Heartland

by Cathryn Hein

  Suddenly her voice cracked the quiet. ‘Will. You. Just. Stop!’

  Matt halted, frowning as he tried to assess what the fuck was going on.

  ‘Owww!’

  Blood rising, he broke into a run, only to skid to a halt a few seconds’ later in the space between the water tank and house, gawping at the sight before him.

  Callie stood bailed up in the corner between the vegie patch and the back fence, her face red with fury as an equally furious Honk took pot shots at her legs. A raggedy cotton hat covered her head, two blonde plaits sprouting from underneath; her knees and hands were dark with dirt. A neat stack of tomato stakes now edged the derelict vegie patch, a growing pile of pulled-out dead tomato plants nearby.

  Suppressing a laugh, he crossed his arms and leaned against the side of the house. ‘I take it you were ambushed? You should be more careful. A girl could get hurt.’

  She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘A little bit of assistance wouldn’t go astray, you know.’

  ‘Why would I assist? Looks bloody dangerous. Anyway I’m having far too much fun watching.’

  Callie refocused on Honk and took a careful step to the side. The goose lowered his head, hissing.

  ‘Quite a temper for a goose,’ Matt remarked mildly.

  ‘My sister’s fault. She sexed him.’

  ‘Hope sexed him?’

  ‘Yep. Never been the same since.’

  He nodded as though unsurprised. ‘Of course she did. Perfectly natural thing to do.’

  ‘Stop it!’ she ordered Honk as he shot another snap her way. ‘Hope thought so.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll ask the dumb question. Why?’

  ‘She wanted to know if Honk was a goose or a gander,’ Callie replied, her eyes never leaving Honk as she edged another step. ‘Poppy suggested she discover for herself. So she did.’

  ‘How?’

  Callie rolled her eyes. ‘How do you think? We held him down and she shoved her fingers up his vent.’

  ‘She—’ He shook his head. That was such a Hope thing to do.

  ‘I think he might have post-traumatic stress disorder.’

  ‘Understandable. No one likes their vent invaded.’

  ‘She said she stroked his penis.’

  Matt’s mouth began to twitch. ‘Kinky.’

  ‘Maybe for some,’ Callie replied with mock seriousness, ‘but Honk isn’t a loose goose. Except in the bowels.’ At Matt’s raised eyebrows she broke into a grin. ‘He pooed all over her.’

  ‘A bum-bardment.’ He nodded in approval. ‘Well done, Honk.’

  They locked gazes, and suddenly laughter burst from Matt like water from a fountain. He clutched his stomach and slid down the wall, landing with a hard thump on the hot concrete. Eyes moist with mirth, he tried to speak but couldn’t get any words out.

  Affronted at being outdone, Honk joined in the racket.

  ‘Oh, shut up, you. This fight’s over.’ And with a whoop, Callie ducked, feinted again and bolted, Honk charging behind, wings wide and flapping, squat legs pumping hard. He scored a hit on the back of her calf, causing her to stumble, but she regained her balance and shot across the lawn like Cathy Freeman, blonde plaits flying out behind her. Unable to keep up, Honk halted, tail waggling over and over as he trumpeted furiously at the sky.

  Callie collapsed on her hands and knees in the grass in front of Matt, plaits swinging either side of her face. For a moment she kept her head bowed, back heaving as she sucked in air, then she looked up at him, grinning broadly.

  ‘Well, that was an adventure.’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘Nice of you to assist.’

  Matt shrugged. ‘Just helping you adjust to life in the country.’

  ‘Why thank you. You’re all heart.’

  Nose crinkling cutely, Callie inspected her dirty hands, before clambering to her feet and heading to the water tank. Matt rose and followed, backside stinging from the burning concrete. He crossed his arms and went to lean against the tank wall but thought better of it when he felt the heat radiating off its metal exterior. Instead he waited nearby, watching her as she soaped her hands and scrubbed her knees, using a cracked yellow bar set inside a stocking tied to the tank’s tap.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so hard. He couldn’t remember feeling this damn good about someone either. Not agonisingly lovesick, like when he was teenager, more happy. Simple, clean, natural happiness. If Callie could do that after the fucked-up morning he’d had, imagine what she could do if they really got it on.

  He reached out and brushed the back of his fingers over the angry red blotches on her upper arm. ‘Honk got in some good shots.’

  She stilled, and for an uncertain moment Matt thought he felt a slight tremble in her skin. The sensation passed as Callie returned to scrubbing her hands, leaving him to wonder if it was just his wishful thinking.

  After brushing down her wet knees and flicking the last of the water off her fingers, she straightened and turned to him. ‘He did, the little shit.’ She stared across the lawn, shaking her head before catching his gaze again. ‘I need a cold drink. You probably do too. And while we’re doing that you can fill me in on what Wal said about fireproofing Glenmore.’

  Pulling off his cap, Matt followed her inside, expecting to find a room filled with bags and boxes. Instead he found a neat kitchen, its floor swept and the sink and benches tidy. The china cabinet sported knick-knacks on doilies. A roster printed on Royal Hotel letterhead was pinned to the fridge front with faded plastic alphabet magnets. An old cake rack with some kind of slice cooling on top rested on the stove, while the kitchen table sported an open laptop, a notebook filled with Callie’s loopy writing at its side.

  He glanced at her but she seemed oblivious to his scrutiny, too busy fetching glasses and a jug of water from the fridge.

  ‘Take a seat,’ she said, handing him a moisture-beaded glass. ‘Hungry? I made a slice. Nanna’s recipe.’

  ‘Sure, thanks.’ He pulled out a chair, noticing a cardboard box that had been hidden from view by the laptop’s screen. A blue ribbon lay bundled in the top. He reached out but before he could touch it Callie plucked up the box and moved it to the top of the china cabinet. Nothing about her expression suggested anything other than a person tidying for her guest, but he sensed the rebuke anyway. Whatever the box held, it wasn’t for him to see.

  He drank his water, watching her closely as she cut two fat pieces from the slice and placed each on a plate.

  ‘Date slice,’ she said, sliding the plate in front of him. ‘It used to be our favourite.’

  ‘Our?’

  ‘Mine and Hope’s.’ She avoided his eye, staring out the window as she rubbed at her tattooed wrist. ‘I’d forgotten about it until I saw the recipe in Nanna’s book.’

  The way she looked made Matt wanted to touch her again. Instead he took a bite, mouth filling with moist crumbs, the flavour sweet, spicy and moreish. ‘It’s good.’

  Callie smiled and took a sip of water before picking up and biting into her own piece. Her eyebrows lifted. ‘It’s not bad, is it? Not as good as Nanna’s, but nothing to be ashamed of.’

  ‘Definitely nothing to be ashamed of.’ Matt finished his slice to prove it.

  ‘Thanks.’ Slice done, Callie dragged the notebook toward her. ‘I made a bit of a list from the CFA website but Wal probably knows better than anyone what needs to be done here.’

  ‘He does. If you have the time, it’s probably easier to walk around and show you.’

  ‘Only if you can spare it.’

  ‘You just made my morning,’ he said, picking up his plate then Callie’s and taking them to the sink. ‘I can spare it.’ He turned on the tap and rinsed the plates off, before placing them in the drainer.

  ‘You’re well trained.’

  ‘Comes from having to fend for yourself from a young age.’ He leaned against the edge of the sink and surveyed the room. ‘I expected boxes everywhere.’

  Sh
e ran her finger down the side of her glass, not looking at him. ‘It’s a slow process.’

  ‘Painful too, I imagine.’

  ‘It has its moments.’

  Callie finished the last of her water and rose to place the glass in the sink. He shifted aside but still she was close. A soft scent rose from her skin, sweat mingled with something nicer. The angry red blotches on her arm now held a tinge of blue, bruises in development. Once more, he found himself grazing fingers over skin and once more she stilled, her face strangely expressionless as she stared out the window,.

  ‘You shouldn’t do that,’ she said, though there was nothing in her voice that told him she wanted him to stop.

  ‘You don’t like it?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘Then why should I stop?’

  She brushed away from him. ‘We should get to work. I’m sure Wal has a list as long as my arm.’

  ‘Callie.’

  She halted at the door and looked back over her shoulder at him. ‘You don’t want this, Matt.’

  ‘Why don’t you let me decide for myself?’

  She opened her mouth to say something then closed it again and looked away. ‘Come on.’ With a yank on the door and a gush of heat, she disappeared outside.

  After puzzling for a few moments, a smile began to play around the edge of Matt’s mouth. Callie’s words were that he didn’t want this. No mention of her feelings, and that meant something. What, he wasn’t sure, but it was something he intended to explore. With care and patience, if his intuition had it right. Fortunately for him, it appeared time was on his side.

  Because if the lack of progress with the house was any indication, Callie Reynolds wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry.

  Eleven

  Years of practice should have allowed Callie to keep her expression neutral. She was expert at donning her mask. The one that gave nothing away, cloaking the turmoil inside her like a dropped theatre curtain. But Matt Hawkins had a way of making the heavy drapes draw apart, tugging on the ropes with his smile and those knowing green eyes.

  Callie studied him as he crouched in the long grass at the back of the machinery shed inspecting the fire trailer’s hoses. In the unforgiving outdoor light his scar seemed harsher, furiously slashing across his cheek and jawline in an arrowhead gouge to his chin. On another man it might have turned his features ugly, but for Callie the scar gave Matt a sexy, almost mysterious appeal. It posed questions, ones she wanted to dig into. She wanted to ask how it happened, how badly it hurt, how he felt about it. That he’d been injured in Afghanistan she knew from Wal, but there had to be a bigger story. A story that fitted the man she was beginning to think he might be.

  The man she wanted to know everything about.

  Angry with herself and the futile direction in which her thoughts were heading, Callie crossed her arms and looked away, toward the east and the river. She watched a bird float on the fevered wind before it ducked back into the swaying treetops. The forest edges held a deceptive, thirsty grey hue, as if the scrub wouldn’t last another day without rain. It would, though. This country was tough, its spiky plants evolved to survive summer’s aridity until the autumn break, still a good few months away, brought relief. Callie would be long gone by then, lodged in the distant safety of Airlie Beach and her uncomplicated life with Anna and Rowan.

  ‘Everything looks fine,’ Matt said, straightening and patting the rusted tank. ‘Although Wal’s probably right that it’s due for replacement. She’s a pretty old rig.’

  ‘A problem for the next owners,’ said Callie, the words coming out harsher than she intended, but after the incident in the kitchen, Matt needed to understand. She had nothing to give and he deserved better.

  If he registered her tone he didn’t let on. Instead he tugged off his cap and used the back of his forearm to scrub sweat from his brow before looping the hat back over his head. ‘You’ve listed Glenmore for sale then?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Matt squinted across the paddocks. ‘I wish I had the money to buy a place like this.’ He looked back at Callie and shrugged, irresistible smile dancing. ‘Can’t have everything though. Right, let’s check this shed.’

  She followed him as walked the perimeter of the machinery shed, thinking on what he’d said. ‘Is that what you want to be? A farmer?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Funny, I thought you were a soldier.’ Callie frowned. ‘That you were just recovering here or something.’

  ‘Nope. Here for good.’ He scratched at the light stubble growth around his scar. ‘I miss it a bit though.’

  ‘I thought you said war was shit.’

  ‘It is.’

  She tossed him a curious look.

  Matt shrugged. ‘It’s hard to explain.’

  Callie paused by a pile of ancient fenceposts, stacked only a few metres away from the shed. Perhaps Matt was like those other soldiers she’d read about and didn’t want to elaborate. ‘Too painful?’

  ‘No.’ He grimaced. ‘Some I’d rather forget, but I’m not fucked-up about it if that’s what you’re thinking. If anything, Afghanistan taught me the best lesson of my life.’

  ‘And that was?’

  ‘Life’s short. You need to get on with it.’

  ‘So you’ve come to Dargate for that?’

  ‘No better place.’

  Callie wasn’t so sure about that. She slid her eyes sideways, letting them travel over his scar. The scar that made that girl in the pub judge him so severely.

  ‘Your blind date?’

  ‘You mean Jasmine? What about her?’

  ‘Jasmine.’ Callie pursed her lips. ‘Pretty name.’

  ‘Pretty girl. Just not my type. If she was blonde I might have been interested.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No.’ He regarded her seriously. ‘Women who think they can judge a man simply from his looks definitely aren’t my type. No matter how attractive.’

  Callie reached down to test the weight of one of the posts. Heavy. She’d need help to move the pile a safe distance away. Although a convenient place to store firewood, even she could see its position was dangerous. ‘Did it bother you?’

  Matt reached for the same post, muscles flexing as he hauled it up. ‘Did what bother me?’ He let it drop again. ‘We need to shift this pile. It’s too close to the shed.’

  ‘I think Nanna must have been raiding it for firewood.’ Callie indicated an axe-chewed block, weathered slivers of timber forming grey litter at its base, before inspecting the pile once more. The posts hadn’t even been stacked, simply dumped as though tipped from the back of a trailer. Perhaps Nanna had meant to shift them away but couldn’t manage the task single-handedly. The thought spiked Callie with guilt.

  ‘Probably full of snakes,’ she said, prodding her toe at a bottom post, trying to cast away the thought of Nanna out here in the bitter winter, old bones aching in the southerly wind chill, trying to cope on her own. No one caring.

  ‘Probably. We’ll need long trousers, good boots and gloves for this lot.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘You won’t shift it on your own.’

  Callie had to concede Matt was right. The old hardwood posts were too heavy for her and this wasn’t something she wanted to do alone. Not in snake season and not with Nanna’s ghost hovering. ‘You have enough to look after with Amberton.’

  ‘I can do both.’ He moved away from the woodpile to continue his inspection. Pausing at the shed’s rainwater tank, he crouched to test the tap but it appeared rusted in place. ‘I’ll bring a shifter back for that. You haven’t answered my question, by the way.’

  Callie blinked. What question? She was still caught on his shifter comment, how he seemed to take for granted that she would accept his help. That she would want him hanging around fixing her problems. Callie didn’t want her problems fixed. She just wanted to get this over with and escape. Trouble was, the world seemed determined to keep her netted, every struggle only wor
sening the tangle in which she found herself. Wal, Morton, Honk, Lyndall, Nanna’s ghost, and now Matt. All conspiring.

  ‘You mentioned Jasmine,’ he prompted. ‘Then wanted to know if it bothered me, and I asked if what bothered me.’

  She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter now.’

  He wandered on, clicking his tongue at the overgrown grass. Callie crossed her arms again, sulky with the feeling she was being judged. This wasn’t her mess. She’d been here exactly one week. A girl couldn’t do everything.

  Besides, she was damn well meant to be gone.

  ‘If you meant how she immediately judged me by my scar,’ he said, answering her question anyway, ‘then the answer is no.’

  ‘Not even a little bit?’

  ‘No.’ He caught her expression and made a face. ‘All right. So it stung a bit. But I’m not going to get myself down just because someone thinks I’m ugly.’

  ‘You’re not though.’ Silently cursing her errant mouth, Callie turned her face deliberately to the roof, crushing her arms tighter across her chest as she pretended to inspect the shed’s guttering.

  ‘No?’ He grinned, and shifted closer, expression jubilant.

  Ignoring him, Callie stalked on, halting at the old fuel tank on stilts and gesturing toward it. ‘Any ideas on what I’m meant to do with this?’

  ‘Pray we don’t get a fire.’ He cupped his hands around the points of her bare shoulders and regarded her square on. ‘Look, you’re never going to get everything perfect.’

  ‘I know. I just don’t like this weather.’ Moving backward so he was forced to release his grip, she threw a hand westward and swept it to the south. ‘And there’s so much dry growth.’

  ‘So stop fretting. It might never happen.’ He smiled. ‘Anyway, I’m here.’

  ‘Superman, huh?’

  ‘A Superman for a Supercallie.’

  Callie stilled, her sweat-sheened skin suddenly frosting. Supercallie. Hope’s pet name for her. The name they used to giggle over, that had once meant sorority, an ‘us’ versus ‘them’ coalition of siblings. How could such a silly name trigger so much pain?