THREE
I step out of the helicopter and the outback air hits me like a slap – dry, relentless and hotter than a thousand suns.
The Northern Territory is trying to choke me out on arrival.
We’re surrounded by red earth that looks sunburnt, endless plains of scrubby grass, and plenty of those twisty river red gums that belong on postcards or survival documentaries.
There’s a dusty breeze that carries the faint, medicinal scent of eucalyptus and zero sympathy.
The pilot hands me my battered leather duffel bag and gives me a grin that says, Good luck out there. I start sweating in places I didn’t know had sweat glands.
Beside me, Abbey squints against the glare, swatting flies. One lands on her lip and she gags. ‘Remind me why we’re here again? Is this some kind of cosmic punishment?’
‘Sadly not,’ I say. ‘Apparently, people choose to live out here. Voluntarily.’
Abbey snorts, flinging her duffel bag over one shoulder. ‘Yeah, I still think it might be a cult. The minute I see a shrine I’m out of here.’
She’s not wrong. My bra is clinging to my ribs as if personally offended by the heat. I feel the slow trickle of sweat sliding down my front and back; clearly organic deodorant is a scam. I blow a rogue strand of hair from my face and glance at the sun, my ponytail plastered to my neck.
Four and a half hours flying from Sydney to Darwin. Then another hour and a half in a helicopter that felt as if one gust of wind could send us spiralling into an outback thriller. And now? I am one lukewarm rosé away from losing consciousness.
The main homestead in front of us is a classic Aussie dreamscape: weatherboard, wraparound verandah, red roof, white trim.
It’s lazily hiding beneath a handful of black wattles, basically camouflaged into the scenery.
A few scattered buildings stretch into the distance, indicating this place has range.
Not surprising, considering Ella’s new home is one of the largest cattle stations in the entire state.
‘About time you two showed up!’
Ella bursts down the front steps, all long limbs and sunny energy.
She’s practically glowing as she crosses the dry lawn barefoot.
Her freckles sparkle. Her blonde curls bounce.
Her skin is annoyingly tanned in that ‘I don’t even try’ kind of way.
She’s Outback Barbie, and I – sweaty, pale, slightly concussed from the heat – want to punch her and braid her hair at the same time.
She pulls me into a hug, and then Abbey, who might be dead judging by the way her tiny frame is sagging under the force of the sun.
It’s been two years since we last saw each other, and no number of Instagram Stories or FaceTime can prepare me for the reality of seeing her this way.
Tanned. Glowing. Radiating joy in a way you can’t fake through DMs.
‘Please tell me there’s aircon,’ Abbey begs, eyes desperate, face already a blotchy shade of pink. Her usual Lucy Liu sharpness is more medieval pageboy right now, thanks to the blunt black bob clinging to her damp cheeks.
‘We’ve got aircon.’ Ella grins, clearly enjoying this. ‘The guest wing’s down the track. I’ll take you through the house first.’
She turns on her heel and doesn’t even glance back to see if we’re following.
We are. Obviously. Standing out here any longer would be an act of self-immolation.
We trail after her, flies buzzing around us like they’ve been given our GPS coordinates.
Ella barely flinches at them, just waves a hand, completely unbothered.
She’s practically one with the red dirt at this point.
The flyscreen groans as she pulls open the front door and disappears inside. A gust of cool air kisses my face and I nearly weep.
‘You guys are gonna love it here,’ she calls back to us. ‘Darcy and the others are out mustering the last of the cattle, but they’ll be back in time for the big meet and greet.’
Darcy. Ella’s husband to be, because apparently this romance novel writes itself. The mustering part? I don’t ask. Nothing in this postcode makes sense to me.
We’ve known Ella since high school – back when the three of us were inseparable. If one of us was crying in a bathroom stall, the other two were already scaling the cubicle walls to offer snacks and emotional damage control. It was that kind of friendship.
That’s why it floored us when Ella disappeared the second we graduated.
While the rest of us were booking Contiki tours or ‘finding ourselves’ in South-East Asia, wearing baggy pants and pretending to enjoy the taste of durian, Ella … moved out here. Not to Byron. Not to a surf hostel in Portugal. Here – a Northern Territory cattle station.
She wanted to be a jillaroo. Yes, an actual cowgirl.
Our very own Jimmy from Yellowstone, minus the criminal record and with better brows.
Born and raised in Clovelly, where the most rugged thing she’d ever done was brunch without a reservation, she’s now elbow- deep in cow placenta, or whatever it is they do out here.
Her parents were horrified, obviously. She’s their only child and their entire retirement plan.
But a gap year turned into a part-time job, turned into a full-blown outback romance with – wait for it – the station manager’s son, Darcy Thornwood.
I wish I were making that name up. He sounds like a Regency-era rake, but no, he’s real. I checked.
Not only is she wildly in love, she’s also marrying into one of the wealthiest families in the state.
Cattle’s a thing here, sure, but the land is the real goldmine.
Four hundred thousand acres, passed down through generations.
How do I know that? Because I deep-dived into the family’s Instagram tags and came out with a working knowledge of their land management practices and Sophia Thornwood’s skincare routine.
It’s Kakadu plum in case you’re wondering.
We follow Ella inside and I nearly moan as a blessed breeze from a ceiling fan glides over my heat-wrecked body.
From the outside, the homestead looks charming yet unassuming – weathered wood and bushland vibes – but inside it’s deceptively vast. Rooms branch off from the hallway in every direction.
We pass a living room, a master suite, a study, a bathroom – all styled in a well-heeled, yeehawadjacent aesthetic.
Earth tones. Worn leather. Subtle cowhide accents.
‘Wow, Ella, this place is way bigger in person,’ Abbey says, eyeing the fireplace in the corner as though it personally insulted her sunburn.
Ella shrugs, ever the nonchalant outback goddess. ‘Wait until you see the rest of the property.’
The hallway opens up to reveal a sprawling kitchen and living area, anchored by a long timber dining table that’s clearly hosted several emotionally loaded family dinners.
A few people in aprons bustle around the table, setting out plates and cutlery with professional precision. The place smells of roasted something. My stomach tightens with longing. I could destroy a burger right now with zero remorse.
Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch along one side of the room, framing a dry, cracked lawn that bleeds into endless bush. It’s beautiful in that I might die here sort of way.
Then – pop.
A cork comes flying from the butler’s pantry off to the left. We all turn as Ella’s mum, Gloria Beaumont herself, struts out holding a bottle of Moet in one hand and several champagne flutes in the other.
Ella groans. ‘Mum, you were supposed to wait until tonight.’
Gloria pours the champagne with the confidence of a woman who’s been drinking before noon since the 1980s. ‘Since when? You’re getting married tomorrow. Let the mother of the bride celebrate.’
Gloria flashes me and Abbey a wink. ‘Glad to see you ladies made it to hell with the rest of us.’
‘Mum,’ Ella hisses. She glances at the kitchen staff, who heard everything. None of them blink. Either they’re already used to Gloria, or this is the third bottle today.
Gloria waves a perfectly manicured hand. ‘What? The heat is stifling and it’s only spring! Be grateful your father brought his heart meds this time.’
Ella sighs.
‘It’s good to see you, Gloria,’ I say, and I mean it – genuinely.
I used to love hanging out at Ella’s house after school.
While my parents were still at the office pretending my sister and I didn’t exist between the hours of nine and seven, I’d step off the bus at the Beaumonts’ to the smell of freshly baked cookies and the sharp citrus of whatever Gloria had juiced that morning (pineapple-mint, blood orange, often something vaguely Italian-sounding).
Gloria’s eyes scan Abbey and me: Abbey’s skin is already a shade of shiny pink that suggests she’ll peel by tomorrow, and my hair is stuck to my neck as if it’s trying to become one with my bloodstream. Still, we smile, pretending we’re in control of the situation.
‘Here,’ Gloria says, handing us both a flute. ‘You could use a refresh.’
Translation: You look like absolute shit, and I want to help you forget about it.
I’m not offended. Gloria’s always had a soft spot for dark humour and a pre-noon bubbly.
I take the glass, the cool condensation soothing against my palm, and follow Ella outside, Abbey trailing behind us like a POW.
We last a whole twenty seconds in the dry heat before we round a corner to find a row of charming motel-style cabins, each with a little number beside the door. We stop at room four.
‘I put you both in here,’ Ella says, unlocking the door and handing each of us a key. ‘The fan can be a bit fiddly. Let me know if it gives you grief.’
Fiddly, in my experience, is code for non-functional, though we still nod like grateful pilgrims.
‘You’re probably exhausted, so settle in.
The pool’s out back but Johnny’s cleaning it, so maybe wait an hour unless you’re into floating leaves and questionable pH levels.
There’s a meet-and-greet at seven. Follow the sound of country music and mild emotional repression. ’ She winks. ‘You can’t miss it.’
Abbey groans as she enters the room and drops her duffel bag. I try not to laugh at the way she collapses onto the double bed.
‘Jesus. Are you gonna make it?’ I ask her, genuinely curious.
Abbey lifts her head from the pillow and downs her champagne. ‘Ask me after I’ve showered and located my SPF fifty.’
Abbey has always had a flair for the dramatic.
She’s a self- diagnosed hypochondriac with a splash of royal delusion.
Youngest of three. Distantly related to someone who once dated a prince of Singapore or Brunei, and she’s never let it go.
Family money isn’t enough – she also wants recognition, an audience, a narrative.
In response, Ella rolls her eyes. ‘Breakfast is served at seven. Hair and make-up starts at eight. Kitchen’s stocked, so help yourselves if you get hungry. Just don’t burn anything.’
I drop my bag by the door and pull Ella in for a hug.
The light spills in through the window, casting soft, golden beams across the timber-panelled room.
Abbey’s half-deceased body lies atop beige linen sheets, and I marvel at how my one shot at a ‘there was only one bed’ scenario – arguably my most beloved romance trope – has been wasted on a woman who once threw up on my shoes after bottomless mimosas.
‘Is there wi-fi?’ Abbey asks.
Ella pulls away, half laughing, half scolding. ‘Yes, but stay off your phone if you can.’ She throws Abbey a look. ‘This is a TikTok-free weekend.’
Abbey pouts and scrolls anyway. She’s deep in reel territory – there’s no saving her.
‘I’m serious, Abs. You’re mine for the next few days.’ Ella winks again and heads back out to answer a call, her bare feet thudding lightly against the floorboards.
It wasn’t my plan to stay past the wedding.
I’d envisioned a quick fly-in-fly-out situation.
And then Ella got on the phone and did her ‘We never see each other anymore’ guilt-trip routine, and how could I say, ‘Sorry, I’d rather be under a weighted blanket reading my smutty little books?
’ The answer is, I couldn’t. So I lied and told her there was nowhere else I’d rather be.
Ignoring Abbey’s sigh as the wi-fi cuts out again, I finish my champagne and reach for one of the hotel-style towels artfully rolled on the bed.
‘Do you reckon the main house gets better reception?’ Abbey asks, phone still raised.
‘God help your engagement score if you don’t post for three days.’
‘I know, right—’ She stops when she realises I’m being sarcastic. ‘You’re just worried I’ll find myself a hot cowboy and you’ll be the last one of us to settle down,’ she says, eyes twinkling. ‘You’ll be one of those forgotten women in dusty novels. A spinster.’
‘Thornback,’ I correct.
‘Thorn-what?’
I grin. ‘Thornback. It’s what they called unmarried women after twenty-five. Up to twenty-five, you’re a spinster. After that, you’re a thornback.’
‘Wow. That’s … depressing.’
‘Especially since single men are called bachelors, no matter what age. Dashing. Eligible. Jude Law immortality.’
Abbey narrows her eyes and smiles as if she’s about to make a very poor decision, which means I’ll be involved by default. ‘All the more reason to find some hot men this weekend.’
I flop beside her on the bed. ‘Correction: hot cowboys. I want to see if there’s a difference between men grown in the dirt and the ones raised in overpriced co-working spaces.’
Abbey grins. ‘Rural experiment?’
I nod solemnly. ‘Purely scientific. One night. No feelings. Just …
data collection.’
She snorts. ‘You sound like you’re about to sleep with someone for a peer-reviewed journal.’
‘Honestly, I’d trust a man more if he came with references.’ I stand up, suddenly desperate for a shower.
Abbey waggles her eyebrows. ‘Oh please. You’d never hang around long enough to read his references even if they arrived stapled to his forehead. You’re allergic to commit—’
The bathroom door slams shut, cutting her off before she can finish her very on-brand hypothesis.