Page 10 of Where the Wattles Bloom

Ignoring the fact he’d already done just that, he narrowed his eyes. ‘I don’t need my grandmother acting as my pimp.’

She snorted. ‘Clearly you need somebody acting as your pimp, Lachlan McCabe.’

He blinked as she stood and gathered her and Albert’s teacups and took them to the sink. Albert also stood. ‘We’re off to bed,’ she announced.

It was only seven-thirty but early to bed, early to rise was the mantra in the bush.

Lachlan nodded. ‘See you in the morning. Thanks for keeping dinner.’

She blew him a kiss. ‘Sweet dreams.’

He rolled his eyes at the twinkle in the meddling old biddy’s eyes as she practically skipped out of the room.

Four

Rowena woke with a start after a night full of strange dreams featuring splintered wood and twisted metal, the bite of sharp, pointy stones at her knees and a tall blond guy in a cape with a sheep on his shoulders like freaking Jason with the Golden Fleece.

What the hell?

She glanced around her. Bright sunlight flooded the room through the closed doors that opened onto the first-floor balcony of The Stockman pub. She could just see the fancy wrought-iron railing through the gauzy curtain.

It was morning. She was in Acacia Junction. And this was the day she started to reclaim her life. So she needed to get her A into G because being late on her first shift was not a good look.

She needed to dress. She needed coffee. Did they do decent coffee out here? And she needed to be at the hospital in three-quarters of an hour.

Twenty-five minutes later, takeaway cappuccino in hand, Rowena followed her nose from Brew Ha Ha to the bakery next door. She paused in the doorway as the very last person she expected to see stood at the counter.

Even from the back she knew it was him.

‘Oh, hey, Ro,’ he said, as he turned from being served, his expression lighting up.

Rowena blinked. It was like he’d walked right out of her dreams into her day.

Minus the cape and sheep.

Jeans again, though. All soft and faded—the kind that had clearly seen many, many wash cycles—hugging his narrow hips and long legs to perfection. An unbuttoned flannel shirt, similar to the one he had on yesterday, was rolled up to the elbows, exposing forearms carpeted with blond hairs. A navy Jackie Howe singlet was visible where his shirt fell open.

His hat was, once again, pulled low, casting a shadow over that stupidly square jaw, which she noted was devoid of scruff this morning. His dusty, rugged boots completed the whole outback cowboy look.

‘Hey,’ she said absently when she realised he was waiting on some kind of response to his greeting.

Such was the extent of her discombobulation, she hadn’t even bothered to correct the shortening of her name. She’d never been a fan of Ro … but the way he said it, all low and rumbly as if he was savouring it like a sip of good shiraz?

Well, it wasn’t terrible.

Thank goodness Rowena was a cynical thirty-six. And twice divorced. She was no gullible young thing blinded by a rumbly voice and a face straight out of Farmer Wants a Wife central casting. She wasn’t in Acacia Junction to find herself a man.

And the only cowboys she put her trust in were the type she could shoot from a shot glass.

Somewhere in amongst the clash of her internal thoughts, her expression must have looked aggrieved because he quickly corrected himself. ‘Sorry, I meant Rowena.’ He turned back to the counter to a plump female version of the man she’d dragged from the car yesterday, her hair liberally streaked with grey. ‘Concetta, this is Rowena. The woman who saved Silvano’s life.’

There was a gasp from the other side of the counter and, before Rowena knew it, the woman had flown around and bundled her up in her ample embrace. It was only then that Rowena realised she’d walked into Silvano Morelli’s patisserie.

‘God bless you, Rowena. God bless you,’ Concetta murmured, dropping kisses on Rowena’s forehead. She smelled like vanilla, and for an absurd moment Rowena, despite her discomfort at the fuss, wanted to stay right here in this very motherly embrace. It had been a long time—if ever—since her own mother had made such a fuss, and it had been a tough, lonely year.

‘Rowena, this is Silvano’s sister.’ Lachlan performed the introductions. ‘Gina, his wife, flew to Sydney with him.’

‘How is he?’ Rowena finally asked when she was released. She’d planned on making enquiries when she arrived at work.