Wild Promises (Wattle Creek #5)

Chapter 1

Olivia

I Am Woman – Emmy Meli

It’s barely mid-morning, and I’ve already been in a full-blown brawl with a magpie.

Mating season will be the death of me. The nuisance has been dive-bombing me since sunrise, screaming bloody murder from the fence post like I personally offended her nest. And being August, it’s peak fucking breeding season.

I toss a scoop of feed into the trough just as the wind kicks up, flinging chaff straight into my hair—where it’ll absolutely stay until someone points it out at lunch.

Xavier, the eldest Mitchell sibling, walks toward me, sporting a look that says I’ve-been-up-since-four-a.m. Behind him, Nash and Toby move along the fence line.

They’ve been rostered seven days this week because the season doesn’t pause just because we do.

They work fast. Clean. No fuss. No chatter.

“Gate,” Xavier calls.

“I’ve got it,” I shout, already jogging to swing it wide—because God forbid Kevin the Asshole gets out. Kevin is a goat with a superiority complex.

Boots thud. Metal clinks. Cattle shuffle through in a slow, dusty procession. The air out here smells like dew, diesel, eucalyptus, and a kind of purpose I haven’t fully claimed

Dad doesn’t come down to the yards anymore, not since the heart attack scare last Christmas.

He stands on the veranda now—hand wrapped around his mug, slippers on, pretending he’s just “resting”.

He lifts two fingers in a salute when I glance up.

I pretend not to notice the relief in his shoulders when Xavier whistles the heifers through without fuss.

If the farm is a body, Xavier is its spine.

Dad says “we” when he talks about the farm, but Xav is the one with the maps in his head, the rain patterns, the soil quirks, which paddock sulks if you seed it too early.

He’s been carrying this place since before anyone asked him to, and now it fits him the way Dad’s old leather jacket fits his shoulders—scuffed, sure, but made for him.

Me? I’m the spare pair of hands—happy to help, paid a steady wage, good at wrangling a stubborn post driver and talking a lamb out from under a fence. It’s honest work. It just doesn’t scratch the itch under my ribs.

“You up for a hardware dash later?” Xavier asks, pencil between his teeth.

“Sure. Give me a list, though, otherwise I’ll get distracted and buy the wrong bolts.”

“Don’t talk the worker’s ear off this time, and hurry it up.”

I grin. “No promises.”

I’m a menace with small talk. Put me in a line, and I’ll know your dog’s name, your cousin’s wedding drama, and your favourite brand of biscuits by the time we reach the register.

Mum will call it nosy; I call it inquisitive.

I like to store all the small stuff—habits, stories, favorites.

It’s my way of belonging. It’s my way of planning for something of my own without admitting that’s what I’m doing.

By nine, I’ve already stepped in mud up to my ankle, patched up the quad bike while Toby swore at it in the background, and booked Dad’s check-up for Thursday, because if I ask him if he wants to go, his hearing conveniently switches off.

I don’t mind the noise, the chores, the constant back-and-forth.

It’s the quiet that gets me. That’s when my brain starts browsing for a new identity.

Florist? Sounds cute.

Barista? I’d drink the profits.

I even tried candle-making once—set off the smoke alarm twice, and the kitchen still reeks of burnt vanilla. Safe to say, that was not my calling.

I’m lugging a bag of feed across the yard when Luna and Buddy come tearing past, skidding through the dirt.

“Control your children,” I yell at Xavier.

“They’re your children half the time,” he shoots back.

“They don’t listen to me.”

“They don’t listen to anyone,” he says, as Luna leaps at his leg and Buddy noses his boot.

I laugh and shove the bag into place. “At least they’re loyal.”

“Only to whoever has the treats,” he mutters, but he bends to scratch behind Buddy’s ear anyway.

I glance toward the house, up at the veranda.

Dad’s in his chair, mug in hand, staring out at the fields.

The knot in my chest loosens, just a little.

He’s here. He’s okay. And he will be—because I’ve decided he will be.

Because I booked the damn appointment. We’re not taking chances anymore.

Not with the doctor repeating our family history like a warning label.

Hypertension. Risk of stroke. Heart attack.

The trifecta we’re not letting in. Not if I can help it.

Eventually, I head into town for the hardware run.

Bolts. Washers. A packet of oversized hooks we probably don’t need.

And, because I’m weak, a pack of sparkly star stickers I absolutely don’t need but will one hundred per cent use to bribe Isla’s daughters into eating something green.

On my way out, I stop at the noticeboard, because I always do.

Lost Kelpie. Yoga at the hall. Guitar lessons.

One card stands out. NANNY WANTED is scrawled in thick black marker, a smiley face at the end. No logo. No tear-off tabs. Just a number. I pause longer than I mean to, tilting my head like the paper might offer more if I squint hard enough. I lift my phone and take a photo.

I’ve no idea why I do, really. Maybe it’s the timing. Maybe it’s the smiley face. Maybe it’s because I’ve always loved kids and, well… why not? Some people collect crystals or tattoos. I collect possibilities.

“Pass the beans, love,” Mum says, tapping the serving spoon against her plate. Dad shifts the bowl closer to her without a word.

“See, he still listens,” she says, smiling at him.

“Selective,” Dad mutters, but the corner of his mouth pulls just slightly, and that’s how he shows he’s amused.

“Potatoes?” Amelia asks Bradley, already holding the dish out to him

“Yes,” he says, too quickly, loading his plate like a man starved.

“You’d think I don’t feed him at home,” Amelia teases, and the table erupts in laughter.

She’d hugged me tightly at the door when she arrived, and it reset something heavy in my chest. Bradley had followed shortly after with a bottle of red and a ruffle of my hair that I pretended to hate, even though, secretly, I don’t.

I butter a piece of bread, tearing it with my fingers. The table is crowded—bowls of beans slick with butter, roasted carrots glazed and slightly charred, gravy steaming in its jug, a salad bright with tomatoes from the garden. Pavlova waits on the sideboard, as well as Amelia’s lemon tart.

Amelia leans forward, phone in hand, showing Mum and Dad her Pinterest board. “So, flowers. We want them colourful, a bit messy, like they just… grew there. Not too polished.”

“Sounds like weeds,” Bradley says around a mouthful.

She swats his arm, laughing. “Romantic weeds.”

Dad studies the photos, nodding slowly. “Looks lovely,” he says, as though he knows exactly what he’s talking about. He doesn’t, but Amelia beams anyway.

“Songs next?” Mum asks, eyes twinkling. “Please tell me you’re not walking down the aisle to that awful rock music you like, Bradley.”

“Not anymore,” Amelia says quickly. “We’ve got something… softer. Special.”

I shove a piece of bread into my mouth while I watch them across the table.

Oh, how things have changed since the whole drama.

And by drama, I mean the tiny, insignificant detail where my best friend fell in love with my brother right under my nose and didn’t tell me.

Not because I would’ve hated it, but because they thought I would.

And that’s what stung the most. The sneaking around, the silence, the fact that they didn’t trust me enough to handle it.

If they’d told me? I would’ve rolled my eyes, made Bradley’s life hell for the sport of it, and then cried into Amelia’s hair because she’s my person, and he’s never deserved anyone this good.

Instead, I found out sideways. Said some things I wish I could chew into dust. And for a while, it felt like I was standing outside my own house, knocking on the door.

But we got through it. We found our way back.

No hard feelings, at least not the kind that linger.

They know it. I know it. And sitting here now, watching them talk about flowers and playlists like it’s the most important thing in the universe, it’s obvious.

She’s steadier with him. He’s lighter with her.

They’ve come so far, and now they’re getting married.

“Liv, are you even listening?” Amelia bumps my arm with hers, snapping me back.

“Of course.” I grin, tearing another chunk of bread. “You’re marrying my idiot brother and planning to make us all sit through three hours of love songs while he cries into his suit. Riveting stuff.”

“I don’t cry,” Bradley says, glaring at me.

“You teared up during Marley & Me,” I fire back. “Don’t even start.”

Amelia hides her laugh behind her wineglass, but her eyes give her away.

“Not the same thing,” Bradley mutters, shoving another forkful of lamb into his mouth like that’ll end the conversation.

“Sure.” I lean across the table, lowering my voice. “So when Amelia walks down the aisle, and you bawl like Joseph when he’s overtired, I’ll be right there to remind everyone.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would.”

Amelia sighs, amused, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You two are going to fight all the way to the altar, aren’t you?”

“It’s tradition,” I say, bumping her shoulder. Then, softer, because she deserves to hear it, “But seriously, I am happy. You make him less of an idiot. And I love you for it.”

Her smile wobbles, just a little. “He is less of an idiot with me.”

“Objectively.”

Bradley narrows his eyes. “Am I being insulted in my own parents’ kitchen?”

“Yes,” I say at the exact same time Amelia says, “Always.”

He ruffles my hair as he passes, and then kisses Amelia like we’re not all right here.

“Gross,” I mutter, grinning as I stack plates and bail from the kitchen before they turn it into a rom-com scene.

After dinner, Mum insists we all stay put while she brings out dessert. None of us listen. Amelia clears plates, Bradley stacks cutlery in uneven piles that’ll annoy her later, and I ferry bowls to the sink while stealing a few more forkfuls of lamb straight off the tray.

“Liv,” Amelia scolds, catching me mid-bite.

“What? Waste not.” I shrug. “Besides, you’re about to roll out lemon tart, which—no offence—trumps lamb any day.”

Bradley points his fork at me. “Don’t touch half of it. That tart’s mine.”

“You mean ours,” Amelia corrects, hip-checking him as she sets the dessert on the table.

“Yours, mine, ours,” I say, reaching for the knife.

“You two share everything now, remember?” Bradley glares.

Amelia laughs. I cut myself a slab the size of my hand because I know how fast it disappears around here.

Beside it is a pavlova, the cream already starting to slip, strawberries spilling over the edges like red jewels.

Mum beams, pleased with her masterpiece.

We all dig in. The table hums—wedding chatter, farm updates, Amelia’s latest school chaos, and Dad’s dry one-liners that somehow land between bites.

It’s loud, messy, and familiar.

Later, in bed, I crack the window to let the night in—frogs chirping, the occasional hum of a highway truck, the old bones of the house settling into sleep.

I start my list of small goodnesses: Dad’s laugh at the dinner table. Amelia’s lemon tart. Xavier’s quiet relief when the bolts I grabbed were the right size. A photo of a nanny ad I can’t quite bring myself to delete.

And then I picture a kitchen table years from now, crayons scattered across it. Boots by the back door that don’t belong to me.

Wild? Sure. Impulsive? Always. But the truth is, I’m solid when I stay.

I’m sturdy as a fencepost once I’ve been planted.

And I think—no—I know, I’m ready to plant it.

To build something that starts with breakfasts like today and ends with someone small asleep on my shoulder…

and someone tall stealing the last wedge of lemon tart while swearing he didn’t.