she stalled the car.
The rain clouds up north must have visited here a while back because the pastures were lush and green. The property was vast and undulating. There were low hills rolling away as far as the eye could see. The land was dotted with stands of magnificent gums. She could see the occasional flock of sheep in the distance, white against green.
But the house... It took her breath away.
It was a real homestead, built a hundred or more years ago. It sat on a slight rise, huge, long and low, built of whitewashed stone. French windows opened to the vast verandas and soft white curtains fluttered out into the warm afternoon breeze. Grapevines massed under the veranda and massive old settees sat under their shade. An ancient dog lay on the top step by the front door as if he was guarding the garden.
And what a garden. It looked almost like an oasis in the middle of this vast grazing property. Even from here she could see the work, the care...
Wisteria hung from massive beamed walkways. She could see rockwork, the same sandstone that lined the creeks, used to merge levels into each other. Bougainvillea, salvia, honeysuckle... Massive trees that looked hundreds of years old. A rock pool with a waterfall that looked almost natural. Roses, roses and more roses.
And birds. As they approached the house a flock of crimson rosellas rose screeching from the gums, wheeling above their heads as if to get a better look, and then settled again.
For why wouldn’t they settle? This place looked like paradise.
‘Oh, my...’ She slowed to a halt. She needed to stop and take it all in.
And Matt pulled his horse to a halt as well. He sat watching her.
‘This is... Oh...’ She could hardly speak.
‘Home,’ Matt said and she could feel the love in his voice. And suddenly every doubt about staying here went out of the window.
He loved this place. He loved this garden and surely no one who loved as much as this could be an axe murderer?
‘Who does this?’ she stammered. She’d tried gardening in the past. It had been a thankless task as her parents moved from prestige property to prestige property, but she knew enough to know that such a seemingly casual, natural garden represented more hard work than she could imagine. ‘Your wife?’ she asked. ‘Or...’
‘I don’t have a wife,’ he said, suddenly curt, and she thought instinctively that there was a story there. ‘But I do have someone helping me in the garden. Donald loves it as much as I do. He’s in his eighties now but he won’t slow down.’
‘Your dad? Grandpa?’
‘No.’ Once more his reply was curt and she knew suddenly that she needed to back off. This guy wasn’t into personal interrogation. ‘Donald owned this place before I bought it. He’s stayed on because of the garden.’
‘That’s lovely,’ she breathed.
‘It is,’ he said and he wasn’t talking of Donald. His eyes skimmed the house, the garden, the country around them and she saw his face soften. ‘There’s nowhere I’d rather be.’
She gazed around her, at the low lying hills, at the rich pasture, at the massive gum trees, at the sheer age and beauty of the homestead which seemed to nestle into its surroundings as if it had grown there. ‘How much of this do you own?’ she breathed.
‘As far as you can see and more.’ It was impossible for him to hide the pride in his voice.
‘Oh, wow!’ The property must be vast. She sat and soaked it in, and something in her settled. Who could be fearful or even heartbroken in a place like this?
Okay, she was still heartbroken but maybe she could put it aside.
‘What’s the building over there?’ A low shed built of ancient handmade bricks sat under the gum trees in the distance. It looked so old it practically disappeared into the landscape.
‘That’s the shearing shed. The shearers’ quarters are behind that.’
And suddenly she was diverted from the farm’s beauty.
‘There’s a dozen trucks. At least.’
‘They belong to the shearing team. We start at dawn. You’ll need to keep out of the way.’
‘Oh, but...’ Surely with so many...
‘No,’ he said, seeing where she was heading and cutting her off before she got started. ‘No one’s driving you anywhere. You’ll find an empty garage around the back. I need to take care of Nugget and talk to the men before I come in for the night, but the back door’s open. Put the kettle on and make yourself a cup of...what was it? Lapsang souchong. I’ll see you in an hour or so. Meanwhile, welcome to Jindalee, Miss Hindmarsh-Firth. Welcome to my home.’
* * *
Matt led Nugget into the stables, unstrapped his gear and started brushing. Nugget looked vaguely surprised. Knowing shearing was about to start, knowing life was about to get crazy, he’d given him a decent brush this morning. But two brushes in one day wouldn’t hurt and it might help get his head together.
In one sense the worsening flood was a blessing. The shearing team hadn’t listened to the weather forecast. They’d come straight from a property south of here this morning, and there’d been no hint of the flooding to come. That meant when they woke tomorrow and found he had no shearers’ cook they couldn’t leave in disgust. At least his sheep would be shorn.
But he was facing two weeks of disgruntled shearers. Plus two weeks of a society princess who asked questions.
Penelope Hindmarsh-Firth...
He took his phone from the waterproof protector he always used—thank heaven he’d had it today—and hit the Internet. Thank heaven for satellites too, he thought, glancing at the dish on the top of the house. If he’d used the Internet to good effect he could have tracked the speed of the flooding. He could have let the shearers know not to come, but he’d gambled. He’d known the water was on its way but he’d thought they’d be able to get through this morning. They had. He had two weeks’ work for them and a decent amount of supplies.
He’d also thought his cook could get through, but he’d been coming from another property in a different direction. And that had spelled disaster.
First World problem—shearers having to cook their own tucker? Maybe it was, but from time immemorial shearers had counted the quality of food and accommodation as a major enticement. This was a crack team and they expected the best. They couldn’t blame him but it would be a sullen two weeks.
‘So what are the odds of Miss Hindmarsh-Firth being able to cook?’ he asked Nugget and thought of the teapot and grimaced. He needed to know more about the blonde and her white poodle. He leaned back on his horse’s hindquarters and Nugget nibbled his ear while he searched Penelope Hindmarsh-Firth in his Internet browser.
And what sprang up were gossip columns—a list of them, longer than his screen. Current gossip.
‘Is one Hindmarsh-Firth as good as another?’ ‘Sister Swap!’ ‘Taggart’s gamble pays off...’
Bemused,
