Copyright Margareta Osborn 2013. All rights reserved.

. No part of this publication may be reproduced ored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopyin recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Copyright Margareta Osborn 2013. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Prologue

The girl clambered through the boundary fence. Spindly arms, matchstick legs, long brown hair ying in bits across a grubby face. Her clothes were getting caught on the razorsharp barbed wire. He could see her little body twisting this way then that, trying to unsnag herself. She was a determined little devil. Would she be game enough to set foot on the place? Others had come before her: sneaky little bastards trying to get the better of him. Theyd come on good days and hed only shot at the air above their heads. Today? Well, this day was different. He was mad. Wild crazy off his head. That morning, Mae Rouget, gliding down the main street of Narree. Immaculately dressed, beautiful as ever every inch the princess who shouldve been his. The woman who had remained in his dreams for years . . .
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Copyright Margareta Osborn 2013. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Margareta Osborn

Joe took another look in the gun scope at the boundary. The girl had made it through the wire and now was standing looking up at his hill, one hand on her dirty brow, another on a slight hip. She was dressed in buttery yellow shorts and a mudcoloured top that he guessed had once been white. The sleeves of the shirt were torn and decorated with splatters of rubyred. The barbed wire had obviously cut a bit deep, although it hadnt stopped her from getting through. She was a McCauley: that was for sure. Joe contemplated her a minute longer, made a decision and started to sneak down the slope through the scrub using a track barely discernable to the eye. As he snuck along the path that hugged the boundary fence, tall box and ironbark trees with their thick, crusty trunks stood sentinel in the adjoining state forest. He swung inland, creeping past massive red gums that stretched resplendent limbs to capture air and sky. Centuries old, they had seen their fair share of hard times, just like the elderly man sidling under them. The scattered eucalypts then gave way to dense burgan and black wattle scrub, determined in its effort to claim this eastern side of the hill. The thick bushes, with their understorey of bracken fern, hid him from anyone looking up. As he rounded a blind corner he startled a grazing wallaby, sending it on an erratic escape, bounding back towards the scrub that surrounded his property on three sides this rocky, dry hill with its miserable soil. The place he called home. It took him a good ve minutes to reach the bottom of McCauleys Hill, but there she was. She hadnt moved: still stood standing like she was contemplating what to do next. A Jack Russell ran around at her feet, nose to the ground, the scent
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Copyright Margareta Osborn 2013. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Hopes Road

of rabbit probably wafting from the burrows threaded through his gravelly mountain. She couldnt have been any older than ve or six. It was the granddaughter. He pulled up his gun. Get the hell off my farm, you landgrabbing little fucker!

Copyright Margareta Osborn 2013. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Chapter 1

The currawongs cry oated on the wisp of a breeze into the dairy. Tamara McCauley hauled down on the milking machine, urging the nal milk to keep owing into the cups attached to the cows teats. With the new run-off property to pay for, she needed every drop she could get. Whoot, whoot weee-ow, the pied currawong called again. Piercingly, this time. It was going to rain. The bird was an infallible storm predictor. And shed just ordered irrigation water, damn it. This would send Shon over the edge. Tammy shivered and automatically ngered her left eye. The bruise was turning a light bluish-purple colour. The marriage was over, of that much she was sure. She was going to kick him out, however frightened she was of the confrontation. Tammy pulled off the teat cups, let the platform of cows go
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Copyright Margareta Osborn 2013. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Hopes Road

and followed them out to a nearby paddock to latch the gate. Gravel crunched on the driveway and she looked up to spy a small white car sitting beside the mail-drum at the entrance to the farm. Lucy. Just nished her night shift, no doubt. She would want a cuppa and some toast before heading home to bed. Of course that was after shed nished rubbing the prodigious stomach of the Buddha sitting hidden in the grass beside the old gatepost. Wealth and good fortune was supposed to be the reward for such loving care and Lucy couldnt go past the old fella without stopping and giving him a tickle. Tammy wasnt sure what the forty-year-old nurse was wishing for though. To Tammys mind her friend had it all a lovely quaint cottage painted a delicate shade of lavender, a lazy tabby cat for company and a nice pot-belly stove to keep her warm. Not like the homestead here, which was a cold, dark place most of the time. Heavy antique furniture guarded a century of memories and, when Shon was around, the place was lled with tension and anger. They had a cat somewhere too but it knew to stay out of the way. Tammy started to trudge back towards the dairy, her gumboots ipping and apping against her slim legs. She wished so hard for a life lled with love and family again. After her grandparents had died eight years earlier it had seemed like all the light and energy had disappeared. The only family she had left was her husband, a man who was currently stomping on their marriage as though it was dog shit. The only man in the family left standing. Well that wasnt entirely true. Her eyes icked up towards the mountain partially shrouding the farm in its early-morning shadow. So deep was the cleft at the base of the mount, the sun hadnt yet penetrated that part of its eastern face. Shadows left
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Copyright Margareta Osborn 2013. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Margareta Osborn

a deep scar at the bottom of the rising bush, a black space like a roaring monsters mouth, warning all and sundry not to enter. Tammy stied a shudder. Well, that was a pretty apt representation of old Joe McCauley, the man who owned the mountain. A smudge of smoke wafted lazily through the crisp air, probably from Joes chimney. Tammy squinted: if she looked hard enough there were actually two wisps of smoke up there on McCauleys Hill. The one to the south came from Travis Hunters; he was the new wild-dog trapper, moved in six months back. The plume to the north was old Joes, and by the size of it his re was burning well this morning, which meant Joe himself was up and about. She really shouldnt have to tell whether her great-uncle was alive and kicking from a curl of smoke, but that was life here in the Narree Valley life for the remaining McCauleys at least. Some disagreement between him and Tammys grandfather had led to this point. He was her only relation but he hadnt spoken to her since she was a small kid, and that had been to swear at her for trespassing. She was only six at the time. Had gone home repeating the word hed used had seemed to take such delight in. Fucker. Fucker. Rolling it around her tongue until she got the inection right. Shed sounded just like him that crazy old man! Shed yelled it at Jack the dog, when he took off after a rabbit, and stood there, proud of herself. She hadnt known her grandfather was coming up behind her with a bowl of dog food. The Tabasco sauce her grandparents had put on her tongue that night for saying such a word had burned like heck. They hadnt asked her where shed heard it, which was just as well because she would have had to lie. Even back then she sensed it wasnt good to talk about the man who had a face like her grandfathers but was never mentioned by name.
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Copyright Margareta Osborn 2013. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Hopes Road

As Tammy walked, she gazed out beyond her farm towards the Great Dividing Range guarding this little hamlet in Gippsland from the rest of the world. She sighed. Montmorency Downs, her family property, went back ve generations. A place inexplicably linked to her by blood, dirt and, once upon a time, by love. At the moment she wished she were a long way away. Her eyes drifted back to the gateway and the little white car. Lucy was still rubbing the old guys tummy. Putting two ngers to the roof of her mouth, Tammy let out an ear-piercing whistle. Lucy stood up and waved, then moved towards her vehicle. Shon had given her the concrete cast of the Buddha one Christmas a couple of years back. A backhanded slap at his wifes Catholic roots, she guessed. A wife who, hed stated the night before, was worthless and useless. I feel nothing for you. Nothing, ya hear me! Youre a frigid bitch of a thing; I wish Id never laid eyes on ya. Shons ruddy face had pulsed with fury. Purple veins stood out on his temples as he pinned her down on the ground with his knee in her chest. Give me those bloody keys. Im going. Youre not getting them. You cant leave for the weekend. I need you here! She may as well have spoken to the Buddha. Shon ignored her then just like hed ignored everything shed said for the last few years. Give me them fuckin keys! He was unrelenting, sitting his solid weight on her thrashing legs, pulling at her arms, ruthlessly digging the car keys out of her hand. Wheres that big almighty God of yours now? he taunted, with one last jab into her chest with his knee. He got up, victorious, keys dangling in his hand. Fuckin pissed him off too, Ill bet.
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Copyright Margareta Osborn 2013. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Margareta Osborn

The disgust on his face as he looked down at her was enough. Shed lain on the ground, trying to not show fear or how much she hurt. Trying not to give him the satisfaction. But he knew. His triumphant smile told her he had her right where he wanted her. Way down low as low as her self-esteem could go. Oh yes, Mr Shon Murphy was all-powerful, wearing kings clothes last night. And she, Tammy McCauley Murphy, was the doormat he could wipe his boots on whenever he felt like it. Well, shed show him. My oath she would. Enough was enough. Gidday! Tammy hadnt heard the car reach the yard. Whats up your gander this ne morning? asked Lucy as she emerged. Your face looks like its swallowed a lemon. Tammy shook her head, tried to stop her hands from trembling. The only lemon around here is that Ford youre driving. She dodged as her friend threw a fake punch with mittened sts. You better watch out, woman, or one day youll feel the end of my glove up close and personal. Im doing boxercise, did I tell you? Tammy rolled her eyes. Last week it was Zumba, this week its boxing. Whats next week? Pole dancing? When the hell are you going to stick to one form of exercise, Luce? As soon as I get rid of this spare tyre Ive been lugging around. Lucy grabbed at her middle and pinched at a roll beneath her tasselled jumper. Variety is the spice of life. I cant get it from this diet Im on or from a bloke, so Ive only got exercise left. I just have to nd something that suits me. That goes for both physical activity and men. Lucys smiling face suddenly turned thoughtful. She wrinkled her nose, causing the tiny stud clinging to the side of it to glint in the sun. Mmmm . . . pole dancing? Now why didnt I think of that?
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Copyright Margareta Osborn 2013. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Hopes Road

Forget I said it. Boxercise sounds ne. Oh, you can talk you tiny little thing. Metabolisms like yours make me sick. I swear you could live on chips and cakes for a whole month and you wouldnt put on a kilo. Not fair, Mrs Murphy, not fair at all. Tammy scowled. She didnt want to hear that surname this morning. Its Ms McCauley to you, you insolent witch. She tried to smile to take the sting from her words. It nearly worked. The thought of Lucy pole dancing was what did it. Those short stocky legs, entwined around a stainless-steel pole. Cmon, woman, you might get some toast if youre lucky. You need feeding up, with everything youve got going on in your life. Tammy started to turn and walk towards the house. It was right about then that Lucy noticed her limp. Bugger. She grabbed at Tammys arm, spun her around. What happened to you? She wasnt playing any more; the look in her eyes was serious. A cow kicked me this morning while I was bringing her into the cow-yard. Its nothing. Lucy leaned in and took a closer look at Tammys face. And what about this? Howd the cow kick you up there? A soft hand cupped Tammys chin and turned her face into the light. That fucking bastard! Hes bloody well gone and done it this time. Hes hit you, hasnt he? Its nothing, I said. Like hell its nothing. He cant do this to you, Tim Tam. The pet name her grandpa gave her when she was little. He cant do this, Lucy repeated. Her ngers reached out to probe around Tammys left eye.
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Copyright Margareta Osborn 2013. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Margareta Osborn

Tammy quickly moved her face away. Lets just go and get some toast, okay? And she turned towards the homestead, long unsteady strides covering the distance to the sprawling, mochacoloured brick house. Moving fast. She could hear Lucy hufng and pufng behind her, and knew she should wait, or at least slow down and let her long-time friend catch up. But she also suspected that if she did if she turned her face towards her that would be the end. The thing that would nally break Tammy down into tiny pieces. And she couldnt afford that. Not at thirty-six. Shed already broken and repaired herself once after her grandparents died. She was frightened she wouldnt have the energy to do it all over again. So she put her head down and kept walking.

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