anyway.”
The teenager stared at Megan in bemused silence as she digested this. “Why would you do that for me?” she asked very quietly.
The question caught Megan off guard. “Why wouldn’t I?” She hesitated a moment, then smiled gently. “Besides, you remind me of someone I used to know, someone who used to love riding with all her heart.”
“What happened to her?”
“She forgot to follow her heart. Come—” She held out her hand. “We’ll go talk to Tyler, and then I’ll give you a ride home. Where do you live?”
“Pepper Flats, near the village,” she said, getting up, dusting off her school uniform. “My name is Heidi. How do you know Tyler, Megan?”
“I don’t. Louisa Fairchild is my great-aunt and I’m visiting, and…well, I’m helping her out with a bit of a problem.”
They walked together over the gravel driveway toward the main house. “So you’re not riding at all at the moment, Heidi?” said Megan.
She shook her head. “You know, Louisa has some really good dressage horses and she might be able to spare one. Would you be interested in riding at Fairchild for a while? Just until Anthem is better, of course.” She grinned. “Besides, I’d enjoy the company. I think I’d like to ride again myself.”
“Why’d you stop?”
Megan sucked in a deep breath redolent with the scents of the fall air—eucalyptus, the tinge of distant smoke, hay, horses. It was a grounding scent, earthy. “I stopped when my parents died,” she said. “They were killed in a car accident, and my brother and I were sent to boarding school. Life sort of changed after that. We didn’t really have a family anymore.”
“I’m sorry.”
She put her arm around the teen. “Hey, it’s okay. Brookfield ended up being a great school and—”
Heidi jerked to a stop. “You have got to be kidding me! You went to Brookfield art school?”
“Yes.”
Her hand went to her chest. “Oh, my gosh. That’s where I want to go.”
“It’s a good school. I’m sure you’d like it.”
She pulled a face. “We can’t afford it.”
“There are bursaries. I could always talk to someone.”
She stared, open mouthed. “You really could do that?”
“Well, I might if you show me some of your art and tell me a bit more about yourself,” she said with a warm smile. “You haven’t even told me your surname—”
“Megan!” a powerful male voice called out to them.
They both turned to see a tall dark-haired man in a cattleman’s hat, his left arm in a sling, striding towards them, three border collies at his heels.
“That’s Tyler. I thought you said you didn’t know him?”
“I called ahead. He’s expecting me.” Megan grinned. “And I guess he recognized Louisa’s Aston Martin.” She laughed. “Louisa claims it’s the Thoroughbred of motor cars.”
“That’s our place,” Heidi said, pointing to a rambling brick house behind which a field of tall dry grasses bent softly in the breeze. In the distance kangaroos grazed under eucalyptus trees fringing a ridge.
Megan slowed the convertible, pleased to finally be getting the hang of changing gears. In spite of its flash she liked the way the car’s manual shift connected her with driving—it made her feel more grounded. Everything about this valley seemed to be changing her in subtle ways, reminding her who she really was. What she liked.
Turning into the driveway, Megan caught a glimpse of a swimming pool at the rear of the house. She pulled to a stop in front of the brick garage. A tire swing hung from the branches of a gnarled deciduous tree, dog toys dotted the front lawn, and someone had carefully tended a lavenderfringed bed of iceberg roses that were peaking with a soft blush of pink. Feminine flowers, thought Megan. “Your mother must have a real green thumb,” she said, opening the driver’s-side door.
Heidi shot her an odd look. “My gran planted those.”
“They’re beautiful.” In fact, there was something genuine about the whole scene. It held a warm sense of family so welcoming and simple that it snagged Megan’s chest forcibly, and she had to stop for a second to analyze why.
Perhaps it was because she’d come to the Hunter Valley looking for her own roots and a sense of her own family, hoping to find it by discovering what had happened between Betty and Louisa. Maybe she even harbored a subliminal desire to bond with her great-aunt herself.
But as Megan climbed out of the convertible, the front door of the house flung open, and she froze.
Storming out of the house, bare-chested, damp tousled hair, bleached jeans slung low at his waist, a hairy mutt at his heels, and daggers in his clear blue eyes was…Detective Sergeant Dylan Hastings.
Her jaw dropped.
“Is that your dad!” she whispered to Heidi. Then it hit her—he’d said he had a fourteen-year-old child.
She’d just given the cop’s daughter a ride home.
This warm family house belonged to the detective trying to nail her aunt for murder, the man who’d declared personal war on the entire Fairchild clan.
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