by Jessica Kate
Sam rubbed a hand over his face. Thank You, God.
He eased back against the tire, a chill sweeping his skin. He still only wore the blue singlet and SpongeBob boxers, and Kimberly’s grim expression twisted his insides. Meg might be okay, but . . . “How’s the house?”
“We put out some spot fires in the yard. Soaked the roof, so it should be okay. A lot of embers came over. We lost the chicken coop, though. No one was watching that.”
Smoke coated his tongue as his gaze drifted past Kimberly toward the smoldering wreck of the chicken coop that had sat between the sheds and the house. Gone? One of Dad’s best paintings had been on the back of that structure—a silhouetted image of the four of them working in the yards at sunset. He’d painted it at Jules’s request.
Sam moved toward the coop on autopilot. The tin roof, a wall, and half the mural had collapsed in; the remaining structure sat blackened and crumbling. One untouched panel of painted wood remained on the easternmost edge.
Sam halted before he got too close. The chickens. The white silkies dyed pink, blue, and yellow.
Kimberly stopped beside him.
“The chooks?”
“I’m sorry.”
He kicked a rock and swallowed down the lump in his throat. Do not cry about chickens. But his throat ached, and he had to clear it before he could speak. “Any other animals hurt?” A memory flashed through his brain. He tensed. “Jules? I saw her slip. Any people hurt?”
Kimberly pointed to a concrete water trough on the fence line. Jules and Mick sat shoulder to shoulder against it, faces black. “Mick was with her all night. I think her leg’s as okay as it can be with her on it so much.”
He studied his sister for a moment. Face set but no tears. Was she in denial, or was there hope that this wouldn’t sink them?
“How bad is it?”
“I haven’t really had time to—”
He coughed again. The world spun around him. He gripped Kimberly’s shoulder, both for support and to make his point. “I know you’ve been guestimating in your head. Does this push us past the point of no return?”
He’d stacked the hay. He’d even said aloud it should be in multiple piles. The hay wouldn’t have been there if not for the loan he recommended. Say no. Please, please, please say no.
Kimberly gave the smallest of nods. “It’s not necessarily foreclosure. Insurance will likely take too long to hold off the bank, but if you can sell fast enough . . .”
She kept speaking, but Sam’s brain refused to take in any more information. His gaze drifted from her to the land around them, his mind’s eye traveling to every item he treasured. The dairy whiteboard, ringed with family photos. Granddad’s tractor. Meg’s kennel. The cows. The flying fox. The house.
Dad’s grave.
Once again, he’d failed. And it had cost his mother and sister everything.
He kicked another rock. It hit the wall of the chook shed, and the rest of the structure collapsed in. Just like their lives.
The strength left his muscles and he sagged downward till he sat, cross-legged in the dust. The brightening sunrise lit the wreckage around him, and he blocked it out with hands over his eyes. Grit scraped where his palms met his cheeks.
Then tears seeped through and the grit turned to mud.
Chapter 36
Sam fought the urge to punch this real estate agent, smash the man’s camera, and run off laughing like a maniac. He ran a hand through his hair, fingers quivering, as the man snapped photos of the northern paddocks. An idyllic scene stretched before them under the morning sun—green grass, a gentle hill, a curving river. Three kangaroos bounced along the fence line, over it, and down to the water. This, the highest point of the farm, had never flooded, and the fences remained strong and clean—unlike the tangled mess of wire and tree branches in the eastern paddocks.
Usually comforting, this beauty twisted the knife now living in his chest.
A drip of sweat snaked down his back, dampening his cotton work shirt. Only three days since the fire, and Mum had already listed the property on the market. B-double trucks would cart Jules’s cattle to the sales on Thursday. They’d hold a clearing sale as soon as they could properly mop up the fire damage.
And then they’d leave 120 years of family heritage behind.
The man clicked the shutter one final time. “All done.”
Sam swiped a fly away as he slid into the driver’s seat of the ute. “Let’s get you back to your car.”
The agent tugged a candy snake from his pocket as they rumbled down the track, his movements wafting strong cologne in Sam’s direction. “Lolly?”
Sam shook his head. It wasn’t the man’s fault that the war-room sessions with Jules, Mum, and Kim had resulted in no better option. Not his fault that the insurance money would come through far too late to save them from foreclosure—though at least it should secure Mum’s retirement. If anything, this man was helping them; if they could sell fast enough, they could pay out both mortgages and avoid the stain of bankruptcy on Mum’s and Jules’s credit records.
But his presence gave Sam someone to hate other than himself. So he tightened his hand on the steering wheel till his knuckles whitened and kept his silence.
He dropped the man off at his shiny Toyota Prado. As the vehicle pulled away, movement caught Sam’s eye. Jules, now limping crutch-free but still in her moon boot, heading down the track with a shovel over her shoulder. He rolled forward till he pulled level with her, dust filtering through the open window into the cab. “Watcha doin’?” He tried to mask the tension inside with a breezy tone.
“A job.” She kept walking, didn’t look at him.
“Want a lift?”
She stopped walking and rested the shovel on the ground, keeping her eyes on it. “I’m going to get Dad.”
Loss punched him in the throat again. Dad. His cremated remains buried out with their pet graveyard, near that stand of gum trees frequented by koalas. Dad had never gotten sick of koala-spotting, though over the years they’d grown increasingly hard to find.
Sam cleared his throat. “Hop in.”
Jules threw the shovel in the ute’s tray and climbed inside. Silence reigned for a long minute as they bumped along the track, now rutted from floodwaters.
His sister stared out the window, looking as empty as he felt. “You talked to Kim?”
“Not since breakfast.”
Jules said nothing further. Thank goodness. The atmosphere in his stomach made The Perfect Storm look like a pleasant day’s sailing—due to something apart from his grief. Kimberly. And Wildfire. Her impending departure this afternoon. And what on earth he would do.
He’d made that deal with Kimberly back in November—in return for her efforts, he’d spend six weeks there recruiting and training his replacement. Then he’d gone and promised a permanent return.
But how could he abandon his mother and sister at a time like this? Much less run the Wildfire expansion after this disaster?
Kimberly’s wisdom that night on the chook-shed roof was still something he agreed with—in theory. “Carrying guilt around only holds you back from the life God intended.”
But in practice, every fiber of his being screamed at him to stay in Australia, to make it up to Mum and Jules the best he could and never, ever attempt anything like this. Ever again.
They arrived at the graveyard, piled out of the ute, and Jules snatched up the shovel before he could reach for it. The stubborn expression on her face dared him to challenge her. He took a step back. She’d planned to do this alone. He’d give her space.
He reached into the ute and grabbed his drink bottle. The muscles in his throat ached as he swallowed a mouthful of water. They were kilometers from the site of the fire, but he could swear he still smelled the smoke.
Jules thrust the shovel—Dad’s old favorite—into the dirt. It barely got a quarter inch into the ground. Sam recapped the bottle and headed over to her, clearing his throat. “Jules—”
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“I can do it.” The words came out tight.
Sam shifted his weight, and his phone buzzed in his pocket. A distraction. Awesome. They must be in a rare patch of reception.
He pulled it out and noted the caller. Kimberly. His stomach rolled again. Today was her last day.
Where r u?
His eyes slid shut. He put the phone back in his pocket, shoulders slumping. Both options—disappointing Kim or his family—turned his stomach more than a rotten prawn on Boxing Day.
He needed to talk to Kimberly. He just had no idea what he could say.
Jules stabbed at the ground again. Sniffled. The sound ripped apart the shards of calm he’d been clinging to. He threw the drink bottle to the ground, the steam kettle in his brain whistling. “Julia.” He stepped over and grabbed the handle. “Don’t be stubborn.”
Any hint of tears disappeared. She glared at him. “Don’t be a jerk.” She yanked the shovel back with the last word.
He glared back. Clenched his jaw. Kept his grip on the shovel.
What are we doing?
Just like that, the energy drained from his muscles. He let the shovel go, hesitated a moment, then pulled his sister into a hug. She stayed stiff at first, as she always did. Then rested her head on his shoulder. Squeezed his middle. Pushed back and handed him the shovel.
He took it. “I know you could do it if it weren’t for your leg.” He drove the shovel into the ground. After about five scoops, Jules knelt by the hole and pushed against his leg. He stepped back. She pawed through the dirt and pulled a dusty black box from the ground.
Sam stared at it. Hard to comprehend that the remains of his six-foot-four father were in that little container. And that they were removing it from the land that he’d loved.
A sour taste spread through his mouth.
He offered Jules a hand and pulled her to her feet. She clutched the box to her chest as they walked back to the ute. He poked his phone into the cupholder as the ute’s engine turned over. The phone buzzed again. Jules glanced at the screen. “You avoiding her?”
“No.”
“Sure looks like it.”
“Shut up.”
That enlightened exchange got them to the paddock gate. The silence stretched as they rumbled along one track, paddock posts and then telephone poles skimming by.
Jules sniffed.
Sam slid his gaze in her direction. God, no. She couldn’t cry. She never cried.
Her face crumpled like a used tissue, and she leaned her forehead against the black box.
A heavy weight pressed against his chest. This was wrong. This never should have happened. This place was home. How can this be happening?
The vehicle rattled as he pushed the accelerator down harder and they sped along the rough track. Listening to Jules’s shuddering breaths was about as fun as a tattoo to the eyeball. And if his stomach rolled one more time, he was going to throw up.
He skidded to a halt next to the house, exited the ute like it was on fire, and made for his boxing bag. Head down, feet moving fast, vision tunneled onto the dirt in front of him. Everything else faded away—until petite gum boots appeared in his field of vision. He jerked to a stop. “Kim.”
She wore Jules’s Bintang Beer singlet—a souvenir from Bali—with red denim shorts. That combination, along with her perky ponytail and Hogan’s Dairy Supplies baseball cap, would’ve been a lot more adorable if he didn’t feel like a dog for avoiding her the past couple days.
“Hey.” Her expression showed concern.
He did his best to wipe any emotion from his face.
“I need to talk to you.”
If the pressure behind his eyes built any more, he’d explode. “Is there another ti—”
“I’m leaving this afternoon, Sam. There’s no more time.”
No kidding. He put his hands on his hips and fought down his roiling emotions.
Her jasmine scent teased him, and she bit her lip, uncertainty written across her face. “I know this timing’s horrible. But it’s the first thing Steph’s going to ask me when I get home.”
Home. A place he’d soon be unable to return to ever again.
She rubbed a hand against her other arm. He stared somewhere around the vicinity of her belly button and braced for the words she obviously didn’t want to say: Are you coming or not?
“You’re free from your commitment. If you want to be.”
Sam jerked his gaze up to her face.
Her eyes held a sheen, but she blinked and it disappeared. “I know you’re worried about your family, and I didn’t hold up my end of the deal. Don’t feel bad if you need to stay home. But if you want to come . . . you know we’d love to have you.”
And beneath her words about Wildfire, the unspoken reality: his decision whether to stay or go would either affirm or end their relationship.
His muscles tightened till it seemed they might snap. “You’re still planning to roll out your expansion plan?”
She hesitated, then nodded. He winced at the hesitation. He’d told her a thousand times this situation wasn’t her fault, and it wasn’t. The fire had been completely unforeseen. Yes, their trajectory had been a downward spiral. But Kimberly had still given them their best shot.
Still . . . “I can’t.”
She deflated. “You know that—”
“I don’t mean that I won’t, Kim. I said I can’t.” He ran a hand through his hair. “You know where I just was? Helping Jules dig up Dad.” His voice cracked on the last word.
Kimberly seemed to shrink into herself.
He mentally slapped his forehead. Jerk. “I’m not saying I blame you. I don’t.” He sucked in a breath. “I’m saying the thought of standing in front of Jack, of Miriam”—the faces of Wildfire’s longtime donors illuminated his mind’s eye—“and asking them to trust me with their money . . . Today is seared into my brain. Maybe it’s irrational. Maybe I’m not even making sense. But I—”
She placed a hand on his arm. His skin twitched at her touch. “Stop. I get it.” Her hand fell away.
Her tone said everything his words hadn’t. It wasn’t just Wildfire. This was the end of them.
“Steph—”
“I can take care of Steph.” Her voice quivered. And the last intact fragment of his heart shattered. Repaying his debt to his family most likely meant crushing Kimberly’s dream—meant the end of Wildfire.
He’d told Kimberly weeks ago that he’d never expected the ministry to last, that if it ended, it ended. He’d lied. The thought of those doors closing hurt almost as much as the shovel piercing the dirt around Dad’s resting place.
He forced himself to meet her gaze. Her eyes were dry. It was impossible to pinpoint how he knew just how upset she was. Microexpressions? The tension she radiated? Whatever it was, years of knowing this woman told him one thing: intentional or not, he’d just hurt her. A lot. She was just trying to hide it.
And there was nothing he could do.
“Bye, Sam.” She walked away and didn’t look back.
Chapter 37
Jules tossed down a spanner and cupped her hands to shout out to the woman dragging her feet toward the dairy. “Kimba! Over here.” Seated on an upturned bucket, she gripped the workbench of her machinery shed and dragged herself upright on her good foot. Crying over Dad all morning had drained every ounce of energy from her cells. But while the grief of losing the farm would take a long time to ease, a foreign sensation had crept through her heart even as she sobbed to the seven puppies licking her fingers.
Peace. And relief. She didn’t have to hold on any longer.
There was just one more goodbye that had her nails eaten back to stubs.
The two-wheeled motorbike in front of her gleamed. Mick’s old YZ, ready for his parents’ clearing sale. Luckily it’d been safely parked next to the house when the fire happened, and even with everything going on, she’d still managed to get it finished in time.
He’d be heading back to the Gold Co
ast tomorrow. Her chest ached at the thought.
Kimberly walked into the shed at a shuffle, even her sagging ponytail looking glum. Her friend’s boundless energy seemed to have burned off on the night of the fire. Her brother’s fault, or did it stem purely from them having to sell the farm? Either way, Jules needed to set the record straight.
“Can you drive me out to Mick’s?” Jules nodded toward the ute, stomach twisting. But this goodbye was something she had to do.
Kimberly shrug-nodded and helped her heft the motorbike into the tray before they headed off. The radio, tuned to Triple J, blared new Aussie tunes. Kimberly didn’t even tap a finger when the station played that Brisbane alt-rock band she’d gushed about last week. Though, truth be told, Jules wasn’t tapping any fingers herself. The motorbike felt like a lame peace offering at best, considering what she’d put Mick through. And what words could possibly accompany it?
She rolled down her window to let the stuffy air escape, then twisted the volume knob to quiet the music. She wasn’t the only one with problems. “This isn’t your fault, you know.”
Kimberly shrugged. “Thanks.”
She didn’t look any better. Jules rubbed paw paw ointment on her lips, chapped from the fire’s heat. “Did my brother say different?”
“No.”
“But he’s not going to Wildfire?”
“No, he’s not.”
Jules’s heart sank. Kimberly must be crushed. And Sam—“He’s a dingbat.”
A faint smile creased Kimberly’s lips.
Jules tossed the ointment into the cupholder. “That idiot is made to preach to kids. And he does it better with you.” What would he do now?
“Thanks.”
Poor Kimberly. The farm wasn’t the only loss of this week. She’d laid it all on the line to try and get Sam back where he belonged. What could Jules say to cheer her friend up? “Wherever I end up next Christmas, you’ve still got a permanent invitation.”
