The Farm at Peppertree Crossing

by Léonie Kelsall

  She took a ragged breath and stepped toward him. ‘Down you get, Scritch. I believe that’s my space you’re occupying.’

  Matt dropped Scritches onto the yellow cushion. His hands found her hips, drawing her close. Still he didn’t kiss her. ‘You read my letter?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Want to talk?’

  She stayed silent. Perhaps she should have written her thoughts down, but committing her secrets to paper would make them more real.

  Matt waited a beat, then nodded. ‘I set up a hammock on the verandah. You bring the rug. I’ve got the rest covered.’ He pressed his lips to her hair, then released her. ‘The eclipse is almost full.’

  He knew that her secrets belonged in the dark.

  She collected the rug from their library picnic and made her way onto the front verandah. As she lowered onto the hammock strung between the verandah poles, the webbing tilted crazily and she gasped. Matt grinned and swung himself in, almost tipping her out. As she squealed and clutched at the woven ropes, he stretched on his back, extending one arm to invite her into the safety of his embrace. ‘Trick is to relax and go with the ride.’

  Though the summer night air was balmy, still she had to try not to tremble as she settled against him. He smelled good; sunshine and a subtle, spicy cologne. His arm wrapped loosely around her. Secure. Reassuring.

  They lay in silence as the last sliver of the huge, silvery moon slipped into shadow, the sky sprinkled with sparkling pinpricks. Diamonds on a celestial picnic rug. The hooting barn owls and chirping cicadas fell silent. The tiny nocturnal animals foraging beneath the night-scented lavenders paused, and the world held its breath.

  Matt’s question came soft but firm in the absolute privacy of their safe cocoon. ‘What is it that scares you, Roni?’

  For someone who could be positively monosyllabic, he had a hell of a way of opening a conversation. Her instinct was to shrug off his question. Instead, she lay quiet, trying to find words to match her emotions. ‘I guess … I’m afraid of disappointing you. That I won’t be who you seem to think I am. I’ve never had to live up to anyone’s expectations.’

  The hammock rocked beneath them. ‘I get that.’

  She stole a glance at his face but could see little as the sky shifted from purple to black.

  Silence again. Long minutes, which could have been oppressive, but as darkness enveloped them the lack of judgment freed her. It was time to share at least one of her secrets. ‘The thing is, I failed the one person who did depend on me.’ The memory sliced at her heart, and her words trembled. ‘And I don’t know if I can live with that again.’

  Matt’s fingers caressed her arm, slow strokes from wrist to elbow. ‘Was it your fault?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so, anyway. It ended, but it wasn’t my choice.’

  A tiny crescent of moon appeared, reborn in the void of night.

  Matt’s breath stirred her hair as he turned to face her. ‘Sometimes it hurts to love. But sometimes it hurts more to stay.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that. I’ve never been in love.’

  ‘But you said—’

  ‘I was pregnant. I lost the baby.’ The admission tore at her heart, yet the wound seemed to lessen the weight in her chest. But she wasn’t sure she was ready to let go of the grief. It was all she had left of Roo. ‘The thing is, love is a lie. It’s an excuse for people—for life—to hurt you. You know there’s no such thing as a happily ever after in real life, right?’ Even as she whispered the words, she wanted him to persuade her otherwise, to tell her that he would never be reckless with her heart, that she would always be safe.

  Instead of rushing to provide empty promises and placation, Matt’s words were measured, his thumb stroking her clenched knuckles. ‘What about Marian and Tracey? And Luke and Taylor? Do you think they aren’t happy?’

  ‘Marian hid her love for Tracey, scared of judgment, so how happy could they have been? And Taylor has things she’s scared of, too.’

  ‘Maybe that’s the point. We’re all scared. But sometimes we just have to close our eyes and jump.’ Matt’s steel gaze glinted as the heavens blossomed above them. ‘Roni, I’m not great with words, I don’t know all the right things to say. Hell, I have trouble saying much at all. But I am good at listening. When you’re ready to tell me what it is that hurt you so badly, I’ll be right here.’ He let go of her hand, his fingertips tracing the curve of her cheek. ‘I’m not going anywhere. I swear, if you fall, I’ll catch you.’

  She wanted that to be true more than he could possibly imagine. But her happiness wasn’t his job. ‘I don’t need saving, Matt. I can look after myself.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way.’

  She believed him. This strong, reserved man wouldn’t control or manipulate her, instead he would support and enable her. One day, she would be able to tell him her secrets. But right now, she needed him to kiss her.

  As though he could read her mind, Matt shook his head, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m waiting for the shadows to disappear.’ He lifted his chin toward the moon, an enormous silver orb now, hanging low in the sky and lighting the farmyard in shades of ice blue. ‘I want to see you when I kiss you.’

  Her heart swelled. Matt was the one man who could help banish her own shadows. She pressed close to his warmth, his breath whispering across her face as his hands explored her curves and hollows. He was all heat and strength, and, for the first time in her life, she was all longing.

  The ghost of a caressing breeze swayed the hammock. Marian was right. If she wanted to truly live, she had to embrace risk.

  As Matt’s lips descended on hers, she murmured, ‘Let’s close our eyes and jump … and see how high we soar.’

  Epilogue

  Although Matt’s footfalls were silent on the lush winter grass behind her, she knew he approached. As always, she had an absolute awareness of his presence.

  One of his hands moved to the small of her back, the other resting on the high mound of her belly. ‘You’re not overdoing it, are you?’

  She covered his hand with hers, loving the slight leatheriness of his skin, the knowledge that his palms were worn and callused. From working on their property. Their dream.

  ‘You know the doctor said exercise is good for us.’ She probably should be more worried: twins had a reputation of coming early, and she only had a month to go. But with Taylor Hartmann monitoring her pregnancy every step of the way, she felt only joy and anticipation.

  ‘I know,’ Matt’s lips pressed against her ear. ‘But I suspect Taylor wasn’t imagining you in the middle of the farmyard, building your empire.’

  ‘I don’t think overseeing the tradies really counts as building,’ she laughed, waving a hand toward the largest of the sheds. Although the exterior hadn’t changed, still strong and solid—like her man—the interior was now warm and soft, a safe harbour. She’d had a nest of small rooms created, each fully lined and air-conditioned. Each to be fitted out to the personal preference of the occupant.

  She had shared all her secrets and her new dream with Matt that night on the hammock almost two years ago. With the land making only a marginal return on sheep and crops, she had a vision for Peppertree Crossing, one that would free Matt to follow his true passion and would nurture her love of animals.

  With their father’s encouragement, Jim Smithton’s sons had been eager to become farmhands, and Matt trained them to work that scaled-back side of the businesses.

  Then, together, she and Matt created The Peaceful Paws.

  She would never be Marian, but she could adopt Marian’s qualities and strengths, her determination to see a dream to fruition. Now, with the opening of their pet retirement home, that dream was reality.

  With Scritches winding around their legs, Roni nestled against her husband. Goat and Baby let out a barnyard chorus as a candy-apple-red car bounced over the cattle grid, an explosion of g
rey fur dashing toward them the second Tracey opened the door.

  Matt fondled the dog’s ears. ‘Good boy, Bear. Go find Tess and play.’

  Bear swiped the vet’s hand with a long tongue, then bounded off in search of Matt’s collie.

  ‘We’re going to have to watch out for favouritism,’ Roni teased. ‘Everyone requires the same level of attention.’

  ‘But some need a little extra love,’ Matt murmured into her hair as Tracey drifted toward them, clutching a fistful of buttercup-yellow soursobs.

  He was right. She had a good business head. She would charge for animals to spend their last years living here in happiness and luxury when their owners could no longer care for them. But she would also set aside a portion of the funds and space to take in unwanted, neglected and abandoned animals.

  Because everything deserved someone to love them.

  Acknowledgements

  There is an old African proverb, ‘It takes a village to raise a child.’ In this case, it took a village to create a book. There are so many people to thank, I’m terrified of inadvertently omitting someone.

  First, Taylor, aka ‘The Kid’ in my social media feeds. Starting with a title as a concept, Taylor and I brainstormed the original version of this book. Taylor spent hours listening to me—or, in true teen style, arguing with me—as we worked through the plot. We suffered for the art together, dedicating uncountable calories (okay, the bathroom scales disagree!) to picnicking on liverwurst and lamingtons at The Farm to mentally set the scene. I swear I was applying the literary version of method acting. True sacrifice. Nothing at all to do with delicious food.

  Wonderful Australian author Sandie Docker has shared much of the adventure with me from way back when we were trying to win agents for our first manuscripts (ha, that sounds ever so Hollywood). Finding well-deserved success with her women’s fiction titles, Sandie pens the most beautifully descriptive work I’ve read. Trying to gently steer me away from a tendency to write ‘dark’, she provides incredibly thorough critiques. Thanks for always being there, Sandie.

  American author Marty Mayberry has been a long-time writing friend and a staunch champion of many of my titles, always ready with an encouraging word about how much she loved a particular story. Together we’ve waded through the depths of the publishing journey and surmounted some decent-sized hills.

  Syed M. Masood gave up his writing time to exchange critiques, despite having debuts in both adult and young adult fiction in 2020. James Ormonde, Lindsay Landgraf Hess and Tessa Kelly provided fabulous feedback, while Michelle Parsons, a well-loved champion of Australian writers, overlooked my appalling punctuation (maybe I should rethink free grammar apps) to beta read and provide encouragement.

  To the seemingly-vast, well-organised team at Allen & Unwin, including the submissions editors who pulled my manuscript from the slush pile and sent that first, heart-stopping, life-changing ‘we might be interested’ email; the structural editor, Christa Munns; the copyeditor, Claire de Medici; the proofreader, Simone Ford; the publicity team; and the designer, Nada Backovic, who produced a cover that is the absolute embodiment of The Farm at Peppertree Crossing: thank you.

  Of course, hugs to my wonderful (and not-at-all-terrifying, despite my fears) publisher, Annette Barlow, who took a chance on me and somehow manages to shoot across just the right warm fuzzies at just the right moment. And to my editor, Courtney Lick—I can’t even imagine how many times you’ve read this story, and I know I still owe you that coffee I promised. Thanks for always being only a message away. And for not being the least fazed by my sometimes odd sense of humour.

  To Stephen, purveyor of replacement laptops and provider of time, even though you can’t fathom my passion: thank you.

  And my love to my parents, Lawrie and Chris, who enlivened countless visits to Flinders Hospital with an unwavering interest in my publishing exploits—even when it was only a handful of hours since you last asked. I should probably warn you that I have a coin jar going with a long-term plan for The Farm to one day be mine!

  Finally, my heartfelt thanks to that other person. You know who you are. No, I didn’t forget you: see, you have a paragraph all to yourself.