Storms Over Blackpeak

In the shadow of Black Peak, Carr Fergusson’s grand old homestead is in need of a housekeeper. When shy, city-bred Cally Jones arrives at Glencairn Station to take the reins, she discovers not only a new way of life, but a house packed to the rafters with romantic intrigue.

Carr’s son, Ash, has finally seen fit to return to the family farm, and it’s not just Cally’s head he’s turning. But what has really brought Ash home? And what ghosts lurk in his past? Is Cally the girl to heal his heart, or will her own heart be broken?

Just up the hall, beautiful, independent Ella Harrington is playing with fire as she tries to juggle the demands of her new career with her love for her gorgeous bad-boy boyfriend. Where will the sparks fall? And who will get burnt?

Meanwhile, intent on everyone else’s problems, will Ella’s mother, Lizzie, be too slow to see the clouds looming over her own horizon? Can Lizzie’s relationship with the newfound love of the life weather the coming storms, or will the differences between them tear them apart?

Love and loyalty are strained to breaking point in this new high-country adventure from the author of
Blackpeak Station.

Chapter
ONE

The bus door hissed shut. In the empty car park, Cally Jones stood and watched the Intercity coach turn back onto the main road and dwindle slowly into the vast brown distance. Turning to consider the deserted café behind her, she tried to decide whether her budget would stretch to another coffee. The door of the café opened. A woman came out, cloth in hand, and began to wipe down the tables.

Job done, she glanced across the car park at Cally. ‘You want anything, love?’

Cally shook her head.

The woman picked up her sandwich board and carried it inside. Cally watched the
Open
sign on the door turn to
Closed
, and heard the lock turn.

God, she hoped they’d remembered she was coming. The last motel she had seen was a good two hours up the road, and the late autumn sun was already sinking behind the mountain range to the west. Shading her eyes against it, she peered south, the way the bus had gone, but the road was empty. She realised she didn’t even know which direction to look.

Was that a car coming now? She swung around to watch an old farm truck chug slowly out of the north and turn, with a crunch, into the car park. Coming to a halt beside her, the driver wound his window down.

‘You must be Cally.’

Must she? She was pleased to hear it. ‘Hi.’ She smiled quickly.

‘Hi.’ The driver smiled back. ‘I’m Ash Fergusson.’ There was a graunch as he pulled the handbrake on. ‘Dad sent me to come and get you.’

Cally hesitated. ‘Mr Fergusson,’ she tried, unsure of the right protocol in her new situation.

‘Ash,’ he replied, with a frown. ‘There’s only one Mr Fergusson around here, and he’s back at the house.’

Cally looked at him. So this was her new boss — one of them, at least. He was certainly a big improvement on her last one. The eyes looking back at her were a warm and friendly brown, and his short, fair hair and tanned skin echoed the sun-scorched colours of the mountains. Wrenching the door open from the outside, he hopped out of the dust-covered ute to reveal a checked shirt, torn jeans and the build of a loose forward.

‘Sorry you had to wait,’ he said, smiling again.

‘That’s okay.’

‘The bus got in early.’ He scooped up the bag beside her feet, hefted it effortlessly over his shoulder, and glanced
around. ‘Is this it?’ He sounded surprised. ‘You don’t have any more bags?’

Cally shook her head. She was travelling light. Rather a lot of her clothes, she’d realised as she folded them neatly to pack, had begun to look like something you cleaned a house with, rather than in. Having weeded out everything with more than one unintentional hole, there wasn’t a lot left over — and even if there had been time to go shopping for more, she’d already had to spend the sum total of her life savings so far on a decent pair of gumboots. The only really acceptable outfit she owned was the one she had on.

Throwing open the passenger door of the ute, Ash hesitated. ‘Mind if we sling this on the back?’

Cally’s gaze ran over the stains on the wooden deck, taking in the trapped hay and occasional clump of wool. ‘Sure.’ Her bag had been worse places.

She watched Ash secure the handles of the bag to the bars with what seemed to be a dog chain.

‘Okay.’ Rounding the ute, he climbed back into the cab and brushed off the passenger seat with his forearm. ‘Hop in. Let’s go.’

As they rattled back up the main road in the direction she had come, Cally watched Ash Fergusson furtively. He had a face that must have been pretty when it was handed to him, but had since seen some careless usage. His nose appeared to have been broken a couple of times, he had a scar bisecting his eyebrow, and what looked suspiciously like an old sprig mark above his cheek. Cally wondered what position he played. She put him down as a blindside flanker.

Abruptly, Ash changed down a gear and she realised they were turning off the main road. As side roads and farm gates dwindled and the shingle road began to wind into the hills,
Cally’s sense of excitement rose. Twisting around, she looked back — with some difficulty — through a rear window almost opaque with dust. They were leaving civilisation as she knew it.

Gradually, grass gave way to tussock, and the hills rose higher, their sheer sides swallowing the sun. The best part of an hour past the last sign of human habitation, the road ahead of them forked.

‘Here we are.’ Ash nosed the ute up the left-hand track and into a stand of gum trees. ‘The homestead’s just up here.’

As they came to the top of the knoll and out of the trees, Cally caught her breath. Bloody hell. This was really a private home? The only other places she’d seen that looked remotely like this had ticket desks and coat checks. She looked around, half expecting to see a café. But the wide lawns were empty, and no signage protruded from the old grey stone walls — just the pointy slate roof of a turret and, behind it, a two-storey wooden verandah softening the side of the house. Through a gap in the hills, the mullioned windows of the turret’s upper floor were catching the very last shafts of sun.

On the gravel drive below, a late-model Land Rover was parked, against which a well-muscled man in a checked shirt was kissing a slender, auburn-haired woman in what appeared to be a leisurely but very thorough fashion.

Cally glanced across the cab.

‘Yep.’ Ash shot her a smile. ‘That’s Dad.’ Winding down the window, he opened the door, slid out, and slammed it loudly. Cally untangled herself from the ute and followed him out.

In no particular hurry, Ash’s father dropped his hands to the woman’s hips. Leaving one arm resting there, he turned. Cally watched in fascination as the two of them walked towards her.

‘Cally. Hi.’ Ash’s father held out his free hand. ‘You made it.’ He smiled. ‘I’m Carr.’

He had Ash’s eyes, only darker — or rather, she supposed, Ash had a lighter version of his — and Ash’s height, but there the resemblance ended. Carr Fergusson moved with a spare, easy grace, and, in spite of what she was beginning to see was a regulation tan, there was nothing sunny about him. In her imaginary rugby team, this man belonged in the back line. Controlling the field. Cally took his hand, feeling the polite restraint of power in his grip. Her eyes wandered to the woman at his side, who, although looking ruffled, was otherwise flawless.

‘This is Lizzie,’ he said, in a tone that suggested it explained everything.

‘Lizzie Harrington,’ the woman smiled, with a bit of a blush. ‘Hello, Cally. Sorry. We didn’t hear you pull up.’

Cally wasn’t surprised. She smiled back, taking in the tousled, glossy, shoulder-length bob, the skinny jeans and high-heeled boots, the cloud-soft V-neck sweater. Lizzie Harrington looked like she belonged on a billboard for something expensive.

Carr Fergusson, on the other hand, had escaped from a very different campaign. Nonetheless, their mix was clearly working. Smile deepening, Cally imagined them stealing down from opposite sides of a moonlit motorway to embrace in the median strip before they rode off into the hills on the horse that just had to be here somewhere.

She hunched her shoulders and tried not to shiver. Now the sun had gone, the air in the high valley was soft and smoky with cold.

‘Come on inside,’ Carr said. ‘Let’s get you settled in.’

‘I’ll bring your bag,’ Ash offered, heading for the back of the ute. She heard a rattle of chain.

‘That’s it?’ Lizzie’s eyebrows rose as Ash reappeared batting the dust from Cally’s luggage.

‘That’s it,’ Cally sighed.

Lizzie smiled. ‘Well done, you.’

Carr ushered them both towards the back porch, where Ash was already pushing open the door. Trailing in their wake, Cally crunched across the gravel and, wiping her trainers thoroughly on the mat, followed Lizzie inside.