18. Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

Callum

Callum spent the next morning clearing the backyard. When they'd first started the clean-up, they'd focused on dealing with the most dangerous elements first, especially where the actual garden met the bush and transitioned into native growth. A few massive gumtrees had been felled, their trunks still smouldering away deep inside, thus removing the risk of the fire reigniting. The fence, or what was left of it, had been demolished, the charred timbers piled together. Only a hint of it remained. Added to that tower of debris were the burnt remains of the arbour, once gloriously covered in a yellow Banksia rose, and the bench seat. Callum pushed aside the memories of the bench seat and the many conversations he and Trent had had there, instead thinking back on the conversation of the day before.

He grunted as he hefted the wheelbarrow, pushing it across the uneven land. He only wanted to do what any able-bodied guy should do—join the local branch of the Rural Fire Service so he'd be available to help in a disaster. Because no matter how you looked at it, this would happen again. Callum acknowledged that Trent had been right; this firestorm had been the result of a culmination of many factors, and maybe it'd be years until they faced another bushfire of the same magnitude, but there were fires every year. He stopped the wheelbarrow next to the burn pile and picked up the shovel. Muscles burned as he threw shovelful after shovelful onto the mass of tangled branches and cut logs. Shovelful after shovelful of what used to be his home. God knew what was in the mess—the ratty old couch? The blue rug that had belonged to his grandma? The coffee mug with the faded green and yellow emblem.

He pulled the blackened mug from the pile and tossed it into the large bin left there for the purpose of collecting the stuff that needed to be carted to the rubbish tip. Callum kept moving, hoping the hard work would diminish the burn behind his eyes because—damn it—he wasn't going to let tears get the better of him! Especially not over lost possessions. It was just stuff! So what if he'd had that stupid mug since high school. It wasn't like he could remember where he'd gotten the bloody thing anyway.

He tossed the shovel into the now-empty wheelbarrow, wiped his brow, and contemplated returning to the house for a cold drink, his water bottle having been long emptied thanks to the early start he'd had. I have so much to get through. Getting up at the crack of dawn had nothing to do with wanting to escape the house early and avoid Trent.

But he had to admit, the main reason he left early was because he couldn't trust himself to bite his tongue. So distance had seemed the best solution. He wanted to give Trent some time to digest the discussion from the day before. Callum hoped while he was outside working, Trent was pottering around inside and hopefully second-guessing the reaction he'd had to Callum's volunteering proposition. Callum just wished he knew why Trent was so pissed off about the RFS stuff, and wished he'd been able to come up with more of an argument than he'd provided yesterday. The problem was he hadn't been able to come up with any further justification for volunteering for the RFS other than it felt like something he had to do. Deep in his gut was the need to volunteer, to be part of the group of people who'd played such a vital role in saving Trent's guesthouse from burning to the ground. Plus, he knew how much Trent admired and appreciated the group of volunteers who'd done so much to help them. Oh, well. I'll think of something or hopefully Trent will come around to my way of thinking in his own time.

But he couldn't avoid Trent forever, and he did need his help for the next stage of the clearing process. He took the winding path back to the house, stopping when Trent came into view. He paused to watch him for a moment.

Trent knelt in front of the garden bed by the back door at what he called the kitchen garden. This was where he grew the leafy greens he tossed into salads and used as garnish, plus a vast array of herbs, most of which Callum couldn't name. Only the rosemary seemed to be thriving, somehow surviving both the drier weather and then the heat of the fire. The rest of the garden was gradually being replanted; a task Trent had decided to tackle early on.

Trent was focused on the task at hand, layering sugar cane mulch around the new plantings. His shirt pulled tight across his shoulders, highlighting his lean frame with its defined musculature. Has he lost weight? He wouldn't be surprised if Trent had lost a few kilos, if not from the additional physical labour as they repaired the property, then from the stress. It hadn't slipped past Callum's notice that Trent wasn't sleeping properly and he seemed distracted. Callum resolved to sit the man down for a discussion, encouraging him to talk about what was bothering him. Even as he had the thought, Callum realised how hypocritical he was being. Pot. Kettle. Black. It was time they both shared a few hard truths about how the fallout from the bushfire was affecting them.

"Hey, Trent. Do you think you could give me a hand?"

Trent looked up and gave Callum one of his million-dollar smiles. How does he manage to look so good even when he's digging in the dirt?

"Sure thing. I was just finishing putting in the parsley and basil seedlings, so good timing." He got to his feet and brushed the soil from the knees of his jeans before straightening. "What do you need?"

"Missed some." Trent went to look at his legs, but Callum caught his chin with his palm. "Here." He brushed the dirt from Trent's cheek with his thumb before leaning in to kiss the spot. Callum smiled as he pulled away.

"All better now?" Trent quirked a brow.

"Uh-huh."

"Good." Trent chuckled. "Now tell me want help you need."

Callum jerked his head towards the far corner of the backyard. "I want to clear the back part of cottage, but I can't do it by myself. I was hoping you'd have time to help out, otherwise I can wait till someone else is avail—"

"Don't be stupid. Of course I'll help."

"Thanks. I've cleared out what I can reach from the front of the cottage, but I need to knock down some beams that have somehow remained standing. However, I didn't want to do it without someone else there to make sure the whole thing didn't fall down on my head."

"Jesus! Thank god you didn't attempt that by yourself. We've definitely had enough drama. I don't think we need to add head injuries and broken bones to the mix."

Callum absently stroked his forearm, fingertips dancing across the large area of smooth skin. He dropped his hand quickly when he realised he was running his fingers over his healing skin. Thankfully Trent didn't notice, too busy picking up his gardening tools and putting them in the bucket along with the empty seedling punnets. Trent didn't need to be reminded of Callum's injury, because no matter how many times Callum had told him it wasn't his fault, Trent refused to let go of the guilt. The wound was nearly healed anyway, with baby pink skin instead of an angry blistered wound. Plus, the scarring would be minimal, or so the doctor said.

They trekked to the cottage, or more accurately, the remnants of the cottage. What remained was a charred mess. It was hard to believe it used to be a fully equipped one-bedroom home—Callum's home. Now it was pile of blackened timber and warped iron sheeting from the collapsed roof. The front of the building was totally open to the elements. This part of the cottage used to be the living room and kitchen, and was the area he'd been working on, clearing out the charred timbers and destroyed contents. The back, where the bedroom and bathroom had been, was partially standing. A charred wall with a partial ceiling was propped up by a fallen beam that looked as if it could collapse at any moment. They picked their way through to the bedroom opening, the door half-burnt and hanging on its hinges. The roof was gone, allowing the room to flood with light so they could see straight through to more timber and burned… what is that? Callum assumed he was looking at a piece of bedroom furniture but couldn't recognise what it was. Maybe the wardrobe or the dresser? His breath hitched.

"I'm sorry." Trent wrapped his hand around Callum's, his touch warm, soothing.

Callum dragged his gaze from the mess and met Trent's eyes, saw the depth of his concern. No one had ever put him first before, been so upset on his behalf. "There's no need."

"But I am sorry. You've lost everything. Fuck, you came out of this with only the clothes on your back. Everything you own went up in smoke. You should have saved the cottage and your belongings, not focused on the guesthouse—"

"Trent, stop." Callum tugged his hand. "I mean it. There's no need to be sorry. I'm not sorry. It's just things, just stuff. All of it's replaceable." And as he said the words, Callum realised it was true. None of that mattered.

"But your family belongings?"

"I have my memories, and I have what's important to me."

"But—"

"No buts. Are you hearing me?" He tightened his grip and pulled on Trent's hand. "I have what's important to me. I have the thing that means the most in the world to me."

He could see the moment Trent understood what he was saying. Trent's eyes filled, and a smile played at the corners of his mouth, as if he wasn't fully sure whether he should let it take full flight. "The most important thing in the world," Callum said again.

The smile finally won, and Trent's dimple flashed. "I love you," he whispered.

"I love you too." And in the burned-out remains of his bedroom—no, not his bedroom, his bedroom was in the guesthouse with Trent—in the burned-out remains of the cottage, his heart soared.