The House On Burra Burra Lane (4 page)

She turned towards the house, and he took the extra moment to study her. The colour of her hair was spectacular, like rich soil freshly turned as the sun sank. Like a polish on the evening. It fell beyond her shoulder blades, steadied her, gave strength to the bright face and tender body beneath. She looked young in the track pants, perhaps a little vulnerable, but she appeared to have optimism about the jobs ahead.

He walked off towards his truck. There was more than the porch roof and deck that needed fixing. She’d need the shed workable for storage. The path could be uncovered without too much labour. If she did stay, if she sorted it out, the property would look different from years ago. Progress and modern aesthetics demanded it. He’d got the worst part over—seeing the place up close again, going inside the house. He’d cope, and she needed help.

She followed, skipping a little to get a place at his side.

He slowed his pace for her.

She slapped the palms of her hands together, rubbing, relishing something. ‘So, let’s get down to the ugly part. How much is it going to cost me?’

He stopped. ‘How much have you got?’

She skidded to a halt and peered up. ‘Hardly anything up front, but enough to cover the porch … I think. Depends on how much you’re going to skin me for.’ Her eyes widened, and there was a quizzical half-grin on her mouth.

His smile was in place in an instant. She was testing him but he knew this game like he knew the back of his hand. ‘Needs to be quality materials or I won’t do it.’

‘Done.’

‘I can only work late afternoons and weekends.’ He paused, let her think for a moment. ‘And my practice takes preference.’

‘Fine. I don’t want to be run out of town because the poor animals suffered.’ She grinned, waiting for the price.

He named it.

She blinked, struck a hand to her chest. ‘It sounds reasonable.’ She swallowed. ‘And I trust you, you’re a vet.’

He smiled but held on to the laughter tumbling in his chest. ‘That’s the going price.’ Or just below.

‘I can help,’ she said. ‘I’ll hold the tools. I’ve got loads of them now. I’m on good terms with young Mr Morelly at the hardware store. We’re practically old friends.’

He frowned but kept his grin. ‘What tools have you been buying?’

‘Interesting ones. I did drawings of them, and wrote down their names and uses so I wouldn’t forget.’

‘I like your dedication.’ His smile made his cheeks ache, it wasn’t normally around for this length of time.

‘Thanks.’ She pulled her shoulders back, smiling up. ‘I like you too.’

Liked him?
As in yesterday’s flirting she’d started and ended?

He stared at her as her freckles disappeared beneath the flush on her cheeks.

He turned. ‘I’ll make a start tomorrow.’ He walked to the ute and gripped the door handle. ‘I’ll be over about three. If I don’t turn up it’s because I’ve been called out.’ He still didn’t know what he’d call her. Sammy sounded perfect in his head, Samantha too polite.

She was silent behind him. She’d be doing that embarrassed dance with her eyes, as she had yesterday. Looking up, taking a moment to sort her feelings out.
How did he know that, without looking at her?

‘And if I’m out when you turn up,’ she said at last, her voice a little breathy, as though she’d only just caught it, ‘go inside and help yourself to coffee.’

‘Sounds good.’ He got into the cab and closed the door.

‘Can I ask you something?’ She stepped closer. ‘Why do they call him young Mr Morelly? He must be over sixty.’

‘He’s Grandy’s youngest son. You haven’t met Grandy?’

She shook her head.

‘Grandy Morelly. He’s the town’s patriarch. He’s been ill, but he’s up and about now.’
Why had she chosen this town? This house?
Ethan shuffled on his seat. ‘Look, there’s a Bar & Grill on Main Street called Bushman’s Clock—we locals call it Kookaburra’s. It’s a family place, you won’t feel uncomfortable being a woman alone and you’ll get to know people.’

The corner of her mouth puckered. ‘Maybe when I’ve been here a few years.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ He couldn’t blame her for being cautious, but she wouldn’t be doing herself any favours if she shied away from people for too long. That wasn’t how things worked around here, unless you were skilled at it. ‘Come on down tomorrow night. I’ll meet you there and introduce you around.’

She narrowed her eyes, but it didn’t hide the impish light in them. ‘Won’t you be busy with my porch tomorrow night, till sundown?’

The ache returned with his smile. He’d forgotten he’d be here with her. He didn’t want to appear to be asking her out, and he certainly didn’t want the town gossiping on any higher level than they already were due to Mrs J and her antenna, but he couldn’t back down now, the offer had been made. ‘We’ll go from here then. Seven o’clock.’

She slapped the window frame. ‘I’ll buy the first drink. Got to keep my builder happy.’

‘Done.’ He gave her a smile. ‘See you tomorrow.’

She waved him off and turned to the shed.

Ethan glanced in the rear-view mirror as he drove down her driveway. She bent to the cat, one little hand on her knee, the other stroking Duke under his chin.

Her T-shirt rose, showing the flesh of her back near the base of her spine. Her hair fell forwards in a rush and she brushed the swing of it back over her shoulder, the rich tips catching the light of the afternoon sun in a spray of russet brilliance.

Holding gossipers at bay was one thing, but he wouldn’t deny it to himself. She pulled at him. He was as attracted to her as a moth charmed by a light. Something he hadn’t been able to say about his wife.

S
ammy swung the curtains open with a clatter of wooden curtain rings, and welcomed the morning. Sunshine invaded her bedroom, dust motes fluttering from the heavy brocade like sparkles of powdered pewter.

She gazed through the window at the beckoning fields. Wallabies roamed her land; they could stay. She’d seen a pygmy possum the other day too, and a glimpse of a red-breasted flame robin.

They could all stay.

She turned to the room, smaller than the other bedrooms and cosier, but still big enough to hold a throw-yourself-across-it king-size bed.

The furniture had come with the house. Some she’d keep, some had already landed on a tip at the back of the house after a successful episode with her pickaxe.

She moved to the stately dresser with a square bevelled mirror, pleased with herself. Ethan Granger hadn’t made any fancy moves on her. Not that he was a fancy mover but she’d been more nervous yesterday than she wanted to admit. He’d hardly noticed, apart from that one fluff about liking him.

Unplugging her hair straighteners, she studied her hair. Not bad, now she’d tamed the jumbled waves she woke up with every morning. Her hair straighteners were old friends. Like her hands. Her tools. She looked down. Her fingers were long, the tips tapered, her knuckles small and neat, and her nails a healthy pink.

The day called.

She crossed the landing, skipped down the stairs and said hello to Duke who was on his way out to the ravaged wilderness. She’d started on the vegetable patch by the rickety fence around the side of the kitchen. Maybe one day her garden would become rolling lawns with a tapestry of wildflowers, and until then, there was no-one to tell her the vision was a pipedream.

Kate Singleton had promised to travel down from Sydney. But her friend, and boss, was always busy, so unlikely to visit anytime soon. The city, and the fashion house Kate ran with her ragtag young designers, was nearly five hundred kilometres north-east but Sammy wasn’t looking for any instant friendships in Swallow’s Fall. As life stood, it was her, Duke, the chickens and the wildlife.

Possibly a pig too.

‘It’s galvanic reaction,’ Ethan said, frowning up at the house roof.

Sammy winced. ‘Is that going to be financially painful?’

It hadn’t taken long to learn that Ethan’s smile couldn’t be rushed. Timing uncertain, progress eventual.

‘It’s corrosion,’ he said. ‘They didn’t use the same metal when they put the porch roof on so it’s crept onto the galvanised sheeting of the house.’

She shrugged. ‘It’s only money.’ Now they’d started, or rather Ethan had started, they might find any number of problems.

‘It’s not too bad. You’ll need to replace two sheets on the house, no more.’

‘Where do I buy it?’

‘I’ll order it for you, but while I’m here I’ll check the rest of the house roof. Have you noticed any rain leaking through, other than in the kitchen?’

‘It hasn’t rained since I’ve been here.’ She had more faith than money there wouldn’t be holes in her roof.

‘It’s not a big job. I’ll get it done as soon as I’ve taken this porch down.’ He thumped a post with his fist.

He’d already dismantled the porch roofing sheets and stacked them neatly to one side. Sammy didn’t know why he hadn’t swung at the porch with the pickaxe. It would have been quicker.

She watched him climb on to the single storey section that jutted from the side of her house: the kitchen roof. How did men know how to do it without a ladder?

A quick lift and he was on the porch railing. A two-handed grip on a roof beam, a hefty move, shoulder muscles bulging beneath his shirt, a leg bent at the knee until his boot struck beam … and up. He was standing on the eave of her house.

She stepped away. ‘I’ll go make a start on my shed.’

‘Thought you were working on the kitchen garden?’

‘That was then.’ Kitchen garden sounded good. ‘This is now.’ She must have made enough of a dent in the task that he’d noticed. ‘I always have two or three jobs on the go. That way my patience doesn’t turn to exasperation when one thing goes wrong.’

He nearly laughed, she could tell by the way he looked down at his boots, as though hiding his amusement in case she pushed him for more.

‘What are you going to do in the shed?’

She smiled. ‘Start clearing it out.’ So he had space to fix the leaning wall when he’d finished the house roof and the porch. She didn’t want to voice it out loud, it might be tempting fate to remind him how many jobs she’d be hiring him for.

‘Be careful in there,’ he said, turning to the task at hand.

She grinned at his back. Getting up on the roof was an interesting prospect for the future. There was a big ladder somewhere …

The sudden clanging of wood and metal inside the shed rang in her ears as she walked around the side of the house. She kept tin buckets, old brooms, and forks and spades in the shed—and something was in there with them.

She ran, leaving grass for gravel and skidded to a stop when Duke ran out of the shed, fur bristled, tail fluffed. He pounced for the doors and, incredibly, missed his target—a
rat.

It pelted for Sammy and darted through her legs.

She screamed, swivelled, jumped in the gravel.

Duke chased the fur-ball back to the shed. They circled each other, Duke hissing and the rat gauging its escape route—right through Sammy’s legs again. She shrieked, shot back, tripped and fell to the gravel.

She scrambled to her knees, and grabbed hold of Ethan’s leg. ‘It’s a rat!’

‘Bush rat, big one.’ He took hold of her shoulders and helped her up.

Her fingers clawed at his jeans, a belt buckle, until she was up, dancing on her feet.

‘Shoot it!’ She grabbed his arms, jumping.

He picked her up fast, laughing. ‘Forgot my rifle,’ he said, bouncing her in his arms like a baby.

She grabbed him around the neck, not used to being this far off the ground. ‘It’s living in my shed.’

‘It’s gone now.’

She slowed her breathing. Wood dust mingled with the washing powder smell of his shirt. It was grey today. Like soft slate.

She leaned back. ‘You’re a capable man, Ethan.’

He looked at her, his gaze patient. ‘I like to think so.’

‘Catch it!’ she pleaded, rounding her eyes in the hope he’d take her up on a little additional manly courtesy. He had the advantage of height, strength, and big work boots.

He grinned. ‘I’m a vet. I’m not going to kill him, and anyway, there’ll be two dozen more to take his place.’

‘Yuk.’ She loosened her grip on him. ‘Are they all in my shed?’

He set her down. ‘He doesn’t live in your shed. He’ll keep himself down by the river.’

Her track pants snagged on the buckle of his belt. She rose to tiptoes, locked against him.

‘Wait,’ he said as she wriggled.

It was warm, and strange being so close to him again. She’d known him three days, and been in his arms twice. How many women in town could say the same?

He unhooked the buckle, his hand brushing the bare flesh of her waist. He took hold of her hands, his sandy head bent as he inspected the gravel dents in her palms. He rubbed each of her hands between both of his. ‘Nothing serious,’ he said.

Sammy groaned. ‘I’ve never made the acquaintance of a rat before.’ She chuckled at the immediate thought that followed. ‘Well … not the animal version.’

An enquiry flickered in his gaze, then left. ‘Promise me something,’ he said quietly. ‘Next time something startles you, take a moment, or you’re going to hurt yourself.’

‘I was looking for the ladder, I want to see what my property looks like from the roof.’

‘Please don’t do that.’

‘I’m pretty capable.’

One side of his mouth curved. ‘It would put a dent in my day if I turned up to find you lying on the ground with both legs broken.’

She huffed.

His smile reached the other side of his mouth. ‘Bush rats crawling over you in your inability to stand.’

She pushed him in the chest. ‘As if.’

‘How did the town get its name?’ Sammy asked as Ethan drove down Main Street. ‘From a local waterfall?’

‘Nothing so glamorous,’ he said, with a chuckle. ‘From Mr William Swallow. He arrived from England about 1840 and worked at the Burra Burra mine in South Australia.’

Sammy turned to the music of Ethan’s voice. It was dark outside and the gentle tone mellowed the masculinity of the vehicle’s interior.

‘In 1843 William Swallow left the mine and travelled nearly a thousand kilometres east. He was headed for Sydney, but never got there. He broke his leg and holed up in a field, right here. He had a horse and cart with him, mainly full of home-brewed maize beer and a little blackberry wine, so he sat down to heal, and drink.’