5 AMELIA

5 Amelia

Amelia prided herself on being capable. She could pilot a plane, brand a full-grown cow with a hot iron—although she’d been in the minority of farmers relieved when the branding act was repealed a few years earlier and she could argue with her father about the need to put the animals through the pain—and ride a horse like she was an extension of the animal. Yet she couldn’t quell the shiver of relief that rippled through her as a male figure strode confidently over the slight rise at the end of the airstrip. As the screaming drifted into silence, she’d called Dusty, although she’d been afraid to raise her voice. The magpie had returned immediately, nestling beneath Amelia’s ponytail and chittering her nervousness as she used her beak to pull free long auburn strands of hair to cover herself.

The approaching man didn’t glance toward the scrub, from where the unearthly howl had seemed to emanate. Instead, he raised a hand in greeting. Amelia almost broke stride. Even from a distance, she couldn’t miss the flash of white teeth or the way his dark hair flopped over his forehead. It wasn’t until they were much closer that she registered he had to be north of sixty.

‘ Dia dhuit .’ His craggy face guttered into deep crevasses as he smiled—probably at her bemused expression—and eyes the intense turquoise of Mount Gambier’s crater lake twinkled merrily.

‘Irish?’ she hazarded, trying to place the unfamiliar lilting brogue.

‘Indeed. And I’m going to go out on a limb and guess you’re the pilot the doc said wants to hangar here?’

‘What tipped you off?’

His firm handshake was warm. ‘The wings on your shoulders.’ He nodded at Dusty. ‘Though can’t say I’ve seen epaulettes quite like those before.’

‘Custom-made uniform.’ Amelia brushed a hand down her long-sleeved tee.

He nodded at her joke. ‘Sean.’

‘Amelia Fraser. Thanks for letting me use your hangar. I don’t know that I’ll be taking the plane out much while I’m here, so I just wanted somewhere safe for her.’ She started back toward the Jabiru, still eyeing the scrub, and Sean fell into step. Weren’t either of them going to mention the scream?

‘How long are you in town for?’

Was Sean checking how long she intended to infringe on his goodwill? ‘I’ve taken on some contract work for a few weeks. Of course, I’m happy to pay hangar fees. I just don’t need access often enough to make it worth hiring space at the Pallamana Airfield.’ Her nerves were making her more talkative than she’d been in months.

‘No, it’s grand,’ Sean said easily. ‘It’s not like we have any use for the hangars. She’s a neat little plane, right enough.’

Dusty hopped from Amelia’s shoulder onto the propeller, cocking her head to assess Sean from one beady black eye as he ran a hand over the smooth cowling on the nose of the aircraft.

‘You don’t fly?’ Amelia asked.

Sean chuckled. ‘You know you’re in the country when someone asks you that with about as much surprise as if you let on that you don’t drive. Speaking of …’ He lifted his head toward the island of native vegetation that seemed to float in the paddock.

A man emerged from between the trees. He stumbled a little, then picked up speed, glancing apprehensively back over his shoulder.

Amelia froze, her gaze glued to the rifle gripped in his white-knuckled fist.

Sean didn’t seem concerned. ‘My son, Heath,’ he said.

Amelia felt some of the tension ebb from her stance. As Heath drew closer, she realised that, even without the introduction, she’d have picked the two men as family. Though she would need to revise her estimation of Sean’s age, given that his son didn’t look a whole lot younger. A scar sliced white through one dark eyebrow, giving him a menacing look, and sweat glistened on his forehead despite the chilly gelati-layers of sunset.

‘You all right, lad?’ Sean’s tone was explicably soft.

Heath shook his head, then nodded.

Definitely too disconcerted to be in possession of a firearm, Amelia decided. She wondered whether to edge toward seizing the weapon or choose self-preservation over valour. Normally, she’d simply remove herself from such a situation, particularly if it was likely to be fuelled by alcohol, as had often happened on the property. But right now, she was a prisoner on this farm.

Sean saved her the decision, taking the rifle from his son, who didn’t seem to notice. ‘Heath?’

‘I’m fine,’ Heath said distractedly, looking anything but. He wiped his brow then ran the hand through hair, thick and black like his dad’s, though surprisingly shot through with more silver than the older man’s. In contrast to Sean’s clean-shave, Heath’s jaw was blurred by dark stubble that Amelia suspected was more likely the result of disinterest than an attempt at the popular rugged ‘scruff’ look.

‘No luck with the fox, then?’

‘Luck is on the fox’s side, I’d say,’ Heath responded with what seemed a grim effort at humour.

‘Fox? That was the screaming?’ Amelia said.

‘Depends what you heard,’ Sean said, when it became clear Heath had no intention of acknowledging her question. ‘There’s a vixen out there now calling to her cubs. But before that, she took a couple of rabbits, and they let out a hell of a squeal.’

Amelia nodded, irritated with herself for the relief the prosaic explanation provided. ‘I heard all of that. And then someone coughing. You, I guess?’ She tried to force Heath to join the conversation. Not that she had any more interest in chatting than he did, but because she appreciated a challenge. Tell her she couldn’t have something, and she’d find a way to make it happen. Anything, except that which she wanted most in the world. ‘Though it sounded like you were moving around really quickly in there,’ she continued, deliberately interrupting her own train of thought.

Again, it was Sean who replied in the face of Heath’s brooding silence. ‘Foxes move around, letting out a bark to test whether there are dogs nearby. If a dog arcs up, the fox will move on. Clever little things.’ His tone held begrudging admiration. ‘But does this mean I have to reassess my guess that you’re country? Heath, Amelia,’ he added belatedly, waving a hand between them.

Heath favoured her with a nod.

She folded her arms across her chest. ‘No, you got the country bit right. But we have more dingoes than foxes where I’m from.’

‘That far north?’ Sean’s tone held a concerning amount of interest and Amelia knew immediately that she’d have to tread carefully. He gestured toward the farmhouse, invisible over the crest of the hill. Only moments ago the sun had been sinking in that direction, but now clouds purpled the sky like gentle bruises. ‘Come on down to the house; we’ll get eaten alive by mozzies out here. You should have seen them the past summer. Big as dragonflies.’

Amelia caught Heath’s sudden stiffening, although she was careful not to look at his glowering countenance. ‘No, that’s okay. I’ll just tuck up the Jabby and wait for Taylor to arrive,’ she said.

‘Taylor? That’s your doctor, Dad?’ Heath said.

‘She’s meeting me here to give me a ride back to town.’ Amelia responded as though his rudeness had gone unnoticed. If he was intent on being a surly bugger, she was happy to irritate him.

‘We’ll help with the plane,’ Sean said. ‘Then you come on down to the house and have a drink.’

‘A drink?’ Heath barked.

Positively verbose now, Amelia thought snidely, though his words seemed to hold a rebuke.

‘A cuppa,’ his father said firmly. ‘Looks like you could do with one. And there’s no point Amelia waiting for the doc out here. She could be hours.’

God, Amelia hoped he was wrong.

By the time they’d wheeled away the Jabiru—Heath lending a begrudgingly silent hand—the last of the sunlight had bled from the land, leaving it barely light enough for them to pick their way across paddocks that alternated between fallow fields stubbled with the remnants of last year’s crop and acres of sandy, furrowed trenches waiting on the rains before they could be seeded.

As they reached the rocky ridge that cut a dragon’s spine across the property, a flock of sheep ambled diagonally across their path, following a well-worn, narrow trail to the stock trough.

‘Oh, they’re goats, not sheep?’ Amelia said as she got a better look at the sleek black-and-white animals.

‘I’m not much of a farmer but, no, they’re sheep right enough,’ Sean replied after the momentary pause that she suspected was his invitation for his son to join the conversation. ‘Dorpers. They have hair like goats, as well as some low-grade wool.’

‘And cute tails.’ Amelia grinned as one of the sheep jumped sideways, all four legs stiff, then frisked the long tail that hung to its hocks.

Heath paused, leaning one hand on top of a rounded granite boulder. Amelia wasn’t certain if he was giving the sheep time to wander past rather than upset them or if he was favouring his bad leg. While they were putting away the Jabiru, she’d noticed that he walked with a limp and grim determination, but whether they were linked she couldn’t say.

‘Even with lambs about, it seems a shame to shoot the foxes,’ she said, determined to force him to converse.

‘Does,’ Sean agreed before Heath had a chance to respond. Not that he seemed inclined to. ‘But the lambs aside, the foxes take out about three hundred million native animals a year.’

‘They also clean up rabbits, which are introduced. Domestic cats are far more of an issue than foxes.’

Heath’s sudden input surprised Amelia. ‘Surely cats aren’t as widespread as foxes? I mean, they’d be a backyard kind of deal?’

‘Unfortunately not. I was on the Trust for Nature board in our previous town. The figures we had were that a feral cat will normally have a range of around ten hectares, but they’ve been recorded covering three hundred.’

She’d have to look up that organisation. While she was fully in favour of animal rescue and conservation, her experience had been that members of some organisations were either overly militant, lacking in commonsense, or more invested in using social media to paint themselves as saviours than they were in getting down and dirty and actually caring for the critters. ‘But that means there’d only be one cat in a vast amount of land. So their impact would be minimal.’

Heath pushed himself off the boulder and Amelia caught the wince as his left leg took his weight. ‘Their range enhances their opportunity to breed. The cat and fox population are basically identical, with one animal every four kilometres squared if you include both domestic and feral cats. Those cats kill around two billion mammals, birds and reptiles a year. Foxes account for less than six hundred million.’

‘Still, hardly a nominal number.’ She felt a little like she’d been chastised for her ignorance. ‘In any case, we’re basically arguing the same point: foxes get a tough rap.’

‘I wasn’t aware we were arguing.’ Heath’s tone made it clear she was unworthy of such discussion.

‘The problem is,’ Sean said, cutting through the awkward silence, ‘when they’re eating well and not mangy, foxes are gleoite . Cute. Like a cross between a cat and a dog.’

His lilting tone, the way he almost caressed the words, stirred something forgotten, deep in Amelia’s belly; perhaps a longing to have a man refer to her as ‘gleoite’.

‘Cute with the scent glands of a ferret,’ Heath added dourly, obliterating any romanticism Amelia had attached to the word.

‘Ah, yes, there is a certain smell,’ Sean agreed.

They moved a few paces down the hill as the sheep’s leisurely perambulation stirred up a haze of red dust in the last of the light. Heath jerked around to stare at the scrub, the tallest branches of the trees already swallowed by blue-black night, although the trunks and hollows glowed with the Midas touch of the sinking sun. ‘That’ll be your ride.’

Amelia looked to Sean for explanation.

‘Lad’s got great hearing,’ Sean said. ‘The doc will be a way off. We’ll meet her at the house.’

‘Could be Charlee,’ Heath said, and Amelia was struck by the odd mix of apprehension and hope in his tone.

‘Could well be, lad,’ Sean said gently. ‘Either way, let’s get that kettle on.’

‘Wait.’ Amelia flinched as she reflexively caught Heath’s arm with her outstretched hand. ‘What’s that?’ The words dried in her throat as a baby’s piteous cry rang threadily from the thicket of eucalypts. Except it couldn’t be. That was her mind playing tricks.

‘Told you: a car,’ Heath said irritably, gesturing at the path ahead. ‘Which will get to the house before us, at this rate.’

Amelia shook her head. ‘Not that.’ She still couldn’t hear the car, anyway. Her attention was focused on the scrub. ‘There. That.’ It did sound like a young child. But it couldn’t be. Not here. Never again.

Sean also cocked his head, gazing in the direction she indicated. ‘Ah.’ The tension in his shoulders eased. ‘That’d be a wee lamb. Let’s hope the mama hasn’t wandered off to get a drink from the trough, with those foxes—or cats—prowling around.’ Devilment danced in his blue eyes and Amelia suppressed a snort of amusement.

Heath gave an annoyed tsk but altered his direction. ‘Best check.’

As she followed him into the scrub, Amelia noticed that Heath skirted the tussocky grass and rocks rather than step over the obstacles. She idly wondered what caused his limp and whether it was new, but she would never ask and risk inviting reciprocal questions.

The encroaching dusk drew the trees closer together, the occasional silvery shaft gleaming among the twisted pink and grey branches of mallee, the multiple trunks improbably convoluted before eventually clawing skyward from gnarled underground roots. And they whispered, the umbrella of branches leaning toward one another, leaves brushing to share gentle confidences. Despite what it had stolen from her, Amelia always felt the peace of the countryside. It seeped into her pores, somehow unlocking the tight vault of her heart to allow sorrow and memory to ease through her like a balm instead of a poison.

Heath pushed between the trees, then pulled up short. Amelia was so close on his heels that she almost ran into him.

‘Watch out for these,’ he said curtly.

‘Spiny wattle. That stuff will rip you to shreds,’ Sean agreed far too cheerfully.

The rounded shrub was the size of a fridge, and numerous bushes grew in close proximity, forming a druid’s circle to bar their way. Heath edged around them, trying several approaches, before chancing on a well-beaten path they could sidle along. Amelia brushed the deceptive foliage of one bush and immediately jerked back. Sean hadn’t been exaggerating—what appeared to be narrow, needle-like leaves were actually thorns. Dusty didn’t mind, though: she hopped happily from tree to bush, carolling loudly as though she was enjoying the adventure.

‘That’s the darndest thing,’ Sean said as Dusty briefly alighted on Amelia’s hair. ‘I’ve seen plenty of tame maggies, but never one like this.’

‘She gets a bit ridiculous,’ Amelia agreed as Dusty decided to cling to the front of her sweater, flapping her wings like she was intent on lifting Amelia from the ground.

Heath didn’t bother making polite conversation—or any kind of conversation—as they threaded between the trees, but Sean kept up a running commentary on the types of plants they passed, his obvious fascination almost contagious. ‘Look at this, will you?’ he said, bending down to where a narrow eucalypt had fallen, yet sprouted new growth from the now-horizontal trunk. ‘So resilient, these plants. There’s no messing with them. I wonder if this is edible?’ He pointed to a dinner plate–sized fungus, shaped like a scallop and shaded in ever deepening bands of orange.

‘Don’t,’ Heath grunted, but Amelia thought she heard a glimmer of humour in the single word. Or was it that she didn’t want to believe anyone could be so unrelentingly glum?

‘My turn to make Sunday breakfast, so you’d better watch out,’ Sean replied with a chuckle.

Heath shook his head, not bothering to turn around.

She’d definitely imagined the flash of humour.

‘Stop.’ Heath thrust up a hand as though he was leading a military expedition. They hadn’t heard the wail in the ten minutes since they’d entered the scrub and Amelia was trying not to think what that meant for the lamb’s welfare. Surely its mother would find her way back from the water trough?

Despite his limp, Heath strode forward, hunching his shoulders as he thrust between the prickly bushes. ‘Ah, no.’

Amelia glanced at Sean, who was frowning, then hurried after Heath. Fortunately, where he’d needed to squeeze between the shrubs, she could pass easily. Heath was kneeling, his back to her. To his left was a dirty cream-coloured mound, clearly a dead sheep. But that’s not where his attention was focused.

He stood and turned, the tiniest lamb Amelia had ever seen easily cradled by his forearm. ‘Guess his mum didn’t forget him and go to the trough.’

Sean bent over the dead ewe, then stood, shaking his head. ‘She’s not been gone a day, so that one’s only a few hours old.’

Amelia had already stepped forward, stroking the lamb beneath its chin, hoping it would respond with an attempt to suckle on her fingers. Instead, it let out the tiniest mewling noise, as though it had used the last of its strength to call for help. ‘What will you do with him?’

Heath’s glance flickered over her and his mouth twisted bitterly. ‘Not much to be done. He’s fox food out here. Won’t last an hour now the sun’s down.’

‘So you’ll take him home?’

Heath gave the merest shake of his head. Lifted his rifle. ‘No point. They never survive.’

‘What? Wait—that’s not your call to make!’ Amelia blurted. She wasn’t an idiot, she understood farm life, but to not even give the animal a fighting chance? That was inhumane.

Heath flinched as though her words had been far stronger. ‘I don’t have a choice,’ he ground out. His jaw worked, lips curled in anger.

Amelia wanted to take a step back. But she wouldn’t. She held out her hands. ‘Give him to me.’