The thought brought to mind a memory of the baby kangaroo she’d seen at the dam, scrambling back into the safety of its mother’s pouch. Roo. That would do nicely. From now on it was her, Scritches and Roo.
Roni dropped the cat onto his yellow-cushioned chair in the kitchen, rooted through the pantry, pocketed a couple of dried apricots and headed toward the orchard.
‘Go-oat,’ she sang out at the gate, immediately rewarded by his drumming footsteps. Animals were more dependable than people. Scritches, Goat, even the fowls always raced to see her. Unlike her mother. ‘Whoa, there.’ The animal barrelled into the gate, trusting the mesh to halt his advance. Gentle lips nibbled the fruit from her hand, then nuzzled all around, looking for more. ‘C’mon, let’s go see what havoc you’ve wreaked on our veggie garden.’ Roni pushed into the orchard, resting a hand on the sheep’s back as they walked side by side around the corner.
‘What the hell?’
She had steeled herself for Goat’s devastation of her makeshift fencing—but this wasn’t what she had anticipated.
The roll of wire she had carted up from the sheds was nowhere to be seen, but both beds were neatly fenced, metal poles supporting the pallets, a picket gate providing access.
Roni’s fists clenched. Krueger. Interfering as though she couldn’t manage. But when had he done it? Prowling around her place as though he had a right to be there, like some kind of stalker. Anger surged, and she slapped at the mosquito on her arm harder than she needed to. If the mozzies were out, it was later in the afternoon than she’d realised. She needed to get today’s loaf in the oven and clean the coop before she locked up the fowl.
Casting another furious glance at the fence, she headed inside, washed the greasy lanolin traces of Goat from her hands, then prepped the dough, muttering about Krueger as she viciously sliced the mound to allow the steam to vent. This time, the mix actually resembled a loaf. Excitement dissipated her anger and she bounced on her toes: the bread would work.
She set the timer on her phone and left by the back door, jogging the seventy metres down to the fowl house. In one of the sheds, she loaded a wheelbarrow with a rake, shovel and anything else that looked vaguely useful, then parked it against the side of the coop. Rake in hand, she sized up the job.
Enormous.
Start at the start, then.
Fifteen minutes later she had raked a ton of foul-smelling excrement into a mound in the centre of the shed. It should be impossible for anything this wet and slimy to be airborne, yet it clogged her nostrils and coated her hair and clothes. She snorted with sudden amusement; cleaning the grease-trap at Rafe’s had seemed bad enough but she’d never expected to become a farmer. Her chuckle died as an unfamiliar sound intruded.
Any noise that wasn’t sheep or birds stuck out around here.
A car.
Her mind leaped to the one place she had forbidden it, again betraying her secret hope. Her stomach clenched. God, this couldn’t be her mother, not when she was covered with shit and sweat.
She shoved the barrow inside the chicken shed. Perhaps if she hid, her mother wouldn’t find her.
But Krueger would. His ute drew up alongside the coop and he sauntered in. ‘G’day. Saw the tools, figured you must be in here.’
She swallowed a tart reply. ‘Yup.’
His collie raced in after him, and Krueger whistled, a sharp burst of air between his teeth rather than through pursed lips. The dog cocked a furry black ear, glanced at the farmer, then dashed back to the ute, sitting on the tray and panting so hard it looked like it was grinning.
Krueger nodded at her mountain. ‘That’s a load of manure.’
She raised an eyebrow rather than acknowledge his talent for stating the obvious.
‘Have you been separating the wet fowl from the dry?’
‘Sep—’ Shit. He had said something about that, hadn’t he? ‘How am I supposed to tell which are wet? Cuddle them before I put them to bed?’
Krueger grunted, though it may have been a stifled laugh. ‘Whatever floats your boat. But I meant separate the water-dwelling birds from the others. As in, the ducks and geese from the chickens. The wet birds go next door. It’s cemented, so you can hose the muck out. Chickens are bad enough, but ducks make an unimaginable amount of mess.’ He pointed at her manure. ‘Well, not unimaginable now. But your eggs will be unusable if you keep them together.’
Shovel in hand, she turned her back to Krueger on the pretext of checking out the adjoining shed and closed her eyes. So damn confident this manual labour was a no-brainer, she’d paid little attention, and now he had a black mark to add to her score sheet. If he noticed the plant pot full of crap-covered eggs near the back door she was screwed.
She startled as his callused hand closed over hers on the wooden shaft of the shovel. ‘Here. You finish raking, I’ll shovel.’
About to refuse, she glanced out at the encroaching dusk. Without any streetlights, it was time to get inside, with the doors locked. She picked up the rake.
Krueger made short work of the pile and passed her the shovel as he took the handles of the laden barrow. ‘This is too fresh to go on your veggie patch; it’ll burn the plants. Do you want to start a compost pile near there?’
Though she was not a gardener, still she knew compost took a while to rot down. She wouldn’t be here long enough to benefit from it, so he could heap his shit anywhere he wanted. ‘Sure.’
She paced alongside him as he crossed the yard swiftly, despite the weight of the barrow. He pushed it through the orchard gate and tipped the contents near the fence. As he took the tools from her, piling them in the tub, the veggie patch caught her eye. ‘Hey, did you take away the wire I was using to fence this?’
‘Yup.’
‘I didn’t need your help.’ She knew too well that if you asked for anything, even five bucks for a school excursion, it came with a price. ‘I was going to get to it tomorrow.’
He paused, his hands on the shovel handle. Glanced up at her, a slight frown between his eyes. ‘I’m sure you had it under control. I found myself with some time on my hands, thought I’d ride over and see how you were doing. The house was all locked up and quiet, so I entertained myself.’
‘I was home,’ she said defiantly. ‘I like to lock up early.’
‘Fair enough.’
Back to few words, he was impossible to read. She knew the tactic, had employed it herself. But that was because she had things to hide. What was his excuse? ‘Well, thanks anyway.’
‘No worries.’ He didn’t seem to notice the begrudging tone in her voice. ‘Guess you’re not a fan of spuds?’ ‘Potatoes? Sure.’ Mostly in fried form, though. ‘Why?’
Krueger jerked a thumb over his shoulder, at her mound of weeds. ‘You pulled them all out.’
She snorted at his ignorance. ‘They’re not potatoes. It’s some gross purple weed.’
‘Spuds,’ he repeated, striding over to unearth one of the knobbly purple roots from the pile of weeds and snapping it in half; it bled purple on his tanned hands. ‘Potato tubers. Marian’s friend brought them from South Africa. Unusual variety, but they make a mean mash.’
Her stomach plummeted to her toes then bounced back up into her throat. She grabbed at the root. ‘Are they dead?’
‘Don’t sweat it.’ Krueger covered her hand, both of them holding the tuber as though it were a trophy. ‘We’ll let them grow some eyes, then replant them. It’s just set you back a season.’
She snatched her hand back and rubbed her face. Krueger grinned at god-alone knew what. Nothing about this was funny. In the space of a few days she had poisoned Marian’s chickens, killed a prized crop and repeatedly failed at breadmaking. ‘Hell, the bread! Goat, get out of the way.’ She shoved the sheep who was leaning against her thighs, but he took the nudge as a caress and refused to shift.
‘Seems he’s taken a liking to you. Goat, c’mere.’ Krueger clicked his fingers and the sheep obediently stepped toward him.
&
nbsp; ‘It’s not mutual,’ she lied. The sheep was as daft as Scritches, seeming to instantly bond with the farmer. ‘I have to get the bread out of the oven.’
She quickly learned this apparently was farmer-speak for ‘Please, do come inside. Make yourself at home,’ Krueger easily striding alongside her as she raced from the orchard and into the house. He swept off his hat and ducked through the doorway, though he’d probably have cleared it by a centimetre.
She locked the back door behind them and he flicked a hand toward the latch. ‘You’re locking me in?’
‘City habit. Lock as you enter.’
‘You lived by yourself?’
At least Marian had left something out of his information pack. ‘Since I left state care.’
‘Must’ve been tough going it alone in the city.’
‘Not really. Better to be on my own than—’ Than in a darkened room with a group of men. Three. Always three. No other number scared her, rarely gave her pause for thought. But put her in a room with three men and she’d lose it. She wheeled abruptly and slammed into the kitchen.
Krueger’s stomach rumbled behind her. ‘Sorry, busy day. I had to skip lunch. And it smells really good in here.’
With a thin-knit jersey shirt tucked into faded Levi’s, he looked mighty tidy for someone who’d been working all day. She put on her sweetest smile. Partly because the loaf she took from the oven looked damn good, and partly because, in light of her failures, she needed to win him over. ‘Fancy a slice? By the time I brew’—she stressed the word to prove she’d learned—‘tea, the bread will have cooled enough to cut.’
‘No way I’d refuse that offer. Looks like you’d give Marian a run for her money. I’ll go wash up, if you don’t mind.’
‘Sure. You know where the bathroom is?’ Of course he did, probably knew every inch of the house far better than she did. Shit, had she left her knickers hanging over the side of the tub?
Krueger returned and dropped onto a vacant chair. Scritches looked up, blinked sleepily, and then erupted into purrs as he registered the company and dragged himself onto the farmer’s lap.
‘G’day, Scritches. How’re you liking the country life? Making yourself as useful as your mum?’
He remembered the cat’s name? Okay, so maybe Matt Krueger had a redeeming feature. ‘Kettle’s on, I’ll go wash up.’
She crossed to the bathroom. No stray knickers, thank God. As she turned on the tap, she glanced at the mirror above the pedestal basin.
Shit. Literally.
No wonder Krueger laughed at her in the orchard. Her face smudged brown with dust and manure, she’d accidentally finger-painted purple potato-juice stripes across her cheek.
The taps turned to full, she ripped off her clothes and ducked under the shower. With no clean clothes in the room, she dragged back on her filthy jeans and T-shirt, but left off the sweaty bra and prickle-infested socks. She ran her fingers through wet hair; that would have to do. She needed to impress Krueger with her achievements, not her looks.
Krueger looked up from pouring water into the teapot. ‘Never met a woman who could shower and dress that quick.’
‘Know a lot about women’s bathing habits, do you?’ she snapped as she took out a knife. She’d liked Krueger better when he was condescending instead of amused. Using a tea towel, she clamped down and started to slice the hot loaf. ‘We’ll take this out on the verandah. Oh—!’ The bread was soggy in the middle. Loaf number god-only-knew-what and she’d forgotten to tap the base to check for the hollow thud that meant it was cooked through. What now?
Disguise. Lots of butter and Tracey’s jam.
She spread the slices thickly, arranged them on two plates, and poured the tea. ‘Milk, sugar?’
‘Black, straight, thanks.’
‘You take the tea, I’ll bring the bread.’ The less opportunity he had to look at it, the better.
The screen door snagged her heel as she followed him out.
Krueger sat, his legs stretched halfway across the verandah, gazing into the twilight. She paused for a moment, watching him. He looked lost in his own thoughts, but she had no idea what they were.
She slid the plates onto the table. ‘I didn’t hear you come over last night.’
‘Rode.’
She sipped more tea than she wanted, casting about for something to say.
Apparently unperturbed by the awkward silence, Krueger regarded her solidly, again seeming to assess her. ‘I went to the market today but decided against the poddy,’ he said finally, before taking a mouthful of bread; she hoped his wince was at the heat. ‘This is really good. I reckon I could pick Tracey’s jam anywhere. But hot bread is the perfect vehicle for it.’
She tried not to snigger at his choice of words. Maybe he watched My Kitchen Rules, too. He wolfed down his two slices, and she edged her plate toward him.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah,’ she encouraged, ‘I had bread at lunch. Don’t really want any more.’
‘Excellent.’ He scooped up her slice.
‘So why no poddy?’ She carefully phrased the question to hide her ignorance.
Krueger’s gaze slid away, a hand running over his chin as he focused on a clump of bushes down the yard. The sound of birds settling for the evening filled the pause. ‘I thought taking in a little one might be too close to home.’
Her blood chilled. ‘You mean I have to foster?’
Fine lines etched the tanned skin around Krueger’s eyes and she found it absurdly hard to pull her gaze away. ‘Sort of. You hand rear the orphan poddy until she’s old enough to be inseminated, then presto, you have a milk cow. But it’s kind of full-on for you to handle right now.’
A calf. Though relief released her shoulders, her lips tightened. What right did Krueger have to judge her ability to raise a baby? Of any kind. ‘Is that your call?’ she snapped.
He regarded her for a long moment, his eyes reflecting the sudden iciness of her words. ‘Not at all. Completely up to you. Just let me know what you want to do.’ His tone held a cautionary chill, and he drained his cup and set it back on the table. ‘I’d better shift it or I’ll be in trouble at home. Thanks again. I’ll duck back in a couple of days, see how you’re getting on.’ He rammed the akubra on his head, though dusk had thickened around them. ‘Want me to hang around while you lock up?’
‘No, I’m fine.’ Yet she couldn’t hide the twinge of regret that she had altered the dynamic, driven him away just when he seemed a little more tolerable.
He stood, reaching into his breast pocket. ‘Tracey asked me to give you this.’
Her fingernails dug into her palms as he dropped an envelope on the table. Please don’t let there be any new tasks. She couldn’t take any more failures.
She was midway through tidying the kitchen, Marian’s unopened letter lying on the table like a summons, when she heard the vehicle. Drying her hands on a towel, she made for the back door, looking through the sunroom windows.
Even in the dim light of the moth-covered bulb above the back door, she knew her mother instantly. The hereditary similarities were striking. Same chin, the nose she was accustomed to seeing in the mirror. Her mother’s hair was blonde and straight, though, instead of her own pale-brown waves.
Her hand trembled as it moved to the chain on the door. How did she greet the woman who had deserted her? Who, perhaps more importantly, now stood on her doorstep? Twenty-nine years of pretending she hadn’t wanted to know her mother, hadn’t needed her parents, hadn’t been lonely and unwanted, coalesced in this moment. Her mother stood before her, and maybe, just maybe, Marian had misjudged her. Perhaps Denise had come to apologise, to explain that she had been forced to give Roni up and longed to make amends.
‘Veronica,’ her mother smiled. ‘Welcome home.’
And, just like that, she had a family.
She licked her dry lips. ‘You must be … Denise.’ She couldn’t call her Mum. Not yet.
The woman was taller than
her. Leaner, too. Perfectly made up and elegant in jeans and a simple collared blouse.
Denise touched her own nose. ‘My goodness, you see the resemblance? How amazing.’ She peered at Roni. ‘You favour your father, you know.’ She laughed, a throaty chuckle. ‘Funnily enough, I can see some of Marian in you. That would have pleased her.’
Roni stood back. ‘Come in.’
Denise tapped a manicured nail against her lip for a moment. ‘Are you sure? I mean, I don’t want to pressure you … but I do so very much want to talk with you.’ She lifted one shoulder, the gesture apologetic and disarming.
‘Of course,’ Roni said, although her mind screamed at the bizarre situation.
Denise’s high-heeled boots tapped on the floor behind Roni. She glanced around as they entered the kitchen. ‘Can’t say the place has changed in the last few years.’
‘You haven’t been here since … ?’
‘Not for a long time. Oh, I came out here regularly, to see how Marian was faring, but she was predisposed toward greeting me on the verandah. Kept me outside like I was a Jehovah’s Witness come knocking. No matter.’ Denise dismissed the memory with a flick of her wrist. ‘She probably thought she had just cause. Past is past, though, isn’t it?’
Roni’s heart thumped erratically. Was this how reunions normally went? Stilted conversation built around the pretence that nothing untoward had occurred in their relationship? She had so many questions, but her brain refused to form coherent phrases. ‘I resemble my father? He’s still … ?’ Around? Wants to meet me? Most importantly, who is he?
Again, the flick of the wrist. ‘Oh, he’s long dead. I thought Marian would have told you. Sad, but not unexpected.’
Disappointment pierced Roni as her new family instantly halved. ‘But you’d stayed in contact with him?’
Denise raised her eyebrows as she took a seat at the table. ‘Oh, yes. I made certain we stayed very close. I’m surprised Marian didn’t mention our … relationship. I would’ve thought, having decided to disrupt your life and share our secrets, she’d divulge all. Still, I suppose it wasn’t a bond she could understand. I assume you know about her and Tracey …’ She trailed off delicately.
The Farm at Peppertree Crossing Page 13