Chapter Three
CHAPTER
It was meant to be knock-off time for Officer Caleb Hart, but he’d just taken a call from the local publican about a disturbance involving a group of rowdy young blokes getting a bit antsy after one too many drinks.
Having just slayed a fourteen-hour shift, he was bushed.
And after working almost two weeks straight, he’d been looking forward to his much-needed downtime, aside from the funeral.
A bit of reading, maybe a few hours of fishing, an afternoon of riding his motorbike into the sunset and an early morning spent in the saddle of his buckskin gelding, Zeus, as he witnessed a sunrise.
All that plus a decent amount of time cooking in his kitchen, and a whole lot of hours of doing whatever his heart desired in the moment, would be bliss.
However, as one of just six police officers in the growing township of Wildstone, he, like his colleagues, was basically always on call.
And as much as that could become exhausting, he wouldn’t change it for the world.
With honour he served, and he loved his job.
As a third-generation police officer, it was in his blood.
He’d never consider doing anything else.
Bringing his sleek red Ducati motorbike to a stop outside Wildstone’s most popular pub, the Railway, he pulled in between two dusty pimped-up utes—both with enough aerials to contact outer space.
Above him, hovering precariously atop a signpost, the neon sign that always advertised no room availability flickered weakly, casting shadows against the encroaching dusk.
He chuckled to himself as he took his helmet off and sat it on the seat, then slung his leather jacket carefully over the handlebars.
In the thirty-one years he’d called Wildstone home, he’d never seen the outdated sign showing a vacancy.
The seven hotel rooms were rented by long-termers, stockmen and miners.
Always had been. In a town like Wildstone, where mining and cattle lined the pockets of most people, hardworking men and the women who either dated them or wanted to were the usual clientele at the three pubs along the main street.
Striding towards the front doors, Caleb’s leather workboots crunched on the gravel path as the chaotic din emanating from inside the establishment reached towards him.
He’d never liked the pub scene, and would much rather spend a night off at home with his German shepherd, Jet, a cold beer and a campfire.
Taking in a deep breath of fresh air before stepping inside, he exhaled the crispness then inhaled the overpowering aroma of spilled beer, sweat and sizzling steaks as he strode into the crowded space.
Poker-faced, with a slow, confident gait, the comforting weight of authority rested against his hip.
Not that he’d ever had to use his gun. Thankfully.
He never wanted to be backed so far into a corner that he’d have to badly injure, or worse.
Life was a precious commodity. He’d learnt that tough lesson as a seventeen-year-old when Skye Love had gone missing, and he’d witnessed his police-officer father tirelessly, and without success, working alongside fellow cops as they searched day and night for Nyah’s little sister for months, until the case—and Claire Love’s already sullen heart—had gone cold.
As, in turn, had his own heart when Robert had left Claire and taken his surviving daughter north.
Time had helped Caleb heal after losing his sweetheart, but he still cared for Nyah Love.
Deeply.
And he always would.
Big Barry, the ex-boxer turned publican, caught his eye from behind the bar and silently gestured towards the pool tables.
Nodding, Caleb veered in that direction.
Given it was a Friday afternoon, with the regular scantily clad waitresses serving up drinks and running raffles in the public bar, he could almost smell the testosterone and bravado.
Not that he’d ever been one to go and watch the young ladies parading their wares.
If anything, he’d feel compelled to offer them some clothing as his innate need to serve and protect overrode any other feelings.
Neither did he judge the women’s choices to make the most of what their mothers had given them—if nobody was getting hurt, he was an each-to-their-own kind of bloke.
He slowed down as he approached the loudest mob in the pub. Still engaged in mock brawls and chest-thumping dares, the rowdy jackaroos were unaware of his approach. Mission accomplished—he liked to arrive stealthily, so he could catch wrongdoers in the act.
‘All right now, fellas.’ Caleb’s husky drawl cut through the hullabaloo with practised ease, with a word of warning in his authoritative tone.
‘I reckon it’s time to calm it down a bit, don’t you think?
’ He didn’t need to raise his voice—at six foot ten with the burly build of the Hart men, his mere presence was enough to command attention.
‘Oh, hey, Officer Hart,’ one of them slurred in recognition. ‘We’re just having some fun, yeah?’ The son of the owner of the biggest trucking company this side of the sticks tried to stand still but stumbled a little to the side, only to be kept upright by his equally two-left-footed older brother.
‘Maybe you are, Jackson.’ Caleb’s sharp brown eyes swept over the group, taking in the flushed cheeks and unfocused gazes that hinted at the young blokes having blurred the lines between reckless abandon and facing consequences.
‘But fun has its limits.’ He offered a tight-lipped smile.
‘And I’d rather you don’t make me remind you what happens when those limits are crossed, because you and I both know how much you lot hate having to sleep in the watch-house. ’
Four of the five blokes took note, their jovial faces suddenly sombre, but there was always one in the crowd. The ringer with the shock of bright red hair and matching freckles strewn across his puffy cheeks—an unfamiliar blow-in—stepped forward. ‘We ain’t doing nothing illegal, officer.’
‘You might not be doing anything illegal, yet.’ Caleb took a moment, allowing his practised piercing stare to declare his lack of patience with troublemakers. ‘But my guess is, if you lot don’t call it a night real soon you’ll be finding yourself in the lock-up come sun-up.’
The rabble-rouser’s unblinking eyes widened, as did his smartarse smirk. ‘Is that a threat, officer?’
‘Hey, Donnie, let it go, bud.’ Jimmy, the lanky larrikin of the group, reached out to pat the blow-in’s back, but he lost his footing and tumbled sideways, his beer ending up down the front of a stunned woman’s blouse right before he hit the ground.
‘Oi, watch it!’ The young woman tried futilely to brush the beer off.
A shamefaced Jimmy lumbered back to his feet with a hand up from Lawrence.
‘Sorry, miss, I’m just about to get this lot out of everyone’s hair.’ Caleb made sure the woman was looked after by her friends, then turned his attention back to the group. ‘Right, you lot, time to leave.’
‘Oh come on, Officer Hart,’ Lawrence pleaded, with his bottom lip almost dragging on the ground. ‘It’s knock-off for the week, and the weekend’s just getting started.’
Caleb bit back a scornful chuckle. ‘By the looks of you lot, I reckon you started the weekend ages ago.’ He heaved a weighty sigh. ‘So come on, beers down and out we go, nice and quietly.’ He directed the dejected group towards the door with a wave of his arm.
Mumbling beneath their breaths, the five sozzled blokes shuffled past him with their heads down, their once boisterous energy now subdued to a chastened silence.
Even the redhead had been pulled into line by his mates.
Passing a few bemused patrons, Caleb hoped the subdued young men would stay that way.
He really didn’t want to be called out again tonight.
Giving Big Barry a quick wave, he stepped into the cool quiet of outside and led the five tails-between-their-legs lads down the main street of Wildstone, towards where the Jackson brothers lived with their parents.
Reaching the Jacksons’ perfectly manicured front yard, Caleb stopped short of heading up the driveway.
‘Remember this moment next time you think about throwing the drinks back way too fast,’ he advised, his tone a blend of cordiality and steel.
‘There are better ways to blow off steam than inebriating yourselves to the point of becoming nuisances.’
Sheepishness replaced the earlier defiance on their faces as they nodded in agreement. ‘Got it, Officer Hart,’ the elder of the Jackson boys muttered.
‘Good.’ Caleb watched as the five of them stumbled towards the house, the glow from the windows casting long rectangles of light onto the front lawn.