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He found the white line on the side of the road and followed it, peering into the distance until he could make out the vehicle ahead. A ute. Definitely red, and definitely Kirsty’s. Its bonnet was facing him, which meant she’d either decided to turn around when the weather got bad, or she’d made it to the plane and was on her way back, but between him and Kirsty’s ute was a rushing stream of water.
Of Kirsty, however, there was no sign.
He flicked the beam of the torch back and forth across the windshield. Nothing.
‘Kirsty!’ he yelled.
There was no answering yell, just the sound of rushing water and rain. The ute was about five metres away, so he stepped forward, wondering how deep the water was. Within a couple of steps it was up to his knees. Crossing was a dumb decision.
Unless he went upstream? The creek filling this gully was fed by the large one he’d gone swimming in, and this close to the road it was barely a trickle most of the year. It was rocky as all get-out up that hill, too. There’d be somewhere to cross, he was sure of it.
He ducked back into the cab of his ute and sent Hogey a text.You’ll see my car, mate. I’ve walked up the scree to see if I can get across the stream. If there’s nowhere to cross in a hundred yards, I’ll come back to the ute.
The ground was slippery, and his boots sank inches deep until he found a faultline of tumbled rock to climb up. He kept the sound of rushing water to his right and the torch trained two feet ahead. The moon and stars were hidden, and it didn’t take long for the headlights of his ute to be obscured by rain.
Kirsty had to be okay. Maybe she’d grown tired of waiting and had fallen asleep in her ute … that’s why she’d not waved when he’d shone his torch. Maybe her ute had broken down again and another motorist had given her a lift. She was probably tucked up in a kitchen somewhere, calling roadside assist right this minute. What she absolutely would not have done was get out of her ute and try and walk across a flooded causeway.
She’d have seen the white cross set into the hillside. She’d driven this road dozens of times … she was practical for heaven’s sake. He was worried about nothing.
But christ, hewasworried. He’d not even had a chance to tell her he loved her yet. That he’d solved the bank problem, that he didn’t want her to go back to Port Augusta. He wanted her to stay at the farm—in the top bunk if need be, but preferably tucked up against him—while they worked out what a future might look like that had both of them in it. Together.
A rock slipped under his boot, and he skidded downhill until he found his balance. The ground underfoot had changed. From mud and rock to rock and rock … he knew this place. He was on the patch of rock by his cowshed, which meant he’d crossed over the creek, somehow. Perhaps the water downstream ran underground. If Kirsty was on the hill looking for shelter, where would she have gone?
He looked up to where the cowshed might be visible if it had electricity. Pitch-black. No twinkle of phone light or torchlight. Still … he was this far up the hill. Might as well check.
