Bella's Run (26 page)

It wasn’t until the next morning when Bella headed off into the mountains, towards Ben Bullen Hills, that she started to cry again, thinking about their argument and the tumult of emotions it had wrought. Emotions that went far beyond this latest disagreement.

All the things she had been feeling about their relationship, about
herself
, but hadn’t wanted to examine too closely, had come crashing in around her on the day Caro made her big announcement: after the wedding, she and Trin were leaving their jobs and lives in the city and moving to Ben Bullen Hills Station.

‘What? You’re moving to Burrindal? Back home? You’re leaving me here by myself?’ she’d responded, incredulous.

Caro had looked at her, a bemused expression on her face. ‘You’re hardly alone, Bella. You’ve got Warren.’

It was then Bella had started questioning whether Warren and their life together were enough. Why did she feel so alone and insecure? Why did she feel restless but at the same time so lacking in direction it was like magnetic north had tilted? And why, in this bustling city, didn’t she have an inherent sense of place, of belonging?

She was suddenly reminded of Wendy Anderson all those years ago, up on Ainsley Station. She remembered wondering then, in the arrogance of youth, how such a woman could lose her confidence so completely. Her drive. Her motivations. Herself.

That was Bella now. It was a shocking thought.

How the hell did that happen?

And what was she going to do about it?

It was fate. The first person Bella spotted as she drove under the big metal archway proclaiming entry to Ben Bullen Hills Station was Will O’Hara. Unwanted memories came flooding back.

It had been seven years since she’d last seen him, and here he was leaning on a solid cattle-yard fence. Every nerve in Bella’s body urged her to turn the car around and drive like hell away, while her eyes, heart and mind drank in the sight of him.

He looked like he belonged there, a rumpled and weathered figure blending into the background of mountain ash trees as he rested against battered, rough-sawn timber rails, yarning to a bloke on the opposite side. The other man also looked startlingly familiar. Clad in dark moleskins and a big black hat, he stood out against the blue-grey horizon, a blob of colour blotting the surrounding bush like black ink.

It couldn’t be anyone else. Macca.

The toothpick shoved in the side of his mouth was wobbling up and down as he talked. Bella whooped at the sight of her cousin and pulled the purring Merc to a halt. Opening the door, she clambered out of the vehicle and yelled and waved.

Both men glanced over, a different expression crossing each face. Will frowned and dipped his head before looking back up. The O’Hara dimples weren’t winking but lines like crow’s feet marched in the crinkles around his eyes. Macca grinned, leaped over the high fence and came striding towards her, spitting the toothpick out onto the ground, roaring, ‘Hells Bells! Gidday! What’s with the Merc, you toffy little sheila! Where’s your ute? Bloody hell, it’s good to see you!’ She was engulfed in a massive hug, and found herself breathing in stale beer, wood smoke and Brut deodorant while pressed to a bear-like chest.

‘Bloody hell, I haven’t seen you for ages!’ Macca released her and she gasped in another breath, this time of scented eucalypts and sunshine – and the cow shit now smeared down the front of her shirt.

‘Give me a look at ya,’ said Macca as he moved back, thrusting a hand into his pocket, no doubt rooting for a fresh toothpick to chew into shreds. He hadn’t changed, Bella thought. But she had – and so, before Macca could grab her arm and look into her face and see eyes that were swollen and bloodshot from crying, she turned and leaned into the Merc and snatched her old Akubra off the dashboard. Flipping her sunglasses down from where they were perched on top of her head, she quickly slammed on the hat to shadow her face.

As Macca slung his arm across her shoulders, she noticed that while the big man looked healthy and fit, he couldn’t hide the lines of sorrow that still ringed his eyes, spreading out across his temples where the dark hair was touched with early grey.

She threw a quick glance across at Will. He hadn’t moved. He was still leaning against the stockyard fence, taking in the sun. She looked at his lean body, the way his faded and weathered work clothes fell in soft creases; those wrinkles that glued the clothes to the hard planes of the man spoke of many hours’ manual labour.

She raised a hand in the air in acknowledgement. The answering flick of his pointer finger against the bone-coloured felt hat sent her heart into an erratic beat. Christ, he still did it to her. She hadn’t seen him in seven years and still her mind and body reacted violently against her will, instinctively leaning in his direction, pining to share the same space as him.

Would it ever stop – this chemical reaction that seemed genetically infused into her whole being, making her want this man. She knew if she lifted her feet, allowed her body to drift in his direction, any words she said to him would come out wrong. On the drive up here from Merinda, she had practised every possible conversation with him, knowing she would have to see him this weekend for the first time since she’d listened to his ute drive away. Regardless, she stood looking across at the man who still had the ability to turn her insides to mush.

Her mind stumbled. You’re engaged to Warren, you’re over Will, her mind whispered to her heart. In response her heart started to thump and her guts began to spin. Macca was looking at her strangely. ‘Hey, are you all right?’ he asked.

Forcing her eyes away from the spectre of the cattleman who caused so much confusion, she turned and concentrated on her cousin. Grabbing his big hand she said, ‘Come with me to the house and tell me what you’ve been up to, you big boofhead. Mum said you were in Mount Isa, with a girlfriend in tow. Who is she? Is she here? Have you just come for the wedding, or are you back for good?’ Words tumbled from her mouth.

‘Hang on, hang on, one question at a time. I’ll come up to the house and have a beer with ya.’

‘But it’s only midday, you old soak!’

‘I know, I know.’ Macca waved both hands up and down in front of himself, a placatory gesture Bella remembered of old. ‘But it’s five o’clock somewhere in the world and there’s a wedding goin’ on. Can’t expect a man to be a camel, can ya? Gotta start on the piss sometime. Come on, let’s get in this fancy set of wheels of yours and you can take me for a spin. Where’s wanker Warren? Do I finally get to meet him?’ Bella spun to punch Macca in the arm, but the big bloke just laughed and yelled to Will, ‘Just goin’ to grab a beer! See ya round the fire tonight for a rum!’

And the silent man in the bone felt hat just raised his pointer finger in acknowledgement again.

Will watched the woman he’d once thought would be his wife get into her fancy all-wheel-drive Mercedes. A black sporty-looking number with shiny plates barely smudged with kamikaze bugs, the vehicle had an alloy bar angling around the front grill scarcely capable of nudging a canary, let alone a roo or wombat.

Where did she go, the girl he had once loved beyond all reason? The one who drove a Holden ute with a bullbar as big as any bloke’s, mounted above a bug-splattered number plate with a deflector proclaiming the driver as ‘Hells Bells’? Where had she hidden herself inside this glamorous creature who had exited the flashy car, the woman who had stared long and hard at him but with a blank expression, before flipping sunglasses over her eyes?

The woman who had jumped from the Merc had straightened, honey-coloured hair with a trendy fringe cut to accentuate a made-up face with a fake complexion. Where were those unruly, tumbling white-gold ringlets, the smattering of summer freckles that stretched across a wide-open, laughing face?

He could hear Macca yelling from inside the car, something about the speakers. It took a minute then Lee Kernaghan came blasting out, thumping country music across the paddock. Macca had obviously taken control of the stereo. The slowly moving Mercedes stopped just before it topped the hill while a pair of out-of-kilter voices joined Lee’s gravely tones. There were a few moments of purring silence before suddenly the engine revved up to full throttle, the wheels started spinning and dust flew through the air, as the car took off in a hail of fine stones. A roar of approval came from the passenger side, while a high-pitched ‘
Yee ha!
’ erupted from the driver’s seat.

Will allowed himself a small smile. Maybe there was hope yet for the glamorous creature whose engagement ring had winked brilliantly at him in the sun.

When Patty died, a part inside Will had curled up and died too. His sister’s death really screwed him up.

He didn’t see anything but his own grief, couldn’t see Bella holding out her arms to seek and give comfort. He thought she was just another person silently demanding his strength, looking for answers and deliverance from this all-consuming loss. He’d lumped her in with his parents, who were like sad dodgem cars, bumping into grief each time they turned around, searching for answers and demanding his strength to give them the will to fight on.

But he didn’t have salvation wrapped up neatly in a pretty gift box, daubed with a gaudy bow. And he couldn’t be their strength when he didn’t have any himself. That was why he hid, up on his station at Tindarra, far beyond the reach of anything else that could hurt him. He shut himself away and then tormented himself over the rights and wrongs of what he’d done. Patty was gone; Bella he loved and had so nearly lost too. Much better to shut it all away, slam a door on any more potential pain, because he was struggling to hold himself together just dealing with this one loss.

He’d really fucked up.

It had taken Maggie to bring him to his senses. She’d sat him down in her kitchen ten months after the funeral and given him the what for. Slamming a cup of strong coffee onto the table in front of him one morning when he’d called to drop off some drench. ‘You bloody idiot. Just look at yourself!’ she’d said. ‘I should take the bloody frying pan and bash it over your head. What will it take to make you see what you’re doing to yourself?’

She’d then stomped out of the kitchen, grey bun flipflopping in her agitation, and returned minutes later holding an old thick, round shaving mirror, which she shoved in front of his face. ‘Take a long, hard look at yourself, William O’Hara, and tell me what you see.’

So he’d picked up his steaming coffee first, and then taken the mirror from her and slowly brought it up to view a face he hadn’t seen for around ten months. He took a look, and then looked again. And he had to admit what he saw wasn’t pretty. Then the mirror fogged up from the steam coming off his brew. To be truthful he wasn’t sad his image had blurred.