Unconditional: A Coming of Age Romance Novel (Always)

by Cherie M Hudson

  Definitely not.

  Not at all.

  Nuh-uh.

  Three weeks of moving on. That’s what I was doing. Attempting to put Raph behind me, focusing on my studies, existing.

  Just existing.

  Yeah, right.

  And then the flood hit.

  Australia is, in case you haven’t figured it out by the ridiculous number of insane memes on the net, a country of extremes. It’s no joke when they say just about every animal here can kill you. The planet’s most deadly spider lives here. So does the planet’s most deadly snake, jellyfish, octopus and shark. Thankfully, I was staying over six hundred kilometers, roughly 374 miles from most of them.

  But Australia still didn’t let those of out of range of all the nasties relax. The weather here is insane. If it’s not bush fires destroying almost a whole state, it’s drought killing damn near everything half a day’s drive inland from the coast. If it’s not drought, it’s rain. Flooding rain.

  When it decides to rain in Australia, really rain, you’re in trouble.

  Whole towns can be washed away. I kid you not.

  On the twenty-second day of my stay with the Scotts, it began to rain. I had driven Robbie’s ute into Gunnedah on a supply run, and that’s when the heavens opened. Yes, I was driving in Australia. Scary as shit. They drive on the left side of the road, which is the wrong side of the road. Oh man, did I have some close calls my first few times behind the wheel. Driving in the rain on the left side of the road was holy-shit petrifying.

  By four o’clock that afternoon, the only road leading to the Scotts’ property was cut off by a torrential river that hadn’t been there a mere three hours previously.

  I could get to my koalas via the long route (if they weren’t floating away), but I couldn’t get to the Scotts’.

  Twenty-four hours later, after a night in one of Gunnedah’s hotels and no meds, I still couldn’t get to the Scotts’ and the water was rising.

  Whoa.

  Unsure what to do, I rang Sydney University’s Dean of Sciences. We hadn’t spoken since he’d informed me I was being shipped off to Gunnedah early. When I informed him of my situation—a situation he already knew about, thanks to a worried call from Mary Scott—he told me I was going to be collected by the backup host family.

  “You will still be able to access the koala population you’re studying from their property,” he said, his tone as condescending and self-righteous as it had been during our last conversation. “I’ve arranged for your things to be collected from the Scotts via helicopter and delivered to Kangaroo Creek Cattle Station. Someone will be picking you up from where you are now within the next twelve hours.”

  And with that, our conversation was finished.

  Excellent.

  Huddling under the awning of the Plains Hotel, watching the rain pour off it like a continuous sheet of water, I stared at the empty road. Who in their right mind would travel in weather like this? The road itself, one of the two main streets that dissected Gunnedah, could have been a river, there was that much water on it.

  I waited.

  Wondered if it was raining in Sydney.

  Wondered if Raph was getting wet moving between lectures and Mackellar House. I pictured his dark hair tousled and damp, that hint of a dimple flashing at me as I rubbed said damp hair with a towel.

  A sharp pang of misery and longing stabbed my chest and, before I could stop myself, I pulled my cell from my backpack, swiped my thumb over the screen and found Raph in my list of contacts.

  I wasn’t going to talk to him. I really wasn’t. I just wanted to hear his voice. Hear his Australian accent. Yes, I know I was surrounded by Australian accents, but that’s not the point, okay?

  Eyes burning, heart pounding, pulse a wild thumping in my ears, I held my thumb over the little phone icon, staring at the small image of him at the top of the screen.

  I missed him. So freaking much I could hardly breathe.

  So much I’d risk the humiliation and embarrassment the call would no doubt cause me just to hear him say my name. Or maybe, if I was lucky, he’d call me American girl like he used to and for one brief, deluded moment I could pretend we were still—

  “You the American girl?” a deep male voice with a distinct Australian accent rumbled in front of me.

  I let out a startled squeak, flinched and almost dropped my phone.

  A man stood under the awning in front of me. He studied me with dark eyes, the seams and wrinkles on his sun-leathered face like a map of a life lived hard, the worn cowboy hat on his head dripping with water. “Maci Rowling?”

  I stuttered out a nod. Whoa, I was obviously missing Raph more than I realized, although I would have said that was impossible. The guy waiting for me to speak looked like him. Just forty years older.

  He narrowed an eye at me in a puzzled squint. “You okay? Did I scare you?”

  I shook my head this time.

  He frowned. “Are you…able to talk?

  “N-no,” I burst out, cheeks growing hot. “I mean, yes, yes, I can. Sorry, you did startle me, but that was my fault.”

  He chuckled. God, he even sounded like Raph. Christ, was I going mental?

  “No worries. My fault. Shoulda waited until you stopped looking at your phone. You kinda looked off with the fairies.”

  I blinked. Off with the fairies? What the—

  The stranger who knew my name suddenly whipped his hat from his head, revealing a shock of salt-and-pepper hair, wiped his right hand on his thigh and then extended it to me. “Sorry, should introduce myself. I’m Wayne Patterson, owner of Kangaroo Creek Station.” He gave me a smile. A reserved smile but still a warm one. “You’re staying with us due to the Scotts being flooded out.”

  Without delay, I stepped forward to take his hand. “Oh God, thank you. Thank you so much for taking me in. I can’t tell you enough how grateful I am for this.”

  He pulled a face at my gushing gratitude. “No worries. We’ve got plenty of room, what with the kids long gone. I left the missus cleaning out the guesthouse for you. Not much else we can do in this bloody weather. Crikey, it’s been donkeys’ ages since we’ve had this kind of dump.”

  I bit back a giggle. Crikey? Did he just say crikey?

  Releasing my hand, he plonked his hat back on his head and half-turned towards the road. The rain was still pouring down. In fact, it might have grown heavier during our brief conversation. I could barely make out anything beyond the gutter. “The ute’s unlocked,” Wayne Patterson said, glancing at me over his shoulder. He was wearing a brown leather-type rain jacket that seemed to swim on him. “When you hear me honk, just come running. I’ll fling the door open for you so you don’t get too drenched.”

  And with that, he grabbed the two bags at my feet filled with the supplies I’d bought for the Scotts yesterday and strode out from under the awning to damn near disappear in the sheets of water falling from the sky. Strode. Not run. Strode. As if it was a sunny day. It was, to be honest, both awe-inspiring and crazy.

  A second or two later, I heard a car horn sound. I could only assume it came from the pickup-shaped blob parked out in the rain.

  Drawing a deep breath, I shoved my phone into my backpack and ran.

  Into the rain.

  Correction. Into the deluge.

  Suffice to say, I was saturated by the time I buckled myself into the passenger seat of Mr. Patterson’s ute.

  He chortled. “Bit heavy, isn’t it?” And then, without another word, he gunned the engine and we took off, a wave of muddy water fanning up from the front wheels.

  It took us over ninety minutes to get to Kangaroo Creek Station. I discovered in that time Mr. Patterson was a man of few words. He asked me how my studies were going, listened when I answered, told me his wife—or, as he called her, the missus—was named Helen, but I was welcome to call her Helly, ’cause she was, and said I was to think of Kangaroo Creek as my home until I returned to the States.

  I thanked
him. He waved off my thanks with a, “No worries, love,” and that was it. After that, he didn’t initiate any conversation.

  I didn’t feel uncomfortable. In fact, I took the time to do what I’d done for most of my downtime during the last three weeks—think about Raph and wonder how he was.

  Apparently self-torture was becoming one of my favorite pastimes.

  At the end of a quiet ninety minutes, after Mr. Patterson crossed what must have been the twenty-millionth cattle guard, we pulled to a halt under a corrugated galvanized iron awning next to what looked like a small cottage made of the same thing.

  “Here we are,” Mr. Patterson said, killing the engine. “Helly will no doubt be in there waiting for you.”

  I looked at the cottage on the other side of the rain-and-mud splattered window.

  “I know it don’t look like much, but it’s nice inside. And it gives you your own space,” Patterson continued. “Unless you want to be in the main house with us? Reckon Helly would dust off the daughter’s old room and make up the bed if you want?”

  I shook my head, turning back to Mr. Patterson. “The guesthouse is awesome,” I answered. “It’s been a while since I’ve had my own space.” I thought of my room in Mom’s small home back in Plenty, situated right beside hers. I thought of my crowded college dorm room with my loud and messy music major roommate. I thought of Mackellar House and its communal bathroom. I thought of Raph.

  I thought of the paparazzi hounding me…

  “A long while,” I finished with a snort.

  Patterson nodded. “Good.”

  He opened his door and climbed out into the deafening roar of the torrential rain on the iron roof.

  Unable to stop myself, I imagined Raph there with me. A heartbeat before I squashed the ridiculous fantasy.

  I had to stop it. Had to.

  Scooping up my backpack and supplies, thank God, I’d splurged while in Gunnedah and bought myself a new toothbrush, I followed Mr. Patterson into my home for the next twenty-one days. The remainder of my time in Australia.

  Mrs. Patterson met me at the front door.

  She was a tall, willowy woman with a stern face, high cheekbones and direct blue eyes. She wore no makeup and her hair—dark brown and straight—was scraped back from her face in a plaited ponytail. Faded jeans and a chambray shirt added to the image of a woman who didn’t find a need for finery, as did the muddy splashes staining the ankles and shins of her jeans.

  As I climbed the three stairs leading to the covered porch and door, she smiled. Like her husband’s, it was warm but reserved. “Maci Rowlings?” Her voice was friendly, if somewhat hard to hear over the drumming rain. “I’m Helen. Welcome to Kangaroo Creek. I suspect Wayne has already told you to call me Helly?”

  I nodded, starting a little as Mr. Patterson took my backpack and bags from me and disappeared through the open door.

  Her eyes twinkled. Despite being blue, they were…familiar. It was impossible, I know, but I felt like I’d met her before. “Did he make the joke about me being hell?” she asked, twin dimples creasing her cheeks as her smile turned to a small smirk.

  “He did, I’m afraid.” I liked her already. Not quite sure why, but I did. Perhaps it was the mom factor? I was missing mine like hell, after all.

  Hell. Get it?

  She rolled her eyes. “He always does. Thinks he’s funny.” With a graceful half-pirouette, she invited me into the cottage with her hand. “Come in, please. I hope everything will be okay for you.”

  I gave her my warmest smile. “Everything will be fine.”

  And it was. I entered the cottage and into heaven.

  It was small, warm, homey and surprisingly well fitted out. There was a forty-inch flat-screen television mounted on the main wall of the living area situated above an open fireplace currently filled with logs and puffy little yellow flowers. Flowers, I assumed, responsible for the most delicate and sweet perfume filling my every breath. A wooden desk sat under one of three large windows, on which I noticed my laptop bag.

  The twin paisley sofas looked soft, as did the cushions of various colors and patterns scattered over them. A coffee table was placed between, with a vase overflowing with more of the same tiny yellow flowers in the middle, a bowl of red and green apples and the television remote control.

  Beyond the living area was the kitchen, which looked like it could have been the main star in an article on how to make old wood, iron and granite work perfectly together. There was a state-of-the-art fridge, complete with water and ice dispenser, a single-shelf wall oven, a microwave and one of those funky taps you see in fancy New York apartments that are on a springy thing that goes up and down in an arch.

  To the right of the kitchen and living area was the bedroom. Not a room as such, rather a section of the cottage dedicated to a bed. And what a bed. Seriously. A massive, wrought iron, four-poster bed with a white gauzy net that would encase it completely with four silken ropes tying it open.

  “Wow.” My approval slipped from me in a whispered breath.

  “You like it?”

  I nodded at Mrs. Patterson’s question. “It’s lovely.”

  “Our daughter decorated it before she left. As a parting gift, I think. She and her husband stay here whenever they come to visit, which isn’t as often as I’d like.”

  I turned to her, the affection in her voice making me like her even more. “It really is beautiful. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate—”

  Like her husband, she brushed off my thanks. “No more. We’re glad to help. I must point out though, we’re not much for talking, Wayne and I. And it’s rare to see us before sundown each night, but we would love you to join us for dinner whenever you want. I’ve made sure the cupboards in here are stocked well though, in case you prefer to be alone or don’t want to interrupt your studies on global warming and koalas.”

  She cast Mr. Patterson a smile. “Isn’t that right, dear?”

  Mr. Patterson adjusted his hat. “Yep.” And without another word, he nodded in my direction and exited the cottage.

  Helly turned her twinkling eyes on me again. “He doesn’t believe in global warming,” she whispered, leaning towards me. “I’ve had more than one fight with him about it. Stubborn bastards, they are.”

  I laughed, surprised by her sharing.

  She smiled a little and then ran her hands over the backside of her jeans. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to work. You’ll find all your stuff from the Scotts either beside the bed or tucked under the desk. Dinner is normally around nine p.m, but with this rain, tonight we’ll most likely eat at seven.”

  She left as abruptly as her husband.

  I blinked and watched the door close behind her. And then, with a hitching little chortle, dropped onto the sofa nearest to me.

  It was, indeed, as comfy as I suspected.

  Five days later, I realized I was completely and utterly at home with my new host family. Sure, they weren’t a talking pair. True, they held their emotions in check, but underneath it all, I could see a deep love for each other. It was wonderful. It reminded me of the way my dad loved my mom, unconditionally and yet restrained. Perhaps it was an Australian thing?

  Regardless, they made me feel welcome at their dinner table on the first night and were completely understanding when, on the fourth night, I chose to remain in my cottage to work on the day’s research data.

  I cooked myself fried eggs—there was still a feather on the egg when I took it from the fridge. A small, downy feather. Can you believe it?—bacon and toast. I didn’t open the ubiquitous jar of Vegemite I found in the cupboard next to the bread bin. The kitchen had a Nespresso machine (told you it was well stocked) and I helped myself to that as well.

  Settling down on the sofa opposite the TV, I balanced my dinner on my knee, grabbed the remote from the coffee table and searched for something to have playing in the background while I ate and made notes in my field books.

  I woke up the next morn
ing with my half-eaten dinner on the coffee table, an episode of Modern Family playing on the television and the memory of a dream involving me and Raph and a thunderstorm playing with my sanity.

  And so began my fifth day with the Pattersons.

  Sometime through the night, the rain had lessened. Not much, but enough to make traveling out to my koala population easier. Mr. Patterson gave me the keys to the ute in which he’d collected me from Gunnedah, and, appreciating the trust they placed in me, I found myself enjoying the freedom of driving through the Australian bush on my own.

  I spent the morning making notes on the koala mother and baby I’d been tracking since the beginning of my fieldwork, as well as two male koalas that seemed on the verge of a territorial battle.

  When the rain decided to turn the surrounding area into a gray, washed-out wall of water, I decided to call it quits for the day.

  I was halfway back to the cottage when the walkie-talkie Mrs. Patterson contacted me with crackled to life. “Maci, is there any chance the weather has defeated your studies today? Over.”

  Laughing, I picked up the communication device from the front passenger seat and depressed the com button. “There is, Mrs. P.” I couldn’t bring myself to call her Helly. She was too nice. Reserved, but nice. “What can I help you with? Do you want me to come to the main house?” I released the button. And then pressed it again with a quick grunt. “Over.”

  “Is it possible for you to drive into town? Wayne’s arthritis medication is running low and I want to be sure we have enough to last at least another fortnight, in case the rain doesn’t let up and we get cut off like the Scotts. Over.”

  I depressed the com button straight away. I definitely could understand her fear. “I can do that, Mrs. P. Easy-peasy. Over.”

  Yay, I remembered that time. Go me.

  “Oh, and while you’re in town, is there a chance you could collect our son from the bus shelter? I think his bus arrives in three hours. You won’t be able to miss him. He’s the one who looks like Wayne, just with darker hair. Over.”