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“You always wanted to test drones out at Turner’s Creek. Finally got one, hey?”
“It’s technically the property of the university. But I think they’re worth the investment for checking remote troughs and shelters. Or even using them in a fire.”
Rosie nodded, and silence fell again.
Having her help on the national park border today had been nice, like a truce had formed. And talking now was … nice. I was reluctant to end our chat so soon, even if I did pong.
She waved towards the shearers’ quarters.
“You have an interesting flatmate. I meant your wombat,” Rosie added hastily. “I can hear him shuffling under there.”
Make that two interesting flatmates.
“Son of Hades. Or Sonny. Quicker to say.” I was stalling, not wanting to have a showdown with Ainslee after a long night and even longer day. “We spent two grand on restumping the quarters because Sonny dug out two posts while expanding his burrow. Put in steel posts. Living with wildlife is interesting and expensive.”
“Tourists would pay so much to sleep above Sonny’s burrow.” Rosie’s tone was wistful.
I couldn’t help myself, and the questions came tumbling out. “You always thought that was the future for your winery. Is it still the dream to pair wombats with Zanetti Wines?”
“In a way. But why just our winery?” Rosie looked out in the darkness towards the stables, shearing shed and paddocks. “I remember you once thought eco-tourism was a way forward for Turner’s Creek.”
“I did. I still do. I think. It’s hard to hold onto ideals when the bank is breathing down your neck for an urgent overdraft payment.”
Rosie’s head whipped back around. “How bad is it?”
Here I was conversing with the girl next door—keep my enemies closer—in polite conversation about the end of the Turner family’s luck.
I didn’t realise how much I’d missed or craved conversation with Rosie these last few years. She listened, really listened. And cared what I had to say, even if I was younger. As the baby of the Turner family, I was used to being fobbed off.You’re too young to understand these things.
But Rosie always listened, and I’d listened to her. And when we’d stopped talking, her company had never been replaced.
While we had a past, she was our neighbour, and her family had lived here for over one hundred years.
“How bad?” I laughed a humourless sound and then attempted a smile. “If we don’t get the lowest micron rating for our wool, and I mean nineteen or under, we won’t be able to get the price we need.” Everything for Turner’s Creek came down to a rating of how fine as wool was. A rating of twenty and above wasn’t going to cut it. If I could get eighteen microns, the price … Christ on a unicycle juggling firesticks … I would buy all of the champagne from the Town and Country to celebrate.
I cleared my throat. “If I don’t get the low micron rating, I’ll be the Turner who has to declare bankruptcy after seven generations and sell up and leave.”
“I’m sorry, Tom.” Rosie bit her lip. “Amanda hadn’t mentioned anything.” She flicked her gaze to the homestead. Something was caught in her hair.
Wattle. Just like four years ago on my birthday.
I reached out without thinking, and Rosie stepped back, startled. I whipped my hand back, berating myself for being so foolish.
“Sorry.” I blurted, madly waving my hand at my head to show where the wattle blossom was stuck in hers. “You’ve got some wattle. Must have got from up at the park.”
“Oh. Right. Thanks.” Rosie teased out the yellow flowers from her curls.
“And how are you today?”
Rosie considered me warily.
“Just checking to see if everything is alright after last night.”
Rosie threw the wattle to the ground. “I’m fine.” Her voice was cold and hard. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I have no doubt.”
We eyed each other off, and then I sighed. “I just meant you were really upset and I hope you’re okay.”
