Heart of the Valley

by Cathryn Hein

  He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck, sifting through comments for something appropriate to say while Brooke’s gaze darted nervously over his face.

  ‘Well?’ asked Chloe, frowning. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘You did a good job. It suits her. She looks …’ He turned to Brooke. His words were for her, not Chloe. ‘You look very pretty.’

  Surprise and pleasure widened her eyes and parted her lips, and his heart hiccupped in reaction, rising and falling in an adolescent crush flip-flop.

  Disconcerted, he took a step backward. ‘Right. I’d better see what sort of mess the boys are making of themselves.’

  He smiled politely at all three of them before hurrying to the bar and the safety of his teammates.

  But not before registering the narrow, frosted expression on Andrew’s face.

  Nine

  Lachie opened the screen door and let the cool morning brush his tired face. As though mocking him, Billy scrambled from his quilted cocoon and bounced from his bed, black eyes bright and clever, tail wagging frantically, electric with Jack Russell energy. Smiling and taking care not to spill his cup of tea, Lachie bent down to stroke Billy’s silky ears before wandering to the edge of the verandah and leaning against a post. He surveyed the dull sky. Another rain front had brewed overnight and with the abatement of yesterday’s wind, it lumbered over the Valley like a giant grey tarpaulin, blocking the sun and leaching the land of colour.

  He yawned and scratched at his unshaven chin, thinking how well the weather suited his mood. Despite a long soak in a Radox-laced bath and an early night, he’d woken feeling sluggish. His rucked shoulder throbbed and his leg muscles were stiff and sore from exertion. As he’d dressed, he’d discovered purpling bruises he couldn’t recall receiving, and an angry red stud scrape down his left bum cheek. All reminders that if he intended to keep playing, he’d better do some proper training and toughen up. With a bit of luck, he might even convince the Panthers to join in.

  He smiled into his tea as he remembered the pub, the raucous fun and camaraderie. The pride he’d felt at being accepted into a community, a feeling he’d never quite regained after uni, when he’d set aside his ego for Tamsyn’s sake, called a truce with his dad and returned to Delamere. Maybe he’d changed since uni, or maybe it was because he’d chosen not to play rugby and concentrate solely on the farm. Perhaps it was the scars that Tamsyn’s unexpected dumping left behind. Whatever the reason, it felt good to belong again.

  That he left the pub when he did was a smart move. The night was definitely deteriorating. Slurred words, discordant singing, and rumblings of swapping from beer to rum or bourbon were all, in his experience, sure signs of trouble. Not to mention a sore head. His body ached enough this morning without adding that to the mix.

  His thoughts drifted to Brooke and the way she hadn’t seemed quite herself in the pub. He left the post to walk to the verandah steps and gazed up the track, towards the dairy. Brooke’s car sat near the front door, where she usually parked it. Smoke plumed from the chimney. She was home and fine and he should mind his own business, but as he leaned out to toss out the dregs of his tea his mind registered the yards. Three horses stared expectantly back at him.

  He frowned and glanced at his watch. Eight a.m. By now Poddy and Venus should be in their day paddock. Brooke always fed them early before leading them out. Sod usually stayed put until after he’d been worked. Perhaps she thought the weather too miserable for them, yet it’d been worse on other days and the routine had remained unchanged.

  ‘What do you reckon, Billyboy? Something not quite right here?’

  Lachie eyed the horses for a few seconds longer before deciding to investigate. He couldn’t shed the niggling doubt that something was wrong, and unless he did something, it’d never leave. He’d check the horses and wander up to knock on Brooke’s door, just to be safe. And if she didn’t appreciate his invasion of her space, he’d cover up his concern by asking if she’d come to any decision over picking up her new horse.

  Rugged up and booted, Billy tearing nose-down ahead, Lachie headed to the yards. Poddy kept his good eye on him as Lachie ducked under the rail and went to the feed trough. A few flakes of chaff remained in the corners. He checked Venus’s while she bunted his sore thighs, demanding attention. The pony’s trough was vacuumed clean, as he’d expected. He paused to give Venus a good scratch before ducking through to Sod’s yard, where he found more traces of chaff. Lumps of manure were scattered across the sand, dispersed by Sod’s restless parading. Poddy’s and Venus’s yards contained neat, khaki piles in the corners.

  ‘So you’ve been fed but not cleaned out,’ he said to the handsome brown horse, scrubbing his ears and nose. ‘So what’s that mean then, huh?’ Sod lowered his head and rubbed hard against Lachie’s chest. He let the horse indulge, running his hand under his neck rug to check he wasn’t too hot or cold. Sod was fine but Lachie’s unease remained.

  Stuff it. If he didn’t check he’d worry all day.

  Whistling for Billy, he left the horses and strode up the lane, hunched against the cold and wishing he’d remembered a hat.

  He stopped at the blue-painted door, double-checking for a bell. Not finding one, he banged the end of his fist against the timber and waited, hands shoved into his coat pockets. A good twenty seconds passed without response. He took a few steps back and looked from the car to the roof and the tendrils of drifting smoke. Maybe she was asleep or in the shower. He refocused on the door and rubbed the back of his neck. He’d only known her a fortnight, and while their farm walk and his ill-fated bid to help her had tempered her resentment, he could hardly call their relationship close.

  Leg cocking complete, Billy nosed his way to the door and parked his rump down on the dirt-encrusted coir mat. He glanced expectantly over his shoulder at Lachie before staring once more at the timber. With a sigh, Lachie dropped his hand and gave the door another rap, this time harder. It remained firmly shut.

  Casting Billy a ‘this is all your fault’ look and cursing his own stupidity, Lachie tried the handle. The door creaked open. Cautious and uncomfortable, he poked his head through the gap and though it was warmer than outside, no blast of interior heat struck his skin. He threw Billy another glance, his unease escalating.

  ‘Brooke?’ He pushed the door wider and crossed the threshold into a small entrance room. A worn oilskin coat lay tumbled on the floor below the coat rack, as though Brooke had tossed it at a hook and walked on, unconcerned if it caught or missed. A pair of scuffed Blundstone boots, elastic sides puckered with wear, lay on their sides in the centre of a dark-blue and gold Persian-style runner. He listened for a moment, expecting shower noise or a hairdryer, but the only sound was the crackle of wood. Frowning and easing the front door closed behind him, he stepped over the boots and with another call of her name, followed the runner into the main living area.

  Brooke sat hunched on one of the pine dining chairs, swaddled in a blanket, dangerously close to the wood stove. Sweat streaked her brow and dampened her newly short hair. A deep flush covered her cheeks but the rest of her skin was so pale it appeared almost translucent. As she turned her face toward him her lips trembled with fever.

  She regarded him with pained, watery eyes before staring once more at the blazing fire. ‘Please go away.’

  ‘You’re sick.’

  He looked around, still frowning. With the fire burning so hard the place should be boiling, but it was almost cold. He cast his eye over the ceiling – unpainted gyprock with dabs of plaster over the studs. No cornicing, and given the temperature, no insulation either. He shook his head in disgust. Though tiny, the space between the ceiling edge and the walls was enough to siphon every scrap of warm air from the place. Nancy had been right. The dairy was an icebox.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, moving toward Brooke with his hand out, ready to help her up. ‘Let’s get you to the cottage where it’s warm.’

  A tear trickled from her eye. ‘Please, L
achlan. Just leave. I can look after myself.’ A shiver surged, chattering her teeth. She blinked and her eyes widened. Suddenly she cast off the blanket and stood, swaying, in a pair of pink and white flannelette pyjamas, thick black socks pulled over the legs almost up to her knees. ‘The horses.’

  ‘Perfectly happy in their yards.’ He gently rewrapped her in her sweat-dampened blanket and pressed his hand against her clammy forehead, grimacing at the burn of her skin. ‘I think we need to get you to a doctor.’

  ‘It’s just a cold.’

  ‘Looks more like the flu. Have you taken anything for it?’

  She shook her head, then groaned and reeled as the movement left her unbalanced. ‘Don’t have anything. I never get sick.’

  ‘There’s always a first time for everything.’ He placed a hand on her back. ‘Can you walk or do you want me to carry you?’

  ‘Neither. I’m fine where I am.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’ And he wasn’t about to argue about it, either. In one easy movement he scooped her up, tucking her to his chest as he headed to the door. For a moment, the colour in her cheeks seemed more from outrage than fever.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Looking after you.’

  ‘Put me down!’ She wriggled in protest but stopped abruptly, closing her eyes and cupping her palm to her head. Dehydration had probably added a severe headache to her woes.

  ‘Are the keys in your car?’

  Abandoning the fight, she mumbled a yes. Without another word, Lachie carted her to the Land Cruiser and tucked her onto the passenger seat. He drove her to the cottage, coasting slowly past the horses so she could see they were fine, and assuring her he’d take care of them once he had her settled. Billy galloped ahead, tongue flapping, a streak of white against the mud and grass as he led Brooke home.

  Lachie pulled up close to the verandah and, ignoring her protests and wobbly attempt to walk, hoisted Brooke into his arms, carried her into the house and laid her gently on the cottage’s squashy fabric couch. It wasn’t ideal, but the untouched spare room was cold, its double bed stripped. The thought of her in his bed made him uncomfortable, so until he decided what to do, the lounge remained the best option.

  ‘Don’t move,’ he instructed, and set to work.

  With the fire well stoked, Brooke’s head supported by a downy pillow, fresh blankets covering her shivery body, and a full glass of water on the coffee table to add to the two he’d already made her drink, Lachie stood back to observe his charge, thinking hard over his next move. Playing nurse wasn’t in his job description and though he wanted to be kind, the situation was awkward.

  He could phone the local surgery. The number was included on the contact list Angus had given him on arrival, but if Brooke had the flu, which seemed clear, a doctor would do little more than prescribe rest, fluids and cold and flu tablets. Instructions Lachie could ensure she followed himself, once he managed to find a Sunday-trading chemist.

  Nancy would be happy to help. The old lady adored Brooke and had warned against letting her stay in the dairy. Chloe would also come to the rescue, and thanks to her accosting him in the pub as he was leaving last night, to more braying from the boys, he now had her number. Yet both options would entail Brooke moving off Kingston Downs, and he had the feeling she wouldn’t appreciate that one bit.

  ‘Brooke?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Will you be all right for a while?’

  She turned her face toward him, sickness watering her eyes, no longer defiant but fearful and helpless. ‘Why? Where are you going?’

  ‘To find a chemist. You need something for that fever.’ Sensing her need for reassurance, he crouched down beside the couch, resisting the urge to run a soothing hand across her heated forehead. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can. In the meantime, you just rest.’

  Leaving the house phone and his number on a scrap of paper by her side, he headed for the door.

  ‘Lachlan?’

  He halted, ready to turn back in case she needed help. Instead, she smiled shakily, watery soft eyes regarding him with a kind of awed gratitude.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He nodded and left the house, buoyed by simple, heartfelt words that made him feel stupidly tall and noble.

  Armed with cold and flu tablets, throat lozenges and a jar of chest rub, Lachie sat in his ute in Muswellbrook’s main street and rang Angus.

  ‘Lachie, how’re things?’ asked Angus cheerfully. ‘Everything all right up there?’

  ‘Fine, except that Brooke’s sick.’

  ‘Shit. What’s wrong? Is she all right?’ Worry filled Angus’s voice and Lachie knew he’d called the right brother. Mark might be the money man, but after some of the comments both Angus and Brooke had made, Lachie suspected he wasn’t the most compassionate of people, especially when it came to his sister.

  ‘Flu. Chemist says it’s going around, but she should be all right with rest. I’ve taken her to the cottage and bought some stuff to help with the fever and aches, so she should be okay. But the reason I’m calling is about the dairy. There’s no cornicing and no insulation. Even with the fire going flat out it’s still cold. It’s no wonder she got sick.’

  ‘She can’t keep staying there then.’ Angus let out a long breath. ‘Fuck. She’ll have to come to Sydney.’

  ‘Maybe, but with your go-ahead, I could have a shot at fixing it. Then she wouldn’t have to.’ When Angus remained quiet he added, ‘It’s not a hard job.’

  ‘Yeah, but can you do it? I mean properly.’

  ‘I had a job laying batts after high school with a decent company. And I worked for a plasterer during uni holidays for a bit of cash, so I can look after the cornicing too. The dairy’s only small. I’d have the whole thing sorted in a day or so. I just need your permission to book the materials up.’

  ‘You’re a regular jack-of-all-trades,’ said Angus, sounding impressed.

  Lachie smiled wryly. Angus had no idea. In the years when he’d first left home and moved in with his gran, he’d done anything to earn money. Sometimes labouring during the day and working a bar at night. In one memorable six-month period, when he’d set his sights on university, he’d worked three jobs, living on next to nothing as he scrimped and saved, callused hands clenched tight around his dreams of a better future.

  ‘I call it having a long and varied career. So can I go ahead?’

  ‘Yeah, why not? I’ll sort Mark with the account. Fuck. Why didn’t Brooke tell me the place was so bad?’

  ‘Probably didn’t want to worry you.’

  ‘More like she didn’t want to hand Mum and Mark another reason for her to move home. They’re already on the warpath after she didn’t turn up at Warwick Farm yesterday. Mark’s still making noises about selling Kingston Downs. Apparently that solicitor called him again this morning. On a Sunday! What sort of solicitor calls on a Sunday? Not even our owners do that to us, and they’re as demanding as they come.’

  Lachie kept his mouth shut. This wasn’t a conversation in which he wanted to participate.

  ‘Fuck, sorry, Lachie. You don’t need to hear this. And don’t worry, your job’s safe. There’s not a chance in hell we’ll sell Kingston Downs. Not while Nan’s still alive. The old girl’d see us hung, drawn and quartered first.’ Angus’s tone became businesslike. ‘Look, if you could sort the dairy out, that’d be great. And thanks for looking after Brooke. I know you don’t have to and I appreciate it. Poor bugger tries to act tough but she’s vulnerable right now. Nice to know someone else is keeping an eye on her.’

  On his return, Lachie found Brooke asleep, head tilted to one side and her right arm curled up to her chest so her knuckles rested just under her chin. With her flushed pink cheeks and schoolboy haircut, she looked like a child.

  He picked up her empty water glass and took it to the kitchen to refill, then removed a blister sheet of cold and flu tablets from the packet. Returning to the lounge, he placed the medicine an
d the water on the coffee table and gently shook her awake.

  ‘What?’ she mumbled, rousing sleepily and regarding him with owlish eyes, which widened into confusion as she tried to sit up.

  ‘It’s Lachie. You’re sick. I brought you to the cottage, remember?’

  She flopped back and closed her eyes, rubbing a hand over her face.

  He indicated the water and the blister pack. ‘Take some. The chemist said they’d help ease your fever and aches. Then we’d better get you into bed so you can sleep properly.’

  After she took the drugs, he ignored her protests and carried her into the spare room, staying close until she settled. ‘Is there anything else you need? A book or something?’

  ‘No, just sleep.’ She pulled up the blanket and made a face. ‘I stink, don’t I?’

  ‘It’s just the fever. You’ll be right.’

  A miserable expression crossed her face. She raised her hand to her forehead and squeezed her eyes shut as though in pain. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, the words almost a sob. ‘You shouldn’t have to put up with this.’

  ‘Hey, stop it,’ he said, crouching beside her. ‘It’s okay. I don’t mind. You’re sick. Someone has to take care of you.’

  ‘But —’

  ‘No buts. Come on, sleep now.’ He tucked the blanket back around her. ‘I’ve a few things to take care of outside now, but I’ll be back to check, and you have the phone and I’ll have my mobile, so if you need anything you just call, okay?’

  She nodded.

  He smiled at her. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll be all right.’

  The day proved busy and nothing like the quiet Sunday Lachie had intended. The horses were easy enough but sorting out Dorothy, who let her frustration with being locked in the stable be known with an endless succession of grumpy bleats and wall bunts, proved more problematic.

  Being designed purely for horses, Kingston Downs had nowhere that was sheep-proof. Though he searched all over the property, he could find nothing with which to make a temporary enclosure for Dorothy, leaving him no choice but to call on Nancy. The old lady happily loaned him some rusting star pickets and a few rolls of ring-lock, but on hearing Brooke was ill, took a great deal of reassurance before she was satisfied Lachie had it all under control. Even then, she didn’t seem fully convinced, and it came as no surprise to discover Nancy tiptoeing out of the house later that afternoon, when he returned yet again to check on Brooke.