Cowboy's Barmaid: A Small Town Military Romance (Lucky Flats Ranchers Book 2)

by Piper Sullivan

  Bianca looked at me, too, waiting for the answer. I could tell she was very curious. So were the others. We all gazed around the ruins. I tried to picture what it would have looked like, before it was burnt to the ground. Had I seen a photograph of it, once?

  “It was just after the house was built,” I answered, trying to recall what my own father had told me. “I think Benedict and Florence had not long moved in. It had taken them a year to build it. Legend says that it was the fault of a housemaid; she left the main fire unattended at night, didn’t put the fire shield up. A big log rolled out, and caught. Before they knew it, the house was on fire. It burnt to the ground.”

  Bianca gasped. “How awful,” she murmured, looking around. I could see she was trying to picture the house on fire, the way it would have been, that night. “To have just moved in! Was anyone caught in it?”

  I frowned, thinking. “Not that I know of,” I said. “They were all sleeping, but as far as I know, they managed to escape. No one was hurt.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” she said, her eyes wide. “At least they were safe, and able to start over.”

  I turned to her. She was completely absorbed, wandering around. She picked up what must have once been a kettle. It was black and charred.

  “It’s hard to imagine,” she said. “Starting over. Everything gone.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. I wandered over to where she was standing. I looked at the kettle in her hands. “They lost just about everything; furniture, clothes, personal items. When my father told me the story, he always emphasized what survivors they were. They had risked everything, coming to the Outback from Sydney, to run cattle. This…” I spread my hands over the ruins “…would have destroyed a lot of people. Most would have packed it in, said it was too difficult.”

  “But not Florence and Benedict?” Bianca had turned to me. The wind had picked up a bit, and was whipping her dark hair over her face. I caught my breath, my eyes wide at her beauty.

  “No,” I answered. “Not them. They started over, and built the current homestead. And the cattle station. Hard work, grit and determination.” I couldn’t keep the pride out of my voice. This was my family’s history. It was a legacy, which I was determined to pass down to my own children. It was something that Jo had never understood, constantly pressuring me to move away.

  “You must be so proud,” said Bianca. She looked at me, a softness in her eyes. “Of your ancestors, and what they did. It’s amazing.”

  “Yes, I am,” I answered. She really seemed to understand, how important it was to me. “It’s like…” I struggled for words. How to explain? “It’s like I’ve been given a gift, to cherish. It’s a responsibility, no doubt about that. But then, nothing good in this world isn’t worth fighting for.”

  She looked up at me. Our eyes locked, filled with meaning. Was she remembering last night? I hoped she was. Because I simply couldn’t forget it.

  “Dad!”

  Max had gone exploring further. The moment broke, and our eyes slid away from each other. We all followed his voice, walking beyond the ruins. The little girls chattered excitedly, and I smiled. It was like an adventure. What would we discover next?

  “Look!” Max was pointing. We gazed to where he indicated. It was the old graveyard. I hadn’t been there in years.

  We wondered amongst the tombstones. Most were falling apart, leaning precariously. The inscriptions on them were faded. The red dust of the land lay like a blanket over them. It was an eerie sight.

  “This is crazy,” said Bianca, her eyes shining. “An old cemetery! When did they stop burying people here?”

  “I think around the turn of the century,” I answered. I kicked a stone, thinking. “After the church was built, the cemetery was moved there.”

  The silence was deafening. We wandered amongst the graves. Even the children were solemn, as we stared at this reminder of the past. Bianca was leaning against an old tombstone, squinting at the writing. Suddenly, she stood up. She turned to me.

  “It’s her,” she whispered. “Florence. But there’s someone else, buried with her.”

  “Benedict?” I said, leaning against the old tombstone. But even as I said it, I knew it couldn’t be. Benedict had lived beyond the time when they buried people here. At least into the 1920’s. He had been a very old man when he died.

  “It’s definitely Florence,” I said.

  Her epitaph read: Florence Mary Connelly 1869-1899. And I could just make out the writing below it: Violet Edith Connelly 1890-1892.

  “It was a child,” I whispered. “Violet. She was only two years old when she died.”

  “Florence and Benedict’s daughter?” Bianca asked. She gazed at the tombstone, as if it might suddenly speak, revealing its secrets. “Did you know they had a young daughter who died?”

  “No,” I answered. I had never really spent much time here, even when I was younger. My parents had discouraged me wandering this way. I had known that the cemetery existed, of course, but I wasn’t that curious about it.

  “I knew they had two children,” I continued. “Edmund, who was my great grandfather, and Peter. He died at Gallipoli, during the First World War. But I have never heard of Violet.”

  “Florence was young herself when she died,” Bianca said, staring at the tombstone. “Only thirty. Do you know how?”

  “No,” I said. “All I know is that she was Benedict’s first wife, who founded the property with him. He married again, I think.”

  We fell silent as we continued staring at the tombstone, lost in thought about the past.

  “Daddy.” Harper had wondered up to us. “I’m hungry. Can we have the picnic? I don’t like this place.” She had stuck out her bottom lip, which was trembling.

  I swept her up in my arms. Enough of this.

  “Of course, my darling,” I said. “Let’s go and find a good spot, maybe under those eucalyptus trees.”

  I turned and started walking away. The children followed me.

  “Bianca?” She was still looking at the tombstone, lost in thought. But she roused herself at my call.

  “Coming,” she said. I saw her look back at it, before she turned and slowly followed us.

  ***

  It was late afternoon before we returned to the homestead.

  The children were tired, but happy. They chattered to Mrs. Price, telling her all the details about what we had discovered that day. I was glad I had suggested it. Despite the sadness of looking at the old house and the graveyard, it had connected them with the station’s history. It was important, to me. And, of course, it had been good to spend time with them, after everything they had been through.

  It had also been good to spend time with Bianca. She was intriguing me further, the more time that we spent together. There was an overwhelming physical attraction between us, but there was more than that. She had been so interested in the history of the station, which was a far cry from Jo. Jo had never expressed any interest; she had hated this place.

  Bianca was an intelligent, sensitive woman. A wonderful woman. I could see that we could have a relationship, if I let it happen. But did I want that? I was still trying to get over Jo. And Bianca had been adamant that this was a temporary arrangement. She wanted to go back to the States, re-establish her business there. This was just a means to an end for her.

  Still. I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

  I found her on the veranda that night. I didn’t stop to question why I sought her out; I just knew that something was compelling me.

  She was staring at the stars, but I could tell she had heard me approach.

  “It’s so vast, out here,” she whispered. “I have never seen a bigger sky. And the land! It’s brutal, but beautiful.”

  “It sounds like it’s getting under your skin,” I said, staring at her, entranced.

  She laughed. “Maybe it is,” she said. “I can see why people battle it out here, now.”

  “I love a sunburnt country,” I said. She
looked at me, quizzically.

  It was my turn to laugh. “It’s a quote, from a poem,” I explained. “A famous poem, by a woman called Dorothea McKellar. All Australian children learn it at school. It’s about the contradictions of the land, its harshness but also its magic.”

  “Can you remember it?” She was smiling.

  “Not all of it,” I said. “It has a few verses. But I can remember the most famous verse.” I squinted my eyes, trying to remember. I had learnt it by heart, all those years ago.

  “I love a sunburnt country,” I began. “A land of sweeping plains. Of ragged mountain ranges, of droughts and flooding rains. I love her far horizons, I love her jewel sea. Her beauty, and her terror. The wide brown land for me.” I bowed, a bit self-consciously.

  She clapped, her eyes shining. “It’s wonderful,” she said. “I never would have picked you for a poetry lover.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” I whispered. The air was suddenly charged with tension.

  And then, we were kissing. I don’t know who started it; it was like we fell into each other.

  Compelling. Undeniable.

  “Shall we go inside?” I whispered. She slowly nodded.

  Zane

  He led me through the dark house. My hand felt heavy where he held it.

  What was I doing? This was madness. My boss was leading me to his bed. And all because he had recited a verse of some old poem. I shook my head. I knew better than that. Yes, the poem had touched me, in some deep place I had no idea existed. But it was more than that. Much more.

  And then, we had arrived. His bedroom. I tried to still my nervousness, but I could feel myself shaking.

  “It’s okay,” he whispered, trailing kisses down my neck. They burnt, as if he were branding me.

  I forced myself to ignore the trembling that had started to rack my body as he carefully undid each button on my shirt. But the touch of his hands against my bare skin as the garment slid to the floor sent another wave of shivers through me.

  Zane leant back, looking at me with narrowed eyes. He reached behind and nimbly unclasped the hook on my bra, letting my breasts fall out. I felt my nipples harden beneath his intense scrutiny.

  “You’re magnificent,” he breathed, easing me backwards, bringing his mouth to my nipples. He latched onto one, softly suckling until I felt myself arch my back. Fierce waves of desire coursed through me. I could hear myself moaning, as if my voice belonged to someone else.

  My hands explored his chest beneath his shirt, finding his nipples, rubbing them with my fingertips. He groaned.

  Suddenly, he broke contact and started shedding his own clothes. I caught his urgency, and slid out of my skirt. Then we embraced. I could feel him against my thigh, fully aroused. I needed to feel him; I clasped his cock in my hand, drawing groans of appreciation from him. We were kissing frenziedly now; tongues barbing against each other. I was vaguely aware he was removing my panties.

  He found my center, and gently caressed it with his fingers. I felt a surge of wetness as his pressure increased. Then he pushed me gently onto the bed. I watched him, through narrowed eyes, above me. He was beautiful; I had never felt such desire before. He was rough, but tender at the same time. It was a heart stopping combination. I could see him fumbling for a condom in his bedside draw, waiting impatiently.

  He turned me around, and then he was inside me. It was unbearable. I started to back against him, unable to stop myself. He started thrusting, moaning softly. He was quickening, and I matched his rhythm. I felt it building within me, the sweetness of relief. Yes, no. I wanted to put it off, as much as I longed for it.

  I could hear from Zane’s groans that he was close, too. There was no need for finesse. It was primal, and urgent. His hand had snaked around to me, and was picking up in intensity to match his thrusts.

  The relief when it came was mind blowing. Little pinpricks of light seemed to flash before my eyes as the sensations overwhelmed me. I could hear him reaching his own climax behind me, his groans reaching fever pitch.

  And then, it was over. I collapsed onto the bed, shivering in the aftermath. He collapsed on top of me, panting heavily. He turned me over, gazing into my eyes. “That was fantastic,” he whispered, stroking my thigh gently. “Unexpected, but fantastic.” He chuckled silently. “Maybe I should learn some more poetry.”

  I punched him on the arm, lightly. “It’s the way to a woman’s heart, don’t you know,” I remarked, smiling. But inside, I was unsure. What did this mean? Was it a one off, or – more horrifying to consider – did Zane do this with every nanny? Was it an unwritten part of the job description?

  I had never been into casual sex. Jesus, I had only had one lover in my life, before now. I didn’t give myself over to romantic entanglements easily. Which was why I was a bit shocked at how quickly this had happened. I had never felt such an overwhelming attraction before.

  This place. This man. Something magical was occurring, but I had no point of reference for it. No compass to point me the right way. And beyond that, I had a sneaking suspicion that Zane was probably not ready for a relationship. He was still in the aftermath of a messy divorce, wasn’t he?

  I didn’t want to be his rebound affair. But then, I didn’t know what the hell I wanted, anymore. My life was all over the place. A failed business, a new country, and now sex with my new boss.

  And that’s when I saw it. On his bedside table. A framed picture of Zane and his ex-wife, on their wedding day. She was beautiful; no, I corrected, myself, she is beautiful. She isn’t dead. She had long golden hair, just like Poppy’s. Big blue eyes, like Harper’s. And did I see Max’s heart shaped face?

  Zane was gazing down at her, while she looked at the camera. His eyes were overflowing with love, and there was a tender smile on his face. That picture told me I all I needed to know. I hadn’t seen any photos of her around the house, not even in the children’s rooms. But he still kept a photo of them both on his bedside table, where he could see it. It would be the first thing he saw in the morning when he woke, and the last before he closed his eyes at night to go to sleep.

  I didn’t think that a man who had fallen out of love with his first wife would display such a photo. Zane still loved her, that was obvious.

  He saw me looking at it. He sighed, but didn’t say anything. My heart constricted.

  “Well.” I got up, gathering my clothes. “I should get to my own room.”

  “Bianca…” His voice trailed away, as he watched me dress. What more was there to say?

  It had been a stupid mistake, a monumental error of judgment on my part. Zane had seen his chance, and taken it. The silly, naïve nanny falling to pieces over the verse of some old poem. As if any man would say no.

  He didn’t stop me. He didn’t say a goddamn thing. He just watched me walk out of the room, closing the door behind me.

  As soon as I got to my own room, with the door safely closed, I sagged. The tears which I had held in as soon as I saw that photo gushed out. I sobbed, burying myself into my pillow.

  I thought of the wonderful day we had just shared, talking about his family history. I had felt so close to him; had seen the passion he had for Birrimba, and those who had built it. And then, tonight. Sweet words about the love he had for his country, his home. Had he confused that passion, just a little bit? Seen that I was there, obviously willing and able. Had I misread everything?

  As I drifted off to sleep, sobbing quietly now, I resolved that this had to stop. I couldn’t stay here. I would see things through past Halloween, then I would leave. Go back to my real life, such as it was.

  ***

  “You read the gravestone?”

  I was talking with George, the next day. A catch up about the Halloween party. He was eager to hear about the excursion to see the ruins of the first house, and the old graveyard. And I was eager to distract myself from the terrible mistake that I had made with Zane last night.

  “Yes,” I answered, push
ing thoughts of Zane aside. “It was Florence’s grave. And her daughter’s, I presume. A two-year-old named Violet.”

  “Interesting.” George stood up, going to the bookcase. He ran his hands over some books, before locating the one he was after. “Aha. Got it. When you asked the other day about the history of the station, I suddenly remembered this book. I haven’t looked at it before.” He extracted the book, passing it to me.

  I looked down at it. It was an old book, called A History of Birrimba. A very old sepia toned photo of the homestead adorned its cover.

  “Maybe there’s some information about Florence and Violet in there,” George said. “Go on, take it. A bit of bedside reading. I can tell you’re fascinated by the history.”

  I ran my hand down the gilt-edged spine of the book. Why not? It would pass the time until I left, along with Florence’s journal, of course. I had to admit the story was drawing me in. I wanted to know more.

  “I’m thinking we can use this,” continued George, tapping his pen against his notepad. “For the scavenger hunt. We could leave clues in the old ruins, and the graveyard. They’re not so far away, and the guests will have lanterns.” His eyes were shining. “It’s perfect! Ready-made spooky places to decorate and scare people. It will be like a ghost tour.”

  I smiled. His enthusiasm was infectious. “Have you ever thought about quitting your day job and becoming a party planner?” I teased. “Or maybe a ghost tour guide. I think you might have found your true calling, George!”

  He grinned. “I just enjoy organizing things,” he said. “Talking of which, have you tried on the old gown? Time is ticking.”

  I sighed. “Not yet,” I said. “But I should get to it; it might need some alterations. That’s if it fits me, of course. It looks like the right size, but who knows? And let’s not forget it might start to break apart the minute I try it on. The dress is ancient.”

  “Even more reason to try it soon,” he said. “Just in case you need to make something else.”

  I smiled, then stopped. What did it really matter? I was putting all my effort into creating this party and Halloween for the kids, but who really cared if I dressed up or not? I was only the nanny, after all. Was I even allowed to mingle with the guests?