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‘Careful. It’s a bugger to work with.’
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I can’t imagine having to fence this whole place.’
‘Hopefully my macadamia trees won’t be as likely to wander as dairy cows. You think a Bluett cut down the tree that made this old fence post?’
She looked up at him and shaded her eyes against the sun. He was smiling down at her, and there was genuine interest in his question. He didn’t feel awkward at all, she realised, having her here, a memory of a prior owner of the land he was now busting a gut to stamp as his own.
‘I … guess it’s nice to think there’s still something of them here. My grandparents. Their parents. Did I tell you they used to call this area the honeymoon paddock?’
He smiled. ‘Your research must be coming along.’
‘In dribs and drabs. I’ve found a little more about why the Bluetts gave away dairy farming. According to the archives down at the historical society, the dairy industry tanked in the 1970s. A lot of the farms borrowed money to restock, hoping to ride out the downturn, but most of them went bust. I assume the Bluetts went the same way, which would’ve been pretty tough for a family who’d owned the place for fifty plus years. No mention of why they abandoned the plane.’
‘A hassle to move,’ he said. ‘And the Vietnam War might have eroded public sentiment about war relics. Does your mum not know?’
‘Terri?’ she said blankly.
‘Well …’ he said with a grin, ‘she must have had at leastoneconversation with a Bluett for you to be standing here. Unless a jabiru delivered you, I suppose.’
‘Funny,’ she said. But also correct; why hadn’t she asked her mum what she knew about the Bluett family? Oh yeah, that’s right … her mother was a closed book on the subject. On lots of subjects. And for as long as Kirsty could remember, difficult questions had been a no-fly zone.
She snipped at the wire, having to put both hands and all her upper body strength into making the cut. ‘So, what sort of farmer are you going to be, Joe? Here forever, through famine and drought, or a short-term buy and sell guy?’
His rusty gaze rested on hers thoughtfully. ‘That’s easy. The farm is for me, and for my kids. Hopefully for their kids after that.’
She stood back as the wire released. Was it hotter over here by the fence line? Had the temperature just soared? ‘Oh. You want kids?’
He rubbed a hand over his forehead, leaving behind a bloom of rust from the wire he’d been holding. ‘Don’t you?’
Not until this very second. Now a vision of sturdy toddlers tumbling about bales of hay in mini hibiscus shirts was proving hard to shift from her head. ‘I’m not the settle down type,’ she said firmly. ‘There’s a lot to see in Australia, so getting a new job in a different town every few years lets me do that.’
‘Sounds lonely,’ he said.
She frowned. No, it didn’t. It sounded adventurous. And hassle free. And … crap, why did he have to put that lonely notion in her head? She cast around for a safer subject. ‘You mentioned the otherday that your parents might know some local history about the Bluetts. You think they’ll mind if I ask them?’
‘They’ll love it. Robbo’s born and bred in this area. Patty came for a music festival in Nimbin in 1983 and never left. She met Robbo when he was busking and she was— Well. Why don’t you ask them how they met? It’s a story they love telling.’
God, that was sweet. Maybe Terri had a great story for how she and Trevor had met, but her stupid curse stopped her from sharing it. She stood up, and her shoulder bumped into his as she threaded the coiled wire through the old drill-hole in the post.
‘It’s almost as good as the way you and I met,’ he said. He was close—too close, especially with that burr of humour in his voice which was making her innards do ridiculous, wire-twanging stunts—and his breath fanned her cheek.
She eased back and his eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t like standing close to me, Kirsty Fox?’
‘I like it plenty.’ She was so shocked with his directness she forgot to prevaricate. ‘I’m just wondering what happened between now and the other day. In the waterhole. When, you know …’
His eyes went all melty and bedroomy.You called it, Carol, she thought. ‘I do know. Look. I’ve been thinking a lot about that. Likea lotand I need to be honest with you, Kirsty.’
That shoulder of his was still there, nudged up against her as he strung the new wire into the post. It was messing with her thinking.
And so was the smile he was giving her, and the fact that his eyes were on her mouth, and she’d just broken into a sweat. Heck, he was about to say something and wreck everything, wasn’t he? He was going to put pressure on her. To stay, to get involved, to be a part of his rest-of-life plan to chase groodle puppies and tawny-hairedtoddlers through the macadamia fields … but that would be breaking the vow she’d made to herself to keep moving.
And sure, yes, she was going to leave, but not yet. She was happy here, living on the farm, doing reno work, playing with the groodle, rescuing chickens.
No way would she ever say yes to staying.
‘I think we need to talk about your great-grandfather’s plane.’
‘Oh!’
