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He shrugged. “Just lookin’ around.”
“Why?” I snarled, feeling territorial. “This is private land.”
“You got burnt here. In the fire.” His voice was flat.
Everyone knew what happened here ten years ago. Curiously, I felt nothing. No dread, no shame, no panic.
I stood rigid under his scrutiny. Something about the way his eyes moved over my body creeped me out.
“You don’t look burnt now. You look like in high school.”
He was known for his odd way of speaking.
“Of course I don’t. You can’t see my scars,” I snapped. “And I’m very different now compared to who I was in school.”
My skin itched all over. I clenched my fists. He’d been a loner in school who’d struggled with his grades as well as fitting in. I vaguely recalled Mum or Ryan saying he now worked for our neighbours, the Zanetti’s, at their vineyard.
“I dropped out after the fire,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Didn’t like school.”
“I dropped out, too.”
“I know. You were sick.”
I yanked a stray hair out of my eyes. “Why are you here?”
“Just wanted to see.”
I stepped forward, hands on hips, resisting the urge to yell for him to leave.
“Go home, Brayden. This isn’t a place to just walk around and sightsee.”
He shrugged and stomped down to the gate.
“You were nice in school,” he said, pulling the gate shut after him. “Not many were nice.”
I blinked. I barely remembered Brayden, let alone being nice to him.
He left without another word and drove off in the opposite direction towards Ballydoon.
The breeze picked up now, thrashing the tops of the gum trees around the yard and scattering dead leaves at my feet.
Such a weird guy.I inhaled deeply to calm down, and with one last glance towards the house site, I whispered to the wind again.
“See you Dad. I’ll be back soon.”
My Excel shuddered and knocked all the way to our gate flanked with sandstone pillars, with a sign hanging from the old wooden gates: Turner’s Creek Station.
My home.
My cage.
8
STACEY
Ballydoon Community Group:
Flo posted 5.03 p.m.:
