Chapter 7
CHAPTER
7
Mila should’ve been grateful Sawyer had stuck around to help remove all traces of her nuptials. Not that she’d done too much to the house, but she’d wanted Phil’s friends and aunt to believe this wedding was real, so she’d draped the verandah in chiffon and fairy lights, and placed Australian wildflowers in beautiful ceramic vases her gran had made many years ago along the railing. The trestle table where she’d planned to place the finger food had been covered in a heavy ivory damask that had belonged to her grandmother too, and she’d wound vines around more complex floral arrangements made up of proteas, banksias, waratahs, Geraldton wax, pincushions, and billy buttons.
She’d gone to a lot of trouble to make this wedding appear authentic to those who didn’t know about her marriage of convenience—namely everyone but her and Phil—and now she felt foolish. Who had she been trying to convince the most, the clueless guests or herself?
That’s the thing about bullishly following a dream, you’d do anything to make it come true—and saving Hills Homestead had become an obsession.
When she’d first proposed the solution to her problems, Phil had laughed so hard he’d almost strained an ab. But when he’d let it sink in, he’d come to see the arrangement suited them both.
A forty-nine-year-old single farmer in this close-knit community faced constant scrutiny about his sexuality and speculation about his inability to keep a woman. In exchange for financial assistance to make her dream flourish, Phil would get the townsfolk and his family off his back—plus a healthy chunk of her land to expand his own farm. Win-win.
So why did she feel like the biggest loser on the planet because she’d been ditched?
She hated to admit it but marrying Phil had been as much about comfort as pragmatism. Their friendship meant a lot to her, and she relished the evenings they’d hang out together, sharing a bottle of wine and a few laughs at the never-ending gossip of a small town. She never felt threatened by Phil. Despite his flirting, he never put the hard word on her or overstepped. They shared a love of schnitties, cold beer, and quiet time under a starry sky. They respected each other and enjoyed hanging out. Some marriages were built on less.
Having him back out at the last minute had wounded her emotionally, not just financially, and if Phil’s new relationship turned serious, she’d miss his droll sense of humour and corny jokes more than she cared to admit.
But she’d handled his rejection like she handled the rest of the drama in her life: stoically and pragmatically. Having low expectations meant she’d given up on romance around the time she’d moved on from sneaking her gran’s steamy literature from the box under her bed in her late teens.
Unlike Phil, she didn’t do dating apps. On the occasional trip out of town, she flirted a little, and if a hook-up opportunity presented itself, she took full advantage. But those ‘opportunities’ were few and far between, and the last time she’d had sex could be measured in years, not weeks or months. It never bothered her. Until now.
Because for some odd reason, seeing Sawyer after all these years, having him hold her in his arms and comfort her, had her yearning for something that could never happen.
Sawyer was history. Ancient history. She’d be better off remembering that.
Once she’d packed away the rest of the food, freezing three quarters of it because it would feed her for the next month, she finally did what she should’ve done the moment she entered the house: get out of her dress.
She’d been tempted to rip it off earlier, around the time she’d been demolishing the arbour, but then Sawyer had turned up and she’d forgotten she’d been wearing the thing. Now, as she stood in her plain white cotton undies and matching bra, staring at the crumpled silk streaked with red dust on the floor, she found it symbolic. Her dreams for turning a profit with her farm stay lay in a heap too unless she could come up with another solution fast.
Not that she hadn’t tried already. Marrying Phil had been a last resort and now that option had been removed … she couldn’t bear thinking about it.
She bundled up the calf-length silk dress with spaghetti straps and stuffed it in the clothes hamper. Not that she’d ever wear it again, but she’d wash it and donate it to the op shop in town. Maybe it would bring the next bride who wore it better luck.
Not that she believed in luck. She made her own, not waiting for a nebulous fate to bestow good stuff on her. Which meant she needed to get her arse into gear and figure out another solution for her financial problem.
‘Gumnut, the arbour is down. Anything else you want me to do?’
Sawyer’s voice drifting down the hallway had her stepping into jeans, tugging a blue singlet over her head, and slipping her arms into her favourite short-sleeved flannie. Not that she’d been averse to him seeing her in her underwear at one stage, but she’d grown up. Right?
‘Be right there,’ she yelled, tugging the pins out of her hair and letting it fall, running her fingers through it before snagging it into a ponytail. Her makeup looked even more incongruous now she’d ditched the bridal outfit, but she didn’t have time to take it off.
She needed to get rid of Sawyer.
Because the moment he’d asked if there’s anything else she wanted him to do, a plethora of possibilities popped into her head, starting with him undressing her, ending with him spending more than a few hours here.
Simply, she didn’t want to be alone tonight.
But she wouldn’t use him like that. Sawyer may not have reciprocated her crush years ago, but he’d been a friend, a good one, and sleeping with him because she was hurt and lonely wouldn’t be fair. Besides, even if she put the hard word on him, he might not want to spend the night.
With a sigh, she pressed her fingertips to her temples. What the hell was she thinking? She needed to thank Sawyer for his help and send him on his way.
She flung open her bedroom door and almost ran smack bang into his broad chest.
‘Whoa.’ His hands shot out to grasp her arms, steadying her. ‘Are you in a hurry to get rid of me?’
‘Yes,’ she muttered, hating how her skin tingled beneath his touch. ‘And stop calling me Gumnut.’
His mouth kicked into the laconic grin that used to set her heart racing. ‘You used to love it.’
‘When I was ten.’
‘You know it’s a term of endearment, right?’
‘Whatever.’
He laughed and released her. ‘You’re in a bad mood, but I guess you’re entitled, what with being ditched at the altar by Fabulous Phil.’
‘I’m devastated by the lack of his financial support, nothing more.’
But he must’ve heard the hint of vulnerability in her voice, the one she strove to hide every day because deep down she hated being alone despite all protestation to the contrary, because he said, ‘I know you’re probably exhausted and counting down the minutes until you boot me out of here, but I’d really love to take a look at the farm-stay project you’re so passionate about that you’d consider marrying that slimeball.’
She’d love nothing better than to show him her pride and joy, with the first cottage nearing completion and the second well underway, but he was right. She had to get rid of him before she did something totally out of character again, like slide into his arms and hold on tight.
‘Phil’s not a slimeball.’
‘Fine. He’s a sleazebag.’
‘You’re being too harsh, especially considering you haven’t seen him in years.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘I doubt he’s changed. Leopards, spots, and all that.’ He grimaced. ‘That guy used to be a ladies’ man.’
She didn’t want to admit that she enjoyed Phil’s light-hearted flirtation because it distracted her from how damn lonely she was, and his lingering glances were the closest thing she came to feeling appreciated as a woman.
So she deflected. ‘Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour, then you’re out of here.’
‘When you put it like that, how can I refuse?’
They headed through the kitchen and out the back door, where Mila veered left, following the path behind the main shed. She’d purposely chosen the expanse of land to the west of the shed because it afforded guests privacy, out of sight of the main homestead.
Her ancestors had been clever in laying out the farm. The homestead and adjoining land where she planned on opening the farm stay were within sight of the main road but set far enough back to ensure privacy. And the silos, paddocks, and sheds housing equipment were situated behind a line of trees that effectively hid the day-to-day operations. Though she loved the silo art in the region and once she had enough capital would love to pay a local artist to paint her silos with local flora and fauna. It could be a drawcard for the farm-stay occupants, something for them to see on the farm other than the day-to-day running.
She loved every aspect of lentil farming: the unique names of the red lentils like Nugget, Digger, Aldinga, and Northfield; the paddock preparation that required adequate weed-control measures before sowing; the rolling to flatten any ridges caused by sowing; how lentils flower profusely in a short period of time. And the satisfaction when she sold a crop at a decent price, a direct result of her hard work … that feeling was priceless.
There was no way she’d lose Hills Homestead without a fight and if she could just get the farm stays up and running, she had a chance. Though starting this project was about more than money and she knew it. She wanted people to experience the same feelings she got when she opened the front window every morning, inhaled the crisp country air and watched the sun crest the horizon in a blaze of gold and sienna. The uniqueness of a cricket cacophony as dusk streaked the sky in mauves and magentas. The warbling of magpies, the rustle of eucalypts, the hooting of owls.
The vastness of the farm engulfed her and she wanted to share her love of the land with those who spent most of their lives running for trams or trapped in a cubicle in a city high-rise.
As they rounded the corner of the shed, the first cottage came into view and Sawyer wolf-whistled.
‘Wow. You did all that?’
‘With the help of the odd tradesmen or two. Gramps helped too.’
‘How does Jack feel about you changing things around here?’
She shrugged, wishing she could share her struggles with her grandfather, but she didn’t want to burden him when he’d left the farming life behind. She’d seen the toll it had taken over the years, though she attributed his stoic sadness to her grandmother leaving as much as the rigours of farming life. He’d always been a quiet man, withdrawn rather than gregarious, and that only intensified after Addy left. But she shared a special bond with her grandfather, and they were happiest when riding quad bikes around the farm or overseeing the sowing of a new crop.
When he’d sold her the farm, she’d been ecstatic. She’d farmed alongside him long enough and it had been time for her to be her own boss. He’d bought a small block of land on the outskirts of town and built an amazing sandstone cottage, leaving her to run the farm on her own.
It’s what she wanted, but lentil farming had been in Gramps’s blood, and a small part of her thought he might pop around more often.
‘Gramps walked away from the farm when he sold it to me. Though he thinks I’m mad pouring more capital into the place when I’m still paying off a mortgage. And as he says, “All it takes is one bad crop” … ’ She shook her head. ‘The farm is run well but I’ve had a string of bad years so … I need the farm stay to take off so I can pay off my debts.’
Respect glinted in his eyes. ‘You have it all figured out.’
‘I have plans. There’s nothing wrong with that.’
He held up his hands in surrender. ‘Didn’t say there was. Why so defensive?’
She couldn’t tell him the truth—that insomnia had become a constant companion since she undertook the farm-stay project, that she worried about money constantly, that she couldn’t fathom what she’d do if she lost the farm—so she settled for, ‘So how’s the land-broking business treating you?’
‘I love it,’ he said, pride audible in his smoother-than-caramel tone, the depth of his voice eliciting the same visceral reaction it had when she’d been a teen. ‘I work hard, I get recognised for my efforts. It’s rewarding.’
‘I always knew you’d be amazing at whatever you did.’
A blush stole into his cheeks and he looked away, unable to meet her eyes. ‘You were the only one who believed in me.’
She wanted to ask so much—why he’d hid his intelligence behind banter in school, why he’d never applied himself, why he’d antagonised teachers—but it wasn’t her place. They hadn’t seen each other in fifteen years, hadn’t spoken once in all that time, and they were more like acquaintances now rather than the friends they’d once been.
‘Thanks,’ he murmured, staring at the farm-stay cottage ahead of them. ‘You were a good mate back then.’
‘You’re welcome,’ she said, surprised by the lump of emotion in her throat. If he only knew how much she’d wanted to be more than a mate, how many nights she’d lain awake fantasising about him kissing her, how hard she struggled with her overwhelming feelings.
‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Sure,’ she said.
‘Why did you stay?’
‘In town, you mean?’
‘In town. Here on the farm.’ He paused and shot her a sideways glance. ‘You were smarter than Will and could’ve been anything.’
‘Don’t let Will hear you say that,’ she said. ‘He’s got a bigger ego than you.’
He chuckled. ‘Nice deflection, but you didn’t answer the question.’
‘It’s simple, really. I love this farm. There’s no other place I’d rather be.’
Which is why she had to come up with a solution to save it—fast.