Heart of the Valley Page 8

  Lachlan shifted in his seat, not enjoying the conversation. ‘In the dairy.’

  Nancy’s face had dropped in horror. ‘That place? She can’t live there! She’ll catch her death. Her parents ought to be ashamed of themselves. I’ll go and talk to the poor love. She can move in with me.’

  The idea that his employment had forced Brooke out of home and into substandard conditions didn’t sit at all well with Lachie. Angus had assured him the dairy was habitable – not luxury living by any means, but a decent conversion with all facilities and used on several occasions without complaint by Kingston Lodge’s stable workers. Still, his conscience nagged. He bided his time until one afternoon, a few days after his cuppa with Nancy, when Brooke disappeared towards Pitcorthie in her Land Cruiser, he seized the opportunity to take a closer look at the dairy. A few minutes’ wait to verify she wasn’t coming back and Lachie headed up the track to the old building.

  He circled the outside, feeling like a creepy peeping Tom but determined to set his mind at ease. The building had only two windows, one of which, from the frosted louvres, he took to belong to the bathroom. Through the gauze curtains of the other he could see a large open-plan living and kitchen area, dominated by a six-seat pine table loaded with magazines and horse gear. The floor was covered in large white tiles and the walls were painted pale blue with simple shelves attached. Photographs of horses in various poses covered the pine planks. A narrow pine stand topped by a mid-sized flat-screen television with what looked like a DVD player alongside occupied the left-hand corner of the room. Next to it, a door led off to another room, through which he could just make out the edge of a bed. Opposite, in the right-hand corner, towards the thick timber front door, stood a freestanding slow-combustion wood heater with a stack of cut timber piled in a basket alongside.

  The old lady had been wrong. The place was fine. Not great but, as Angus had said, liveable.

  Yet for some reason, Lachie still felt uneasy.

  The Monday after his arrival, Lachie pulled in to the yard after a trip into the nearby town of Muswellbrook to find the float out of the barn and attached to Brooke’s four-wheel drive. She sat on the lowered ramp, Sod standing as far away from the float as his lead rope allowed. As he passed, she turned her head to the side, so all Lachie caught was a curtain of hair, but something about the slump of her shoulders and the way she clutched at her wrist told him she wasn’t right.

  Leaving the groceries in the car, he walked over, Billy snuffling behind, and stopped by Sod to stroke his nose. Clearly in a foul mood, the horse lunged at him, but a grab of his headcollar and a shake soon put paid to any biting nonsense. Brooke’s head stayed turned, but now Lachie was closer and in a better position he could see her eyes were wide and glistening.

  The float’s centre partition stood angled across to make the opening wider and more inviting. Inside, on the rubber matting, sat a plastic bucket of horse mix. A webbing lunging rope was tied to one side of the gate and ran in a long line to a tangled pool near Sod, as though thrown down in a tantrum. Given what Lachie suspected had occurred he would be insane to try and help, but Angus’s entreaty for him to keep an eye on his sister, and the sympathy he had for her predicament made him want to reach out.

  Leaving Sod to his sulk, he sat down next to her, feet resting on the ramp, knees up with his hands loosely drooped over them, as if he and Brooke sat down every day like this for a chat. At least the weather had turned from the cold grey days of the previous week to bright, crisp winter. Sunshine gave him some hope she wouldn’t bite his head off.

  He watched Billy hunt around the horse yards for treats, eyes closing in delight as he discovered a piece of hoof clipping and flopped down to chew contentedly.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asked after several long seconds had passed.

  She answered without turning. ‘Fine.’

  He thought on that response. Clearly she wasn’t fine, but what to do? He stared at Sod, who looked back at him, blinking, and took a single step forward. Brooke turned to the horse and he caught the red rims of her eyes and her grim mouth. They waited, hopeful that the horse would come closer, but Sod simply stared back.

  Lachie reached behind for the feed bucket and placed it in front of his feet before returning to his relaxed pose. Nostrils flaring and ears pricked, Sod stretched out his neck, knees bending, and leaned forward as far as he could manage without tipping on his nose.

  Lachie smiled at the comic stance. Any moment now the horse would have to take a step. Sod couldn’t reach the bucket without doing so. Lachie dug his hand into the sweet-smelling mix of chaff and grains and let it run through his fingers. Sod’s nostrils flared even wider, and a frown appeared above his eyes as though he was disappointed by Lachie’s mean tease.

  ‘You’ll have to come closer if you want some,’ he said to the horse.

  But Sod wasn’t about to be fooled. He jerked on the lead, wrenching it out of Brooke’s loosened hands and trotted a short distance away, rump turned, head down as he tore hunks of grass from the patch growing near the barn’s rainwater tank.

  Brooke turned her head away again, gripping her wrist like it was broken. A single tear slid down her cheek. Hating the sight of it, Lachie placed his hand on the rubber matting next to her. Not touching, just wanting her to know he was there.

  ‘It’ll be all right. He’ll get better.’

  She dropped her wrist and turned on him, eyes huge. ‘What would you know? I’ve been doing this for weeks and not once has he set foot in the float.’ She sagged, the flare of fire lost. ‘He never will.’

  ‘He’s just scared. Like you.’ At her sharp look he shrugged. ‘I heard about the accident. It must be hard.’

  She stared at him, saying nothing, her jaw clenched, her mouth thin. She held her distress contained but it was there nonetheless. Despite his brain warning him not to be sucked in, his heart went out to her.

  ‘I’m not scared,’ she finally managed. ‘I’m just …’ She spread her hands as though seeking the words in her palms. ‘Grieving.’ Liquid pooled in her eyes. ‘I lost Oddy, and Poddy’s …’ She grabbed her wrist and rubbed frantically at a spot on the inside, shoulders shaking.

  With a dog’s sensitivity, Billy did what Lachie felt he couldn’t. Precious scrap of hoof still hanging from his mouth, he trotted over to take position by her side and raked a paw down her thigh, whining in sympathy. Smiling shakily, she released her wrist and stroked his head.

  Lachie waited until he thought she’d regained her equilibrium. ‘I’d like to help.’

  ‘You can’t. No one can.’

  He digested that, picking bits of grain from his fingers. Sod had recovered from his sulk and stood regarding them, bottom lip quivering as though he were imagining his nose buried in the bucket. Maybe she was right and no one could help. Horses had long memories and if Nancy’s description of the accident was accurate, it was unlikely Sod would ever float again. As for Brooke, maybe he’d be better off leaving her well alone.

  Except he couldn’t. Not after seeing her like this. His inner white knight wouldn’t let him, and something about her drew him.

  ‘Anyway, what are you still sitting there for? Shouldn’t you be running off to phone Mark?’

  He gave her a puzzled look. ‘What for?’

  ‘To tell tales about me, of course.’

  ‘I think you might have me confused with someone else. My job is to run Kingston Downs. Nothing more.’

  ‘Right.’ She stared straight ahead.

  ‘Look, Brooke, I don’t know what ideas you have about me but I’m just here to do a job, not get involved in any family arguments. Those I can get plenty of at home.’ He placed the bucket behind him, ready to stand. ‘You seemed upset. I just wanted to help.’

  He dusted his palms on the front of his jeans and rose. Casting a last glance her way, he walked forward and grabbed Sod, batting the horse away when he tried to nip and ruffling his ears when Sod bunted his shoulder in affection. He le
d the horse by the halter back to the float and handed the lead to Brooke.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it, then.’

  Lachie tapped his leg, signalling for Billy to come. The dog tilted his head and looked from Brooke to him and back again before trotting to Lachie’s side, hoof scrap hanging from his mouth like a curly cigar.

  Two steps from the float she spoke.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m not normally like this.’ She regarded him with huge brown eyes overflowing with apology, and he thought again how pretty she was, but in a sad way that tugged at his insides. It made him wish he could make her smile. ‘I’m just finding this hard.’

  He nodded. ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘Can you?’

  He thought of Delamere and how he’d feel if, after finally taking it over, someone came and told him it was no longer his to run. ‘Yeah, I think I might.’

  Lachie pushed open the door to the Pitcorthie pub and surveyed the room, hunting for Sam O’Donnell and trying to get his head around the number of people crowded about the bar. The Pitcorthie Rural Supplies agronomist had called that afternoon to invite him out for a beer and, he suspected, to sound him out about playing for the local rugby team. It being a Thursday night, he’d expected the pub to be dead, but instead it buzzed with people and chatter.

  Heads turned as he shut the door and took a moment to orient himself. The pub appeared the same as the dozens of others he’d been to. Timber floor and half-panelled timber walls, on which hung local sports club banners, framed jerseys and team photographs, and a bar that extended in a U-shape from the rear wall.

  A series of small tables were arranged to the left of the entrance, their timber tops marked with drink rings and coasters. Several groups of women occupied the seats, the young ones ogling him openly, the older ones regarding him with sly interest. Behind them, through a door adjacent to the bar, he could make out the fancy carpet and reflected light of a poker-machine room.

  Past the bar to the right, on a plain carpeted area, stood a pool table lit by a long, low-slung light. Screens showing racing odds sat high above a corkboard with racing fields tacked to it and a counter containing rows of betting slips. Tucked into a corner and flashing what was left of its lights stood a jukebox contributing the Rolling Stones’ ‘Start Me Up’ to the general rowdiness.

  Spying a freckle-faced, lanky man wearing the rural uniform of a garish striped shirt, RM Williams boots, and jeans with a leather hobble belt through the loops, Lachie moved to the right-hand side of the bar, nodding greetings on the way to those who made eye contact. Judging by the fluoro safety stripes on their uniforms, most were miners. The upper Hunter was overcrowded with coalmines that sucked many workers off the land. Lachie had considered it himself, but couldn’t bring himself to do it despite the high wages on offer. The other patrons seemed to be a mix of farmers, council workers and people from town.

  Sam shook his hand, a broad smile lighting his sleepy blue eyes. ‘Glad you could make it. What can I get you?’

  ‘Just a light, thanks.’

  Sam signalled for the barman and turned back to Lachie. ‘Rockin’, isn’t it?’

  Lachie nodded, casting around the room once more before focusing on Sam. ‘Unusual to see a country pub this busy on a weeknight.’

  ‘Cashed-up miners with nothing else to spend their money on. Good for the town and especially good for Nate here.’ He winked at the spectacularly broken-nosed barman who’d worked his way round to them. ‘Making a fortune, aren’t you, mate?’

  ‘I wish.’ He eyed Lachie eagerly. ‘Is this him?’

  ‘Yep.’

  Nate grinned even more widely than Sam. ‘Friggin’ awesome.’ He held out his hand. ‘Nate Osbourne, manager of this muckhole, captain of the Pitcorthie Panthers. Lock, I take it?’

  ‘Generally,’ said Lachie, amused. Given Nate’s eager expression he had a feeling the Panthers were short a lock, and probably a few other positions. ‘Although I haven’t played for a couple of years so I’m a bit rusty.’

  ‘So, ah, you interested?’

  ‘In a game?’ Lachie shrugged. ‘Sure, but only if there’s a slot. I don’t want to take anyone’s place.’

  Sam rolled his eyes. ‘Nothing to worry about there. Most weeks we’re lucky to field a side. And believe me, I could do with some help in the second row. At the moment, I’m it.’ He took a sip of beer. ‘How’s Saturday suit?’

  On the other side of the bar, Nate held an empty schooner glass under the light-beer nozzle, hand resting on the tap, fairly jigging as he awaited Lachie’s answer. Though the publican was only of average height, his polo shirt was stretched taut over a barrel chest and thick biceps, a clear reminder that despite his cheery demeanour he wasn’t a man to be messed with.

  ‘Sounds fine.’

  Nate pulled the tap, eyes glinting with relish. ‘Sandy Hollow won’t know what hit them.’

  ‘We hate those bastards,’ said Sam.

  ‘It’s their fault we’ve won the wooden spoon two years running.’

  Lachie blinked. ‘You finished bottom last year?’

  Nate gave him a wry look and jerked his head towards the crowd. ‘This lot would rather drink than play sport. No bloody loyalty.’

  ‘We play short a lot,’ explained Sam.

  ‘Right.’ Lachie took Nate’s proffered beer and stared at it for a moment, wondering if he shouldn’t think about looking for another club – but Sam and Nate seemed friendly enough and he’d already said he’d play. Besides, teams like this were usually the best fun and that was all he was after. Just a game on the weekend and the companionship of other men. He needed to make friends. Couldn’t stay moping around Kingston Downs, trying to avoid Brooke.

  ‘You’ll need some kit,’ said Nate, then screwed up his crooked nose as he assessed Lachie. ‘Probably have to order it in special but anything green will do for the weekend. Things are pretty casual in our grade and Sandy Hollow’s kit’s bright yellow so you should be right. Socks you can buy from Musgrove’s, same as shorts. Talk to Patrick there. He’s our fly half.’

  Sam rested his back against the bar as Nate moved away to serve. ‘So how’re things working out at the Kingstons’?’

  Lachie took a sip of beer before answering. He had a feeling he needed to tread carefully with the subject. ‘I’ve only been there a week and a half but pretty good so far. Property’s in good nick.’

  ‘So’s Brooke Kingston,’ said Sam with a wink.

  Lachie’s hand tightened around the glass.

  ‘Andy Chiang’s in there, though, and you and I are too poor to compete with the likes of him.’ Sam thought for a moment. ‘And, in my case, too married.’

  Lachie remained silent. He’d never been one for gossip and he wasn’t about to start, especially about the Kingstons, but Sam continued.

  ‘Bad accident she had. Screwed her up a bit, poor bugger.’ He focused his sleepy eyes on Lachie, waiting for a comment.

  Lachie shrugged. ‘I don’t know much about it.’

  ‘Swerved to avoid a steer,’ said Sam, turning to lean over the bar to order another beer. ‘Ran off the road. Made a real mess. Vet said it was a miracle any of the horses survived, although that champion showjumper of hers is rooted. Shame. She won a lot on the horse. Town was proud of her.’

  To Lachie’s relief, the conversation moved on, Nate drifting across to join in during quiet moments. He stayed for another round, resisting Nate and Sam’s pleas to sign up for the pub’s hapless cricket team as well. Given the currents tugging the Kingston family, he wasn’t confident he’d be around come summer. Not that he’d expected the job to be long-term; after all, it was only a stopgap until Nick finished uni and things changed at Delamere, but he had hoped it’d last longer than a few months.

  He declined another shout. Two was enough and even though he only drank light beer, he wasn’t about to take chances with his licence, and he couldn’t afford to be out drinking either. Money was tight and he had to think of Nick.<
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  After farewelling Sam and Nate, and arranging a meeting time at the pub for Saturday, he headed for the door. As he reached to open it, he noticed the back of a girl’s head – a slim-shouldered girl with a messy golden-brown bob. She sat opposite a stunning brunette who gazed at him with sparkly blue, heavily made-up eyes full of invitation, and a bust about to flow over the top of her low-cut bright-blue top. Making up the trio was an olive-skinned, ebony-haired Asian man, who regarded Lachie with an expression as cold as the brunette’s was hot.

  ‘Leaving so soon?’ asked the busty stunner with a coy finger-twirl of her polished mane when he hesitated at the door.

  At the brunette’s enquiry, Brooke turned her head, half smiling in curiosity – a smile that fell as she recognised him. ‘Oh, hi,’ she said without warmth.

  The brunette leaned forward, spilling even more cleavage. She looked at Brooke, eyes as wide as a night-startled possum. ‘This isn’t him, is it?’

  Brooke nodded.

  ‘Oh. My. God.’ She slumped back in her seat and stared at Lachie with her mouth half-open before returning her focus to Brooke. ‘You never said —’

  ‘Chloe,’ said Brooke in a warning tone, cutting off whatever she was about to say. She threw Lachie a resigned look. ‘Lachlan Cambridge, this is Chloe Daniels and Andrew Chiang.’

  ‘Everyone calls me Lachie,’ he said, offering his hand to Chloe, which, to his amusement, she held in her silky-skinned clasp for far longer than courtesy required. Andrew shook with a tight grip, dark eyes not matching his thin-lipped smile.

  He stood back, unsure, and glanced at Brooke, hoping for a cue as to his next move. Chloe kept staring, boggle-eyed, while Andrew’s focus was on Brooke. Brooke’s hands had disappeared under the table, but from Lachie’s vantage point he could see her doing the same strange movement to her wrist as she’d done when he found her at the float with Sod.

  When no invitation to join them came, he cleared his throat and returned his hand to the door handle. ‘I’m on my way home if you need a lift.’

  Slowly, Brooke turned her face to him. For a fleeting moment raw hurt filled her eyes, then her stare dulled and her expression went blank.