Chapter 2
Hamish
‘Don’t get me wrong, man,’ Hamish said. ‘I like being back on the farm. And I appreciate you sorting it with Dad so that I can be. But it’s just …
’ He gestured at the yard surrounding the farmhouse, as though the sheds and paddocks half hidden in the twilight could flesh out his thoughts.
Not that this was the place for sharing.
Out in the ute checking fences, a guy might sometimes spill his guts to a mate, diluting the issue with necessary talk about sheep, weather and crops.
But you never sat over a drink and talked about your problems. Not even if your best mate was your brother.
Emotions weren’t something to be put into words.
Lachlan’s fingers whitened as they wrapped around the beer bottle he held out to Hamish. ‘Not going to leave me in the lurch, are you?’
‘Lach, between you and Charity, you’ve got it in the bag, man.
You guys would be fine if I hauled arse.
But, nope, no plans to go anywhere. Got no plans at all, actually.
’ He leaned back in the wicker chair, noting the ominous creak that suggested he’d been having too many meals at his brother’s place.
Hamish had put on a mechanic in the workshop and returned to the family farm, hoping that would fill the need that gnawed incessantly at him.
But while recreating his connection to the land had helped, there was still something missing.
Something intangible. He was restless. Longing for something; a yearning that wasn’t based on greed, but on an unformed sense of loss.
‘Guess Mum would have said I’ve got ants in my pants. ’
Funny how sometimes the mention of Mum hurt so much. This was one of those times, when the flash of memory stabbed like a blunt blade. Not cutting or slicing, but bruising. A tender spot that didn’t bleed, but also didn’t heal.
‘Charity reckons you’ve got ADHD.’
Behind them, the screen door banged and Lachlan’s partner stepped out onto the narrow verandah at the front of the farmhouse. ‘Lachlan!’ she protested, setting a tray of cold cuts on the upturned plastic chemical drum that served as a table between their chairs.
‘What?’ Lachlan assumed an innocent expression.
He often teased Charity, gently challenging her characteristic seriousness.
The tactic had worked: she’d lightened up considerably since moving to Settlers Bridge almost a year earlier.
Yet it was Charity’s innate qualities—endlessly practical, thoughtful and attentive—that made her the perfect partner for Lachlan.
She provided the stability and security Hamish’s brother needed.
That steadiness meant Charity flew a bit too close to being boring, Hamish thought as he picked up a slice of ham and waved down her embarrassment. ‘Fair call. You wouldn’t be the first teacher to suggest it. Anyway, I’ve been meaning to ask, is your sister coming up again anytime soon?’
‘Faith and Skye are staying over next weekend,’ Charity said with a knowing grin.
‘The other one.’
‘Ah, the sweet, kind sister, you mean?’ Lachlan chuckled.
Hamish snorted. Hope was a firecracker. About ten years younger than Charity and as different from her and their middle sister, Faith, as it was possible to be. And, yeah, she was the sister he meant.
‘I thought you two had landed on being just … you know, friends?’ Charity said.
Friends with benefits, on occasion, but no need for Charity to know that. Hamish shook his head. ‘Haven’t you noticed Hope never travels alone? Every time she visits, the male–female balance in Settlers Bridge takes a bit of a wobble back in the right direction.’
A curling breeze drifted a wisp of hair across Charity’s face, and Hamish and Lachlan both looked in the direction of the prevailing weather. It was getting too dark to see clouds, but they’d be able to smell if there was rain on the way.
Nothing.
Charity retied her ponytail. ‘You know you’ll never persuade any of Hope’s friends to stay out here?’ she said in her trademark anxious tone. He’d never met anyone who worried so much about other people’s thoughts and feelings. ‘They’re city girls, Ham. Only out for a good time. Or a rich grazier.’
‘Then, as I’m definitely not the latter, it’s only fair I make an effort to be there for the former.’
Lachlan pulled Charity down onto his lap. ‘Come on, Charity, let the kids have their fun.’
‘You’ll make me all dirty,’ she protested, pushing ineffectually against him.
‘Lucky I like you like that.’
As their conversation devolved into murmured endearments, Hamish discreetly looked away, studying the distant wall of the hay shed.
Both he and Lachlan were covered with a good layer of dust. They were trialling an early run of seeding in some of the paddocks, direct drilling in the hope the mice wouldn’t get to the grain before the rain came and the seed germinated.
It had been a decade since Hamish had worked the land and, thanks to Lachlan’s generosity in sharing the farm that was his birthright, he was enjoying getting back into the flow. Even if it didn’t fill all his needs.
‘Roof on that shed’s going to need replacing before winter,’ he said eventually.
‘Mmm,’ Lachlan grunted.
Hamish winced. It was tough being the third wheel. ‘I might head into Settlers and grab a burger at the diner. Ethan wants to catch up.’
‘No, no,’ Charity insisted, unwinding herself from Lachlan’s embrace. ‘I’ve got dinner on. I just thought you might like some charcuterie first.’
He tried not to chuckle at her fancy name for smallgoods that would work best between a couple of slabs of bread. ‘You don’t have to feed me all the time, Charity, you’ve enough on at the school. And with this one.’ He tipped his head toward Lachlan.
‘Letting you starve would be an option.’ Charity stood, pulling her light sweater straight.
‘But then Lachlan would have to work harder, and I’d never see him.
So I reckon if I have to cook for you every day, it’s a small price to pay.
’ As she made to step away from the wicker chairs, Lachlan caught her hand.
She threaded her fingers through his and leaned her hip against his chair.
‘Besides, you’d both better take the cooked dinner while it’s on offer.
Lucie gave me a ton of feijoas, so for the rest of the weekend I’ll be up to my elbows in preserves and jam for the CWA. ’
Lachlan pulled a face. ‘How come the CWA get all the good stuff?’
‘To fill up Tracey’s new shop. But you’ve obviously not been in the kitchen this afternoon,’ Charity said.
‘Not only is there a feijoa crumble for your dessert—because, oddly enough, I did think of you before the CWA—but there’s not a spare inch of counter space.
Apparently Jack has feijoa trees as windbreaks on the farm, and Lucie uses the peel in her skincare products.
But she can’t keep up with the quantity of fruit they’ve picked this year—I guess the wet summer was good for something. ’
‘Good for bringing up all the ugly weeds,’ Hamish muttered, pulling a horehound burr from his plaid shirt.
‘That reminds me, don’t put your gear in the wash with those prickles still in it.’
Hamish hoped Charity’s direction was for his brother, not him, but was careful not to glance at her. He felt guilty enough that she insisted his farm clothes get chucked in the load she or Lachlan ran through the machine on the weekend.
‘The water sets them in the fabric,’ Charity continued.
‘Come spring, you’ll be sprouting weeds in your socks.
Anyway, I told Lucie I’ll use the feijoa pulp to make chutney and jam for the CWA, and freeze the peels for her to process later.
So, long story short, you’re going to be sick of anything even vaguely feijoa-adjacent soon enough. ’
‘Except for muffins,’ Hamish suggested, reaching for another piece of cheese and a couple of almonds, now that he could risk looking at the tray without it seeming like he was perving on the loved-up couple.
‘Thought you were dead against having anything to do with the CWA, though?’ Like most women of a certain age—she would have killed him for putting it like that—Hamish and Lachlan’s mum had been a member of the Country Women’s Association.
Baked cakes under cling wrap and Tupperware full of sausage rolls had featured large in his life, as had the comforting and comfortable presence of the community-minded group, even after Mum died.
‘My resistance has been worn down,’ Charity said in a glum tone, even as she looked rather smug. ‘Though I told the committee that, after this lot, I’m only interested in a policy and advocacy role. Cooking and craft fundraisers really aren’t my thing.’
‘I’d say the cooking is totally your thing,’ Lachlan said, kissing her knuckles.
It was rare for the two of them to not be touching in some way, whether it was a passing caress, hand-holding or full-on canoodling.
‘But if they’re getting your expertise on the administrative or organisational side, they’ll be winning. I know I sure am.’
‘That’s an awful lot of hats you want me to wear,’ Charity murmured.
Hamish had to look away once again as she found ways to reassure Lachlan that he didn’t need her business acumen. Lucky he’d snagged the cold cuts while he could.
The usual evening peace was punctured by the surprisingly deep, rolling call of the ewes and the high-pitched, panicked responses of the lambs echoing through the valley.
Lambing season had kicked off a few weeks back, and the little buggers were starting to give their mums a hard time, wandering out of sight.