Just before Edna sailed out from the kitchen, she gave Fliss a smile.
Fliss returned the frame to the shelf before collecting another bowl of freshly popped popcorn. She’d seen Quinn eating handfuls and, when Lizzie wasn’t looking, stick some in her hair.
Fliss paused on the top veranda step and looked over the people she loved. She’d come here adrift and anxious and had found herself, her place in life and a strong man to love. To her right, Cressy waved her hand as she spoke to Denham. Light flashed from her ring finger. Today the no-frills cowgirl wore a pretty denim dress. Fliss had found a perfect pair of white cowgirl boots and had made sure Cressy and Denham’s wedding plans were on track. She was going to give her sister the best wedding possible.
Fliss sought Hewitt’s eyes as he looked over to her from where he stood beside his father. Her heart swelled. It was all hush hush for now, as they didn’t want to spoil Cressy and Denham’s big day, but when spring turned Hewitt’s canola crops yellow and brought the white butterflies to her garden, the historic Woodlea church bells would again ring out in celebration of a wedding.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I’m so grateful to have again spent time in Woodlea, my small town of windmills, and owe many people my heartfelt thanks. Thank you to HarperCollins and the Harlequin Mira imprint team. The Red Dirt Road has taken many forms and Rachael Donovan and Julia Knapman have again worked their magic. As always thanks to my writing buddies, Allison Butler, Rachael Johns and Mel Teshco for all their support. Thanks to my dear friend Anne Vail for her medical expertise and insights. Any mistakes are my own. Thanks to my children—Angus, for the firsthand experience of broken bones and for proving that pancakes can be made in the shape of Australia; Callum, for not having any emergency department visits and for his enthusiasm towards his blue AU falcon ute; Adeline, for her love of animals and the knowledge that ducks can swim in a dog’s water bowl; and Bryana, who temporarily swapped red dirt roads for historic cobbled streets. Special thanks to Luke, my brains trust, my hero and the reason why I can write. Last but not least, thanks to everyone who has turned a page of my books, left a review or asked for more stories. I appreciate each and every one of you. Without such loyal readers an author is only ever writing into the wilderness.
CHAPTER
1
The kelpie population of small town Woodlea might outnumber the locals two-to-one, but it seemed as though every man—and their dog—was in town today.
Cressida Knight rounded the corner to walk along Main Street. Rows of dusty vehicles huddled beneath the shade of leafy plane trees. Dogs slept on the back of utes or strained at their leashes to make new friends. Cressy bit back a smile. If Mrs Knox didn’t stop chatting to Mrs Mills soon, the next lot of puppies from her prizewinning poodle would be more pig-dog than pedigree.
Cressy lengthened her stride and walked into the long shadow cast by the two-storey pub. The historic Royal Arms never seemed to age. The white wrought-iron trim gleamed in the late-afternoon sunlight just like it had when she was a child strolling by holding her grandfather’s calloused hand. Loss crawled through her, making her feel wooden and heavy. Her feet dragged. The simplicity of her childhood hadn’t followed her into adulthood.
Animated chatter wafted with the smell of beer from the open doorway. The local grapevine was in overdrive. Everyone had just one thing on their mind. Denham Rigby. But however much the town held its collective breath for the first sighting of its favourite son, she had to appear unaffected. She’d worked hard to strip the past of its power to hurt her. Denham would soon arrive to attend his mother’s funeral but today was just like any other day.
She pulled the brim of her State Emergency Services cap lower to hide her face. Once past the pub she’d enter the social hub of Main Street where locals dawdled between the grocery store and newsagency. She’d drawn the genetic short-straw, missing the height gene as well as the gene that gifted her sister with a darker complexion. No matter how much she tried, she couldn’t always prevent her pale skin from blushing and revealing her thoughts. She loved the warmth of small town life but her feelings weren’t always for public consumption.
She waved at Mrs Higgins, who sat in front of the craft store behind a trestle table on which perched a painting of a Black Angus cow by a local artist. The town’s committee was busy fundraising for the restoration of the church bell in the historic Anglican Church. Time might have eroded the mountings of the iconic bell but not the devotion of its congregation. Mrs Higgins returned Cressy’s wave and gave a subtle nod towards something behind her.
Cressy turned her head slightly to see a white four-wheel drive slow to a crawl. Her chest rose and fell with a sharp sigh. She should have known Edna Galloway would be in town. The queen bee of Woodlea’s social scene wouldn’t rest until she’d discovered whether or not Cressy had heard from Denham. Despite the thick soles of her emergency service–issued boots, she increased her pace. Her silver ute was still two blocks away parked near the museum. Head high, she ignored the prickling on the hairs of her nape as Edna followed slowly behind her. If she didn’t make it to her ute, she’d adopt her trademark Zen-smile and handle Edna’s inquisition like she had countless times before.
Even as she told herself to keep walking, an unexpected vulnerability had her swing into the closest open shop door. The sweet scent of blossoms greeted her as she entered the charity store. Sue volunteered today and the avid gardener had sat a vase of pink blooms beside the cash register.
‘Hi, Cressy,’ the older lady said from behind the counter, her blue eyes soft with welcome.
The tension churning in Cressy’s stomach ebbed. Sue had been the local librarian and had known Cressy ever since she’d flopped onto a beanbag in the children’s corner and read horse books until closing. Even now Cressy remained a frequent visitor to the old railway station that housed the local library.
‘Hey, Sue.’
Sue’s smile erased years from her lined face. ‘Long day?’
Cressy nodded. Sue’s question had nothing to do with Cressy’s SES call-out to rescue a man trapped down a well and everything to do with the cowboy who would soon arrive home. ‘You have no idea and it’s about to get longer.’
They turned as one to look through the large shop window to where Edna carefully reverse-parked her vehicle in front of the store.
‘Well, look at that.’ Sue checked her wristwatch. ‘I’m sure it’s four o’clock. Closing time.’
She bustled forward, flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED before locking the shop door. She then motioned for Cressy to follow her out the back of the narrow building.
Cressy joined her in the small room where donations were sorted. When an insistent tapping sounded on the front door, Sue smiled. ‘There’s something to be said for days when my hearing aid battery runs flat. That could be knocking but then again it might not be?’
‘Thanks, Sue, but I should let Edna in. I don’t want to get you in trouble. I know you have a church fundraising proposal to go before the board on Friday and Edna is the chairperson.’
Sue patted Cressy’s arm. ‘I can handle Edna Galloway. Ever since my scones won first place at last year’s show she’s been desperate to find out what my secret ingredient is.’ Sue winked. ‘I’m yet to tell her it’s lemonade.’
She reached for a basket of bright spring flowers that rested beside the tiny kitchenette sink. ‘Besides, I was hoping to catch you as you walked past.’ She handed Cressy the basket. ‘I know things are dry out your way and with dear Audrey’s funeral tomorrow, I thought you’d like some fresh flowers to take to the cemetery.’
Cressy leaned forward to kiss Sue’s soft cheek. She breathed in the familiar scent of Sue’s lavender perfume. Since Cressy had lost her parents in a car crash while she was at university, the widow’s care and concern had filled the vast and empty space within her. In the basket there were enough bouquets for several vases. Sue knew she regularly left flowers on her parents’ and grandparents’ gr
aves.
‘Yes, I would. Thanks so much.’
A fresh tirade of knocking on the door was followed by a sudden silence.
Sue peered around the doorway. ‘Edna’s rushing across the road.’ Sue leaned out a little further. ‘Ah, good. She’s talking to Mrs Knox. That Harriet of hers is so fussy, there won’t be a wedding dress in Sydney fancy enough for her. You can slip out the back door while they discuss the latest dress disaster.’
But as Cressy turned to leave, Sue caught her hand.
‘Sweetheart, don’t be too hard on Denham. I know it was a long time ago now but he could have had more reasons for leaving for America than just to join the pro-rodeo circuit.’
Cressy fought to keep her expression from changing. Even to Sue she couldn’t reveal the depth of her hurt over Denham’s abandonment. It was only in the weak light of pre-dawn when the world hovered between darkness and hope that she could admit her pain even to herself. She had no doubt why the man she’d loved had left small town Woodlea … and her. They couldn’t compete with his bull-riding dreams.
She squeezed Sue’s hand. ‘Me? Hard on someone? Never.’
The older woman’s lips curved and eyes twinkled. ‘You might look like you’d blow away in a dust storm but you and I both know you take after your grandfather. That no-good Shaun deserved the dressing down you gave him at the picnic races. A flash suit and a charming smile doesn’t excuse him for sneaking off with a tipsy Bella, not when he went as your date.’ She paused, her eyes searching Cressy’s. ‘Some may say Shaun and Denham look similar but they’re very different men …’
Cressy frowned. ‘That’s ridiculous. They don’t look the same at all. Shaun’s much shorter.’ She gently freed her hand. ‘Don’t worry. Denham’s just lost his mother. If I do speak to him, I promise to go easy.’
Sue nodded and opened her mouth as if to talk again. But then she shook her head and opened the door for Cressy to walk through.
‘See you tomorrow, love.’
‘Will do.’
Making sure she kept out of sight of Main Street, Cressy crossed the neat park beside the museum to reach her ute. She slipped into the driver’s seat and placed the flower-filled basket beside her. Throat aching, she traced the delicate curve of a vivid daffodil. Her mother had loved seeing the cheerful bulbs push their way through the winter earth. Thank goodness she wasn’t here now to see how parched her beloved garden looked. The past years had been dry and the family farm’s water supply grew dangerously low. Glenmore just couldn’t catch any of the local storms.
Cressy rubbed at her right temple. The bad luck that had plagued them ever since her father had sold off the prime river flats without any explanation showed no sign of ending. The rich, alluvial flats and wide river formed the heart of the farm and without them Glenmore ceased to function. While the pastures on other properties grew thick and lush, the lifeless dirt in her paddocks scattered with only a breath of wind. She’d already culled her Black Angus breeding herd and couldn’t bear to part with any more cattle. Surely, she’d get rain soon?
Edna’s boisterous laughter drifted from Main Street. Through the side window Cressy could see her still talking to willowy Mrs Knox. Mrs Knox’s pedigree poodle now strained on the leash to touch noses with a scruffy black kelpie tied up outside the coffee shop.
Cressy started the ute engine. She had to keep moving before Edna saw her and before she dwelled too long on her thoughts. It was when she stopped to reflect that the strain of keeping Glenmore viable seeped through the cracks in the box in which she stashed her fears. She turned left at the yarn-bombed street sign where the metal pole was wrapped in knitted woollen stripes.
Guerrilla-knitting had reached Woodlea. The last item to be yarn-bombed by the knitters had been the post box outside the post office. Instead of being a glossy red, the post box now sported a blanket of colourful squares. Theories were rife about who the guerrillas were and she’d heard whispers about an underground knitting club. The bush telegraph had joined in the conjecture and tourists now visited to see and take photos of the mysterious woollen creations.
She left the town limits and turned onto the dirt road that led to the cemetery. She’d place flowers on her parents’ and grandparents’ graves and have a quiet moment; tomorrow the tiny cemetery would be teeming with people. She’d then head home to feed her animals. She only hoped Tippy hadn’t helped herself to the chook eggs again. The aged black kelpie was getting far too round.
Cressy changed gears. The simple action made her arm ache. She had a stress knot the size of a goose egg between her left shoulder and neck. By avoiding Edna and her curiosity, she’d only prolonged the inevitable. At Audrey’s funeral she’d not only face Edna but Denham. It had been inevitable she’d one day see him again. She’d just thought she’d be stronger and more prepared. It didn’t matter how much she told herself she wasn’t loving a man who didn’t love her in return, a part of her refused to listen. The invisible wound in her heart still bled like it had the day he’d driven away without once looking back.
She lifted her chin. But she’d since made a life for herself without Denham in it and that had to be enough for now. Between running the farm, her volunteer emergency services work and her community involvement, she had no time to wish for the things she could never have. By tomorrow she’d be ready to see him again. Her defences would be watertight. They’d also only need to hold for a short time. The cowboy who’d walked away from her once before would again soon be gone.
***
It felt like a lifetime since Denham Rigby had smelled eucalyptus.
He closed his eyes and drew in a slow and deep lungful of air. Beside him the leaves of a gum tree rustled as a spring breeze eddied around him and tugged at his hat brim. He caught the faint and acrid scent of cabbage. Near the historic Woodlea cemetery a pungent canola crop had to be in flower. He opened his eyes. Sure enough, beyond the hill on which he stood stretched an undulating landscape of canola-yellow.
He looked west to where his family farm, Claremont, lay. Phil, the farm manager, had taken advantage of the early rain and the paddocks were an ordered patchwork of colour. Denham’s attention shifted a little to the left. Here no winter crops rippled in the breeze. Instead, caught in a pocket drought, the land was bleached and colourless. It was as though Mother Nature had simply run out of inspiration. His jaw tightened. Cressy would have to watch her water. Their properties might be side-by-side but Claremont was the only farm to now enjoy any river frontage.
He rubbed the back of his neck beneath the collar of the blue western shirt he’d bought in some small Wyoming town he couldn’t remember the name of. All thoughts of Cressy and any concerns he might have about her unreliable water supply were off limits. Three years ago he’d lost the right to look out for her. All he could do now was not complicate the new life she’d made without him. Bitterness coursed through him. A life he had had to set her free to live.
He swung away from the graves of his father and brother. He’d come to the cemetery to make peace with the past, not to obsess about the things he couldn’t change. All he could do was keep on taking one day at a time. He might have made it as a world-champion bull rider but that didn’t spare him from being gossiped about or from being compared to his father. His hands fisted and he carefully relaxed them. He was nothing like the unemotional man who’d raised him.
He rolled his shoulders to force the tension locking his muscles to release. His emotions were as volatile as an electric storm and he needed to get them under control. Tomorrow all eyes would be on him and all tongues quick to comment. He strode towards his ute, and heard tyres crunch on gravel. He glanced at the cemetery entrance … and froze.
Mouth dry, he stared at the battered ute that rattled across the cattle grid flanked by two white picket fences. He knew every dent and every panel scratch. Just like he knew every micro-expression of the driver whose attention remained focused on the dirt road.
Cressy.
&
nbsp; He forced air into his lungs. He’d been counting on seeing her tomorrow when surrounded by a sea of people. Not here and now when alone and where he’d be vulnerable to both her questions and her hurt.
She saw him. The ute’s gears grated before the vehicle came to an abrupt stop. For a beat she sat in the driver’s seat frowning through the passenger side window. Then she unclipped her belt and opened the car door.
He set his jaw and allowed his emotions to drain away like rain through fine-grained sand. Life on the rodeo circuit had taught him that to survive he couldn’t feel. He couldn’t allow the 2000 pounds of badass bull beneath him to sense his tension. Just like he couldn’t let the woman who approached know how fast his heart raced. He walked forward.
Cressy halted a body-length away, arms by her side. Her shapeless orange SES uniform couldn’t disguise the neat curves below that were a perfect fit for his hands. A cap hid her fine-boned features but not the uncompromising line of her mouth. Her thick brown hair hung over her shoulder in a careless braid. Would her hair still smell like orange blossoms?
A loss, so deep and so potent, hit him like a physical blow. He planted his boots on the ground to stop his knees from buckling.
Her chin tilted and she touched her cap brim to push it higher so her steady hazel gaze could meet his. Silence settled around them, suffocating and uncomfortable.
He owed it to her to speak first. Even if his voice would emerge as unused and as rusty as the broken windmill in the paddock beside them.
‘Hi, Cressy.’
Her eyes widened at the unfamiliar American inflections in his voice.
‘Denham.’
He swallowed. Her greeting was as cold as the early-winter snow that capped the rugged Rocky Mountains he’d left behind.
Her arms folded but her mouth softened a fraction. ‘I’m sorry about Audrey.’
‘Thanks.’
He kept his reply short but even then emotion deepened his voice. So much for not feeling. When he was around Cressy he still felt too damn much.
The Red Dirt Road Page 29