written across it in the now-familiar, spidery script. ‘It seems Marian has other plans for you.’ He sounded almost apologetic, as though he knew there was worse to come.
In which case, yet again, he knew more than she did.
Chapter Eleven
Dearest Veronica,
I am going to assume you have accepted my challenge and intend to tackle the tasks that will see Peppertree Crossing become yours—though if I have schemed well, this transfer will be more meaningful than a simple change of name on a deed. We shall see.
Did I mention that Enid Blyton is my all-time favourite author? You’ll find a complete collection of her works in the library, if you’ve not already done so. One of the stories is the tale of a child set a number of tasks. Unbeknown to him, his reward for completing each chore is hidden within the task. For example, he’s told to clean the chickens’ layer boxes. Had he completed the job properly he would have discovered his shilling—or penny, or whatever it was—beneath the straw. However, the lazy child threw fresh straw on top of the dirty, so never found his payment.
This story always appealed immensely to me. Your ultimate payment, obviously, is Peppertree Crossing itself, but rather than revealing hidden incentives, each task I set will provide a reward of a different, pe
rhaps less tangible kind. A treasure trail to self-awareness and emancipation, I hope. While you may well roll your eyes, I assure you that devising this has given me hours of pleasure.
Evidently, you’ve met Matt Krueger. He’s quite lovely, isn’t he? If ever a man would have been able to sway me from my preferences … Well, add to that impossibility the fact that he’s around forty years younger than me and you’ll know I joke—though not about him being lovely. ‘Salt of the earth’ is how Andrew quite rightly described him.
Anyway, now you’ve already crossed off two tasks—travelling to Peppertree Crossing and meeting Matt—you see how simple they are? Let us move on.
Part of my rationale for marrying was because I feared I would be unable to manage the farm alone. The secrets I kept, both for myself and for others, reinforced this feeling of inadequacy. Guilt and secrets are heavy burdens, Veronica, and I believe they contributed to Andrew’s death. I never expected him to become a frail old man, unable to handle the farm, but shame and remorse make life hollow, and eventually untenable. As Andrew failed, I was forced to discover that not only was I capable of managing the property but that I was damn good at it.
I’ve only had twenty years of being confident in my own abilities, and I want so much more than that for you. I realise you were independent in the city, but here, life requires an entirely different set of skills. I want you to become self-sufficient, but not in today’s manner, not by working and paying rent. I want you to be able to provide for yourself on a sustainable level and to learn that success is a result of hard work, forethought and a little luck—even I will admit you cannot be held responsible for bushfire, flood and drought.
The basics of life, for the body at least, are bread, meat, milk, vegetables and fruit, although Matt would doubtless argue some of those. To this end, he has been given instructions regarding what I expect from you, and how he is to assist. I’m not going to pretend he was thrilled with either the concept or the planned execution but, fortunately, neither he nor Derek will deny a dying woman her last wishes. As you see, I’ve used my regrettable circumstance to the very best advantage, and my good friends will see my requirements fulfilled. However, I shall allow Matt a little fun in disclosing the details as he sees fit.
The Farm at Peppertree Crossing Page 8