Lynn Lambert has stocked the cupboards, but the supplies will last only a week or two. You’ll find my sourdough starter in the cellar. The culture is more than eighty years old and I’ll dare proclaim it ‘the staff of life’—though it’s probably best you don’t repeat that gem among the stauncher Lutherans in the area. The chill of the cellar will have kept the starter alive, and Lynn has been instructed to feed it in my absence. Ha, that makes it sound as though I intend to return. Don’t worry, I don’t plan to haunt you—though it’s a shame I couldn’t put myself in that cold room, Walt Disney style! See, although I make preparations, I am still far from being ready to go …
The instructions for making your bread are alongside the crock. And so, I have set you on the path to complete your next task. When you have your first slice of hot, buttery, fresh bread, spare a thought for me, Veronica. It is truly one of the simplest, yet most exquisite pleasures life has to offer.
With love,
Marian
Chapter Twelve
Roni waved the letter at Krueger, who had sipped tea while she scanned it, his attention ostensibly on Scritches. ‘You know what this says?’
His gaze flicked to hers, then back down to the cat, but not before she caught the glint of laughter in his eyes. ‘Pretty much. The guts of it, anyway.’
‘Bread? What the hell?’ Perhaps Krueger could also shed light on Marian’s long aside about the inexplicable guilt borne by a man Roni had never met—could never meet—but she immediately bristled at the thought of asking him for either favours or information.
‘Marian did make the best loaf this side of the Mount Lofty Ranges,’ Krueger said, his fingers raking long furrows through Scritches’ ginger fur.
‘Well, go Marian. I didn’t fly across the country to take a cooking course in some damn cellar.’ She shuddered; a room full of darkness that she hadn’t checked last night.
‘It’s actually a cottage, not a cellar.’ Krueger placed Scritches on the floor.
‘Why call it a cellar, then? And what’s this starter stuff?’
Scritches swung around at her sharp tone, and Krueger stood. He stared at her, rubbing his chin. The long, awkward pause effectively killed the brief conversation, and she fiddled uncomfortably with her cup. ‘I’ll show you,’ he said eventually.
She pushed her cup aside and followed him out the back door, across the walled garden and through a rusted wrought-iron gate to where a tiny stone cottage nestled into the hillside, partially hidden behind a screen of ivy.
Krueger slid a timber plank free of two iron channels and pushed open the door, faded paint flaking his hands like dried blood. ‘This was the original homestead. Marian called it the cellar because the thick walls make for good cold storage. Most homesteads around here started out like this, only a couple of rooms, but over the years they’ve either been extended or ripped down to repurpose the stone.’
She tried not to gawk in surprise at his sudden garrulousness. ‘Doesn’t look like there’s a shortage of stone around here.’ She waved a hand toward the sheds. No lack of dirt, either.
‘Makes working the ground up tough.’
And there he was, back to short replies again. It was as though he caught himself and pulled back. Like he didn’t trust her enough to share the full thought.
The feeling was mutual.
He gestured at the opening. ‘After you.’
She stepped timidly into the darkness, wrinkling her nose at the earthy, sweet scent. Did snakes like the dark? His caution about wearing boots had been pointless, given she only owned sneakers and the work lace-ups she’d abandoned in Sydney. ‘No power?’
One hand on the lintel, Krueger ducked inside. ‘Give it a second, your eyes will adjust.’
There’d be a whole lot more light if he had the brains to move his bulk out of the doorway. Roni edged forward, the temperature noticeably cooler, her sneakers gritting against the dirt, hands outstretched as she gradually discerned a slab bench along one wall, with tiers of shelves above it.
Krueger hustled past and took a jar from the bench. ‘This what you’re looking for?’
‘Are there instructions?’
He picked up a plastic folder. ‘Maybe take it outside.’
She rolled her eyes in the darkness. ‘No kidding.’
Rocks jabbed her back as she leaned against the wall outside, folding the instructions and then tucking them into her jeans pocket. A yellow crust covered the top layer of a jar two-thirds full of grey goop. She screwed up her face. ‘This does not look like anything edible. Hang on, I’ll Google it.’
‘Don’t reckon you will. Marian couldn’t get internet, and the only phone signal is either up the back paddock or down the yard. You’ll have to put in a satellite dish.’
‘I doubt that’ll be necessary.’ She wouldn’t be staying that long.
Krueger tugged his phone from his jeans. ‘I’ll take a picture and ask Mum if she knows anything about it.’
Short of magic, Roni couldn’t see how this glob would ever turn into bread. But it had to, because she couldn’t afford to fail the task. She needed this house, for her, for Scritches, and for the baby. Or, more correctly, she needed the money this house would bring. ‘Yeah, that’d be great, thanks.’
Krueger snapped a couple of pictures, then carried the jar back into the cottage, sliding the bar into place across the door as he returned. ‘Give me your number and I’ll text Mum’s answer. We’d better get a move on if you want that crash course in self-sufficiency. I have to head to church in about an hour.’
‘Oh. Right.’ She pulled her number up and passed him her phone. ‘That’s the Lutheran church? Marian mentioned something in her letter. Do they have a Saturday service?’
‘Yes. And no.’ He focused on her screen, his tone suddenly tight, as though she’d trespassed on his privacy. ‘Special occasion. I go occasionally to keep the old lady happy.’
‘Old lady?’
‘Mum. You don’t use that expression?’
‘Not for any of my parents.’
A crease appeared between his eyes. ‘Come again?’
‘My fosters preferred first names.’
‘Ah. Yeah.’ He made a business of pocketing his phone, then jerked a thumb toward the garden gate.
Conversation clearly wasn’t his thing. At least, not with her. Well, tough, because she wanted details, and Krueger seemed ideally placed to provide them. ‘You knew my family well?’
Krueger speared her with his gaze, as though gauging her right to the information. Then he squared up to her, his hands jammed into his pockets. ‘Your uncle, not so well. He was a man who liked to keep to himself, seemed to have a lot on his shoulders. Didn’t believe in hanging out at the stockyards just to shoot the breeze. He was all about business. A straight talker, didn’t say much, but when he did it was exactly what he thought. No lies, no muddying the waters. It was almost like it was a point of honour with him.’ He scowled, and she got the feeling he was judging her somewhat less positively. ‘Marian, though, she was like a second mum to me.’ A fleeting grimace, almost as though he was in pain, flashed across his face. He shoved his sunglasses back on and turned away, striding ahead. His voice dropped so low she had to break into a jog to stay close enough to hear. ‘Always had faith in me. Encouraged everything I wanted to do.’
She glared at his shoulder. So, her aunt had found someone to unofficially adopt. And now he strutted around the place like he owned it, made himself at home in the kitchen. Her kitchen. Maybe the prospect of turfing him out on his butt wasn’t all bad. ‘And my parents? You know them?’
The planes of his face shifted, his jaw tightening. ‘I know your mother.’ They passed beneath the vine-covered arbour on the side of the house, where Jim had parked the previous night. As they reached the front verandah, Krueger vaulted up and grabbed his hat from the wrought-iron table. Standing above her, legs spread like he was an explorer flagging a claim, he indicated the lake. ‘Fowl go in that sh
ed alongside the dam. Their grain’s in bins, I’ll show you how much of each they get. Marian was adamant they have organic feed, though they free-range all day. You need to make sure they’re locked away by late afternoon, and don’t let them out before first light.’
Roni snatched at a strand of hair the cool morning breeze blew across her face, tucking it behind her ear. Her irritation turned to anger as he spouted off instructions as though his knowledge would prove his superiority. Screw this. Now, more than ever before, she had no reason to take orders. Especially from someone who’d been closer to her aunt than she could ever be, someone who—Roni froze, trying to keep her expression neutral as her thoughts whirred. Marian had put Krueger in control of handing out her tasks, making certain he knew what she ‘expected’ Roni to achieve. And she had charged him with seeing that her wishes were fulfilled.
The air left Roni’s lungs in a gasp as the realisation hit: not only was there no logical reason for Matt to help her but Marian had set him up as the judge of her success—even though he would profit from her failure.
She stared up at him. ‘I’m sure I can figure it out.’ Except, with the unfamiliar terms he threw around, she felt nowhere near as confident as she forced herself to sound. But she couldn’t risk showing weakness. She knew where trusting the wrong person led.
‘I’m sure you can.’ He sounded faintly amused and she didn’t appreciate that his change in humour seemed to be at her expense.
Krueger dropped from the verandah and marched down the yard, skirted the lake—dam—and made for the chicken shed leaving her to chase after him yet again. ‘Pretty much all you need do for this week is take care of the poultry. The orchard is on the far side of the house, and you’ll eventually have to check the irrigation system as we head into the summer. Goat’s in there at the moment, keeping the grass down, but he’s a greedy bugger, so he’ll need penning as the stone fruit comes on. The nearest veggie patch has been manured and fallow for months, but you need to dig it over before you plant.’
She lagged behind so Krueger would be forced to slow to her pace to spew his orders.
‘You’ve lost your berries to the rabbits. They’re always a problem when there are no dogs or cats around the yard, but Scritches might be able to help you out there. Once you’ve fenced the plot, I’ll bring you some fresh runners. Let’s see, what else?’ He rubbed at his chin again and she realised it was his go-to when thinking. ‘Market day’s Thursday, I’ll swing work so I can pick up your poddy then.’
‘Whoa.’ She planted her feet. ‘Didn’t that start out as “All you need to do is feed the chickens”?’ What the hell was a poddy? Or fallow? The only part of his monologue she understood was the accusation that she was somehow responsible for the dead plants.
Krueger pushed open a door into the wire-fronted stone shed. ‘Actually, that started out with poultry, not just chickens. Marian liked the idea of giving you one task at a time, so you could earn the next. But I figure maybe you’d like to know them up-front, so you can get your head around what you need to do.’
‘Uh huh. Or so I run away screaming?’
He took off his sunglasses in the gloom but didn’t look toward her. ‘Could go that way, I guess. Your call.’
Like that wasn’t what he intended. A steel feed bin clanged as he kicked it, which was exactly what she felt like doing. She would show him just how much he had underestimated her.
‘The birds all have different requirements,’ he went on stiffly, ‘but, as you said, I’m sure you can work it out. Just keep the wet birds and dry birds separate. Scoop is in each bin. I’ve written on the inside of the lid how much they get. Remember to pen them up on time.’
‘I got that,’ she grated out. Did he expect a salute? Marian could have written directions instead of allowing this cowboy-wannabe to get his rocks off by lecturing her like he was running a world-class research facility.
Stubble rasped as Krueger drew a hand across his chin, his eyes as blue as a glacier. And about as inviting. ‘Right then. I’ll be back at the end of the week with the poddy.’
She waved the phone she still clutched. ‘Yup.’ She wouldn’t ask what a poddy was. She’d Google it.
Shit, no, she wouldn’t.
He gestured for her to precede him out of the shed. ‘And one more thing. The bridge at the end of the driveway is looking pretty crook. I told Marian I’d take care of it but she was adamant you needed to. Said to tell you that learning to build bridges is important. Guess you know how she liked to talk in riddles.’
She knew nothing about her aunt, riddles or otherwise. ‘Seems it doesn’t need much of a bridge. There’s no water.’
‘It’s a winter creek.’
‘Not a problem, then.’ With summer still weeks distant, she would be well clear before winter.
‘If we get a downpour, it’ll be impassable. You need to collect the rocks that’ve rolled off the crossing and toss them back up.’ He bent to pat a fluffy chicken as it pecked each imprint his boot left in the dust. His rigidity seemed to ease a little and he shot a glance at her. ‘Tell you what, give me a call when you want to tackle it, I’ll come lend some muscle. We’ll smash it out in a morning.’
So he would have an opportunity to make her feel guilty about selling the farm that represented his livelihood? Or because he thought her incapable? Neither option was palatable. ‘I can handle it.’
As the border collie leaped from the back of the ute Krueger clicked his fingers and pointed at the tray. The dog jumped straight back up. Krueger opened the car door. ‘Fine. I’ll be back Friday.’
Friday? She was expected to stay here alone for the next five days?
The ancient vehicle revved hard then drew out of the yard, disappearing behind the stone sheds before eventually reappearing to crawl along the driveway that stretched emptily before it. Much as the week stretched before her.
Chapter Thirteen
She spent the morning investigating the house and exploring the stone sheds. From towering erections two storeys high to squat hobbit holes, they held what had to be several lifetimes of … stuff. Gargantuan pieces of farm machinery, which wouldn’t have looked out of place on a mining site, sacks of grain, bales of hay, mountains of old corrugated-iron sheets, dented washing machines, the frames of rusted bikes and other assorted rubbish filled the barns.
In a smaller shed, protected by a sliding door that swung precariously from two flywheels balanced on a top rail, she discovered a silver late-model Toyota Camry, powdered with dust.
Locating the key among the bunch she had pocketed, Roni slid behind the wheel. Goosebumps rippled down her arms as tweedy perfume created an almost tangible presence. Afficionado of too many horror movies, she checked the back seat through the rear-view mirror. Of course, there was no one there. Wouldn’t be until she installed a baby seat. Anticipation rippled through her and, grinning, she started the car and opened the windows a crack. Then she turned it off and scrambled out. With plenty of food in the house and enough biscuits for even Scritches to get by, she wouldn’t need the car for a day or two, and by then the ghostly fragrance would have dissipated.
Her phone vibrated and she yanked it from her pocket, immediately trying to swipe into the internet. Nothing but an unmoving progress bar. Evidently, texts didn’t require as strong a connection though.
Mum didn’t know anything about sourdough, so I Googled. Looks the same as yours, so I guess you’re good. Matt
Not particularly useful, but at least he’d followed through. Thanks.
Without waiting to see if the reply sent, she shoved the phone in her pocket and stepped out of the shed, surveying the sun-drenched farmyard. Home was kept familiar by the sounds of life: people yelling, children crying, traffic horns, the soothing buzz of the highway. But here, there was nothing.
No, that wasn’t true. Muted groans came from behind the house, as though a zombie horde staggered up the hill. The odd bleat indicated the noise might be from a flock of belly-
aching sheep, but the dirge made her skin crawl.
She kept one eye on the hill—just in case—as she ducked between the strands of wire that separated the orchard from the farmyard. Dozens of trees wore buzzing dresses of pink and white, and she stretched to steal a blossom from the bees. The earth trembled beneath her feet, vibrating through her legs for mere seconds before a bolt of lightning struck the small of her back, slamming her to her knees.
A demonic yellow eye, the pupil a vertical black slit, blinked at her.
The eyeball snorted wetly in her face. Or rather, the elongated grey-white, fuzz-covered snout immediately below the eyeball snorted. Pink lips stretched to nibble at the hand she’d thrust out to ward it off. Then a wool-covered head ducked beneath her arm, demanding a pat.
‘Goat?’ She clambered up. The size of a mobility scooter, his grey coat full of burrs and stuff she didn’t really want to put a name to, the animal looked nothing like the snow-white, frisky-tailed lambs of storybooks. The beast gurgled deep in his throat and her heart thumped in crazy response. Had anyone ever been murdered by a sheep?
As her hand jerked back he crowded in, sharp hooves trampling her sneakers as he butted at her hand. ‘Ouch! Back off a bit.’ Okay, so maybe he was after affection. She tousled the top of his head, between his ears.
The sheep leaned against her, snorting as he half-closed his eyes.
‘Ugh, what is that?’ She sniffed her hand. Woollen jumpers in a damp winter. ‘Hate to be the one to break the news but any kind of cute you might have is obliterated by your need for a bath.’
The Farm at Peppertree Crossing Page 9