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, he hit the first and read.
Brett Taggart, chief accountant to investment banker George Hindmarsh and heiress Louise Firth, has played a risky hand and won. He wooed the pair’s daughter, company PR assistant Penelope, with what we hope were honourable intentions... Familiarity, however, meant a change of direction for our dubiously intentioned Brett. As he was welcomed into the golden world of the Hindmarsh-Firth family, his attention was obviously caught by his fiancée’s older half-sister, glamorous social butterfly Felicity. Never let a promise get in the way of a good time, seems to be Brett’s philosophy, and rumour has it that he and Felicity might be expecting a Happy Event in the next few months.
Such a ruckus in the family might have some parents casting children out. ‘Never darken our door again!’ would have been this columnist’s reaction to such a back-stabbing sibling, but George and Louise seem to have taken the situation in their stride. In a recent tabloid interview George even insinuated he understands why Brett would choose the gorgeous Felicity over her dumpy, media-shy sister, and Louise refuses to comment. So one wedding has been swapped for another.
Ugh, Matt thought, feeling a wave of sympathy for the ‘dumpy, media-shy’ Penny.
And then he thought...dumpy? What a description for those curves.
Um...let’s not go there. He didn’t need distraction.
He did not need anyone—except a shearer’s cook.
‘At least she can make her own tea,’ he muttered to Nugget. ‘There’s a bonus. I wonder if she can make her own toast?’
* * *
Penny ventured in through the back door and was met by silence. Samson sniffed forward so she cautiously opened a few doors. The house was a beautiful...mausoleum?
It looked like a magnificent homestead built for a family of a dozen or so, with entertaining on a lavish scale. But it also looked like it hadn’t been used for years. The massive sitting room off the main entrance was covered in dust sheets, as were the two other rooms she ventured into. She peeked under the dust sheets and saw furniture that’d look at home in an antique store. An expensive antique store.
There was a small sun-drenched den that looked well used. It was crammed with farming journals, books, a computer, dog beds. Matt’s study? A wide passage led to what must be the bedroom wing but she wasn’t game to go there.
Feeling more and more like an intruder, she retreated to the kitchen.
Which was...spectacular.
Windows opened to the veranda, to the shearing shed in the distance and to the hills beyond. Sunbeams were dancing on the floor, the ancient timbers worn by years of use. A battered wooden table ran almost the full length of the room, with scattered mismatched chairs that looked incredibly inviting. A small, slow combustion stove stood to one side of an old hearth, as if a far bigger wood stove had been removed. Beside it was a vast industrial oven and cooktop. It looked as if it could feed a small army.
How many people lived here? Hardly anyone by the look of the closed-up rooms, but these ovens... Wow!
She glanced again at the firestove. It was lit and emitting a gentle warmth. She’d never used one. Could she make bread?
What was she thinking of? Baking?
This situation was a mess. She didn’t want to be here and Matt Fraser didn’t want her here. Her job at Malley’s Corner was in doubt. She’d ring them now but would they still want her when she arrived two weeks late?
She was stuck here for two weeks, with a man she didn’t know.
But she was suddenly thinking: did he have decent flour?
There was a door to the side which looked like it could lead to a pantry. She shouldn’t pry. The very stillness of the house was making her nervous, but he’d said she could make herself a cup of tea.
She did have tea but it was packed at the bottom of one of her crates. So she needed to check the pantry...
She opened the pantry door and gasped.
This pantry was huge, and it was stocked as if Matt was expecting to feed an army.
There were flour bins, big ones, topped to overflowing. There were bins of rice, of sugar. There were mountains of cans, stacks of packs of pasta. There was every dried herb and sauce she could imagine.
There were two vast refrigerators and freezers, and another door led to a coolroom. She saw vegetables, fruit, every perishable a cook could need. There were whole sides of beef and lamb. Who could eat this much meat?
The shearing team? She’d read descriptions of life on the big sheep stations. Gun shearers, working twelve-hour days, pushing themselves to the limits, while the farmer’s wife pushed herself to the limit feeding them.
Matt had no wife. There was no evidence of a housekeeper.
Was he planning to cook, or did one of those trucks out there belong to a cook?
She closed the lid of the freezer and saw an enormous list pinned to the wall. It was an inventory of everything she’d just seen.
It was printed out as an email. She flicked through to the end.
Can you get all this in stock and have it waiting? I’ll be there on the seventh by mid-afternoon, but my first cook will be smoko on the eighth. See you then.
So he did have a cook. He’d probably be over with the men now, she thought. Maybe Matt was there too. Maybe they were sitting round drinking beer while Matt told them about the dopey blonde he’d pulled out of the water.
And suddenly all the fears of the past few weeks crowded back.
She was stuck in the middle of nowhere, where no one wanted her. She was stuck for two weeks.
A shearer’s cook would be taking over this kitchen from tomorrow morning. Maybe she could help, she thought, but she’d worked in enough kitchens to know how possessive cooks could be.
‘I might be allowed to wash dishes,’ she told Samson morosely.
She found a tea bag—actually, she found about a thousand tea bags. They weren’t generic, but they weren’t lapsang souchong either.
‘We’ll have to slum it,’ she told her dog, and made her tea and headed out to the veranda.
The big, old collie she’d seen earlier was still snoozing on the step. He raised his head and gave his tail a faint wag, then settled back down to the serious business of sleeping.
An old man was dead-heading
