Thirteen
Dallas
“I’m telling you, Dallas, it’s going to be a blast,” Colt yells from the tractor, his voice muffled over the exhaust.
“Dude, I can barely hear you from all the way up there,” I call back.
At this point, I’m up to my knees in fencing wire, I’ve got a cracking headache, and I’m dying for a beer.
One of our stud bulls got out last night, busting three fences on his way and heading straight for the mob by the river.
We share those paddocks with the neighbouring property.
If he gets to one of the heifers, we’ll be out more than just the stud fee. Fucking bulls.
The tractor engine rumbles to a halt and my brother leaps from the machine in one nimble swoop.
Youthful prick. His boots thud against the dirt as he sticks the landing.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, he swaggers towards me with the mischievous grin he inherited from our dad creeping across his lips.
“I said, the rodeo is going to be amazing. I got some new boots, and I’m itching for a ride,” he says with a wink.
I shake my head at my brother, rolling my eyes as I say, “Righteo, stud. We’ll head in for dinner after our video call with Billie.”
“We can’t let her know we’re missing her,” he adds with a laugh.
“Fuck no, we can’t. If she catches wind that she was right, we’ll never live it down.”
“Beautiful and ruthless, just like Sam.”
“She reminds me more of her mother every day, Colt.”
He gives me a sombre nod, neither of us needing to elaborate further, we both know. From the blonde curls to her blue eyes. Our girl is brilliant, headstrong, and passionate. She’s everything her mother was.
We pack up the gear in silence, working together in tandem to clean up the remaining fence line before mounting the horses and making the ride back to the house.
This corner of the farm looks so beautiful at this time of night; we’re just close enough to Fires Creek to inherit their sunsets.
Hues of orange and pink dance across the mountains; when they hit the water, you truly understand how the town got its name.
It’s unlike anything you’ve ever seen. It’s a sliver of magic, a scene so perfect, you struggle to believe it’s real.
I have always wanted to buy property in Fires Creek, having spent enough time there travelling with Dad.
I knew that place like the back of my hand.
I’d even considered placing an offer on Ashwood Manor back in the day; the farm now owned by the Carters.
But something about Hawks Hollow drew me in. That something was Samantha.
I still remember the day Sam and I first drove out here. Sam wanted more space; somewhere quiet where we could raise our kids. She’d come home from work with a huge smile on her face and immediately begun telling me about a property she’d seen on one of the local bulletin boards.
“Oh, Dallas, you’ll love the farm. It’s called ‘Northbrook.’ It’s got two stables, stockyards galore, plenty of room for the horses.
There’s a chicken coop ’round the side, and it even has a tire swing!
There’s so much room for gardens, we could even get Highland cows.
They have a great school there too.” She can barely contain her excitement as she rattles off lists of future projects and lets herself get carried away in planning our future.
“Where is this place, exactly?” I ask.
“Hawks Hollow. It’s only an hour from here, just outside Fires Creek, so we can still take the kids to watch Colt ride.”
“Do you just want it ’cause it’s called Northbrook?” I cock my eyebrow at her as I question her.
“Huh?” she asks, clearly confused.
“Sammy, our last name is Northlane.”
She instantly bursts into laughter and says, “See, Dallas, it’s perfect!”
“Well, princess, Hawks Hollow it is,” I tell her.
I feel a sense of comfort wash over me as she flashes me a delighted smile.
The image of my wife and the family we’ll create running around together on the farm that will someday be ours brings a tear to my eyes.
I picture us teaching our daughter to ride her first horse, her first bike, helping her mother plant gardens with her siblings, and swinging in the tire swing.
Before I realise how far we’ve travelled, the boundary line nearing the main yard creeps up on me and snaps me back to reality.
Clearing my throat, I call out to Colt that I’ll meet him back at the house.
He nods in agreement and continues on his way.
I turn in my saddle, unclipping the leather saddle bag with fencing gear that’s strapped to the skirt and throwing it into the dirt beneath me.
I’ll pick it up later, for now, I need to shake off this feeling.
My horse, Sampson – a six-year-old Thoroughbred cross Clydesdale – whips his head around as the bag thuds against the ground before arching his neck back to look at me as if he’s wondering what the hell I’m doing.
“Always looking out for me, aren’t you, boy?” I ask him, scratching the sweet spot on his neck, underneath his mane. I nudge him on and he swiftly moves into a trot. We take to the hills with nothing but each other and the open field to guide us, just like old times.
The irritating beep of the scanner is driving me insane as I wait in line with a bottle of Maker’s Mark in my hand.
Every beep radiates through my ears and is somehow getting louder and louder, like when a fuckin’ mozzie decides to pull up shop right at your ear when you’re trying to sleep.
I’ve had a huge day on the fences with Colt, plus my impromptu horseback adventure, and I’m dying for a drink, and a cigarette.
I’m almost at the counter when a familiar bubblegum coloured noggin appears through the glass door. Annabeth nudges it open with her ass and stumbles into the shop. God, does this woman ever not look so cute? She notices me instantly and wanders over with a cheeky grin. “Howdy, cowboy.”
“Firefly.”
“Whatcha drinkin’?” she asks, peering over my shoulder at the bottle tucked behind my back.
I can only assume she approves of my selection, because she appears to drop whatever she had intended on doing to grab a bag of chips from the barrel next to her and casually join me in the queue.
“A fan of the Mark are we?” I ask her, cocking my brow.
“I’m a fan of many things, Dallas,” she quips. Her eyes dancing as she smirks.
“Gonna’ join me for a drink?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” Her eyebrows wiggle as she speaks, and it does things to me that a man my age should be better at concealing. We make it to the counter, and I slide the cash across the faded wood to Lisa, who flashes me a knowing smirk.
“Come on, I know the perfect spot,” I say to Annabeth, taking her hand in mine.
“The lookout?” A hopeful grin creeps across her face.
“The lookout.” I guide her out of the bottle shop and down the main street to where my ute is parked beneath an old Jacaranda.
Without hesitation, she’s already climbing into the cab like that seat was made for her. To be honest, the more I see her in it, the more I think it might be.
My ute grumbles to a halt a few metres from my usual spot at the lookout.
“This place really is beautiful,” Annabeth says, climbing out of the cab. Although she’s been here before, the serenity visibly takes her breath away.
“It is. I come here a lot when I need a break,” I tell her.
I reach into the backseat of my ute and pull out my portable speaker, connecting my phone and putting on a lo-fi playlist. Something about the gentle tones and the sounds of the world around us feels so peaceful.
The music encompasses the lookout, and the world melts away as I watch Annabeth swaying to the beat, bag of chips in hand. It’s almost dark out, and her hair glows like a bloody lava lamp. I stride towards the dancing pixie, bottle in hand, and take a seat on the table at the edge of the lookout.
My mind quiets, and I allow myself a moment to appreciate this place.
How the river wraps around the underside of the cliff before nestling into a small lagoon-style body of water beneath the trees.
The only sound for miles is crickets, the water and the occasional cow.
I watch her dance, her intricate movements telling me singing isn’t her only talent.
The evening glow bounces off her pink curls. I’m captivated by her.
“Why pink?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“My hair? I dunno.” She shrugs, twirling her finger through a curl.
“I’ve always loved pink. When I was at uni, I used to dress up like a fairy and do face-painting at kids’ parties.
One of the parties was a unicorn party, so I wore a pink wig.
I’ll never forget the kids’ excitement when I showed up.
To them, I really was a fairy. So, that night I went home via the pharmacy with a bag full of products I barely knew how to use, and enough wine to convince me I could.
My dorm mate and I spent hours perfecting the colour over one too many glasses of red.
I will never know if we nailed it first go, or if the liquid courage had kicked in, but it stuck.
It definitely took some getting used to though.
But it’s been so long now, I don’t think I’d feel ‘myself’ without it. ”
“I can’t say that I’ve ever met anyone with pink hair before, or a fairy for that matter,” I add.
She beams a smile that could light up a room, even more so than her hair as she sways closer to me, extending a chip in my direction.
I lean forward and bite it from her hand, the smirk that follows, a clear sign of her approval.
It’s a simple, yet intimate gesture. One that makes my heart skip a beat.
I reach for the bottle beside me and take a swig before offering it to Annabeth. The malt liquid courses through me as I gulp it down, and I instantly feel the burn coat my throat.
“Next time we come out here, I’m bringing my guitar,” Annabeth announces as she finishes her drink and hands the bottle back to me.
“Gonna’ sing for me, Firefly?”