Breakaway Creek. Heather Garside

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СКАЧАТЬ I'd love to see the property.'

      'Of course. So you're in Clermont now?'

      At her affirmative, he gave her directions.

      'It's over an hour's drive. What time do you plan to leave?'

      'I'll get away about seven in the morning, if that suits you?' as an afterthought she added: 'what's the road like?'

      'It's pretty good. A lot of bitumen now.'

      What did that mean? If it wasn't all bitumen, Shelley thought, how good could it be?

      ****

      As she showered and dressed the next morning, Shelley tried to picture this Luke Sherman, who was possibly a distant relative. He'd sounded much younger than the old, crusty bushie she'd envisaged. Was he the one with the absent wife, or was that his brother? Not that it mattered; she wasn't interested in guys these days, least of all some cowboy.

      She pulled on a pair of snug hipster jeans and a knit top with shoestring straps, knowing the outfit flattered her long legs and slim figure. Leaving her dark hair hanging loose about her face, she applied a touch of make-up. Just because she wasn't in the market, didn't mean she shouldn't look her best.

      After an early breakfast in her room, Shelley set off in her little blue Mazda. After fifteen kilometres, she turned off the main highway - such as it was - onto a narrow bitumen road. Assuming that was as bad as it would get, Shelley relaxed into the drive just hoping she wouldn't have to pass any trucks. But a few kilometres further on, her relief turned to dismay as the bitumen ran into gravel and her low car scraped on the higher centre of the road. She winced every time the many stones rattled against her tyres.

      A four-wheel drive tore past in the opposite direction, enveloping her in dust. What if she got a flat tyre out here, in the middle of nowhere? There was not much chance of anyone stopping if she needed help.

      Resigned to taking it slowly, she crept along, avoiding sharp stones and straddling the wheel tracks where necessary. The countryside looked depressingly dry; the grass in the paddocks brown and withered, the sparse grey foliage on the trees drooping in the still, heat-hazed air. The expanse of empty countryside scared her, reducing her to insignificance.

      Following Luke's directions, she eventually drove onto bitumen again and passed through a town of tired, generic-looking houses with hardiplank facades. The man at the stock and station agency had told her that the town of Faradale had been built to serve the coal mines thirty years earlier. It had a dirty, neglected air, as if its residents lived here under protest and no one really cared. Clermont seemed charming in comparison.

      After a few more kilometres of gravel road, Shelley began to panic. Had she missed the turn? She stopped to consult the directions she'd written down and decided to keep driving. Finally she spotted the sign she'd been looking for, hanging over a brightly-painted oil drum that served as a mailbox. Breakaway Creek. At last, she thought.

      Shelley turned off the main thoroughfare and drove up a narrow dirt road through open forest country. The car nudged over a rise and passed a dam of still, brown water. Another bend in the road led her into a cleared paddock, revealing a large, low house, an assortment of outbuildings, and a small cottage hiding behind a hedge of bougainvillea. The open land in front of the house sloped away to a line of trees which appeared to mark a watercourse - possibly the creek for which the property was named.

      She drew up in front of the big house, and looked with interest at her surroundings before stepping out and stretching her stiffened muscles. Dogs barked from a row of cages between the house and the sheds as a man appeared on the veranda. She waited at the front gate as he came down the low steps to meet her, the remnants of her preconceptions about bush bachelors evaporating as her stomach tightened in anticipation.

      'Hello - Shelley?' Her name was a question, as he looked her over with sharp green eyes, which made her feel absurdly self-conscious.

      A few days' growth of whiskers suggested he hadn't placed as much importance on this meeting as she had - unless he subscribed to the 'designer stubble' look. Somehow, she didn't think so. In his faded Wrangler jeans and navy drill shirt he looked conservatively country. Yet the 'hick' label didn't quite fit. If this guy was a bachelor, it must be from choice - unless he was the one with the broken marriage.

      'Yes, that's me,' she said, somewhat unnecessarily. 'So you're Luke?'

      He nodded and shook her hand, his fingers strong and calloused against her soft skin.

      'Pleased to meet you. Come in. I was beginning to think you'd got lost.'

      'Sorry.' Her fingers tingled and she had to resist the urge to pull her hand from his. She wasn't usually this fidgety around men. 'I took it slow. I'm not used to gravel roads.'

      'Better safe than sorry. Mitch - that's my brother - isn't here at the moment. He had to check some waters. I've been catching up on office work while I waited.'

      'I hope I'm not holding you up from anything important.'

      He shrugged.

      'Nothing special. We mustered last week and we've got weaners in the yards. I'll have to feed them shortly.'

      He ushered her into a large kitchen with shabby timber cupboards and pulled out a chair for her at the laminex table.

      'Sit down. I've been looking through some old photos and things since you rang.' He sat opposite her and tapped an ancient-looking bible, bound in battered black leather. 'I'm a bit mystified about your ancestor, Alex.'

      Her pulse leapt. There it was again - that reference to a mystery.

      'Why's that?'

      'Well, I found this photo.' He held up a faded family portrait, featuring a seated man and woman in nineteenth-century dress. Five children of varying ages stood beside the chairs or sprawled on the floor at their feet, gazing solemnly towards the camera. The woman cradled a baby in a long white gown.

      'This is Frank and Sarah Baxter, the couple who pioneered this place. There are six kids here, including the baby, and one of them is listed as Alex.' He turned the photograph over to show her the names scrawled on the reverse and then flipped it back again. 'I think that's him here.'

      He pointed to the tallest of the children, a boy of about eight, standing at the back. With a quiver of excitement, Shelley took the photograph and looked more closely. It was possible the boy was Alexander - he was dark-haired, like the man in her mother's photo, and the features were similar.

      'Yes, that looks like him. But what's the mystery?'

      'The thing is, all the other births are listed in the family bible, but not his. The same with the marriages. Who did you say he married?'

      'Emma Watson, from Brisbane.'

      'It's strange.' He gave a little shrug. 'Perhaps he fell out with the family, which is why they didn't record his marriage. But you'd think the birth would have to be in here.'

      Shelley examined the photo with avid interest.

      'I wonder ... he looks different from the others. Could he have been an adopted child? That sometimes happened in those days. People took in orphaned or motherless relatives and raised them as their own.'

      'It's possible.' Luke passed her the СКАЧАТЬ