by Mandy Magro
Burying her head back into the most recent addition to her already overflowing bookshelves, Emma tried to focus on the welcome escape her romance novels always granted her. The characters seemed so real, she wished she could somehow disappear into the pages to be with them, if only for a little while. But, unlike the late nights when she would crawl into bed, aching and bone-tired, yet still keen to catch up with her latest hero and heroine, to read that little bit more of their poignant love story, today it was proving a real struggle.
After four days spent coming to terms with the shocking news of Peter’s death and consoling Riley, all the while wondering if she would now have the freedom to expose what should have been revealed all those years ago, she’d hoped reading would give her the release she so desperately needed. She had to find some clear headspace to work it all out. It had helped for a little while, but with so much weighing on her mind, her thoughts were starting to overwhelm her. There was only so long she could pretend her life wouldn’t be turned upside down, even more so than it already was, if she spoke about what she knew.
Pausing on a sentence after re-reading it three times, she thought about what could happen if she found the courage to tell everything. Timing would be important. It would be disrespectful and heartless of her to do it before the funeral – everyone already had enough on their plates. And then they needed time to grieve, to heal, before she upended their lives. There were so many scenarios she’d played over and over while unable to sleep, and none of them ended with happily ever afters. Zane felt like a stranger now – they hadn’t spoken for the past seven years – and with Michael bitter and vindictive, even though he was the one who cheated with a woman almost half his age, there was no way he was going to take kindly to her news. There was so much to consider and torment herself with; just the thought of it all unfolding made her stomach churn. Emma knew her daughter loved her dearly, but as a teenager her darling Riley seemed to always be angry with her – for everything from Michael leaving to not having the right brand of juice in the fridge. Revealing the truth, especially after all this time, was going to make matters much worse before they had a chance to get any better.
Emotions overwhelming her, Emma blinked back tears. Her beautiful Riley had gone from a loving little girl who would wrap her arms so tightly around her neck she could barely breathe, to a fifteen-year-old, hormone-riddled time bomb in what felt like the blink of an eye. Her body tensed as she recalled the look on her strong-willed daughter’s face when she’d busted Riley sneaking back into the house at two this morning, after sneaking out to meet her unruly boyfriend. With Riley’s mobile switched off, and after unsuccessfully driving the streets of town looking for her, and then anxiously pacing the hallway for hours waiting for her to return home, Emma had been both relieved and livid to see Riley when she’d climbed back through her bedroom window. Although livid had quickly won out when Riley had stormed past her as if she were the one having done wrong by worrying and waiting up for her. When she heard she was grounded, Riley’s baby-blues had turned so fierce and full of animosity, Emma would’ve preferred to be stabbed in the heart right then and there. Being a mother was the hardest job she’d ever had to do, especially now she was a single parent – quite a few of her mates, both single and married, with teenage daughters, agreed.
Unable to hold back her tears any longer, they rolled down her cheeks as she recalled the argument that had ensued.
I hate you …
Please, Riley, don’t say that.
I’ll say whatever I damn well like.
Not when you’re under my roof you won’t.
Fine then, I’ll go and live with Dad.
Oh, for god’s sake, Riley, not this again.
Yes, Mum, this again, but this time I damn well mean it.
Really? We both know what happened the last time you tried that.
Yeah, well, that was different.
Was it? How so?
Go to hell, Mum. I don’t need to explain anything to you.
I beg your pardon, miss.
You heard me.
Heartbroken, shocked and furious, Emma had bit her tongue, for fear of saying something she’d deeply regret. Both of them with their arms crossed, tempers raging, and a stance that meant business, they’d reached a stalemate. As they’d stood staring at each other like two outlaws about to quick draw, she’d taken a deep breath and tried to play Riley’s bluff, calmly telling her that if living with her father was what she wanted, then she wasn’t going to stop her. It had almost blown up in her face, with Riley going as far as packing a bag this morning and calling Michael to come and get her. But, no surprise, he hadn’t shown up. Instead he called three hours later to say he’d been caught up at work and would catch her over the weekend. Riley had slammed her bedroom door so hard after the phone call Emma was surprised it hadn’t fallen off its hinges. She’d tried to go and comfort her, but with the door locked Riley had let her know in no uncertain terms she wanted to be left alone.
Like father like son, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree when it came to Michael. Riley was very much like her – a sensitive soul, even though she came across as strong as an ox. Riley needed a father who made her feel wanted, loved, cherished; a father who showed he was proud of her many achievements at school and came to cheer her on at her horse sports. Michael was doing a shitty job of all of that, making it known that losing, at anything, was never an option. It put Riley under an immense amount of pressure. Not for lack of trying, Emma was helpless to stop the toll it was taking on her beautiful, free-spirited daughter, or the rebellion it was causing. Something had to give before it all blew up, and before Riley’s broken heart was irreparable. Maybe Peter’s death was a gift from the heavens, for all their sakes.
Emma’s heart squeezed tight as the guilt she’d carried for years pounded her even harder. There was a possible way out of this mess, a way around it all, but it was going to take a damn truckload of courage on her behalf. And could it cause more harm than good after all this time? She often wondered if Zane would have done any better than Michael. Would he do a good job of fatherhood now Riley was older and more independent? But with Zane’s nomadic lifestyle, over on the other side of the world, chasing the next rodeo and probably the next notch on his bedpost, Emma wasn’t too sure he’d have been, or would be, a better father than Michael.
She heaved a weary sigh. What was she meant to do? ‘Please, angels, give me some sort of sign, and show me the way …’ she whispered, while blinking back more tears.
Drawing in a shaky breath, she closed her eyes while she fought off the sorrow, guilt and uncertainty. The angst of it all, as well as the thought of attending Peter’s funeral and seeing Zane after all these years, had her fretting. Even though she’d secretly followed his amazing bull-riding journey on his Facebook page (she hadn’t been able to help herself), how was she going to feel laying eyes on him after all this time? Would the secrets she’d kept from him be her undoing? Would she crumble the minute he was near her? Would the chasm between them be so wide, she’d not find the strength to cross it?
She rubbed her temples and heaved another unsatisfying sigh. No matter what, the truth had to be told, sometime. She knew that without a shadow of a doubt. But the thought of it pushing Riley even further away, at such an important time in her life, terrified Emma beyond words. She wished her parents were here, instead of gallivanting around Europe like the loved-up nomads they’d become, so she could draw strength from them. But after all their years of hard work at Serendipity, they were entitled to revel in their retirement and chase their travelling dreams to their hearts’ content. They’d offered to come back for the funeral, but as they’d never been fans of Peter and his arrogant ways, Emma had told them not to. Why spend a fortune to attend a funeral of a man they despised? She would just have to pull on her big-girl boots to deal with the situation. Somehow. Some way.
A whinny sounded from the paddock, pulling her away from her incessant though
ts. Her buckskin, Bundy, was letting her know it was that time of the day, and he was hungry, like literally starving to death, so she’d better hurry up. He did this at the same time every day, on the dot. It was around the same time she’d usually see Riley wandering down the driveway after her Saturday shift at the local IGA, her head buried in her phone and her shoulders slumped as if the entire world rested upon them. Emma had a feeling today was going to be one of those times when Riley chose to get under her skin by not showing up at home when she should. She made a conscious effort not to rise to the bait – it wasn’t worth the argument. Scraping a wisp of hair behind her ear, she smiled at Bundy’s audacity while trying to ignore the relentless heat still inching its way across the verandah. It had been a scorching January so far, the temperature reaching a record forty-three degrees just after midday. Not the kind of weather to be outside unless you had to.
Her bare feet resting up on the railing of the wide, wrap-around verandah, she waved a fly from her face. Well aware she really should think about pulling her boots back on and making a move to feed the critters before the sun slunk away and Bundy starved to death, she couldn’t resist the yearning to read just one more page, hoping it might help lift her mood. She smiled when she realised she’d been saying that to herself for the past couple of hours. Even though she’d initially felt guilty, sitting about doing nothing, she told herself it was what she needed after the godawful week she and Riley had endured. As her best mate, Renee, always said to her, she really needed to learn to stop and smell the roses – life was way too short not to. If only her roses weren’t so thorny, she might actually try to do just that.
Squinting, she cast her gaze over Serendipity, only to be reminded of everything she had to do. Her trusty old John Deere tractor was where she’d parked it at dusk last night, beside the quad bike that was in need of a service. The slashing still had to be finished in the top paddocks; and then she’d have to go back to where she’d started and slash it all over again as the grass grew so quickly. The bonnet of her Land Rover was still up, reminding her to top it up with oil before she drove it into town again – the old girl was drinking it the way a parched person sculled water. She really needed to think about upgrading, but with the sentimental value of it being her dad’s old beast, she couldn’t find it in herself to part with it. Then there were her few DIY projects half finished in the shed – the stack of wooden pallets she’d scored from the stockfeed place in town that she’d eventually use to make a stand-alone bar, a coffee table, a wall-mounted wine rack and a fresh herb planter. High hopes – she had many.
Besides the upkeep and usual TLC of a farm, there were the everyday jobs of feeding and mucking out the agisted horses, as well as her own, checking on the hundred and fifty head of cattle, and keeping on top of the household and motherly duties – with an audacious teenager on her hands that was proving to be a massive feat in itself. It bloody well never ended. But where there was a will, there was a way. Her breath caught as she tried to make herself believe that. If only she had a helping hand around the place, someone who didn’t cost an arm and a leg, and preferably a hunk of manly man she could occasionally perve at. Wasn’t asking too much, was it? She chuckled and rolled her eyes. She had to laugh or she’d cry.
Her mind now going like a bull at a gate with everything she needed to do, guilt pounded her once more. She really shouldn’t have taken time out to read; the daylight hours were precious. If only Riley were home more often to help her, instead of gallivanting around the countryside with the eighteen-year-old boyfriend she believed was the love of her life, the load would lighten a little. But not wanting to sound like a broken record, Emma had given up asking. The last time she said anything about it, they’d erupted into world war three. In a flood of tears she’d basically begged Riley to understand she wasn’t nagging or being unfair. She. Just. Needed. Help. But Riley only saw it as Emma trying to keep her from the boyfriend who meant everything to her.
Groaning, she finally stopped procrastinating, gave up the idea of a little more reading, and accepted that nothing was going to get done if she didn’t do it herself. Placing her bookmark between the pages, she stood and stretched her arms high, willing her body to some sort of life while the heat of the verandah suddenly burned the bare soles of her feet. Grimacing, she hopped across the scorching floorboards, and once safe on the welcome mat near the top of the steps, she grabbed her boots and socks from where she’d kicked them off and tugged them back on. Heading down the front steps, she paused to give Tiny a ruffle behind the ears – her loyal mate now greying around his muzzle.
‘Come on, buddy, let’s get to it, hey.’
Eager as always to be by her side, Tiny’s tail spun like a chopper blade while he padded down the garden path and through the rickety little gate, licking her hand as she clipped the gate shut. As she headed towards the quad bike, the grit of the driveway crunched beneath her boots and her eyes watered from the glare of the corrugated-iron roof on the shed. Everything appeared to be simmering beneath the fierce sun; in the heat-hazed mirage, the horses looked like they were walking on water. The windmill she’d spent countless hours servicing and repairing over the years spun lazily in the distance, pumping essential water into the troughs. Grey and pink galahs squawked from their perches in the surrounding trees, their ruckus deafening. Beneath it all, Kat was still in stealth mode, her tail jiggling like a rattle snake as she lay hiding in the grass, once again ready to pounce on poor Peking the second. The jingling bell around her neck didn’t help the feline’s plight whatsoever, but Emma gave credit where credit was due – Kat never gave up trying, and Peking seemed to revel in the game.
Throwing her leg over the quad, Emma got settled and revved it to life. Tiny wagged his tail even faster, if that were even possible, and looked at her expectantly. Grinning, she patted the seat behind her, and he leapt to his second favourite spot, his first being in front of his food bowl. A head above her, he rested his muzzle on her shoulder as they headed towards the feed shed. Emma took the long way around, wanting to gauge the growth in the three paddocks she’d left empty to rejuvenate the past month. They were looking good.
Skidding to a stop, Emma threw her leg over the bike and Tiny bounded off. Stepping into the shadows of the feed and tack room, Tiny went to his usual corner, sniffing like a bomb dog all around the spot where the chooks sometimes laid a random egg. Laughing at his antics, Emma started scooping feed from different bins and measuring it into the line of buckets – knowing by heart what each of the twelve agisted horses needed in their diets. Some were fairly basic, while others had a gourmet regimen that was not really necessary, in her opinion. But what the customer wanted, the customer always got. Bundy, being the tough, bush-bred horse he was, got a basic feed of chaff and sometimes, for a treat, molasses, as did Riley’s gelding, Boomerang.
Her Aries mind wandering as she worked methodically, Emma recalled the last time she’d seen Zane in all his handsome, manly flesh. After leaving Riley’s birthday party when Peter had turned up, he’d arrived back at her door around midnight, reeking of whisky, nursing a bloodied lip and grazed knuckles, and mumbling something about having taught Michael a lesson in being a better father and husband. He’d tried to kiss her and she’d slapped him, hard, and then told him they needed to cut ties. It had been the only way to stop from giving in to his very tempting advance. She’d later found out that Michael had fared worse, with a broken nose, a hospital visit, and twelve stitches beneath his right eye. Peter had publicly and humiliatingly disowned Zane in an all-out verbal war in the hospital corridor. The next day Zane had boarded an American Airlines flight, claiming he’d never return, and he hadn’t, until now. Not having to look him in the eyes for the past seven years, or hear his deep, husky voice at the end of the phone, had given her the freedom to bury all her dirty laundry deep down, and had helped her to try to ignore the anguish of keeping it to herself. But it had been a false sense of security – the day she’d have to face he
r fears and tell all was speeding towards her at an alarming rate.
Loading the feed buckets onto the quad bike, she rewound her mind sixteen years. Seventeen years old, fighting with Michael about not having gone to the police, terrified out of her wits that the Mafia would find out and come after her, and unable to talk to her parents about accidentally killing a man, she’d grabbed a bottle of her dad’s whisky and wandered over to the cottage, desperate for a sympathetic ear and a few drinks to drown her sorrows. Zane had answered the door in his boxers, a concerned smile on his face. Two hours later, and both drunk, she gave in to the urges she’d harboured for years, and kissed Zane smack on the lips. At first, he’d hesitated, until she’d garbled something about getting whatever it was between them out of their systems before he left for god only knew how long. Not needing her to twist his arm any further, he’d tugged her to him and kissed her back, so possessively, so fiercely, it had buckled her legs beneath her. Then he’d scooped her up and carried her to his room, where they’d made love like she’d never made love before, or ever made love again.
Young, naïve, spontaneous, uninhibited – he’d known all the right places to touch, kiss and bite. Her entire body fired to life with the thought of canoodling with him again, let alone having sex with him – not that that was ever going to happen. She wouldn’t allow it, couldn’t allow it. Once was a mistake, twice would be a stupid choice. Nevertheless, heat rushed to her cheeks, and her nether regions ached to be caressed by him, and only him.
A wave of emotions – guilt, lust, longing – overcame her. She wrapped her arms around herself, quivering as if he were touching her again. This was exactly why she tried not to think about him. Ever. Because even now, the memory of being naked with him, and the look in his eyes as he’d become one with her, stole her breath. It was not only because the memory made her tingle in places she didn’t want to while thinking about him, but because, if she were being completely honest with herself, she wanted more of what they’d shared that night. So. Much. More.
