by Fiona Brand
Carter turned on his heel, and headed for the once-worn track between the two houses. For the first time since he’d flicked on his flashlight she registered that he was limping.
Remorse tempered her anger. He’d come over because he’d thought there was a prowler, and if there had been one she would have been more than happy for his support.
A brief shudder ran down her spine. This afternoon she had thought someone was in the barn. “Carter, wait.”
She could just glimpse the pale flash of his T-shirt, enough to see that he’d stopped. Before she could change her mind, she walked inside, wrapped warm brownies in foil and took them out to him.
For a minute she thought he wasn’t going to accept the peace offering.
“Thanks.”
Within seconds he had disappeared.
Rubbing her arms against the faint breeze from the ocean, she walked back inside, letting the screen door slap closed behind her. Somehow she’d travelled from towering anger to appeasement. Now she actually felt sorry for him.
And how typical that she had caved in and given him brownies. Somewhere, through all this mess, she had really hoped that she had learned to say no, and mean it.
Chapter 5
The sound of an engine starting pulled Dani out of a deep sleep. She blinked at the bright light pouring through her bedroom window. For the first time since Ellen had died she had slept through her alarm.
With jerky movements, she shoved out of bed, pulled on fresh underwear, jeans and a T-shirt and jammed her feet into sneakers. Pushing out through the French doors that opened onto the veranda, she strode over to the shed. Carter had already backed the tractor out.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
He parked beside the open double doors of the barn. Leaving the engine on idle, he jumped down. “You said you had to let Bill go.”
“That doesn’t mean I need you to—”
“Forget it, Dani. We’re neighbours.”
Her jaw clenched as he disappeared inside the barn and began loading hay onto the trailer. Trust Carter to pull the neighbour thing.
Despite the fact that he was having trouble with his lateral movement and he had the limp to contend with, he made the backbreaking job look effortless. “You’re still hurt. You should be taking it easy.”
“I’ve had months to take it easy. I need to get back in shape.”
Way number two to bamboozle her. “And this is training?”
He brushed dust and hay off his T-shirt. “You can pay me with treatments.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “I am not treating you.”
He shrugged and climbed back into the driver’s seat. “Then someone else will.”
The tractor eased forward.
Deliberately, Dani stepped in front, blocking him. “You don’t know where the cattle are.”
Carter spun the wheel and drove around her. “The north-east paddocks. I had a look last night.”
“Did you get any sleep?”
The sarcastic sting made him grin. “About as much as you, darlin’.”
Dani’s teeth ground together. She had forgotten how much he loved a fight. “You don’t have the right to do this.”
Dust rolled around her as Carter headed out of the yard. “Oh very good, Dani, very mature and in control.”
Next time she would go for a big hit, like issuing him with a trespass notice. That should really make him tremble. The only problem was that Carter and the local policeman, Pete Murdoch, weren’t just major buddies, they were related—even if it was only by marriage to an aunt. Murdoch would probably sooner see her behind bars than upset his nephew.
An hour later, Dani manoeuvred the farm’s four-wheel drive across an almost-dry riverbed and parked beside a pump house that was silvered with age and crusted with dried lichen. Carter feeding and shifting the cattle meant she had more time to carry out her regular system of checks on the water holes and the pumps that fed the troughs. Most of the troughs were low and one she’d driven past had actually gone dry, which was a bad sign.
As soon as she swung out of the truck she could hear the hum of the pump. The system was set up so that when the water fell to a certain level, the pump activated. She’d checked the previous day and the water level had been fine, but in this heat, moisture evaporated so fast it didn’t take long for water levels to drop. The pump had probably been going all night trying to fill the dry trough. Since the pump appeared to still be working, the fact that no water was getting through meant that the intake pipe was no longer underwater. Stomach tight, she picked her way across rocks bleached a pale grey in the intense, dry heat and located the end of the pipe, which was out of the water and guzzling air.
If she didn’t get water flowing through the pipes fast the pump would overheat and burn out, which would be a disaster. She couldn’t afford the hundreds of dollars a new pump would cost, and if she couldn’t get the system up and running, she would have to buy water in.
Frowning, she checked the lay of the pipe. Normally it ran in a straight line from the pump shed and was anchored in the deepest part of the river. Somehow, it had moved several metres, or—cancel that—it had been moved.
There had been no torrential flood of water through the riverbed to throw the pipe out, and no animals in this particular paddock since the last time she checked the pump just two days ago. For the pipe to have shifted position meant someone had deliberately pulled it out of the river, leaving the pump to burn out and her cattle to go thirsty.
Removing her boots and socks, she rolled up the legs of her jeans and stepped into the trickling flow, dragging the length of alkathene. When it was stretched to its limit, she pushed the pipe into the deepest part of the pool and fastened it in place with a couple of heavy rocks. Wading deeper into the water, she held her hand over the end of the pipe to check the suction, which was halting. The pump was operating, but air had gotten through the system and it had lost pressure.
Stepping out of the water, Dani wiped her hands down her jeans and grabbed the bike pump that was kept in the toolbox in the back of the truck. Minutes later, sweat dripping, she unscrewed the bike pump from the nozzle on the pump, flicked the pump switch back on and prayed. Water spat and gurgled; seconds later the high-pitched whine settled down to a hum. If the pump was damaged, she couldn’t tell.
Letting out a breath, Dani checked the suction of the pipe in the water then pulled on her socks and boots and began walking the pipeline, checking for leakages. With the intense ultraviolet light in New Zealand, plastic didn’t last long out in the open. Most of the line was buried to protect it, but it was exposed in places. If there was any damage, it usually occurred around the troughs where the pipe was out of the ground and being walked on by cows.
With relief she saw the first trough was filling. When it had reached capacity, water would automatically feed on to the next trough, and so on.
Flickering movement at the edge of her vision drew her attention away from the steady flow of water. A vague, indefinable tension filled her as she examined the dense grove of ancient puriri trees that marked the boundary.
A hawk launched from a high branch, wheeling overhead, and she shook her head. She was becoming neurotic—seeing shadows where none existed. Someone had tampered with her water system—she hesitated to use the word sabotage, because it had probably just been a kid’s prank. School had been out for weeks now, although there was no family within close range that had children old enough to pull a prank like that. The Barclays were the closest, their boundary butted up against the southern end of Galbraith, but their house was several miles away. It wasn’t likely their children would wander this far, or have the strength to dislodge the rocks that had held the pipeline in place.
Still tense, she examined the ridge of hills visible from the high pasture and the reason for her tension finally registered. She could smell smoke, and now she could see it, drifting along in the wind, coming from the direction of Tom Stoddar
d’s farm.
Gaze fixed on the smoke, her stomach tight, she began walking toward it, keeping the blue-grey column in sight until she entered the grove of trees.
Dried leaves crackled underfoot, the sound explosive in the quiet grove. Beneath the canopy of trees the air was close and aromatic, the light dim. Massive trunks thrust upward out of drifts of leaves, branches thick with epiphytes and dripping with creepers, but despite the dense, enclosing foliage the smell of smoke was still strong.
Quickening her step, she hurried through the grove, wishing she had taken the time to go back and get her truck. It wasn’t like Tom to burn rubbish at this time of year. He was an ex-member of the local Fire Service and normally ultra safety conscious. With grass and trees like tinder and the fire risk on extreme, he knew better than anyone that all fires were banned.
When she emerged from the trees her heart squeezed tight and she broke into run. It wasn’t a rubbish fire, it was Tom’s house.
Breath shoving in and out of her lungs, she climbed a fence, stumbled through a ditch then ducked low to get under an electric fence, careful to avoid the live wire. As she straightened she checked her jeans pocket for the cell phone she usually carried for emergencies. Her jaw clenched when she came up empty. Because she’d been in and out of the creek, she’d left her phone in the truck.
Dried seed heads and stalks whipped around her legs as she ran, impeding her. As she got closer she realized the house itself wasn’t ablaze, but almost everything else was. The old stables at the rear were a pyre and smoke poured from the barn and garage. Adrenaline pumping, she unfastened a gate, pushed it wide and ran into the gravelled area in front of Tom’s outbuildings. His truck was missing, which meant he was either out on the farm or in town.
Cutting across a small square of lawn, she tried the front door of Tom’s cottage, which was locked. Seconds later she’d tried every other door and window; every one was locked tight enough to resist a siege.
Frustrated, she peered through the glass panel of the kitchen door. She could see the phone sitting on the kitchen counter.
Dani cast around, looking for something to break the glass. Grabbing one of the rocks that formed a neat edging along the path, she drew back her arm and threw it.
It bounced.
With a fluid movement, she retrieved the rock and brought it crashing down on the panel. Glass shattered in a web like the windscreen of a car. As forceful as she’d been, the hole she’d made was the size of a walnut.
She couldn’t believe it. Tom had laminated glass in his kitchen door.
Lifting the rock, she hammered at the glass until she’d knocked out enough to reach through and unfasten the door, but precious minutes had passed. Seconds later, she had emergency services on the line.
Struggling to stay calm, she reported the fire and supplied the address, then clamped down on her impatience when the operator asked her to supply her own name and details and requested she stay on the line.
The slow tick of the clock seemed preternaturally loud as her gaze swung around the kitchen. She noticed that something red speckled the glittering shards of glass and the trail ran from the door to the counter. Blankly, she registered that the slow drip of blood came from her. A long, shallow cut ran along the inside of her wrist; she must have cut herself when she’d broken the panel.
The popping crackle as timbers exploded jerked her head around. Stomach tight, she stared out of Tom’s tiny, pristine kitchen as a thick column of smoke darkened the sky. The steady roaring of the fire had increased until it drowned out the slow tick of the clock, and fear gripped her. It would take a fire crew a good ten to fifteen minutes to get out here, by then it could all be over. Fingers slippery with blood, she fumbled the receiver back on its rest, grabbed a tea towel to wrap her wrist, using her teeth to knot it tight as she ran to the barn. She had given the operator all the information required. There was no way she could just stand in Tom’s kitchen and watch while his place went up in flames. She could at least try to save his tractor and after that, she would do what she could to save the house.
Oily black smoke billowed as she entered the barn, the heat almost driving her back. The tractor was easy to find. Tom was very precise in his habits—he always parked his tractor in the same place—backed in so that it faced the door. Eyes stinging, lungs aching from holding her breath, she pulled herself into the driver’s seat and felt for the keys. Her fingers brushed metal already hot from the flames licking at the back wall of the barn. Her heart plummeted. The keys weren’t in the ignition, which mean Tom must have them either hidden or hanging somewhere.
Dragging her shirt up around her mouth and nose, she sucked in a breath and almost choked as acrid air burned her throat. Coughing, she swung down from the tractor and made her way to the door. The smoke was so thick she was having trouble breathing, let alone seeing. A blast of heat sent her reeling, a split second later she stumbled outside just as a vehicle drove into the yard. She had a glimpse of Tom’s nut-brown face and wispy grey hair as he reversed, gravel spitting, then she doubled up in a paroxysm of coughing.
A gnarled hand gripped her arm. “Are you okay?”
“I called emergency services then I tried to get the tractor. Couldn’t find the key.”
Tom’s expression was grim. “I’ve got a spare.”
“Tom, wait.” Dani’s heart clenched as the old man disappeared into the smoke. Tom was as tough as rawhide, but if he didn’t come out soon, she was going in after him.
Seconds later, the stuttering rumble of a tractor starting was followed by the dull gleam of smoke-blackened metal as Tom, equally blackened, drove his tractor, with a trailer hitched behind, out of the barn.
As Tom parked the tractor beside the truck in the paddock, a vehicle slid to a halt, gravel spraying.
Carter.
His gaze touched on hers, cold and brief as he swung out of the truck, then shifted to Tom. “Got sick of the old place, Tom?”
Coughing and clutching at his chest, Tom swung down from the tractor. “Someone has. Don’t know how a fire could start in the stables. There’s nothing in there.” Wiping at streaming eyes, he reached for one of several shovels lying in the bed of the trailer and passed one to Carter. “Damned if it’ll get the house, though—or start a bush fire.”
“You still got that floating pump?”
“It’s in the implement shed. I was going to get that next.”
“I’ll get it. If we drop it in the stream behind your house, we’ll be able to spray down the back of the barn.” His gaze switched to Dani. “You help Tom wet down the house with the garden hose.” His meaning was clear: if they didn’t stop Tom, he would keep going back into the sheds to rescue items.
Within minutes of locating the hose and directing a steady stream of water at the side of the house closest to the blaze, Dani heard a siren. Seconds later the fire truck pulled into the parking area in front of the barn, followed by two smaller trucks. From the logos on the vehicles, they were forestry crews driving “smoke chasers”—trucks with light appliances on the back that could go off road. When a fire was reported, not only the Fire Service but any company with a forestry interest within a certain radius were obliged to attend. In a rural community like Jackson’s Ridge the fire-response teams were finely tuned, and lately, with the tinder-dry weather, they’d had to be. It was in everyone’s best interests to get to a fire early.
Within seconds a steady stream of water was being pumped into the heart of the fire. The garden hose now superfluous, Dani went to help Carter with the floating pump.
Carter was thigh-deep in the stream, fastening the hose to the pump. The coupling secure, he backed out of the water. The pump was designed to float and suck water up from an intake at its base, which made it ideal as a portable fire-fighting tool, although it was of more use refilling the water tanks of fire appliances than for spraying the actual fire.
Dani uncoiled the length of hose sitting at the top of the bank, laying it ou
t in a straight line pointing directly at the back of the barn. Retracing her steps, she picked up the end of the hose and hauled it down the bank, slipping and sliding in the mud and shale. As she passed the metal coupling to Carter, her sleeve peeled back from the makeshift bandage.
Carter’s attention shifted to her arm. The towel was soaked red in places.
“What have you done to your wrist?”
“It’s just a scratch.”
“Not with that much blood.” With deft movements, Carter checked that the coupling was locked on tight, waded into the middle of the stream and yanked the cord on the pump.
Blue smoke filled the air. The racket of the pump made any further conversation impossible. Pulling her sleeve down to cover the bandage, Dani climbed out of the muddy stream, her boots squelching.
One of the forestry crew was standing with the hose, legs braced as water fountained. Dani recognized the faces of the men helping: amongst them Walter Douglas and Jim McCarthy, both of whom had been volunteer firemen forever, and Athol Pike, the foreman for one of the major forestry companies. Her stomach automatically tensed when she recognized George Lynch, a regular holiday resident who owned a bach on the waterfront. He had been at the wheel of the furniture removal truck she had hit six years ago. Because the cab had been up so high, he’d only received minor injuries, but he’d still had to spend a night in the hospital.
A dark-haired man in jeans and a T-shirt stood out from the ranks of fire fighters and forestry workers, all of whom were dressed in coveralls.
The crumping sound of an explosion jerked Dani’s head around.
Tom’s expression was stoic. “There goes the drum of petrol. Now there’ll be no stopping it.”
“If the petrol’s only just gone, that means it wasn’t used to light it.”
Dani stared at the stranger, who looked vaguely familiar. She’d heard an out-of-towner was staying in the Hamilton holiday cottage, which bordered her land. There were no prizes for guessing it was him, but after the spooky incidents around the farm, the sabotage and the fact that this was the third fire in Jackson’s Ridge within a week, her tolerance for strangers was low. “What makes you think the fire was deliberate?”