TWENTY-THREE
The house is quieter than it has any right to be. Without Daisy’s babble and Ella’s running commentary on baby sleep cycles and digestive quirks, the air feels heavier.
I stand by the kitchen counter, hyperaware of my limbs. My hand brushes the chipped rim of the nearest mug, then my gaze bounces to the window, then back again. Outside, the wind kicks up some red dust, and somewhere in the distance, a screen door creaks like the beginning of a horror movie.
I glance at the fridge. At the empty chair Darcy had been in sitting in only moments ago. At the coffee mug Luke left behind.
I should say something. Or leave. Or fake a phone call from the prime minister. Anything except stand here and have an existential crisis.
Luke walks back in, utterly unfazed. He grabs an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter and bites into it with a satisfying crunch. He doesn’t even look at me when he asks, ‘Do you have any work clothes?’
I blink. ‘Work clothes?’
‘You know. For doing work.’
I cross my arms. ‘My work clothes involve heels and manicured nails for writing passive-aggressive emails. Occasionally, a leather laptop bag.’
Luke glances at me then, amused. ‘What about anything you don’t mind getting dirty?’
I shrug. ‘Didn’t know I’d be playing Farm Barbie today.’
There’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Barely there, but it’s a full smile in Luke terms. He disappears down the hall and comes back with a sun-faded grey t-shirt so soft and worn it might’ve once been black in a past life. He holds it out to me.
‘You can put this on,’ he says, running an eye over my current outfit. ‘Otherwise you’ll ruin that top.’ I raise an eyebrow, and his smile deepens a fraction. ‘I’ll be out the front.’
And then he’s gone.
I stay where I am for a second, staring at the shirt in my hands. It smells of bush and laundry powder and sun. It smells of him. Which is deeply satisfying and equally terrifying.
I duck into his room, close the door behind me, and change. The sleeves fall halfway down my arms. The hem swishes over my shorts like I’ve repurposed a picnic blanket into a fashion statement.
And yet, I don’t hate it.
I glimpse myself in the mirror above the dresser and pause. No make-up. A layer of dust already smudged into my skin even though I’ve barely been outside. My hair’s a mess, so I scrape it into a ponytail at the top of my head, ignoring the strands that rebel instantly.
I can’t help but stare. This version of Jamie … she looks like she knows how to start a fire. Not a metaphorical one. A real one – with sticks. She looks tired, yet solid. Scratched up and weirdly whole.
Who is this? And a more dangerous thought – do I like her?
I grab my sunglasses from my bag, square my shoulders, push down the flutter in my chest and walk out the door.
By the time I climb into the ute’s passenger seat, my legs are already dusty and my pride is somewhere back in the kitchen beside the coffee mug I forgot to rinse out.
Luke’s behind the wheel, hat on, elbow propped against the door as if this is another Monday and his parents aren’t buried in the ground nearby.
‘This could be the beginning of a road trip movie where I’d definitely die before the credits roll,’ I mutter as I yank the door shut.
Luke side-eyes me. ‘Is this the part where you mumble about dreams the whole way, or where you complain about the dust?’
‘Depends,’ I say, adjusting my sunglasses. ‘Will there be snacks?’
He snorts, starts the engine, and we lurch forward in a rattle of dust and an old suspension. The radio crackles and then smooths into something surprisingly nostalgic – ‘To Her Door’ by Paul Kelly. The kind of song that tastes of old heartbreak.
The ute rumbles over packed dirt and forgotten roots, kicking up clouds behind us that shimmer in the sunlight like smoke.
Wire fences stretch for kilometres on either side, thin lines dividing land from more land.
A wedge-tailed eagle glides overhead, a dark silhouette against the blinding blue sky as it scans the earth for food.
‘No one actually tells you how flat it is,’ I say, squinting out the window. ‘It’s like an optical illusion.’
‘It’s the bush,’ Luke says, smirking. ‘It’s not meant to impress you. It’s meant to eat you up and spit you back out.’
‘Aggressive.’
He shifts gear and glances down at my feet. ‘You wore Converses?’
‘They’re high-tops,’ I defend, as if that makes them immune to the laws of terrain.
‘Right. That’ll stop the snakes.’
I hover both feet off the floor. ‘Snakes?’
Luke chuckles and shifts gear again.
We drive for a while in a silence that isn’t exactly awkward. It’s more … uncertain. Maybe we’re both waiting to see if this thing will settle into something or crack apart completely.
‘How big is the property?’ I ask, mostly to kill my own wandering thoughts.
‘Four hundred and sixteen thousand hectares.’
I pause. ‘That sounds fake.’
‘It’s not.’
‘What’s that in swimming pool sizes?’
Luke shrugs. ‘It’s almost twice the size of the ACT.’
I stare at him. ‘You own something twice the size of a state and you still make your own coffee?’
A slow grin spreads, tugging both dimples into view. ‘There’s no espresso bar out here. Just me and the cattle.’
‘And they’re not great baristas?’
‘Terrible service. No tip jars.’
I laugh and we drive deeper into the property.
The sun’s climbing now – high and punishing, stripping the morning glow to a blinding glare.
Sparse trees give way to an endless expanse of cracked red dirt that stretches to the horizon.
The bits of grass that still cling to life are brittle and sun-bleached, burnt to the point of surrender.
Spinifex peppers the ground in low, spiky clumps while white gum trees stand resolute in the distance, pale and peeling, their gnarled limbs casting warped shadows across the earth.
Every now and then, a flash of a yellow banksia breaks through the dust – a piece of stubborn beauty.
The air is dense with the scent of dry soil and diesel, as if this world has been baking for years and there’s no way to turn the oven off.
And then I see them.
Cattle, scattered in the distance. As we get closer to the paddock, it’s impossible to ignore their ribs, the way their skin clings too tightly to their bodies. They’re grazing – or trying to. The ground doesn’t have much to offer.
The ute slows to a stop by the gate.
Luke kills the engine.
For a long moment, we just sit there.
Watching.
‘They’re underweight,’ he says finally, voice lower now. ‘Next feed truck’s supposed to arrive tomorrow. That’s if the guy shows.’
‘What’s the solution?’ I ask quietly, still watching the cattle.
Luke leans back in his seat, feelings hidden behind a carefully neutral face. ‘Rain.’
It’s a joke, sort of. But it’s also not.
I turn to look at him, and for once, he doesn’t meet my eyes.
His fingers tap the steering wheel absently.
‘The land’s too dry,’ he says, almost to himself.
‘We’ve sold off most of the stock to cut costs.
I help out at Darcy’s in exchange for hay.
Enough to keep this last herd alive. Hopefully enough to breed. ’
‘Jesus,’ I whisper.
‘We’re holding on by a thread.’ There’s no drama in his voice. No plea for sympathy. It’s the cold hard truth.
I swallow the lump in my throat. ‘What about selling?’
He’s quiet for a long time. ‘I’ve thought about it,’ he says. ‘For years.’
I wait.
‘My dad …’ He trails off, shakes his head. ‘He was adamant we keep it. That letting it go would be a betrayal. A failure. He saw it as his duty to keep doing what the generations before him worked hard for.’
I study his profile, the line of his jaw, the way his mouth tightens as if still convincing himself he isn’t allowed to let go.
‘And what do you want?’ I ask softly.
He finally looks at me, the weight of years in his eyes. ‘I want to not feel as if every choice I make is disappointing the ghosts of people before me.’
I blink fast. That thing in my chest – whatever it is – tightens.
He glances back out at the herd. ‘If I sold even part of it, I’d be out of debt tomorrow. But it was his dying wish not to. And now I’m stuck with a dead man’s promise.’
I don’t know what to say.
So, I don’t say anything.
I reach forward, rest my hand lightly over Luke’s on the steering wheel.
He doesn’t flinch.
He lets my hand stay there.
I feel how the weight of this place is not only the physical things – the land, the heat, the cattle – it’s the history. The pressure of inheritance. The cost of memory. It’s crushing.
And he’s still here. Still trying.
And I have no idea what to do with that.
Luke gets out and opens the gate before jumping back behind the wheel and driving through.
He moves to get out again, but I’m faster this time – half to be helpful, half to prove I’m not useless.
My high-tops crunch against the dirt as I hop out and jog to the fence, fingers fumbling with the latch before swinging it closed.
When I climb back in and shut the door, Luke glances over and gives me the faintest smile.
It barely lifts the corner of his mouth. Yet it still counts.
‘Thanks.’
We drive further into the paddock, the tyres dipping and groaning over uneven ground, until Luke gives a low sigh and slows to a stop. ‘Damn.’
That one word carries too much weight.
‘What?’ I ask, already scanning the field.
He doesn’t answer. Not with words. He opens the door and steps out. I follow, because staying in the car suddenly feels cowardly.
A few metres ahead, a small calf stands alone. If you can call it standing. Its legs are wobbly, head low, ribs visible in stark detail beneath patchy hair. It looks less like a baby animal and more like a painting of one – something unfinished, half erased.
Luke approaches the calf slowly, carefully. It doesn’t even try to run. He crouches, one arm wrapping around its middle, and with shocking ease, he lifts it into his arms.
‘The mum’s abandoned her,’ he says, not even out of breath.
I frown. ‘Why?’
‘When there’s not enough food around, some mothers stop producing milk. Sometimes they choose not to waste their energy on it.’
‘That’s …’ My words falter. ‘Awful.’
Luke shrugs, shifting the calf in his arms. ‘That’s life.’
I wrap my arms tighter around myself, as if that might protect me from how deeply unfair it all feels.
‘What are you going to do with it?’ I ask, dreading the answer.
Luke doesn’t miss a beat. ‘Shoot it.’
I freeze.
My mouth goes dry. My brain can’t compute.
And then he smirks.
‘Kidding,’ he says, as if that was a perfectly normal joke to make when you’re holding a creature made up of matchsticks and hope. He lowers the calf gently onto the back of the ute. ‘We’ll take her home. Give her some milk, keep an eye on her. See if she gets stronger.’
I bite my lip. ‘And if she doesn’t?’
Luke straightens. His face is back to being unreadable: jaw set, blue eyes as vacant as the sky. ‘Then I will have to put her down.’
I flinch.
‘If I leave her here,’ he adds quietly, ‘she’ll starve. Or get torn up by a dingo. Or picked at by birds while she’s still breathing.’
I say nothing, just walk over and rest my hand lightly on the calf ’s bony forehead. She doesn’t react, just blinks at me with eyes too big for her face.
‘Well,’ I murmur, ‘we’re not gonna let that happen, are we?’
Luke stares at me. His body centimetres away from mine. There’s something unreadable in his expression. There’s a beat, and then—
‘Don’t get too attached to your dinner.’
Arsehole.
We drive for another hour or two, assessing the rest of the herd before Luke checks a few loose fence wires and missing stakes. I help where I can, awkwardly holding posts, passing tools, getting blisters in places I didn’t know could blister.
The sun is relentless. My shirt sticks to my back. My thighs are coated in a fine layer of dust and sweat. My high ponytail is now a low mess of regrets.
The calf makes soft noises from the back tray. Each one lands like a jab to my ribcage.
‘You’re better at this than I expected,’ Luke says after I manage to not drop a pair of wire cutters for the first time.
I squint at him. ‘That makes one of us.’
He smirks when I hand him the tool – and there they are, those damn dimples.