Secrets of Silvergum

by Mandy Magro

  Comfortable amongst the sea of wide-brimmed hats, sparkling rhinestones, cotton candy, and gleaming belt buckles, Zane sucked in a lungful of salty Florida air. Something about it always made him homesick. Although he wasn’t thinking about going back to the golden shores of Australia anytime in the near future, or the far one for that matter, even though his marriage to a sweet, all-American girl had failed. Miserably. As much as he’d wanted to, he hadn’t been able to live up to the expectations of a husband as well as continuing to be a bull rider, and she, keen for a man to keep her bed warm each and every night, had done the dirty on him with their neighbour – and was now eight months’ pregnant with the bloke’s baby.

  Watching the next bull ride, the heavy sensation of homesickness lingered in his stomach. Was it really his home among the gum trees that he missed, or was he wistful for the feisty woman behind those delicious lips, the ones that had trailed across his seventeen-year-old stubbled cheek before kissing him like he’d never been kissed before, or again? If he were to stand in front of her now that she was divorced from Michael, and show how he really felt for her, how would she respond? Hot and hungry, or would she recoil and slap him across the face, like the last time? She’d always had a fire in her belly, and a bite to her tongue if she was pissed off, and he’d loved that about her. Emma Kensington was the epitome of an alpha female, with the heart of an angel – she was his perfect woman.

  If only things had been different …

  Smiling, he couldn’t help but wonder how her luscious mouth would feel now, after all these years, if he could do what he craved and seize her lips with his own. Would he like it just as much as he had way back then? The furious heat sparking through his veins and burning in his stomach was his answer. If only it were that simple, but it wasn’t, never was and never would be. Listening to the voice of reason, he turned his attention outward. The Brazilian bull rider beside him was up next. The five-foot-nothing guy jumped down, his spurs clanking, giving Zane more space on the railing. Zane tipped his hat to wish him good luck. The bloke gave him the thumbs up – a gesture Zane had taught him and the rest of the Brazilian crew a couple of rodeos ago.

  Glancing to his right, he watched his steely eyed, four-legged opponents pacing the holding yards, and smirked – unlike the last time he rode, he was hell bent on not letting any of his blood be spilt tonight. Instinctively, he touched the place the bull had horned him in the side two weeks ago. It had meant a trip to the ER and fifty stitches – the three nights spent in hospital had almost sent him batty. But it was all part of the job. It was never if, but when, an injury would happen.

  Needing to get away from the chaos before his ride so he could clear his head and steady the nerves, Zane jumped down and walked around the side of the arena. Time out among the rodeo-loving spectators always did him a world of good. Resting the heel of his timeworn cowboy boot on the bottom rung of the steel railings, he watched his Brazilian buddy get tossed like a rag doll from the bucking brute he’d drawn, and then basically cartwheel across the dusty ground. His wide-brimmed black hat followed, tumbling through the air and landing at Zane’s feet. With the chaos in full swing, it would have to stay there for the time being. The Brazilian went to get up but stumbled back into a heap – the bull now on a snorting warpath. The fans were on their feet, some cheering, some with hands over their mouths.

  Determined to horn his adversary, the bull charged while the three bullfighters worked like magnets, seamlessly pulling together and distracting the beast – fearlessly putting themselves in the firing line; their job was to get the bull riders home safe and sound. Zane grimaced and held his breath. It didn’t help that he knew exactly how it felt to hit the ground so hard you lost your bearings, or how challenging it was to roll out of the way and somehow get to your feet when a beast of that size was just about to crush the air right out of you. Seconds later, and thankfully out of harm’s way, the Brazilian rider hobbled out the side gate, unhurt except for his wounded pride. Zane knew so well what that felt like too. And it sucked. Unravelling his clenched fists from the railings, he leant through to retrieve the dusty hat, his muscular bulk stretching his blue shirt and snug jeans. He tossed it to one of the bullfighters to give back to its owner and resumed his position against the railings. As dangerous as bull riding was, this was the life he lived for, the life he loved – being a cowboy was in his blood.

  As his mobile started to vibrate, he yanked it out of the back pocket of his jeans. Noting the caller’s identity, his smile all but disappeared – five calls in a matter of days was beyond a joke. His curiosity almost getting the better of him, he debated answering, but didn’t feel like being reminded of his apparent shortcomings right now. Gritting his teeth, he ended the call with a stab of his finger – he didn’t have message bank, so he wouldn’t have to hear his voice. After not bothering to contact him for many years, what in hell did Peter want? It would be close to ten on a Friday night back in the land down under and Zane could picture him sitting in his leather chair, Mister High-and-Mighty, with a glass of whisky in hand, ready to drink to his pathetic existence.

  Needing a distraction before he tumbled into a world of melancholy, Zane looked to the grandstands. The woman he’d fallen into bed with last night, after the rodeo ball, smiled sassily back at him. Not interested in it going any further, and he’d told her as much before they’d ravished each other, he graced her with a polite smile and then quickly shifted his gaze. As beautiful as she was, there was nothing there for him. He wasn’t interested in commitment – that was his way of avoiding screwing everything up and getting hurt in the process. Other than his unwavering dedication to bull riding, galloping away from anything that required promises was the motto he now lived by. His favourite country music legend, Waylon Jennings, sung it well. Cowboys weren’t that easy to love, and were, without a doubt, even harder to hold. Was he destined to grow old alone? With the way he was going, quite possibly. And he’d just have to learn to live with that, if it were the case.

  Zane openly admitted, to others and himself, that his wife had deserved the picket fence and the chance to start a family – the happily ever after they’d spoken of whilst wrapped up in the honeymoon phase. But the life of a travelling bull rider didn’t easily allow for such a life of normalcy, and she’d resented him for that. Big time. Although, it took two to tango; he couldn’t blame her for falling out of love with him. So, for now, there was always another town, another woman. But the problem was, he no longer enjoyed the chase like he used to – his Casanova persona had just about left him. Shallow and meaningless romps in the hay no longer gave him satisfaction, but instead left him feeling emptier than ever. For years he’d thought it safer to be that guy, the one not worth crying over, but that approach was losing its shine, real fast. As much as he tried to fight the need for something more gratifying, there was an unfamiliar niggle deep down inside him, as if something was scratching at his soul.

  Annoyed by his lack of control over his mindset right now, he groaned and rubbed his face. If he didn’t get his shit together, it was going to cost him, in his performance and possibly even his life. While he watched one bull rider after the other buck it out in the arena – some triumphant, some not so much – he skated over his career thus far, recalling the bigger moments that had landed him where he was today. A lot had happened, good and bad – he’d achieved everything he’d wanted to, and more. But times were changing, and so was he – he just wasn’t ready to accept it. After years of pushing himself beyond his limits, of enduring countless concussions and hospital stays, he’d finally reached the pinnacle of his career. So now what? Where did he go from here?

  It was almost his time to shine out in the arena. Thank Christ – he needed to get away from his thoughts. Pushing off the railings, he made his way back to the prep area. The buckle-bunnies gave him their best come-hither eyes as he sauntered past them. Tipping his hat, he graced them with his trademark dimpled grin, sending them into an excited tither.
It was all for show – he knew it, and so did they. Heading behind the chutes, he wandered over to his gear bag and slumped down beside his Australian comrade and best mate – a long lanky guy who went by the nickname of Shorty. Go figure. The place was a hive of activity where spurs chinked, heartbeats slammed, and prayers were silently uttered as each seemingly fearless cowboy who had made it into the finals readied himself for the ride of his life.

  Covered in sweat after his unsuccessful ride, Shorty wiped blood from his lip. ‘Well that was a major fail. I won’t be telling the folks back in Aussieland about that one.’

  Quietly envious of Shorty’s unwavering support from his family, Zane gave him a slap on the back. ‘You tried, and that’s all that matters, bud. Onwards and upwards, hey?’

  ‘Yeah, true … thanks.’ Shorty flashed a lopsided grin, his lip swelling bigger by the second. ‘Make sure you stay focused out there, buddy, that bastard you’ve drawn has some spring in his buck.’

  ‘I bloody well hope so, Shorty, the meaner the better.’

  Shorty shook his head, grinning. ‘You’ve always been a crazy bastard, Wolfe.’

  ‘Touché, old mate.’ Zane smirked as he strapped on his spurs. A tough bull meant more bang for his buck, literally, because the harder they bucked, spun and kicked, the more points he had the possibility of getting – which meant a bigger pay cheque if he made it to the top of the leader board. He’d had his fair share of Sunday bulls, ones that would take a stroll out of the chutes instead of blasting out like a bullet fired, and that guaranteed nothing but a mundane ride, and score.

  Shorty stood like an eighty-year-old, his hand going to his lower back. ‘I’m busting for the pisser, and hanging for a beer to wash down the tonne of dirt I inhaled when I landed on me face. Catch ya on the flip side.’

  ‘Righto, mate.’ Watching Shorty limp away, Zane stood and did his final stretches. It was his turn to step up and show the crowd exactly how it was done, as he had countless times before.

  Climbing the rails, he threw a leg over the chute and looked down at the one-tonne monster. The animal slammed his horns through the rails and sprung up. Zane grinned. This bull was living up to his reputation of being feisty as all hell. He shoved in his mouthguard, grabbed the opposite rail, and climbed aboard, straddling the snorting beast. The rich scent of musky hide sparked his senses into overdrive. Tightening his grip, he hammered his gloved hand in hard against the rope, strapped in and braced for lift-off.

  Satisfied with his hold, time slowed.

  He took a deep, steadying breath and nodded.

  The gate flew open. The bull blasted out of the chutes like a train off the tracks, bucking, twisting and snorting. Faking a twist to the left, he then spun right, his back-end lifting and turning, sometimes with all four hooves off the ground. Silence reigned. Breaths were held. One arm held high, Zane kept his seat, but the muscles in his arm seized with the tight grip he had on the rope. As if pirouetting, the bull’s haunches rose and met with Zane’s shoulder blades, its tail whipping over his shoulder and slapping him in the face. Gravity snatched them back down with a shuddering thud, followed by another, and another. Zane’s head jerked forwards, his cheek barely missing the deadly tip of the bull’s horns. Clenching his thighs even tighter, he held on for dear life as the seconds ticked by like minutes. The world faded away, leaving just him and this brute, battling it out on the dirt. Soaring, spinning, thudding, and repeating, this was the dance of the hard-core cowboy.

  The buzzer sounded and reality struck, ripping his instincts from the battle of the fittest to one of survival. He’d made the eight seconds. The roar of the crowd once again deafening, he wrestled his hand free of the rope and then leapt from the bull. Tumbling across the dirt, he sprang to his feet, ran for the railings and hoisted himself up. The bull followed, charging, horns positioned to strike. The bullfighters distracted him, skilfully directing the beast back towards the gate that led out to the holding pens. Now safe, Zane leapt down, scooped up his wide-brimmed hat, waved it to the crowd, tugged it back on and then swaggered out of the arena to raucous cheers and wolf whistles.

  One of the other riders met him at the gate. ‘Good job, Wolfe, I don’t reckon anyone’s gonna beat that score tonight.’

  ‘Cheers, bud, I hope you’re right.’ Zane was breathing hard, his hand resting on his back where it had taken a beating.

  Hobbling towards his gear bag, he heard his mobile’s distinctive ringtone, ‘Ain’t Goin’ Down Til the Sun Comes Up’. Slumping down, he grabbed it out. It was Peter’s office number. Again. Why the hell couldn’t he just leave him alone? Groaning as though the weight of the world had landed on his broad shoulders, he rolled his eyes – answering would be the only way to stop the incessant calls.

  ‘Hey.’ As he held it tight to his ear to try to hear over the noise, the voice of his father’s long-time personal assistant greeted him.

  ‘Zane, is that you?’

  His defensive tone softened. ‘Mary, it’s been a long time. How are you?’

  Silence hung heavy at the other end. ‘I have some bad news, Zane.’ A swift intake of air resounded. ‘Peter …’ her voice cracked, ‘has passed away.’

  Zane froze, his breath held. It wasn’t so. Couldn’t be. The man was immortal. He found his voice. ‘How, when?’

  ‘Three days ago. He was on a business trip in Germany and suffered a fatal heart attack.’ She sighed. ‘His body is being flown back to Australia tomorrow night.’

  Peter was dead. Just like that. Gone. Forever. He shook his head. This had to be a cruel joke, an evil conspiracy for some godforsaken reason to try to haul him back to Australia.

  ‘Zane, are you there?’

  He squeezed his eyes shut. His throat tightened, strangling his reply. ‘Uh-huh. Yup.’ Pacing now, he tried to clear his throat while the world around him seemed to flicker and distort.

  ‘I know this must be a terrible shock, and I’m so sorry to do it over the phone – but there was no other way. You and Peter may not have seen eye to eye, but he was still a part of your family.’ She sniffled and then blew her nose.

  ‘Thanks for calling and letting me know, I really appreciate it.’

  ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you since it happened, so if you want to be back in time for the funeral, you’ll have to think about catching the next flight out.’ Mary’s tone carried with it a slight air of annoyance. ‘You are going to be coming back for it, aren’t you?’

  ‘Of course I am,’ he spluttered out.

  ‘Good, I’m glad.’ The phone muffled, as if Mary had put her hand over the receiver.

  Zane pictured Michael standing beside her, giving her instructions on what to tell him and what not to.

  Following a short conversation, Mary came back on the line. ‘Oh, another thing … there’s also the matter of the will being read. They have been holding off making a time for that until we knew what you decided to do.’

  ‘Right.’ Zane’s stomach heaved and he ran for the bin, dry retching. He hadn’t even come to grips with the news, let alone thought about his gain from Peter’s death, if any. Not that he expected anything or wanted it.

  ‘Zane, are you okay?’ Mary’s voice was shrill.

  Wiping his lips, he placed the phone back against his ear, ignoring the strange looks from some of the riders. ‘Yeah, all good.’ Feeling as though his legs were going to buckle, he wandered out of the prep area and leant against the back trailer of the stock truck. ‘When’s the funeral?’

  ‘On Thursday, at 11 am.’

  ‘Okay.’ Zane was having a tough time stringing any words together.

  ‘So we’ll see you when you get here.’

  ‘Yup, okay, Mary, and thanks for letting me know.’

  ‘Of course, bye, Zane, travel safe.’ And the line went dead.

  In a daze, his phone tumbled from his hand. Staring into space, a tidal wave of dizziness surged over him. His vision clouded as he tried to draw in a breath. Sinking to his
knees, his entire world felt as if it were crumbling around him. He tried to come to grips with the fact he’d never see Peter again, or hear the apology he’d so longed for from Peter for always making Zane feel like a thorn in his side.

  CHAPTER 4

  Serendipity Farm

  The distant drone of a tractor carried on the balmy breeze, as did the hint of seaside saltiness from nearby Crystal Beach. The rustle of the leaves in the Bangkok Rose bush was followed by a bellbird singing its one-noted tune. Momentarily distracted, Emma closed her eyes, and her book, drew in a deep breath and wished for another life, far away from all the heartache and drama of late. Then peering past the cottage she used to call home before moving into the main homestead when her parents left for their travels, she gazed towards the horizon. Although it was still stinking hot, the blazing sun had begun to slide towards the haze of the distant mountain ranges that embraced the coastal country town.

  Shadows stretched along the back lawn that separated the homestead from the cottage, helping to conceal Kat’s metal-grey coat. The middle-aged feline was biding her time, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce on her seemingly unsuspecting archenemy, Peking the second. Over the years Kat had learnt from the duck’s father, Peking the first, that hiding was fruitless. Although they were unlikely friends, it was a game both feathered and furred revelled in. Above the pair, a flock of pink and grey galahs had landed in the branches of the towering jacaranda, their squawks loud and incessant as if each bird was trying to talk over the other. The old dairy cows, Gertrude and Daisy, hung their heads over the back fence, reaching for the grass that always appeared so much greener. At the far end of the verandah, the bamboo and copper wind chimes jingled. Tiny lay sprawled on the back lawn as if he’d melted, his relentless panting and the whirr of the ceiling fans inside the house keeping company with the call of the cicadas from the golden wattle trees that grew along the fence line.