The House On Burra Burra Lane (12 page)

One sordid detail ran over another in his mind. He swallowed the bile in his mouth. He’d been a rough stone on a riverbed of smooth pebbles. A glaringly obvious hazard. He’d lived hard, been born into rough and ready. He’d pulled himself up from that by pure slog and determination, but any counteraction he made to what he’d been, what he’d done, would sound like he was defending himself. He didn’t want to see a look of shock or sympathy veil Sammy’s gaze.

He looked up at the rafters. Every fibre of his being longed to hold her and kiss the breath out of her. He’d have to toughen up. Problem was, she was already too deeply embedded in his heart.

Two hours to prepare the living room for the paint job and get things straight in her head. She’d shifted furniture, stuck tape along skirting boards and pulled nails out of walls. He hadn’t returned the mug, hadn’t asked for a sandwich or a beer. Hadn’t come close. Stuck in his shed, hiding, probably.

He tapped on the front door. It was slightly ajar and he didn’t normally knock. It squeaked as he pushed it open.

‘Hi,’ Sammy called, moving into the hall, hands full of dining room chairs, double stacked, last trip.

He stepped inside but she ignored him as she placed the chairs against the staircase wall. ‘Have you finished for the day?’ Annoyance was suffocating her. At herself, for wanting to be pretty, and at Ethan, for not seeing her pretty.

She itched to shake him, goad him into giving. Pull him towards her and run her hands down his spine. Slip her fingers into the waistband of his jeans and tuck the shirt further in—
or pull it out!
Reach up and kiss his mouth. Wind her arms around his neck and let the warmth of him set them on fire.
All of it
. She wanted to taste all of him.

‘I’ve been called back to the surgery.’

She reorganised the chairs, stacking them in a different formation so she had something to occupy her for a few more seconds. ‘Do they call your mobile? You don’t have a receptionist, do you?’

‘They call me on my mobile.’

‘Well. Hope whatever it is gets better soon.’

‘It’s not a sick animal. Young Wendy Jones is home from her holiday and she wants her guinea pig and rabbit back.’

The chairs were stacked. She had nothing else to move.

She turned, she had to, and saw them both in her mind’s eye— her favourite picture—sitting on the bank of the MacLaughlin on a tartan picnic blanket. She was relaxed there, and on a bed of nails here.

He wasn’t behaving like a friend or a possible lover, he was somewhere on his own, not wanting her to tag along or be near him. She was one of his lost dogs. Following him like a fool. Looking for him when he was out of sight. Let off the leash and not knowing where to run first.

A flurry of leaves swirled outside, behind him. They skimmed the grass, the gravel path, and rose to the air with the breeze.

She drew back and blinked, lifted a hand to her eye.

‘What’s wrong?’ He stepped forwards.

‘Something in my eye.’

‘Let me see.’

‘No, it’s okay. Just dust.’ He’d already lifted a hand so she let him take hers away, not wanting to show force or acceptance which was difficult because both sensations were banked in her chest, mixed up and wanting release.

She blinked. He wore the dark shirt. The navy one she’d first seen him in. The breast pocket had a tear in it, the tip of a pencil caught in the frayed edge.

He put his thumb above her eyelid. ‘Look up.’

Straight into his eyes. Piercing blue. Like pools in a patch of summer sunlight. She breathed deeply as he held her gaze.

‘Whatever it was, it hurt you,’ he said quietly.

‘Dust. Gone now.’

He stroked her eyebrow. ‘You have pretty eyes, Sammy.’

She dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands and stiffened her arms at her sides. The clock in the hallway sounded as though it had lost pace, the tick chasing the tock.

‘Where’s the queen?’ he asked, startling her.

She inhaled, trying not to breathe in too much of him. ‘I put her back in her box along with her ermine and diamonds. She doesn’t belong here.’

‘Diamonds? They wouldn’t suit you anyway.’ His gaze wandered to her mouth. His lips parted. They looked as dry as hers. ‘You need topaz.’

He lowered his face. His mouth hovered a breath away from hers. He kissed her once. His mouth dry and warm on her cheek.

‘I’m sorry I was in a bad mood today.’ He moved back, the space between them cavernous suddenly, the cooler air creeping between their bodies. ‘There are lots of things I don’t talk about, Sammy. It’s not you. It’s me. It’s who I am.’

She licked her lips, desperate for the moisture. ‘We’ll be finished soon anyway.’

He opened his mouth, nodded before he spoke. ‘I’ll put shelves in the shed when I’ve fixed the wall, if it’s okay with you. And I thought I’d pour concrete. Make it usable.’ Another nod. ‘Then we’ll be done.’

She wanted so much more from him. ‘Sounds good.’

‘As long as you’re all right with it? I don’t want to put jobs your way that you don’t want.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t want to … ’ For the first time since he’d stepped through the door he looked disconcerted. ‘I don’t want to do too much for you. I don’t intend to make you feel like you have to accept my ideas. You’ve got your own, I know that.’

‘You’ve helped too much which makes me uncomfortable, but you don’t get in the way of anything.’

‘I never intended to make you feel uncomfortable.’

‘I don’t mean that!’ Exasperation shot through her. She unfurled her fingers, knowing she’d put blood-dents into the flesh of her palms. Their conversation ought to come right back to the reality of the day. The clock needed to tick its normal pace.

‘I’ve learned heaps from you, Ethan. You’re a good teacher.’ He should either kiss her properly or get lost. She hauled in a breath, satisfied by both evaluations.

‘I’m not so sure I’m a good friend though.’

She couldn’t answer.

‘And I’ve been obnoxious today. I’m sorry, Sammy.’

She wasn’t good enough for diamonds. She was dusty and dirty and by the end of the day she’d be splattered in paint. He’d told her what he knew of her. Described her perfectly, or so he thought.

She waved him off. ‘Don’t worry. See you tomorrow.’ She turned from him, walked into the living room and grabbed the door, intending to slam it shut on him.

She stopped, and looked through the window at her untidy, chaotic garden.

Ignore that box in the wardrobe.
Forget it
. She couldn’t mow the lawn in a designer blouse. She would
not
change for anyone again. Not even Ethan.

T
he air was still when Sammy stepped out of Morelly’s, not even a fluttering of the bunting on the cemetery gate. But it was cool, not cloying and humid like it got in Sydney some days. There was nothing to ruffle her, not even the wind.

She’d made a big decision about Ethan Granger. If he didn’t want her—she didn’t want him. Easy as pie. The townspeople could go ahead and weave their little stories, she wouldn’t let their gossip or Ethan’s reticence affect what she was here to achieve: her independence. She didn’t need him or any man to show her the way. She had her own agenda, and she was smart enough to conquer any gossip, or ignore it.

‘Get yourself over here and give an old man something to look at,’ a familiar voice called.

‘Hello.’ Sammy moved towards Grandy. ‘I was buying more of your tools. You might have to restock soon. I’ve just about cleared you out.’

‘A boy scout is always prepared. Got a warehouse in Canberra, how do you think you got all the roof sheeting and fence posts so quickly?’

Sammy sank to the bench. ‘My word, you are a man of hidden means.’

‘More than you know, young Walker.’

‘Fine day to be outside,’ she said, giving him a smile.

‘Every day at my age is a fine day. How’s my bet doing?’

Sammy peered at him. ‘How much are you going to lose?’

He chuckled. ‘A hundred.’

Wow
. ‘That’s a lot of cash around here.’

‘You’re a lot of woman—inside, that is. On the outside you’re a tiny tot.’

She leaned back, rested her elbow on the bench. ‘I’m five foot five, which is not an insignificant height.’

‘You’re scrappy, too.’

‘What does that mean?’

Grandy brought his cane between his thighs and gave his hands a rest. ‘You did well at the fair. How many women did you have pestering you to help out?’

‘I didn’t mind helping. I enjoyed it.’

‘Felt like you were beginning to be accepted.’

It wasn’t a question. ‘I did, yes.’ She looked at Grandy. ‘Is that okay?’

‘Take that frown off your face, you’ll get sunburn creases.’

‘Is that how you got so many?’

‘Ha.’ Grandy struck his cane to the floor. ‘Scrappy.’

‘Not sure if I like that. Do you mean I’m short or that I’ve got too much attitude?’

‘What are you going to do about the art lessons?’

Must be attitude. Sammy shuffled into a more ladylike position, anxious not to appear too casual and laidback, as though she were a bona fide townsperson. ‘I start this Thursday. I’ve got eight children.’

Grandy grunted.

‘Yeah,’ she said. Eight kids. The number rattled in her head like beads on an abacus. ‘I’ve never taught a class before.’

‘Might have a few fights on your hands with the mothers wanting their kids to be the best. We tend to get possessive out here, back of beyond.’

‘It’s not so remote, really. Feels good, all this alpine air and country aromas. Even now, I can smell the coffee percolating on my old stove and hear my chickens scratching at the coop.’

‘You’ll do fine with the kids and the mothers,’ he said. ‘Sounds like you’ve got the smell and the sound of the place.’

‘I hope so. I don’t want to spoil anything.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like my standing in town.’

‘You think you’ve got one?’

Sammy pursed her mouth. Grandy was sussing her out, looking after his hundred dollars. ‘I think I might have the start of one.’ She’d made some good acquaintances with the women, they might not be friends yet, but she was on the way. ‘Should I be worried?’

‘What have you got to be worried about?’

Everything, regardless of her earlier bravado. Her reputation was at stake. She’d sauntered through the last weeks, easing her way into the world of Swallow’s Fall. If she dented what she’d accomplished so far, how long would it take to scratch her way back to the giddy heights of community spirit? ‘When is someone going to change the number on the population sign on Main Street?’

Grandy glanced over. ‘When I tell them to.’

‘When are you going to tell them to?’

He grinned.

Sammy settled back on the bench. Grandy knew everyone, and everyone’s business probably. Could she ask about the old letter she’d found, and the people who had lived in her house before her? And about what Patricia had meant when she’d asked how Ethan was coping at her house? Just because she was over her fascination with their handsome vet didn’t mean she wasn’t interested in learning more about him.

‘I won’t push any of you into liking me,’ she said. ‘I’m happy to do things alone. If necessary, I’ll become a mad reclusive woman. The town will become famous because of my strange habits, whether they want me around or not.’

‘What strange habits?’

‘How I stay in my house all day and only come out when the sun’s gone down. I only come into town when I need supplies—I buy in bulk so you only see me once a month. I wear a big floppy hat to cover the sunburned crazy-woman creases on my forehead.’

Grandy turned his head slowly, eyes narrowed.

‘And I carry a pitchfork,’ she added. ‘And a chainsaw.’

‘I could start a few rumours for you, if you like. Get this story moving.’

She grinned. ‘Do I?’

‘Do you what?’

‘Have a standing in town.’

‘What do you think?’

Ooh, he was a wily one. Sammy swung her gaze to the sky and pulled a face.

Grandy slapped her gently on her arm. ‘Sunburn creases,’ he warned. ‘You’re doing well, stop your worrying.’

‘I don’t expect miracles, but I want to feel part of the town.’

‘I know that.’

‘You know a lot about everyone, don’t you, Grandy?’

‘I do. How’s the house shaping up?’

Her blood ran warmer whenever someone asked, and this time the question was beneficial because she could bring up the subject of Dr Steadfast and what her house meant to him. ‘I
love
my house,’ she said, rubbing her hands. ‘I’ve scrubbed the veranda so much, it shines. Needs painting though. I have to figure out how to take the shutters off the windows first. And I’ve got a rose bush out the front. I’d like it climbing up the house but at the moment it’s rambling all around.’ She paused for a beat. ‘Someone before me must have loved that rose bush.’

‘The yellow one. I remember the day it was planted.’

She turned to Grandy, hoping to ask by whom, but he continued before she got a chance.

‘It’s a tough plant for a strong house,’ he said. ‘But get it cut down soon. Don’t let it wander any further than it already has.’

Funny that Grandy should choose that expression for her house: strong. She thought the same. It had stood for over a hundred years. Built to be an invincible homestead. What stories would it tell about her in twenty years time?

She sighed. Two decades. Hopefully the sign would have been changed by then.

‘Somebody asked me if Ethan was comfortable at the house,’ she said. ‘I thought it a strange question, considering he’s there most days.’

‘Talk around town is that you and he have got something going on.’

‘I can assure you, we haven’t.’ She couldn’t hold back the dry tone. ‘Except a business arrangement.’

‘Could be more, though, couldn’t it?’

She moistened her mouth. ‘How much have you got down in
this
bet?’

He cast his gaze sideways. ‘More than I thought I had.’ He had a serious intent in his old-man blue eyes. ‘He’s a loner. He needs to get things done in his own time.’