by Jessica Kate
Kimberly blinked and sharpened her focus on the other woman’s lined face. “Really?”
Mrs. Payton sat on the edge of her bed, which was covered in a rose quilt far frillier than Kimberly would have ever imagined. “You look surprised.” She waved Kimberly toward a worn gray armchair resting in the corner. Kimberly perched on the edge of it.
What good way was there to respond to that? “Um—”
A grin broke over Mrs. Payton’s craggy features. “My bark is worse than my bite.”
Kimberly flashed a timid smile in return and wriggled a little deeper into the armchair. What was this woman torturing her for?
The smile drained from Mrs. Payton’s face, replaced by a thoughtful demeanor. “I’ll be honest. I dread Sam leaving. Any mother would.”
Kimberly tensed. Here we go.
“But Sam said something interesting about you the other day.” Mrs. Payton leaned forward, arm braced against her knee, and Kimberly’s ears perked up. “He said you have more faith in him than he’s ever had in himself. And I’ve watched him second-guess himself for years. But now that’s changing. He agrees with getting this loan. He’s planning to return to Wildfire and is even talking about Bible college.” Her lips tipped upward. “No matter what he’s preached, somehow he’s spent years falling for the lie that he’s the one person in the universe doomed to fail. That’s no longer the case.” She nodded toward Kimberly. “And I think you played a role in that.”
Kimberly’s brow crinkled, and she swallowed. Half her mind blasted victory trumpets while the other half gave an Eeyore groan. “But—um—” She bit off her question. Would Mrs. Payton take this badly?
The older woman raised an eyebrow.
Kimberly blurted her fear. “If this gets any worse, don’t you think he’ll refuse Wildfire?”
Mrs. Payton’s expression darkened. “Sam keeps his word.”
Bitterness burned the back of Kimberly’s throat. “He’s also loyal to his family.” What did that feel like, to have someone so invested in you they’d alter the course of their life for your sake?
Mrs. Payton conceded her point with a nod.
Kimberly leaned forward. “And a piece of him might hope he’s not doomed to failure, but which do you think will win—the new or the old?” The question hung in the air.
Mrs. Payton heaved a sigh, and Kimberly’s hopes sank faster than a popped balloon. “Honestly? I don’t know.”
* * *
Jules sat on her first motorbike—her old DS 80—and engaged in a staring contest with the pet rock on Dad’s soggy grave as the sun dipped below the tree line.
The rain had stopped yesterday, two hours after Mick left her house for the last time. The floodwaters had retreated overnight. The sun had broken through the clouds this morning—Christmas Eve.
And yet her soul mourned.
A kookaburra made its trademark call from a nearby tree. To an untrained ear—i.e., Kimberly—it sounded like a madman laughing. Laughing at the silly girl with her leg in a moon boot who couldn’t catch a break in her farming or her romantic life.
God, I can’t do this anymore.
The stress of the last three days had nearly killed her. Yet as agonizing as it had been watching brown floodwaters swallow the paddocks she’d so painstakingly cultivated, worse still was Mick’s absence. By instinct, she’d reached for her phone so many times to contact him. When a leak destroyed a painting of Dad’s. When she first held her pups. When the floodwaters peaked.
But there’d be no Irish jig to celebrate the end of the flood. Just the dust of his ute leaving in a few short days. And a big, empty farm for her to call home.
She slapped at a mosquito on her arm. This was no time for ungratefulness or heartbreak. The rains were gone—before the damage bill could hit Kimberly’s point of no return. Instead of being swept downstream, her cows were safely munching in the west paddocks. The long-range weather forecast looked ideal for autumn planting. The hay would dry out. Production would lift. Her future here would be secure, and long.
And lonely.
“Jules?”
She jolted and twisted at the voice. Mum, squidging her way across the paddock. Jules used the time it took Mum to make her way over to talk some sense into herself. How could she ever begin to disentangle herself from this property? Every waking minute was consumed with it. She read farming magazines for entertainment, dreamed of new tractors at night, and at least 50 percent of her conversations related to rainfall.
And then there was her heritage. How could she remember the twinkle in Dad’s eye if she couldn’t see the mural he’d painted on the chicken coop just for her? Where would she keep Grandpa’s tractor, the one he’d used to teach her mechanics? How would she teach her own children Mum’s whip-cracking tricks or how to muster or milk or plow?
Who would she be if not Julia Payton of Yarra Plains, fourth generation on this land?
Finally, Mum reached her. “Hey.” She kissed the tip of her finger and pressed it against the pet rock, then perched on a stump beside it. “So you’ve had internal crisis stamped on your forehead for a while now.”
Despite her turmoil, Jules snorted. “You picked up on that?”
Mum shrugged, face nonchalant. “Little bit.” A grin broke through.
Jules couldn’t help but laugh at the insanity of it all. “This week has been ridiculous.” Ridiculously awful.
“So talk to your mummy. Have you reached a decision?”
“On what?”
“You tell me.”
Jules twisted her fingers together. “Mick wants us to be together. Find a place to compromise on.” Her voice wavered on the last word.
“And what do you want?”
Jules opened her mouth, closed it. What did she want? For so long, she’d been certain.
Now not so much.
She cleared her throat. “To stay here, of course. That’s why I got the loan. It’s what all this is about. This farm is who I am.”
“That’s not true.”
She jerked her head up.
“You’re far more than that. I’d hate to see you limit yourself because you have a picture in your head for the future that you can’t change.”
“You think I should choose Mick?”
“No.”
“No?”
Mum reached forward and took Jules’s hand in both of hers. “This isn’t about Mick. This is about you being open to something new, to God’s leading—wherever that may be. Even if it’s uncertain. If that’s to Mick, great. If it’s here, fabulous. But I think the reason you’re so exhausted is you’re fighting hard to hold on to something that you’re not meant to control.”
A tear spilled over, then another. “It’s so hard to survive out here. Every year brings another challenge, usually another disaster. I have to hold on to that picture in my head just to make it.”
“And if you let go, what would happen?”
Within a moment she was back on that paddleboard, Mick’s arms around her. “Whatever happens, God won’t desert you. You aren’t alone.”
Mum gave a sympathetic smile. “It hurts to let go. Believe me, sweetie. I’ve buried two husbands. But sometimes it hurts more to hold on.”
“It’s not like I don’t love it out here.” Nothing was more exhilarating than that feeling of battling nature and winning. Clawing a living from this land with little but determination and hard work. “And I don’t give up.”
Mum rubbed her bad shoulder. “When my shoulder gave out the second time, I was determined to not give up. I was born in that house. Married on this farm, twice. This is where we raised you two. Dad’s buried here. A little nerve damage in my arm couldn’t drag me away, even if I had to hand the day-to-day running of the farm to you. And you know what God gave me?”
“What?”
“A stubborn daughter.”
Jules barked out a laugh.
“Remember how we fought all of a sudden? We got along better when you were sev
enteen than when you were twenty-seven. I couldn’t give up control, and you couldn’t stand taking orders anymore. It was Sam who told me to either give you some space or risk permanent damage to our relationship. So I spent some time with Suze.”
Jules shifted on the bike. Yes, things had gotten better when Mum took an extended holiday with her sister at the coast, but where was this going?
“I thought I’d hate being at the Sunshine Coast, but this whole new world opened up to me. The people are different, sure, but they’re nice. I’ve seen more growth in the church there in the last two years than I saw in fifty years of attendance here. I have coffee with friends, and we talk about something other than the rain and milk prices. I volunteer at the teen girls’ ministry at the local high school.”
Jules injected all the levity she could manage into her voice. “You’re saying I should retire with you to the Sunshine Coast?”
“I’m saying that sometimes there’s more to the picture than we can see on our own. Sometimes we just need to trust and follow.”
“Easier said than done.”
“Sweetheart, when God closes a door, He closes it. Best not to hold on too long and get your fingers jammed in the process.” She stood, brushed the dirt from her trackie dacks. “I’ll leave you now to ponder my wisdom.”
Jules smirked.
Mum leaned over and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “Love you, kiddo.”
Her footsteps slushed off into the distance.
Jules resumed staring at the pet rock. It was like Mum had put a spotlight on every thought she’d been pushing away for the past few months. Maybe . . . maybe she could survive not living here full-time. If she worked at Cockatoo Creek Outdoor Camps, she’d be able to drive up and check the property on the weekends and leave it with a capable manager during the week. And then . . . maybe there was a shot at a future with Mick. If he’d still have her. Goodness knows she’d tried the limits of what any man could take.
She scrubbed a palm across her face. Maybe one day she wouldn’t be Julia Payton of Yarra Plains.
Maybe now it was time for her to be Julia the Brave.
She whispered a sentence she never thought she’d say. “God . . . the farm’s Yours. Just tell me what to do.” She released a deep breath, one it felt like she’d been holding for years. It’d take a long time for her to recalibrate to a new picture of the future—or no picture at all. And who knew if that future included Mick. But she was too exhausted to fight this anymore.
Time to let go.
By the time she got home, everyone else had retired to their rooms and Mum had already stashed presents under the tree. Jules hobbled past Kimberly’s room with a purposefully heavy step. Kim probably wasn’t asleep yet. She’d want to know about this new development, for sure.
But no one came out to talk.
Jules fell into bed and sank into the deepest sleep she’d had in months. When she woke, it was still dark. What had pulled her from unconsciousness? The childish thrill of Christmas?
She inhaled again. Nope. Smoke.
And a lot of it.
Chapter 35
Darkness, warmth, the quiet whir of the ceiling fan. Sam kicked off his tangled bed sheet, barely conscious, and relaxed back onto his pillow. Santa wouldn’t come if he stayed awake—or so Mum had said last night, as she’d done for the last thirty Christmases. His thoughts fuzzed, then drifted away as he slid back into oblivion.
Click. Light. Sam’s drowsy senses flooded with brightness.
“Sam, the haystack’s on fire.” Jules’s strained voice sounded from the direction of his bedroom doorway.
He launched out of bed before he got his eyes open. Upright, he blinked at where his sister had been, but she’d already fled. He sniffed the air. Smoke.
God, no. Ice ran through his veins.
Clothes? He already wore a bluey and SpongeBob SquarePants boxers. Good enough.
Jules’s shuffling step sounded from the kitchen. He ran past her, the Christmas tree stacked with presents, and five fat Christmas stockings. On the veranda, he yanked on his gum boots without socks.
Another light flicked on. Jules’s voice emanated from Mum’s room. “Mum, fire!” Her head popped out around the kitchen doorjamb. “I called the firies, and the Carrigans are on their way with their water cart. Mick’s ringing the neighbors.” Her words were controlled, the lines on her face deep.
Sam grabbed Dad’s oilskin from its hook. Better the embers landed on the leather than his skin.
Kimberly stumbled out of the hallway, hair mussed and eyes wide. “What’s going on?”
On second thought, he’d be fine in the tractor cab. He tossed the oilskin to Kim. “Anyone goes near the fire, they put this on.”
Mum rushed into the kitchen. “Sam, don’t you—”
He sprinted down the steps before she could finish.
Cane toads jumped away from under his boots—sometimes not fast enough—as he made for the machinery shed farthest from the dairy. Thank goodness he’d parked the tractor there last night instead of beside the haystack.
His view of the hayshed was blocked by the machinery shed in front of him, but there was no mistaking the orange glow in the air, nor the sickening crackle of their last chance burning up.
The heat hit him, even through the tractor cab, as he rumbled around the corner of the shed.
“No—”
His voice failed. Flames danced across the entire haystack, the corrugated iron structure glowing orange. The roof directly over the stack had already buckled. The four-wheeler parked next to the stack had to be a write-off. And Meg. Sam’s foot slipped from the accelerator. Mum was no fan of farm dogs inside, and Meg had been well enough to shift the whelping box to the shed last night.
To this shed.
Sam screwed his face up, emotion pounding him like a pro boxer. He could cry. He just had to keep his eyes open at the same time.
He mashed the tractor’s controls forward and plunged the forks into the second-from-the-top bale. Shouted a curse at the searing heat. Yanked the tractor backward and dumped the bales onto the ground. Repeat. Barely audible over the thunderous clamor of the fire, he could just make out the sound of another tractor’s engine. Mum towing the water cart with the old Massey Ferguson, most likely.
Two more bales.
Smoke poured into the cab, filling his mouth and nose. Sam stripped off his bluey and wrapped it around his face, holding his breath to try and not cough—his hands jerked on the hydraulic controls when his chest spasmed. He powered forward to the side of the haystack closest to the dairy. The dairy plant was too close to the fire. If they lost the suction pump, the pipework, their ability to milk . . .
Two more bales. The heat intensified. The glass windscreen gave an alarming crack.
He shoved the tractor forward again and yanked out another two. But this time the top bale dislodged . . . and slid backward.
Sam froze. The bale stopped as his heart rate tripled. If that bale tipped, half a ton of flames would smash into the cab. He’d be simultaneously crushed and burned.
With the lightest of touches, he eased the controls forward until the bales touched the ground. He heaved a deep breath and pushed the burning hay out of the way.
Way too close.
On his left, a stream of water hit the dairy. Embers drifted into the air. God, please let Jules and Kimberly be hosing down the house. Hundred-year-old timber houses burned faster than a forgotten sausage on the barbecue. He glanced back toward home but couldn’t make anything out.
Movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention. Mick. With an extra water cart. Steam billowed as Mick and Mum attacked the burning bales. Mum hobbled forward, hose in hand.
Sam did a double take. No, that was Jules. Mum must be with Kim at the house.
They worked in tandem—the tractor unstacking, scattering, and the hoses trying to douse the flames. Neighbors swarmed with their own water carts. The Rural Fire Service trucks soon f
ollowed. Half the volunteer brigade’s members were neighbors anyway.
Butch’s ute flew up the driveway at an unholy pace only twenty-five minutes after Jules had roused Sam. Yikes. Butch had been staying in town last night. He must’ve set a new land-speed record to get here so fast.
Glimpses of Mum, Kim, and Butch came periodically—they must’ve been taking turns manning the house. Jules slipped in the mud. Mick dragged her back to her feet. What state must her moon boot be in with all this soot and water?
When there was nothing left to unstack, push, or roll over in the tractor, Sam backed the vehicle into another shed opposite the burned one. The sky shifted from midnight blue in the west to lighter streaks in the east. But all the increasing light did was show the dairy’s scorched side. He sagged back into his seat and unwound the blue singlet from his face. This was it. The farm was done for. Maybe they could’ve handled a flood or a fire, but not both.
He waited for a wave of rage or despair. Nothing but a numb emptiness. What a merry Christmas morning.
He pulled the bluey over his head and pushed open the tractor door, his arm weighing ten times more than usual.
Kimberly walked over as he descended the steps. Her hair was caught into a messy bun, her jeans splattered in mud, and a cluster of tiny burn marks dotted her LA Dodgers T-shirt. Was her gray pallor from a dusting of soot and ash, her lack of sleep, or their current predicament?
He scanned her locked-down expression. Best guess, all three.
Leaning against the tractor tire, he tried to suck in a deep breath without triggering a cough. Unsuccessful.
Kimberly crossed her arms against her chest while he tried to regain his breath.
After a minute, he swiped his watering eyes and cleared his throat. Plucked at a trio of T-shirt burns where her collarbone met her shoulder and fussed at the red marks underneath. “What happened to the oilskin?” His voice came out gravelly. Must be from the smoke.
“Jules was closest to the fire.”
“She has her own.”
“Your Dad’s was bigger, protected more of her legs. I gave Jules’s oilskin to Butch. I was on house duty for most of it, just staying out of everyone’s way.” She jolted. “Oh! Meg’s okay. Jules was worried you’d be upset. Meg got the puppies out before the fire took hold. They’re in the garage.”
