him and approved of his marriage to their only daughter. But after the accident they’d not bothered to hide their abhorrence of him. They’d blamed him and then callously ignored him. Or at least her father had.
If there was any other way …
He decided to have a coffee in one of the cafés in the main street, go through in his mind what he would say, and then drive the ten kilometres out of town to the Fielding farm. He couldn’t put it off any longer.
‘Is Dad still working?’ Tara asked as her mother helped her into her wheelchair.
‘Yep, but he should be here any minute. He’s been fixing fences down near the creek and said he’d finish the job after milking.’ Jane Fielding closed the back of the car and followed her daughter towards the homestead.
‘How was your day, love?’ her mother asked, as she did every afternoon when Tara came home from work. Tara loved her mother dearly, but sometimes felt smothered by her protectiveness and yearned for a home of her own.
But Tara was realistic; leaving the family home wasn’t practical. She’d need a purpose-built unit and help from an able-bodied person for things that most people took for granted—like transferring to her chair, shopping in a supermarket, hanging out washing or gaining access to immediate help in an emergency. Of course there were ways around these difficulties, but even the most basic tasks took longer when you were confined to a wheelchair. She’d have to rethink her schedule to incorporate cooking, housework, washing and ironing—all the things her mother did without complaint. Her life wasn’t perfect, but it was a better option than moving out on her own. She was used to the routine. And her parents had made sacrifices, including nearly losing the farm, to cater for her needs and extra expenses in the early years. She would probably never be able to repay them.
‘Oh, you know—the same as usual; nothing out of the ordinary.’ She parked next to the kitchen bench where her mother began preparing a late afternoon tea.
A moment later she heard the sound of her father’s boots being flung into the corner of the veranda near the back door.
‘I’m home,’ he shouted unnecessarily. You’d have to be deaf as a farm gate not to notice his comings and goings. Her mother always said it was a man thing—slamming doors, throwing things like a ball to a hoop and stomping around like an army major.
‘We’re in the kitchen. Tara’s just come home and I’m making tea.’
‘Rightio.’
Tara laughed. The word was so old-fashioned but suited her father perfectly.
Jane put fresh-brewed tea and a plate of orange cake on the bench as Graham Fielding entered the room.
‘Have you washed your hands?’ Tara’s mother was quick to ask—as she always did when Graham came in from working on the farm.
‘Yes, I’ve washed my hands,’ he said as he held them up for inspection, before kissing Tara on her forehead. ‘How’s my best girl?’
Tara frowned. She hated the way her father often treated her as if she was still his little girl.
‘Fine, Dad.’ She reached for her cup of tea as her mother passed the cake. ‘How did you go with the fences?’
‘All done, but I won’t move the cows until after milking tomorrow morning.’
‘Want a hand?’
Though she was quite able to handle a quad bike to get around the farm, and knew the routine of milking back to front, she guessed her father would say no. As he always did. She was sure she could manage most of the work from her wheelchair with a simple modification to raise her height. She’d developed strength in her arms and shoulders to rival any man’s.
But her father had refused to let her near the dairy after the accident. He didn’t seem to understand that her help would give him more time for the heavier work that neither Tara nor her mother could manage. For him, there was a non-negotiable line between men’s and women’s work that she’d almost given up trying to cross. His one concession was letting her mother help out now they could no longer afford to hire a dairyman.
‘No, love. It won’t take long, and you deserve your free time on the weekends.’
He had good intentions but was seriously lacking in subtlety. Another one of those man things, as her mother would say. He had no idea, though. She hardly needed to keep a social diary. Her life had settled into a comfortable equilibrium of work, home and the occasional outing to the shops or the pool at the physio’s in Bayfield, fifty kilometres away. And at the end of her working days she hardly had any energy left to party.
Their conversation was interrupted by a car pulling up at the front of the house.
‘Are you expecting visitors?’ Graham glanced at his wife.
‘Might be Audrey. She said she’d come round some time this week to return those preserving jars. But she usually drives around the back.’
A car door slammed and a few moments later there was a crisp knock on the front door. ‘I’ll go and see who it is,’ she added.
Graham stood up, an imposing thick-set man of six foot three. ‘No, I’ll go. You get another cup of tea poured.’
Tara heard her father talking, but not what he was saying. She could tell he was angry by the sharp rise and fall of his voice. The visitor was male, that was all she could tell, and clearly unwelcome.
‘Doesn’t sound like Audrey,’ her mother said with eyebrows raised.
They stilled at the sound of the front door slamming and her father clomping, barefoot, down the passage.
‘Who’s that?’ Jane asked. She’d already poured a cup of tea for the visitor and looked disappointed.
‘You don’t want to know.’ He scowled and shifted his gaze to Tara. ‘It’s Ryan.’
It took Tara a few moments to process the information.
‘Ryan?’ The word escaped as a husky whisper and didn’t require an answer. She’d tried to put her feelings for her ex-husband on hold since their dramatic parting, but rarely a day went by without her thinking of him, dreaming of what life could have been if she’d not rejected him so coldly. She’d made the right decision, though. She’d heard Ryan had married again and started a family. She was happy for him.
But she’d never stopped loving him.
So she’d have to make sure she remained cool and detached and not let her true feelings show.
But why was he here? And why now? She felt her heart pumping as a film of sweat broke out on her forehead. She felt winded.
After all these years!
She took a deep breath and attempted a steady voice. Both her parents were looking at her, waiting for her reaction. She tried to restore her usual calm.
‘Ryan Dennison?’
The angry fire in her father’s eyes answered her question.
‘He’s
