by Jennie Jones
THE HOUSE AT THE
Bottom of the Hill
JENNIE JONES
www.escapepublishing.com.au
Also by Jennie Jones
The House on Burra Burra Lane
12 Days at Silver Bells House
About the Author
Born and brought up in Wales, Jennie Jones loved anything with a romantic element from an early age. At eighteen, she went to drama school in London, then spent a number of years performing in British theatres, becoming someone else for two hours, eight performances a week.
Jennie wrote her first romance story at the age of twenty-five while ‘resting’ (a theatrical term for ‘out of work’). She wrote a western, but nobody wanted it. Before she had time to get discouraged, a musical theatre job came up and Jennie put writing to one side.
Jennie now lives in Perth, Western Australia, a five-minute walk from the beach that she loves to look at but hardly ever goes to—too much sand. She returned to writing four years ago and says it keeps her artistic nature dancing and her imagination bubbling. Like acting, she can’t envisage a day when writing will ever get boring.
The House at the Bottom of the Hill is the third book in Jennie’s Swallow’s Fall series, following The House on Burra Burra Lane and 12 Days at Silver Bells House.
For Elisabeth
Contents
Also by Jennie Jones
About the Author
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Acknowledgements
One
Daniel Bradford leaned his shoulder against the doorframe of Kookaburra’s Bar & Grill and settled in to watch the ruckus at the northern end of Main Street. Observing the redhead deal with the townspeople had become a daily ritual, as long as he wasn’t too close to the kerfuffle.
She’d only been in town two weeks and already she had the committee on her back. The war council, Dan called them, and Swallow’s Fall Community Spirit committee members weren’t easy to appease once a person put their noses out of joint.
The redhead stood in front of her pink B&B facing the small group, shoulders set, arms at her side, chin raised. She had pluck, he had to give her that.
He crossed his arms over his chest and ran his gaze down the length of the one-street town, thanking his lucky stars he’d been born even-tempered, fair-minded and patient.
Another glorious day in the Snowy Mountains. The November sun high in the sky. The soft breeze from Mount Kosciuszko blowing the dust off the multi-coloured rooftops and swaying the boughs of the claret ash trees lining the street. Swallow’s Fall: population ninety-nine and rising but it wasn’t the population surge on Dan’s mind.
‘Morning, Daniel.’
‘Mornin’, Mrs Tam.’ Dan lifted a hand to the owner of the petrol station as she waddled by on the other side of the street, her black hair knotted in its customary bun and her apron tied tight around what remained of her waist. Nice old girl. Not interested in interfering, but happy to keep an eye on those who were. He indicated the B&B with a nod. ‘You going on down?’
‘Wouldn’t miss it. There’s talk of a meeting.’
‘Yeah,’ Dan said under his breath, ‘I bet there is.’
Six years he’d waited to get Kookaburra’s Bar & Grill ready for change. An iconic, colonial-style double-storey building standing proudly in the centre of Main Street with cast-iron balustrades and columns at its main doors. Open early, closing late: that was Dan’s vision for the future, once he’d got the seven bedrooms renovated upstairs. The town committee didn’t know he’d rekindled his long-term plans for the hotel and he wasn’t about to tell them. Timing was everything in Swallow’s Fall. Or it had been, before the redhead arrived.
Not so many visitors for Swallow’s Fall now summer was almost upon them, just those wanting farm stays and walking holidays but they’d seen more tourists the last couple of winters—the best season for the Snowy Mountains. People winding their way from the beaches in the east to the ski slopes in the west, with Swallow’s Fall sitting patiently in the middle, waiting for trade. With Dan’s hotel, it wouldn’t only be the bar that prospered. The town would be given a rejuvenating kick too. If he got the war council on his side.
What he didn’t understand was why pretty little Miss English Chick had chosen this remote township. She was as misplaced around here as a snowflake in the outback. Twenty-seven months the B&B had been up for sale without a nibble, then suddenly, Red was lugging expensive tools from her brand-new 4WD into the seen-better-days house. And now she was paying the price for not adhering to small-town rules. Something Dan understood. It had taken him two years to gain acceptance himself.
‘I got that ice cream made for your restaurant, Daniel. Chocolate bubble gum flavour.’ Mrs Tam shook her finger at him, batting her eyelashes in her gentle manner. ‘Wasn’t easy.’
Dan uncrossed his arms and thumped a hand against his chest. ‘You’re the best woman in town but don’t tell the other ladies I said it. It’ll be on the menu tonight.’
She tilted her head coyly. ‘Anything to help a handsome man, Daniel. Anything at all.’
Dan smiled, and shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. Damned if he knew how it worked, but people seemed to shine when he smiled at them, and mostly, Dan liked smiling.
He waved Mrs Tam on her way, and followed her progress.
A grand little house, the B&B, even if it was a pink-puke colour. Weatherboard, with a grey metal roof that gleamed with the lustre of a tarnished silver sixpence when the sun rose high in the sky. Three bedrooms, two on the top floor for guests and one on ground level. A veranda ran along the front, shading two picture-perfect windows either side of a bright red door. And if a person were to park their backside on one of the locally made rocking chairs the redhead had bought from the Granger’s Art and Craft Centre, they’d have a panoramic view of not only Main Street, but also the boulder-studded hillside behind the town, protecting Swallow’s Fall from inclement easterlies.
‘What’s going on?’
Dan looked over his shoulder as Ethan Granger, the town’s vet, came up the steps from the street and onto the wooden walkway that served the shopping side of Main Street.
‘Same as yesterday and the day before,’ Dan said, indicating the B&B with a jut of his chin
Ethan stopped beside Dan and let his two-year-old son, Lachlan, slide down his leg.
Dan glanced at the bar’s noticeboard on the walkway to Ethan’s left and the one-hundred-dollar note pinned to it. The noticeboard had been framed in a lockable glass case. That had been before Dan arrived, but story was, Ethan had placed a bet on how long it would take him to get Sammy Walker, as she was then, to marry him. They’d had their wedding seven weeks later with the whole town in attendance. That one-hundred-dollarnote was a talisman to the townspeople. The kind of local tale that warmed people’s hearts. ‘She’s hardly set foot in town,’ Dan continued, ‘and already she wants to make changes. Damn silly, if you ask me.’
‘Well, she’s not asking you and you can’t blame her for starting on the renovations straight away. The place needs a helluva pick-up.’
True, but what sort of a pick-up would she give it? She didn’t fit the country ambience. Too polished lo
oking. He hadn’t had call to shake up many cocktails since he’d bought the bar, but he could spot what drink a punter would ask for as soon as they stepped through the swinging doors, and the redhead was all martini. Lovely looking lady though. Even from a distance his curiosity was piqued. But she wasn’t his type: Dan liked women who were happy to share a sizzling couple of dates, and content to wave goodbye when the time came. And as Red didn’t look the type to want to date a guy like Dan—why was he even contemplating the issue?
‘She should have known better than to rip in straight off with her ideas,’ he said. Maybe he shouldn’t have left it so long before introducing himself. All he’d done was nod and wave. He really ought to have initiated a casual meeting and given her a few tips on how to tread slowly with the committee but he hadn’t wanted to get caught up in the argument because that would mean he’d have to take a side. Too late now, and anyway, he’d wanted a bit of time to study her and suss her out since her plans would affect his.
‘Considering the competition?’ Ethan asked, with a smile.
Dan pulled his hands out of his pockets. He hadn’t, and, yeah, it irked him somewhat. He’d been forced to acknowledge his lack of foresight in not buying the B&B for himself. Six years ago he’d have fallen over his big feet to buy the house. But he’d been too engrossed in his plans for Kookaburra’s to realise he’d let a good investment go begging. It could have been a decent hideaway a stone’s throw from the bar; somewhere he could have holed up after closing time, instead of in the make-do back room where he’d been living. He’d intended renting the B&B for a few months so his work guys had somewhere to stay but hadn’t got around to contacting the real estate agent. He supposed he could still put the guys up at the B&B, provided the English chick lasted long enough to begin hosting guests.
‘Sammy wants you over for dinner again,’ Ethan said. ‘She said soon would be good, since you’ve got Josh behind the bar in the evenings. How’s that working out?’
Josh Rutherford. Twenty-three years old. A decade younger than Dan and filled with the adventurous streak only the young felt they had a right to. Dan nodded. ‘He’s a hard worker. Learns fast.’
Ethan peered out at the street. ‘It’s good of you to give him the job. Running the craft centre for us doesn’t bring in enough money and he’s not getting much carpentry work these days either. He wants to leave town.’
‘He’s wanted to leave town for the last six years.’
‘Last eight.’ Ethan hauled in a breath. ‘Anyway, glad it’s working. I like to watch out for him.’
Dan looked down at Lachlan, still holding tight to Ethan’s jeans. Lochie looked up and gazed at Dan with sky-blue eyes. Dan winked. The little boy’s features crumpled and he thrust his face against Ethan’s leg.
‘Here,’ Ethan said to his son, digging into his jacket pocket. Lochie’s face brightened and he reached up with chubby hands. ‘Careful, now. Go easy on him,’ Ethan said as he handed his son a small bundle of fur.
‘What’s that?’ Dan asked.
‘Guinea pig.’
Lochie sat on Ethan’s boot, held the animal against his chest and bent his sandy head to kiss it.
‘Do you have to carry it around with you all day?’ Dan asked.
‘Only when I’ve got Lochie with me.’
‘Wouldn’t want to forget it was in your pocket and sit on it.’
Ethan laughed, a great rumble from deep in his chest.
Dan grinned at his friend. It wasn’t often a person made Ethan laugh but it was a dynamic sound when it happened. The man was full of energy and warmth, held carefully within most of the time, unless he was looking at his wife.
‘How is Sammy?’ Dan asked.
Ethan’s smile broadened. ‘As big as the new artists’ wing on the house, to hear her tell it—but happy.’ He looked at Dan, perhaps expecting a response that showed Dan understood the intricacies involved in dealing with expectant wives.
Dan nodded. ‘Good. When is she … due?’ Pregnant women might be delicate looking but Dan knew they were more resilient than a five-a-side rugby team. He’d happily load their shopping into their cars, or take their arm when they needed to get from the wooden walkway down the steps to the road but when they started talking to him about how good it was to be settled, Dan’s status as practically the only single man in town put him on the defensive against their resolve to see that changed. Not the kind of urging a determinedly single guy would ever be completely comfortable with.
‘She’s due in six weeks,’ Ethan said. ‘Little Edie is going to be our summer baby girl.’
‘And how’s how our old summer boy doing?’
Ethan chuckled. ‘Grandy’s doing well. Junior said he’s complaining. They’re not likely to let him out of hospital for another couple of weeks though.’
‘Gave us a scare.’
‘Well, Grandy doesn’t do anything by halves.’
‘It’ll be good to have him back in town.’ Dan didn’t know what had startled the townspeople more—the thought of losing their patriarch or the sight of the air ambulance chopper landing on the field behind the stock feeders’. Dan missed the old man’s dry humour. Main Street wasn’t the same without Edmond Morelly sitting outside his hardware store, taking the sun and keeping an eye on the township. Although after the bout of pneumonia he’d come down with, it was unlikely the townspeople would allow Grandy the freedom he was used to. More than likely, one of the women would force him out of his farmhouse and into some hastily built retirement bunker. Dan had his money on Grandy. Ninety-five or not, the man was a force to be reckoned with.
Ethan lifted his chin and gazed down the street. ‘You spoken with her yet?’
‘The redhead?’ Dan looked back up the northern end of Main Street. ‘Nah, not really. Given her a wave and whatnot.’
‘Whatnot?’
‘You know. A smile, a welcome.’ But no advice. Another stab of remorse about his lack of gentlemanly qualities hit Dan in the stomach. ‘She hasn’t been in the pub, and I don’t expect she will any time soon.’ And it would be best if she stayed away. He’d spent the last fortnight leaning on the bar listening to what people were saying about her. Like she’d been sacked from her job in England and was skulking in the Australian countryside using the B&B as a hideout. Or worse, she’d run off from an angry boyfriend she’d been two-timing. Mostly, Dan gave a nod and a grin, but he drew the line at discussing what she’d be like in bed when some of the farmhands and graziers from out of town started on that subject. He knocked those conversations on the head and turned them to his favourite subject: rugby union. He wasn’t interested in the redhead’s love life—if she had one.
‘Thought you might have taken a closer look,’ Ethan said.
Those vibes of interest flared. ‘Not in the way you’re thinking, mate. Not my type.’
‘Okay then.’ Ethan scooped up Lochie and the guinea pig and turned. ‘So why are we standing here watching her when we’ve got hotel plans to look at?’
Charlotte Simmons pulled her shoulders back and eyed the mob standing in front of her. Only six people but two of them held high seats on the town committee and had enough community rope to hang her.
She’d thought she was bringing herself to a quintessential Aussie country town, but it seemed she’d travelled in a time warp. They turned quirky into an art form. Surely there was nowhere else in Australia like Swallow’s Fall?
Sweat trickled beneath the collar of her white linen shirt but she ignored the need to waft the collar and get some cooler air blowing down her spine. She smoothed the palms of her hands over her beige cotton skirt and raised her chin instead. At least Daniel Bradford had disappeared inside Kookaburra’s instead of standing there watching her. Not much of a conversationalist, Daniel—well, not with her; usually showed her his back after one of his off-hand waves. That’s all she’d seen of him: his broad back and relaxed shoulders. Couldn’t say what he looked like up close.
He had a great bum
though. A fabulous bum. A twelve out of ten rating masculine butt. He had the respect of the town too, something she definitely didn’t possess, but he’d been in town for years, was practically home-grown. She’d been here two weeks and so far it felt like a life sentence.
Charlotte looked down at Lucy, her dog, and the only friend she had. She tickled Lucy’s ears; a young Australian Shepherd she’d found along the highway on her way down here. She’d emailed and posted lost dog notices at every vet surgery from here to Canberra but no-one had come forward to claim her.
‘Right then,’ Mrs Johnson said, opening the debate.
Charlotte straightened and gave the committee a smile. Two months, three, maximum, and she’d be gone from this unexpectedly perplexing town. Please don’t let it take any longer.
‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘How nice to see you all … again. Can I offer anyone a cup of tea?’ She indicated the door behind her. ‘Kettle’s on.’
Mrs Johnson—or Mrs J, as she was mostly called—folded her arms over her lightweight summer jacket, her sharp gaze raking Charlotte’s face as though trying to place her. ‘Jug,’ she said in a considered tone. ‘We’re a little old-fashioned in Swallow’s Fall. We call it a jug.’
Charlotte took her focus off Mrs J’s penetrating gaze and shook away the concern that the woman knew about her. How could she? Charlotte had spent only the first six years of her childhood in Australia before the nightmare event that had forced her relocation from an outer suburb of Sydney to the village of Lower Starfoot-in-the-Forest in Yorkshire, England. Mrs J might know about the event from twenty-three years ago, but not about Charlotte’s involvement. ‘The jug’s on then,’ she chirped. Her smile had surely petrified into a gaping grin and she’d never again be able to lick her lips, which were dry, like the roof of her mouth. ‘And I have a fresh batch of lemon tartlets, if anyone’s hungry.’ Most days they partook of her home-baked fare as they stood around on her front lawn, attempting persuasion.
