sunshade to reduce the glare and kept her gaze firmly fixed on the truck’s interior. Her discomfort at being surrounded by the wide-open spaces was increasing instead of easing. After this, Burrinbilli had better be good.
Be positive, she chided herself. Be the little Aussie battler your mother taught you to be.
After this, Burrinbilli would be damn good.
LUKE DROVE in silence, thinking about poor Wal, who’d been left at home in case Sarah Templestowe was afraid of dogs, and how pathetic his life must be if he felt less comfortable with a woman seated beside him instead of Wal. He rubbed his jaw, unused to being smooth-shaven in the middle of the day.
“Mustering is like a roundup, right?” Sarah asked.
Damn, he’d forgotten to put up the notice in Len’s store advertising for a muster cook. “That’s right. Normally we muster during winter, when it’s cooler. Cattle don’t like working in this heat.”
“Why the delay?”
“I broke my leg in a tractor accident a couple months back. Took a while to heal.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. What kind of cows do you—we—own?”
“Santa Gertrudis.”
“Oh.”
He glanced sideways and caught her mild frown. No doubt cows were like cars to a city-bred woman—identified by color rather than breed or model. “They’re the solid reddish-brown ones. Originated in Texas.”
“Oh. And the cattle yards you mentioned on the phone are…?”
“Where we hold the cattle after we bring them in from the run—for branding, drenching, cutting out the yearling bulls—whatever needs doing.” He realized she was actually listening. Maybe she was interested in the station. Well, it would justify her father’s hanging on to it all these years, but it didn’t bode well for him buying her out. “Do you ride?”
She hesitated, casting a lightning-swift glance out the window. “Er, once or twice at summer camp. I don’t suppose that counts.”
“I could find you a gentle mount.”
“You don’t have to worry about entertaining me,” she added quickly. “I’m only here for a short time and I’m sure I’ll have way too much to do to be a tourist.”
“Fine.” It was all he could do just taking care of the station and dealing with Becka.
“How far is it to Burrinbilli?” she asked.
“Eighty kilometers or thereabouts. This grassy plains country we’re driving through is called the Downs.” His gaze slipped sideways again, to see her lightly freckled nose wrinkle as she engaged in mental calculations. Her cheek was smeared with dust and her clothes a disaster. Her auburn hair was twisted up at the back, but the ends sprayed out in a spiky arc from the plastic thing that clamped it in place.
He smiled. Bazza was right. She did look a bit of a dag. Still, clean her up and she’d be bonza—tall, with long, strong limbs. He liked a woman who didn’t look as if she might snap in a stiff breeze. She had the warm coloring that went with auburn hair and the clearest green eyes he’d ever seen.
“Why, that’s…fifty miles!” she exclaimed. She whipped her head around to look through the rear window at the road down which they’d come. “Please don’t tell me Murrum is the nearest town.”
“Didn’t you know that?”
“I knew it was a long way from Burrinbilli to the town, but from what my mother said, Murrum was a bustling place.”
“Things have changed since your mother’s day.” He couldn’t keep the trace of bitterness out of his voice. “First the train stopped coming through. Then the banks pulled out. Then we lost the post office and the government offices were relocated. Wasn’t much left after that except the pub, the petrol station and the general store. Oh, and the church. They share that around the various religions.”
She shook her head sympathetically. “Economic rationalism strikes again.”
She was right, but something in him didn’t want her feeling sorry for the place he called home. “Some folks say Murrum’s picking up again. Tourism and such.”
There was the briefest pause. “I’m sure it is.”
Luke had spent enough time in cities to know what she must be thinking: why would anyone live out here? It wasn’t something city folk understood. Not many people who came from the “big smoke” stayed long to discover the attraction. Rose had stayed. But Rose had married Tony, the owner of the pub. Luke couldn’t see someone like Sarah settling down with anyone around here.
“How long did you say you were here for?”
“I’ve taken my two weeks’ annual leave. I’ve also got a few weeks’ worth of flextime owing me, but I’m hoping to be home before the end of the month.”
He reckoned she’d be long gone before that. Bazza and Len each had five dollars on the departure date. They’d wanted to cut him in, but seeing as she was staying at his house, he didn’t think it right to participate.
But it wasn’t just his house, he realized. Their house? That didn’t sound right. He and Warren had never felt the need to clarify who had rights to the homestead.
They passed a small wooden cottage set back from the road. Luke pointed it out with a nod. “That’s where my daughter’s great-aunt Abby lives. Becka’s visiting her this afternoon after school.”
“How old is your daughter?”
“Nine.”
“You didn’t mention a wife. Are you divorced?”
She inquired with such innocent directness he found it hard to take offense. But some people needed to understand that other people didn’t like to talk about their personal lives. He told her part of the truth. “I’ve never been married.”
“Oh.”
He could tell she wanted to know more, but this time she just nodded and pressed her lips together. There was nothing shameful about his relationship with Caroline. She just hadn’t wanted to get married, not even after she’d gotten pregnant. She’d said she didn’t want to marry anybody, but she’d died before it could be proven one way or the other.
“Are you going to have to go all the way back for Becka?” Sarah asked.
Luke shook his head. “Abby’s bringing her out later.”
Silence fell over the truck. She must be thinking up more questions, Luke thought. He stared straight ahead, not wanting to disturb the peace, and wondered if the fencing materials he’d ordered would arrive tomorrow. Halfway to the station turnoff the bitumen ended and they continued on a hard-packed red dirt road. A road that developed deep pockets of fine dust called bulldust in the Dry and became a red bog—and often a lake—in the Wet. When they had a decent Wet.
“I can’t wait to go for a swim,” Sarah said, plucking her damp top away from
