Four
Rowena woke with a start after a night full of strange dreams featuring splintered wood and twisted metal, the bite of sharp, pointy stones at her knees and a tall blond guy in a cape with a sheep on his shoulders like freaking Jason with the Golden Fleece.
What the hell?
She glanced around her. Bright sunlight flooded the room through the closed doors that opened onto the first-floor balcony of The Stockman pub. She could just see the fancy wrought-iron railing through the gauzy curtain.
It was morning. She was in Acacia Junction. And this was the day she started to reclaim her life. So she needed to get her A into G because being late on her first shift was not a good look.
She needed to dress. She needed coffee. Did they do decent coffee out here? And she needed to be at the hospital in three-quarters of an hour.
Twenty-five minutes later, takeaway cappuccino in hand, Rowena followed her nose from Brew Ha Ha to the bakery next door. She paused in the doorway as the very last person she expected to see stood at the counter.
Even from the back she knew it was him.
‘Oh, hey, Ro,’ he said, as he turned from being served, his expression lighting up.
Rowena blinked. It was like he’d walked right out of her dreams into her day.
Minus the cape and sheep.
Jeans again, though. All soft and faded—the kind that had clearly seen many, many wash cycles—hugging his narrow hips and long legs to perfection.
An unbuttoned flannel shirt, similar to the one he had on yesterday, was rolled up to the elbows, exposing forearms carpeted with blond hairs.
A navy Jackie Howe singlet was visible where his shirt fell open.
His hat was, once again, pulled low, casting a shadow over that stupidly square jaw, which she noted was devoid of scruff this morning. His dusty, rugged boots completed the whole outback cowboy look.
‘Hey,’ she said absently when she realised he was waiting on some kind of response to his greeting.
Such was the extent of her discombobulation, she hadn’t even bothered to correct the shortening of her name. She’d never been a fan of Ro … but the way he said it, all low and rumbly as if he was savouring it like a sip of good shiraz?
Well, it wasn’t terrible.
Thank goodness Rowena was a cynical thirty-six. And twice divorced. She was no gullible young thing blinded by a rumbly voice and a face straight out of Farmer Wants a Wife central casting. She wasn’t in Acacia Junction to find herself a man.
And the only cowboys she put her trust in were the type she could shoot from a shot glass.
Somewhere in amongst the clash of her internal thoughts, her expression must have looked aggrieved because he quickly corrected himself.
‘Sorry, I meant Rowena.’ He turned back to the counter to a plump female version of the man she’d dragged from the car yesterday, her hair liberally streaked with grey.
‘Concetta, this is Rowena. The woman who saved Silvano’s life. ’
There was a gasp from the other side of the counter and, before Rowena knew it, the woman had flown around and bundled her up in her ample embrace. It was only then that Rowena realised she’d walked into Silvano Morelli’s patisserie.
‘God bless you, Rowena. God bless you,’ Concetta murmured, dropping kisses on Rowena’s forehead.
She smelled like vanilla, and for an absurd moment Rowena, despite her discomfort at the fuss, wanted to stay right here in this very motherly embrace.
It had been a long time—if ever—since her own mother had made such a fuss, and it had been a tough, lonely year.
‘Rowena, this is Silvano’s sister.’ Lachlan performed the introductions. ‘Gina, his wife, flew to Sydney with him.’
‘How is he?’ Rowena finally asked when she was released. She’d planned on making enquiries when she arrived at work.
‘He’s stable,’ Concetta said, nodding her head enthusiastically. ‘He needed a quadruple bypass, though. He’s in the intensive care unit on a machine, but Gina said he’s woken a few times and recognised her.’
‘That’s great.’
A rush of relief swept through Rowena at the positive news. She knew Silvano wouldn’t be out of the woods just yet and his long down time might cause other systemic problems, but him being responsive and recognising people was encouraging.
‘Now, what would you like to eat?’ Concetta moved briskly behind the counter again.
Rowena hadn’t come in for something in particular—she’d just obeyed her grumbling stomach.
She had a terrible sweet tooth, to which her pear-shaped figure could attest. Bakeries had always been her downfall, and this one was no exception.
There were pastries behind the glass she didn’t often see outside of the famous pasticcerias in Sydney’s Inner West.
She was conscious of Lachlan behind her. Waiting. But for what? Didn’t he have … sheep stuff to do? Did he come to town every morning just to buy baked goods?
The custard cream-filled cannoli called to her the most. ‘Can I have a cannoli, please?’
Concetta shook her head as she slid open the cabinet from her side of the counter. ‘No, no. Two. You need two.’ She picked up two in her tongs and slid them into a white paper packet. ‘One doesn’t fill anyone up, isn’t that right, Lachy?’
‘Absolutely.’
Rowena ignored his chirpy reply. ‘Oh, I don’t really need—’
‘Need,’ Concetta muttered with a wave of her hand. ‘Who said food was about need? It’s good, you eat it. Simple. You’re too skinny.’
Rowena blinked. Maybe in comparison with Concetta’s own ample proportions, but, thanks to her blancmange-like legs, skinny had never been in her wheelhouse.
The padding that clung to the outsides of her upper thighs had been the bane of Rowena’s existence forever.
Nothing ever seemed to shift it. Even now, she was conscious of how the fabric of her navy work trousers hugged those bits, and was thankful for the length of her puffer jacket hiding the sight from the Argonaut standing behind her.
She’d worked a lot with her therapist about her negative self-talk this past year—about loving her body and all the incredible things it did for her every day. But, thanks to decades of toxic diet culture, she still struggled to be kind to herself at times.
Concetta handed over the packet with two cannolis. Rowena took it as she dug around in her bag for her purse, but Concetta shook her head emphatically.
‘No, no. No charge.’
‘Oh, but—’
Concetta pegged her with a steely Italian mamma gaze. ‘You saved my brother’s life. You come in any time you want, Ro. No charge.’
Ro. Ugh.
She glanced at Lachlan, who shrugged. He’d said shortening names was a thing out here so she stoically resigned herself to her fate, because it would be churlish to correct the woman trying to feed her free cannoli. Although she didn’t want to exploit her either.
‘I wasn’t the only one there,’ she murmured, turning back to Concetta. Fair was fair. ‘Lachlan helped too.’
Not to mention the paramedics. And the drugs and the defib, which really were the main reason they’d managed to get Silvano back.
Concetta folded her arms, an affectionate smile on her face as she regarded Lachlan. ‘A man who looks like him is blessed enough without free cannoli.’
Rowena honked out a surprised laugh. Never had truer words been spoken. Lachlan, clearly pleased with Concetta’s summation, grinned devilishly.
‘Well … thank you,’ Rowena said, eager to escape. ‘I have to go or I’m going to be late for my first day on the job. Please pass my best wishes on to Silvano and his wife.’
‘Of course.’ Concetta beamed. ‘Have a good day and come back soon. Arrivederci.’
*
Rowena left the shop and turned right, with Lachlan following close behind.
Because, of course. The hospital was one kilometre from the pub and she planned to walk.
She had fifteen minutes, which was plenty of time, and was looking forward to the exercise and orientating herself to her surroundings.
‘How are you feeling today?’ he asked.
‘I should be asking you that.’ She liberated one of the cannoli from the packet. ‘Prolonged chest compression can be a real workout.’
He shrugged. ‘I’m okay. Feels a bit like I’ve been shearing all day, but I’m used to that.’
Rowena was salivating as she bit into the baked confection. The pastry snapped perfectly and she moaned as the silky texture of custard cream oozed across her tongue and vanilla infused her senses.
‘God. This is good.’ She turned to him for confirmation, because it didn’t seem real that such a creation existed anywhere on earth, let alone in the middle of freaking nowhere. ‘Seriously … I think my tastebuds just died and went to heaven.’
He didn’t answer for a moment or two, just stared at her lips that had to be covered in powdered sugar. She licked them nervously, her pulse a little trippy.
‘I told you.’ He dragged his gaze away. ‘The Morellis are sacred around here.’
‘Morning, Lachy.’ A guy who looked older than dirt approached from the opposite direction, greeting Lachlan with a nod. He was wearing a hat and had a lit cigarette drooping from his bottom lip.
‘Morning, Bill.’
Rowena, quickly trying to finish the cannoli, wondered if Lachlan was going to accompany her all the way to the hospital as he kept pace beside her. ‘Do you come into the bakery every morning?’
She knew zero about farmers, but she didn’t think too many had time to swan into town every day for baked goods. Hadn’t he said his grandmother was an excellent cook?
‘Nah. Just wanted to check in on Concetta, see if she was okay and if there was any update on Silvano.’
‘Wouldn’t it have been quicker to call?’
He gave a half laugh. ‘Sure. But that’s not the way we do it out here. Plus’—he held up a bulging white packet—‘I felt like chocolate croissants.’
Rowena would bet her life savings that he could eat that whole packet and not worry about it going on his thighs.
A couple stepped out of the newsagency just ahead and also called a greeting as Lachlan and Rowena passed by.
‘Morning, Stella, morning, Bruce,’ Lachlan replied.