Also by Léonie Kelsall

The Farm at Peppertree Crossing

The Wattle Seed Inn
The River Gum Cottage
The Willow Tree Wharf

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 LÉONIE
KELSALL
The Blue Gum Camp

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 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products
of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

First published in 2024

Copyright © Léonie C. Kelsall 2024

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in

any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior
permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968
(the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever
is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational
purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has
given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin

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book is available from the
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 For Taylor . . .
My co-pilot along hundreds of kilometres
of highways and byways as I researched and
wrote this book—including a memorable
(and accidental) foray into vampire territory.

And for Sam . . .

Who moved to the south-east, giving me
ample excuse to visit the area. Research and
grandbabies: what more could any writer want?

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 Prolog�e

‘Mum won’t eat the apples if they’ve got blemishes,’ Dad

said.
Is her life anything more than a blemish now?
Charity recoiled in shock at the betrayal of the imper-
missible thought. It was the end of an exceedingly long
term spent trying to engage thirty less-than-enthusiastic
middle-primary students and she was exhausted.
She snatched up the paring knife and neatly trimmed
the odd spot or two from the organic apples she’d bought
at the market that morning. Forced herself to focus on the
honey-strawberry scent of the fruit, as though the purity
of the fragrance would erase her treacherous thoughts. But
the truth was that Saturdays were always spent this way:
guiltily wishing for the end, even as her heart broke with
each day it drew inexorably closer.

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 L É O N I E KE LSA LL

‘Don’t be persnickety, Dad.’ Her sister, Faith, tried to

lighten their father’s mood by throwing in one of Mum’s
favourite words. At least it had been a favourite, back
when Mum remembered it.
‘And don’t you give me cheek,’ Dad grumbled, but his
voice held a tone of fondness Charity rarely heard directed
toward herself. Faith couldn’t compete with effervescent
Hope—the youngest of the three Farrugia siblings—but
still she had a way with Dad that Charity had never
managed to emulate.
Charity held up the tea plate. ‘Do you want to take
her apple in?’ A hopeful inflection lifted her words. The
plate, bordered with cheery yellow roses, was one of many
pieces her mother had collected from op shops over the
years. Dad once made the mistake of buying a full set
from an antique store, but Mum had promptly donated
them to the local Salvos; she said that, while she appreci­
ated his thought, there was no challenge in finding that
which had already been found. Charity wondered whether
Dad had appreciated that thought. He’d reacted only with
gentle amusement, her parents’ affection for one another
always more evident than for any of their three children.
Amid the celebration when Hope was born more than a
dozen years after Charity, Mum had shared that, while she
loved her three daughters, they were her duty, whereas
she chose to be with Dad. For twenty years, Charity had
nursed the words as a secret hurt, occasionally taking
them out of hiding and re-examining them to dissect why
she was considered less lovable. But now, shamed by the
way her obligations threatened her own ability to love,

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 The Blue Gum Camp

she understood the work it took to combat the relentless

erosion of love by duty. No doubt Mum had felt the same
when comparing what she saw as the thankless work of
raising children to the unquestioning adoration of the man
who had fallen desperately in love with her when they
were teenagers.
Charity’s guilt might be lessened if either of her siblings
stepped up to share the responsibility of caring for their
mother. But her sisters kept their love intact by rarely
visiting the home they’d grown up in. When they did,
they’d be treated as guests, while it fell to Charity to provide
the regular support their parents needed far too early. She
was by turns honoured by the position and crushed by
the responsibility. Sometimes it was hard to remember what
life had been like five years ago, before their family was
forced to pretend each hello wasn’t a prelude to a perma-
nent goodbye.
‘Apple?’ she repeated hopefully around the index finger
in her mouth. She was careful not to single out her father
or her sister; she would be equally grateful if either of them
took the plate into the bedroom.
‘Oh, you cut yourself,’ Faith exclaimed, sighting
­Charity’s bleeding finger.
‘Let me see.’ Dad sprang into action, hitching up his
too-loose jeans beneath the fleecy jacket Hope had given
him last Father’s Day. Although he was rarely demonstra-
tive, Dad could always be relied on in a crisis. At least of
the minor kind. With early retirement from his teaching role
at the university, he had drifted, in the manner of so many
middle-aged men, into being contentedly untidy. It was hard

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 L É O N I E KE LSA LL

to reconcile him with the man who had, not so long ago,
shaved carefully each day, polished his shoes and chosen his
clothes for a style that suited academia, not comfort.
The slide into commonplace always seemed to be harder
fought by women, Charity thought. Until the last few years,
Mum had been a regular at the hairdresser and the nail
salon, and her wardrobe would never have featured elastic-
waisted Millers pants and stretchy tunic tops. Charity
hated herself for buying those items, but they were far more
manageable for Dad on the increasingly frequent occasions
when her mother rebelled against dressing.
‘The apple is oxidising,’ she said as Dad rummaged in
a kitchen drawer for his first-aid box.
Silence ruled the room. No one wanted to take the
apple—browning or otherwise—into the bedroom. Charity
sighed. It would be her. It always was. And she had no right
to complain: they had some respite care for Mum during
the week, so it was only evenings and weekends that were
consumed by the slow torture of the long goodbye.
‘Thank you, love,’ Mum said as Charity entered the
bedroom. It was bright and cheerful, despite the pervasive
autumnal gloom beyond the window. Yellow walls, fluffy
white bedcovers and pastel cushions: a false promise of joy,
like Christmas decorations in a palliative care ward. The
table was crowded with photographs of family and friends
in a way Mum would never have chosen, and Charity knew
the arrangement was a relic of a well-intentioned visitor
months earlier. ‘Is it a Pink Lady?’
Sudden hope surged through Charity. ‘Would I dare
give you anything else? The season’s finishing up, though.

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 The Blue Gum Camp

This is the last of them.’ Her fingers tightened on the plate.

She should have turned the apples into a crumble. Mum
had always done that when the fruit began to soften.
It would only have taken her an extra hour or so.
As she moved aside the book that had rested on the
bedside table for the past two years, Mum’s hand closed
around her wrist. Her grip was tight, fingers claw-like,
bony—it seemed her brain had forgotten to tell her body
to take sustenance from food.
‘Can you take a message for me?’
‘Of course,’ Charity said warily, hypnotised by her
mother’s piercing gaze. ‘Who to?’
‘To whom,’ her mother corrected, and Charity’s heart
leapt with joy.
‘To whom,’ she agreed eagerly.
Mum pressed a scrap of toilet paper into Charity’s
hand. ‘To the police,’ she hissed. ‘I’m being held against
my will.’

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 1
Lachlan

‘Seriously, bro, you need to get out more.’

Lachlan MacKenzie grunted, though it was with the
effort of hefting a bale of barley straw from the tray of
the ute, rather than agreement with his younger brother.
He hoped Hamish would take the hint and shift the twenty-
kilo bale closer to the calves’ paddock while he unloaded
the others. But Hamish was evidently on a mission.
‘Dude, you’re turning into Dad.’ Hamish leaned back
against the cab, arms folded across his chest, staring into
the distance as though he could make out the far boundary
of the three-hundred-hectare property. The MacKenzie
farm lay in the rain shadow of the Adelaide Hills, near
Settlers Bridge, where even a cloud between early spring
and mid-autumn was a rare occurrence.
‘That’s a bit rich, mate,’ Lachlan said, jumping from
the tray of the ute. He slapped his jeans to remove some of

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 L É O N I E KE LSA LL

the dust and straw, then lugged the bale toward the paddock,
adding a new layer to the grime that had seemed to infiltrate
his pores during the extended dry season. He took a moment
to let his gaze range the undulations of the paddock, gilded
with deceptively soft-looking golden summer stubble. Mum
was wrong. Whether he counted to ten or a hundred, it didn’t
banish his irritation. Hamish’s attack was a low blow, given
that their father had added to his regular level of sullenness
by becoming enough of a hermit to be the subject of gossip
around Settlers Bridge since cancer had taken Mum just
over a year back. Not that the small-town grapevine needed
much fertiliser to help it flourish while stalwarts of the CWA,
Lynn Lambert and Christine Albright, commanded the local
grocery shop or, in Christine’s case, seemed determined to
take over the running of the cafe, Ploughs and Pies. ‘You
know if the old man didn’t share the property with me, he’d
be happy not seeing another living soul from one fortnight’s
end to the next.’
‘Least he talks to you.’ An unusual trace of bitterness
crept into Hamish’s tone. Though they shared the family
trademark red-tinged blond hair, blue-eyed Hamish was
the spitting image of their mum, and it was no secret that,
for the past year, Dad had found it hard to set eyes on his
younger son.
‘Doesn’t, if he can avoid it,’ Lachlan replied brusquely.
On a property this size it wasn’t hard to dodge one another.
Particularly as Lachlan lived in the old caravan, rather than
share the house where he’d been born—and where Mum
had slowly died—with his father. ‘Anyway, my point is,
I get out. I’m not as bad as the old man.’

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 The Blue Gum Camp

He strode off the track and through the thigh-high wild

oats that formed a softly waving border around the well-
grazed paddock. Gripping the nylon strings, he swung
the bale backward for momentum, then tossed it over the
fence. They needed to change out the wire-and-post cockies’
gate, which sagged like an old man’s trousers and was
harder to close than a pub door.
‘Says you.’ Hamish had followed him and now
leaned both forearms on the fence between the barbs. He
narrowed his gaze on the cattle as he folded his hands,
thumbs linked, like Mum had taught him to stop his fidget-
ing. Even though Hamish had chosen not to farm, the
knowledge ran through both of them like blood, the urge
to check stock, crops and weather ingrained and habitual.
‘You’ve been a sad shit since Em did the dirty on you.’
Lachlan snorted. ‘Did the dirty? That’s a bit tame.
Call it like it is, mate—I came home from carting grain to
find her screwing some bastard insurance agent.’ There
was a grim pleasure in putting the incident out there so
baldly, almost like he challenged the words to hurt him.
They didn’t, because Hamish was wrong; Lachlan was no
longer sad about discovering Emma face down on their
marital bed, half-hidden from his view by the broker’s
bare backside. In fact, he was probably more bothered
by the fact that the guy’s butt, smoother than a Landrace
piglet, was now imprinted on his retina. What he would
admit to was frustration: he’d wasted years on a relation-
ship that had clearly been less important to his wife as
an adult than it had been when they’d started dating in
high school.

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 L É O N I E KE LSA LL

In any case, he didn’t have space to be sad. Emma had

cheated—or rather, had been caught out—the same week
Mum died. In Lachlan’s mind, and in the tight knot in his
chest, the events meshed into one. And he didn’t want to
think about either of them.
‘Yeah, fair call. Sorry.’ Hamish looked guilty for using
that weapon to push his agenda. ‘But the thing is, you and
Dad both lost someone, and now you’re acting the same
way. Bottling it up and burying it.’
‘Your point is?’ Lachlan ducked between the upper
fence wires to enter the paddock. If he left the hay in a
bale, the calves would be as likely to eat the twine as the
feed—they weren’t too keen on the barley straw. Tomorrow
they’d get silage, then lucerne on Saturday. Dad reckoned
he was spoiling the cattle, but Lachlan saw it as good
management. His mate, Jack, who was into sustainable
agriculture, assured him diversifying their feed would be
good for the cows’ gut microbiome.
‘You’re thirty-two, dude, yet you act about as misera-
ble as old Neil Borland,’ Hamish persisted, annoying as a
blowfly. ‘You’ve got just about as much chance of pulling
as he has, too.’
Neil had to be eighty if he was a day and was famed in
the district for his lengthy, convoluted conversations that
revolved around his health—or lack of—and the women
in his life—or lack of.
From the corner of his eye, Lachlan caught Hamish
point a finger toward him. ‘Even Dad wasn’t this bad back
in the day. I mean, yeah, he was never a party animal, but
he’d at least turn out to the local shows.’

10

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 The Blue Gum Camp

‘Turn out? Mum bloody dragged him along. Same as

she did for the shopping each week. In any case, I haven’t
missed one of Taylor and Luke Hartmann’s barbies, have I?
Despite the fact that Tay can’t cook.’ The local doctor was
always the first to poke fun at her own lack of ability in
the kitchen. ‘And I’m at every stock market, every yard
sale.’ He had to be, that way he could keep an eye on the
current prices, file the information in his brain. ‘Plus I did
the Karoonda Fair last year, and the Balaklava, Eudunda,
Keith and Tinty shows. Probably a load of others. Besides,
a Bachelors and Spinsters Ball isn’t a “show”. And last
I checked, Yurramukka is miles from Settlers Bridge, so it’s
not even local.’
Lachlan shut his mouth, realising that he was defending
himself too hard. But, beyond the physical needs—
which he had become necessarily adept at sorting out
himself—he had no reason to seek out a partner. And
a damn good one not to.
Hamish shrugged. Lachlan hadn’t expected any differ-
ent. Neither of them thought anything of driving three
hours return to Adelaide to pick up gear. Or, in Hamish’s
case, to pick up, full stop.
‘Coupla hundred clicks for the chance at getting lucky,’
his brother said, proving Lachlan’s point. ‘What better
way to bring in the new year?’
Lachlan grimaced. ‘Couple of hundred clicks to get
yourself in trouble at the Breeders’ Ball,’ he countered. Too
much alcohol, too much sun and too much peer pressure
didn’t make for smart decisions. ‘A great way to pick your­
self up something nasty.’ Hell, he did sound as miserable as

11

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 L É O N I E KE LSA LL

old Neil. He pulled the knife from the sheath on his belt and
flicked it through the twine holding the bale, then carefully
wound the string into a tight ball and pocketed it.
‘We’re too smart to get ourselves in trouble.’ Hamish
grinned, bizarrely convinced he was winning the argument.
‘Besides, it’s your first chance to come along solo.’ Though
plugged as meet-ups for singles, plenty of couples turned
up at every B&S for the party and the bands. Lachlan and
Emma had been to a few over the years.
‘Why don’t you get Justin to be your wingman? He’s
not hooked up, is he?’
‘Juz is going to be pining for Sharna forever, you
know that. He said he’s going to try to make it for the gig
Saturday night but I’ve picked us up tickets for all three
days. Besides, you’ve got a shot at fame on Friday.’
Lachlan tried to ignore the pricking of his ears. ‘How so?’
‘There’s some kind of talent show as an extra fund-
raiser. I reckon we could take the guitars along and belt
something out.’
Lachlan’s fingers instantly twitched with a desire to
strum. Hamish knew how to get his attention. The oppor-
tunity to play anywhere other than the local pub was rare.
‘Maybe tell Juz he needs to be there early, get in on that.’
Justin had a rare talent with a chainsaw, producing works
of art amid a flurry of woodchips and sawdust.
‘Don’t reckon they’d be too keen on having that mess
onstage. They’re classing it up this year,’ Hamish said.
‘Pre-purchased admission only, that’s why I had to jump
on the tickets. They reckon they’re going to get as many
girls as guys.’

12

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 The Blue Gum Camp

‘How is that even a thing?’ Settlers Bridge, like most

rural towns, had a shortage of single women, and Lachlan
didn’t expect Yurramukka would be any different. Keen
to escape the hard, often isolated lives their mothers led—
and probably wise to the fact that their career highlight
would be working in the local supermarket—most girls
headed to the city as soon as school was done. ‘They bring­
ing women in by the busload? Sounds borderline illegal.’
Hamish rubbed the wet nose of an inquisitive calf. If
Lachlan had been alone, the mother, who stood a few
metres back, eyeballing them suspiciously, would have
been in for a stroke, too. He’d pulled her a few years ago,
when her own mother got into strife. Unfortunately, he’d
lost the cow, but he’d bottle-raised the calf, despite his
father’s scorn and muttering about the expense. She’d paid
him back well, with a healthy calf each year.
‘You reckon you’re funny,’ Hamish said, ‘but I hear
that’s exactly what they’re doing. City chicks are queueing
for a chance to hook up with a farmer.’
‘You’re out of luck, then,’ Lachlan said dryly. ‘Bet
you’re regretting those mechanic quals right about now.’
While Hamish ran the local garage in Settlers Bridge,
twenty minutes from the family property, it was a given
that Lachlan would take over the farm; besides being the
eldest, there weren’t any other options open to him. But
that suited him, suited Dad and suited Hamish.
‘I can slap on an Akubra and a collared shirt, dude,’
Hamish protested.
Lachlan blew out of the side of his mouth to move the
bushflies that tried to settle on his sweat as he stomped

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 L É O N I E KE LSA LL

back to the ute, grunting in irritation as he noticed the

horehound prickles hooked into the elastic sides of his
boots. If the burrs got into the sheep, he’d lose money on
the fleece. He’d have to dig out the plants. Or he could
let Jack’s partner, Lucie, loose on them. She’d mentioned
the previous year that she wanted the weeds to brew a
cough syrup from. Lynn over at the IGA kept a shelf full
of Lucie’s concoctions. Well, she tried to keep a shelf full:
it wasn’t only in Settlers Bridge that the natural remedies
had found a following, with visitors driving in from nearby
towns to pick up specific treatments.
Lachlan reached across the ute for the last couple of
bales. ‘Give us a hand here, then we’ll head into Settlers
and I’ll shout you a lunch at Ploughs and Pies. I’m sure
Tara will be happy to see you.’ He’d grab a coffee, too.
Even if Christine insisted on having a go at making it, it’d
be a darn sight better than the Nescafe he chugged in his
caravan each morning.
‘You know Wheaty would go off if I messed with one
of his sisters.’ Hamish dragged a bale across the rusted
tray of the ute and matched Lachlan’s stride as they lugged
them to the paddock. ‘Seriously, Tinder is shithouse out
here. The B&S is our only chance.’
Hamish was starting to sound desperate and Lachlan
felt sorry for him—a waste, considering Hamish was only
interested in a good time. He’d always stirred Lachlan
about getting married young.
‘They’re classing up this show, you reckon?’ Lachlan
called over his shoulder, willing himself to sound inter-
ested. ‘No greasy pig, then?’

14

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 The Blue Gum Camp

‘They’d still have that, wouldn’t they?’ Hamish looked

momentarily crestfallen. ‘I mean, without the pig and
circle work, it wouldn’t be a B&S, right?’
‘You only love the circle work and key banging because
they’re good for business.’ The hard revving of the cars
spinning tight circles amid clouds of dust and the practice
of turning the engine on and off then pumping the acceler-
ator so the flooding fuel created fiery explosions from the
exhaust had to be a mechanic’s dream.
‘Doesn’t hurt.’ Hamish grinned. ‘Come on, dude. How
many chances do we have to get messy?’
Lachlan shook his head, sheathing his knife then pushing
up his hat brim to wipe perspiration on the back of his arm.
‘Not my thing. Some of us are too busy for kids’ stuff. A beer
at the end of a day of hard work will do me.’ The brothers
had long had an undeclared feud over who worked hardest
and he added a notch to his mental tally.
Hamish snorted, yanking up the barbed wire so
Lachlan could climb through. ‘Harvest is over, dude. You
can’t keep using that one. Besides, you know Mum always
said life is about choices.’
‘Barley harvest is over. The moisture content in the
lupins is almost spot on, so I’ve got to start them, or
we’re going to lose too much to pod shatter,’ Lachlan
said, pointing to the distant pale lime paddock of straggly
legumes. ‘In any case, Mum only said that as a get-out-of-
jail-free card for you, so you could do whatever the heck
you wanted. You were always her favourite.’ Actually,
Mum had never played favourites, but it wouldn’t hurt
Hamish to think she had. Particularly given the way Dad

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 L É O N I E KE LSA LL

had treated him the last year or so. ‘But, yeah, I chose
farming. And farming never finishes.’
‘Yup. That’s my point. Seeds need sowing,’ Hamish
said triumphantly. He chopped both hands in a V motion
toward his groin in case Lachlan had missed the inference.
‘The Beer and Sex Ball is perfect.’
Lachlan shook his head disgustedly. ‘You nearly had
me persuaded, but I’m out now. You’re on your own, little
brother.’

16

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 2
Charit�

Charity stared out of the rear passenger window of the

Mazda hatch. The back of her sister Hope’s car hadn’t been
designed for comfort. Or even for passengers, really. The
windows were too small and the leg room non-existent.
A foil bag rustled in front of her face, accompanied by
an overpoweringly spicy smell, smoothed by grease.
‘Chip?’ Kaylee chirped at her.
Her youngest sister’s bestie was unfailingly happy,
Charity realised with a slight stab of envy. Even after she’d
been wedged into the narrow middle seat between her and
Faith for four hours of what should have been a two-hour
road trip.
‘I reckon nothing beats tomato sauce flavour, does it?
Except, maybe cheese and onion.’ Kaylee quirked a perfect
eyebrow, as though the question was both serious and
deserving of Charity’s consideration.

17

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 L É O N I E KE LSA LL

The reek of the junior primary toilet block on a wet,

muddy day would hands-down beat the stomach-churning
pong of those chips, Charity decided, but forced a saccha-
rine smile.
After leaving Adelaide an hour later than they’d
planned—they had trouble fitting the overnight bags for
five women into Hope’s hatchback, particularly as Paris
turned up with a full-sized suitcase—they’d stopped at
McCues’ Bakery in Murray Bridge for an early lunch of
the iconic savoury slice. Half an hour later, at Tailem Bend,
Paris and Kaylee decided that, despite the size of their bags,
they needed a few extra clothes for the weekend. At least
designer labels for under ten dollars had made the stop
practical, Charity thought, her fingers drifting toward the
plastic bag between her feet. The dress she’d bought was
a lot more ‘party’ than anything she’d previously owned,
and this weekend would definitely be its only outing.
In contrast, Paris and Kaylee considered op shopping a
novelty rather than a valid retail choice, and had grabbed
anything and everything they fancied, including hats and
costume jewellery.
Another half-hour on the highway lined with mallee
trees and they entered the blink-and-miss-it town of Ki Ki.
‘Pull over!’ Paris squealed as they passed a gallery
advertising sculptures and artworks created of wire and
agricultural waste material.
Faith’s amused gaze met Charity’s across the back
seat, and Charity tried not to scowl. They didn’t have to
be any­where at a particular time, and meandering through
the towns could be considered part of the weekend away,

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 The Blue Gum Camp

she supposed. She had deliberately not checked their route,

aware—after their latest argument, when she’d ques-
tioned Hope’s two am homecoming—that she needed to
give her littlest sister some autonomy. Agreeing to Hope’s
plan for a weekend away for the three sisters was step
one. Not checking the accommodation, map or cheapest
fuel outlets was step two. But just how many steps were
involved in loosening the reins when you’d been respons­
ible for someone for the whole of their twenty-two years?
After fifteen minutes of exclaiming over every piece of
rusted iron and repurposed mattress spring, Paris picked
up a large dragonfly. The price tightened Charity’s grip on
her wallet, as though the nearby pistol-pointing, tin-can
sculpture of Ned Kelly was about to demand she stand
and deliver.
‘That will end up squashed,’ she cautioned as Paris
wedged the fragile-looking insect into the boot.
‘It’ll be deconstructed art, then,’ Paris said care-
lessly, forcing the door closed. ‘Even better.’ Despite her
attitude, not a single thing about the young woman was
truly nonchalant. From the summery red-soled sandals to
the pencil-fine streaks in her hair—the combinations of
ash, gold and pearl expensively designed to look effort-
lessly natural—everything was contrived, cultivated and
controlled.
Hope knelt on the back seat, trying to shove a wall
sconce featuring candle holders made of headlights into
the hatch.
‘What on earth are you going to do with that?’ Charity
asked.

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‘Wild concept, but I’m thinking . . . hang it on the

wall,’ her youngest sister replied with a roll of her eyes.
She raked her fingers through the pixie-cut bleached
blonde hair that set her apart from her sisters but tied
her to her friends.
‘You don’t own a wall to hang it on.’ Charity hated her
nagging tone and resented even more that it fell to her to
keep her sisters focused and practical.
‘How about if she used some of that removable tape
stuff to put up hooks?’ Faith suggested. As Mum always
said, faith was the link between charity and hope. Or,
in this case, the buffer between the eldest and youngest
Farrugia siblings. Dad often remarked the sisters’ strong
resemblance was fortunate, otherwise their vastly differ-
ent personalities—probably intensified by the twelve years
between Charity and Hope—would have him questioning
just what Mum had been up to on Thursday nights when
he went bowling. Mum would flick a tea towel at him and,
in a rare show of unity, the three sisters would cringe at
the suggestion of their parents’ sexuality.
‘That tape is supposed to be landlord friendly,’ Faith
said. ‘So she won’t wreck your paintwork, Charity. Or
perhaps you could lean the sculpture against a wall, Hope?’
‘Sorted.’ Hope ignored her sisters and scrambled out
of the vehicle, oblivious to the sconce jutting past the rear
headrest and into Charity’s small allotment of space.
‘Or she could tie it to the front bumper and use it
as a bull bar,’ Charity muttered, squeezing back into the
stuffy car. The front passenger seat was shoved back to
allow for Paris’s metres of tanned legs, and Charity had

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to crick her head to one side to avoid being impaled by

rusty ironwork.
Faith shot her a commiserating smile as she took her
seat on the far side of Kaylee, pulling her long, dark hair
into a plait over one shoulder. It was a miracle Hope had
managed to persuade their middle sister to come along
in the non-electric vehicle, chewing up hundreds of kilo­
metres and no doubt cranking up global warming, or
killing dolphins, or something equally reprehensible.
They only managed ten minutes on the highway before
stopping at Coonalpyn to load up at Waffles & Jaffles—
a seemingly improbable venture in a tiny country town
that possibly saw more sheep than people pass through,
but which was, according to Kaylee, TikTok famous.
As the other three women queued at the takeaway
window, Charity and Hope leaned against the car, their
hips touching. Although the metal was scorching, there
was something comforting about the radiating heat, the
soporific caress of the sunshine. Tipping their heads back,
they surveyed the graphite-coloured mural of five local
children playing around the towering grain silos in the
centre of the small town.
‘Have you figured out what time we’ll get to Y
­ urramukka?’
Charity asked cautiously. Of the three sisters, Hope was
the one guaranteed to overreact, always quick to imagine
a personal attack hidden in words, prone to screaming—
in either joy or fear—and the only one of them liable to
faint. As Mum said, she’d been entertainment and drama
from the moment of her birth. Faith joked that Hope
had only gone into nursing because she’d spent far too

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much time watching Grey’s Anatomy. But, as Charity had

followed their parents into teaching because it was safely
familiar, she tried to keep her judgement to herself.
Hope’s attention shifted as a flock of sulphur-crested
cockatoos wheeled overhead in a screeching cloud. ‘Doesn’t
much matter. The B&S doesn’t officially get going till
tomorrow’s barbie, but there’s already a tent village set up
in a paddock outside the town. Paris reckons they party
pretty hard there. Should be wild tonight.’ Her eyebrows
arched above her sunglasses, her fizzing excitement almost
tangible. ‘That’s a bonus, not part of the ticket price.’
Hope raked her fingers through her blonde crop. ‘Holy
heck, it’s hot out here.’
A flutter of anticipation tickled low in Charity’s belly
even as the mention of money had her squirming. The
ticket had been a stupid extravagance, but it had been a
long time since she’d allowed herself to go wild. A long
time—like never. Even Mum used to say, back when she
said anything at all, that Charity took her position as eldest
sister too seriously. But it had been many years since that
had been a choice.
She pinched her lower lip between thumb and fore­
finger, worrying at the flesh. With their family history,
any tiny brain fart or out-of-character behaviour—like the
unnecessary expense of a weekend at a B&S Ball—threw
up red flags she obsessed over.
‘I’m surprised Paris and Kaylee are into this sort of
thing,’ she said, trying to divert her thought process. ‘I’d
expect them to be more the cocktails and cruises kind.’

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Hope slammed her arms across her chest, her chin

thrust out belligerently. ‘Not like cruises are a thing in
South Australia, are they? Unless you want to perve on
aquatic mammals, that is,’ she said. ‘Anyway, I guess a
bit of the rough makes a nice change. Guys in suits get
boring.’ She managed to make her dating experience sound
exhaustive, although she’d only graduated her midwifery
degree a couple of months’ earlier.
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Charity said. ‘Cruises aren’t the
only thing Adelaide’s short of.’ Their city had the lowest
male-to-female ratio of any Australian capital. While the
percentage difference might seem infinitesimally small on
paper, it took on appalling proportions on dating apps,
where the same guys appeared on her account month after
month, regardless of how she tweaked her settings.
As Hope gave a begrudging snort of agreement, Faith
joined them, balancing a paper plate loaded with a waffle
hidden beneath a mountain of strawberries, banana and
chocolate sauce. ‘That’s amazing, right?’ she said indistinctly
around a mouthful of fried batter, jabbing a bamboo fork
toward the almost thirty-metre-high grain silo. Stark against
a vivid blue sky, a single puff of cumulus rested on one tower
like a feather crown. ‘I’ve seen the mural on the internet, but
in person, just . . . wow. It’s so much more impressive. Can
you imagine painting something on that scale?’
Charity knew that Faith, a freelance illustrator, would
indeed be imagining painting the silos. Her sister was
happiest hidden away in her studio in the house the three
sisters shared, sketching or working at her potter’s wheel.
She worried about Faith’s preference for seclusion.

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Of course, Charity managed to worry about pretty much

everything. It was in her nature to nurture, and that unfor-
tunately meant an excess of concern for those she loved. No
matter how annoying they were. ‘Can you imagine being
one of those kids?’ she said, gesturing at the silo.
‘Can you imagine being one of those kids’ parents?’
Hope added. She shot a grin at her sisters. They often built
on one another’s sentences, twisting the words to a new
meaning.
‘It’s definitely a one-up on school photos for the brag
book.’ Faith speared a piece of waffle and held it out
to Charity, who took it. Then she portioned off a share
for Hope.
The waffle was perfect, slightly soft and fluffy beneath
the crisp, sugary exterior.
‘These alone were worth the detour,’ Hope sighed. ‘I’ll
happily give up a whole week’s worth of carbs for this.’
‘Detour?’ Charity almost squawked, fighting the urge
to glance at her wristwatch. ‘You mean there was a quicker
way to get here?’
‘I mean we didn’t need to come this way at all,’ Hope
said. ‘But this place was on Kaylee’s bucket list.’
‘But the extra time—’
‘It’s a holiday, Charity. Not everything has to be A to B,
you know.’
Actually, in Charity’s world, it was vitally important
that that was precisely how things played out. No devia-
tion from the regular, practical, logical could be tolerated.
‘Well, my morsel was good, but unless I get a whole
waffle, I’m going to fence-sit on rating them. Anyway,

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speaking of extended trips and uncomfortable seats,’ she

said, ‘I know Kaylee and Paris are your school friends—’
‘Uni,’ Hope corrected.
‘Yep. That,’ Charity said, biting back the urge to point
out that the other two girls were actually uni dropouts. ‘But
do you reckon we could take turns in the front? I don’t know
if it’s the weather—’ she indicated the street that ran parallel
to the highway, where advertising pennants drooped life-
lessly ‘—or what, but I’ve got a cracking headache.’
Hope crushed her disposable cup. ‘Paris doesn’t do
back seats. Hasn’t since she was a kid. She never even took
trips with both of her parents, because she’d have to sit in
the back of the car.’
‘Serial shotgunner,’ Paris agreed as she joined them.
‘Although I’d better be seeing some backseat action this
weekend. I bought RMs and moleskins just to look the part.’
‘You bought RMs and moleskins because the guy in the
shop was cute and you’re shit at saying no,’ Hope teased.
‘You know what, I’m going to have a t-shirt printed
with that slogan: Shit at saying No,’ Kaylee said thought-
fully. ‘In fact, when we get back, I’ll get us all one.’
Charity wondered whether she was included in the ‘us
all’. She doubted it.
‘No point advertising for Charity,’ Hope said. ‘She’s
been closed for business for years.’
‘That’s a forced foreclosure,’ Charity said, provoking
a round of laughter as she pretended her sister’s remark
hadn’t hit home. ‘Perhaps I’m just hot because the aircon
doesn’t reach the back.’
‘Early menopause,’ Hope muttered.

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‘Oh, there’s most definitely been a pause in the men,’

Charity replied.
‘It’s not just you, Char, we’re all super hot,’ Paris said,
left hip jutted forward, manicured hand behind her head
to anchor her elegant, floppy-brimmed hat and simul­
taneously enhance the lift of her breasts.
Charity wondered how much practice in front of a
mirror had been required to perfect such an effortlessly
flawless pose.
Kaylee had her phone out immediately, updating
her socials. ‘Course we are. Remember, it’s hashtag
­HotGirlSummer.’
Charity didn’t remember, given she’d never heard the
phrase, but a giggle swept the three younger women.
She’d search the hashtag later and check what she had
got herself into.
Or maybe she wouldn’t. Some things were better left
unknown.
‘The cold air should reach the back, the car’s small
enough.’ Only the quirk of Faith’s lips let on how deliber-
ately she chose her words.
Hope pouted. ‘Hey, don’t be hating on Bee, she’s my
baby. You two can take a bus if you’d rather.’ She pointed
at Faith and Charity, then waved at the empty highway.
‘I reckon you’ll get one passing through here. You know,
this week. Or maybe next.’
‘Sorry, I really can’t do the back seat,’ Paris said,
twirling so the skirt of her dress flared around her tanned
thighs. ‘It’s like it’s in my DNA or something. I’m born to
be chauffeured.’

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Faith smirked, and Charity resisted the temptation to

point out that if she were being chauffeured, Paris would
be in the back seat.
‘All of us future trophy wives are born to be chauf-
feured,’ Hope said, collecting the empty plates from their
group and tossing them into a roadside bin. A crow hopped
determinedly toward the carnage, evidently deeming it too
hot to fly.
Charity fought the flare of irritation. Hope knew better,
was better—why was she trying to fit in with the other girls?
‘Thought you said you were over guys in suits?’ She raised
her voice as a two-tiered cattle truck thundered down the
highway. ‘You can’t be a trophy wife without one of them.’
Kaylee clutched her phone to her chest. ‘Rich graziers
collect trophies, too. Don’t they? Hope? Don’t they?’
‘Of course they do,’ Hope said firmly. Then, as Kaylee
continued to glance around the group for reassurance, she
giggled. ‘Great, Charity, you’ve broken her.’
As often happened, just when her attitude was becoming
unbearable, Hope’s mood flipped to funny. The sisters
were fire, water and earth, Mum had always said. Hope
as fickle, excitable and uncontrollable as a flame. Faith
deep and mysterious, like the ocean. And Charity grounded
and reliable—which was simply a euphemism for dull and
responsible.
But this weekend, she was going to be different.

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 3
Lachlan

‘You reckon you might be cranking that a bit hard?’

Lachlan nodded at the speedo.
Hamish drummed the steering wheel with his ­fingertips,
using the heel of one hand to guide the car. His gaze flicked
from the dirt road to the dashboard and he lifted one
shoulder. ‘The Coonalpyn boys keep their noses on the high­
way, more revenue there. Can afford to risk it back here.’
‘I wasn’t thinking about the ticket.’
‘Course you weren’t.’ Despite his dismissive tone,
Hamish eased his foot off. ‘Juzzy left a couple of hours
back. That dude’s built like some sort of mountain man.
I don’t want to give him a head start, as well as that advan-
tage. Plus I’m making sure I don’t give you time to double
back on your decision.’
‘Maybe don’t remind me about it, then,’ Lachlan
suggested dryly, gazing at the mallee scrub flashing past

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the side window. Hamish had managed to persuade him

to go to the B&S at Yurramukka by pointing out how
little time they spent together since Lachlan gave up the
footy team. And how much it had meant to Mum that her
two kids were close. His younger brother could be a bit of
a manipulative dick like that.
‘Last thing we needed was to get held up with a
roadside assistance call,’ Hamish yelled, not bothering
to turn down the radio. With their swags already in the
tray of the HiLux, they’d been on the road to Yurramukka
when the call came in. The Coorong wasn’t in Hamish’s
service district, but when the local roadside assistance unit
reported a four-hour wait, he’d volunteered to swing by
the stranded travellers to see if he could help them out
rather than leave them in the blistering heat. ‘The paddock
party’s always wilder than the gig, so I want to get to
Yurramukka early. Before the chicks hit the booze. You
know, meaningful consent and all.’
Lachlan snorted. ‘Glad to see you’re doing Mum proud.
I don’t suppose whoever’s stuck at the side of the road
waiting for your sorry arse is too thrilled about having
their plans interrupted, either. Least you’re getting paid
for it.’
‘Man,’ Hamish groaned, ‘you still banging on about
that impoverished farmer stuff? Why the heck am I riding
with you? Should have gone with Juz.’
‘Not so much the farmer as impoverished divorcee,’
Lachlan said grimly. Not that Emma had taken much
from him, in monetary terms. The family trust protected
the farm and she’d been welcome to the furniture—and the

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memories—they’d amassed over the years in their Settlers

Bridge rental. He assumed she’d sold all the stuff when she
moved to the city anyway, with her insurance broker in
tow, from what he tried not to hear on the grapevine. ‘And
as I see it, I’m the one stuck in the car with you, in a favour
that will give me rights to your firstborn child.’
‘Slave labour for the farm, huh? At least my blood will
end up back there that way.’
Lachlan did a double take. Hamish had no interest in
living on the land, so why mention blood ties with the
farm? He’d only be after a cut of the eventual inheritance
and they both knew Dad would play it straight; Hamish
would get his fair share.
The radio crackled and spat as they lost the station and
Hamish flicked it off. ‘In any case, rugrats are definitely
not in my future, dude. You’ll have to take my best dog,
instead.’
‘Couldn’t do that to a man,’ Lachlan said. No farmer—
no country guy—would be without his dog. Ratter, snaker,
defender, best mate; a decent dog filled many roles. He’d
even considered bringing Bodie, his kelpie pup, along for
the weekend.
The dirt road stretched straight as a harvester furrow
through the mallee scrub. On the horizon, across the
vast salt water lagoon of the Coorong, Lachlan could
make out a narrow peninsula of pristine white sandhills.
Ice-cream mountains in blueberry jelly, Mum had always
called the striking pyramids silhouetted against the electric
blue sky. Bordered on the far side by the longest beach in
Australia—almost two hundred kilometres of untouched

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wilderness kept remote and private by the wild reaches

of the Southern Ocean—the dunes appeared deceptively
soft but Lachlan had spent plenty of his childhood sliding
down them on a feed sack or sheet of corrugated iron, and
knew the glassy crystals, blinding on a hot summer’s day,
could shred unprotected knees and elbows. As a teenager,
the risk had added to the thrill.
‘That looks like our customer.’ His brother lifted his
chin toward a flash of metallic bronze in the distance.
As they hurtled closer, a small hatchback took shape.
‘Not the best kind of car to take off the highway,’ Lachlan
observed.
‘Townies,’ Hamish said.
‘Looks like.’
Hamish flicked a switch and the strobe of the portable
orange light mounted on the dash danced across their bonnet.
‘Really?’ Lachlan said, gesturing at the kilometres of
tangled scrub stretching in every direction. They’d not
seen another vehicle and he knew they were unlikely to.
‘Don’t want anyone pulling out a shotty, seeing as
we’re not in the service car.’
Sand, mounded on the verge by a caterpillar-like grader
that crawled through every few months, squeaked beneath
the tyres as Hamish pulled off the track. The car slewed,
losing traction, and Hamish cut the motor but stayed put,
leaning forward over the steering wheel.
‘What’s up?’ Lachlan’s fists instinctively clenched. Though
country folk never thought twice about pulling up to help,
only an idiot wouldn’t recognise there was always an element
of danger in the decision.

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‘Look,’ Hamish muttered, his gaze not moving from the

car they’d pulled up ten metres behind. ‘That’s five, right?’
Lachlan followed his line of sight. ‘Yep. Five. Lot to
squeeze in that bubble.’
Hamish shook his head. ‘You’re missing the point,
dude. Look again. Full occupancy of the car is female.’
Lachlan cracked his door open, the heat immediately
sucking the air-conditioned comfort out. ‘You are one sick
puppy. Just get them sorted. Sooner we get to Y ­ urramukka,
the better, I reckon.’ He knew he was a bit rough on
Hamish. While he and Emma had been together since high
school, his brother had suffered the lack of single females
in the Settlers Bridge farming district his entire life.
Hamish chuckled. ‘Dude, this just keeps getting better.
It’s not even a carful of CWA ducks. Though don’t get me
wrong, I haven’t got anything against being thanked with
the odd melting moment or lamington.’
‘Are you even allowed to take kickbacks?’ Hamish was
right, they were all young women. He stumbled, suddenly
awkward, as a gleeful cheer went up from several of the
women standing in the dirt beside their car. He wished
he’d hung back in the ute. He needed a beer or two to
lubricate his conversational skills.
‘Hey,’ one of the women called, waving a bottle of
water as though afraid they’d somehow be overlooked.
‘You’re the road service guys?’
‘At your service,’ Hamish said as he strode toward them.
Lachlan shot him a grudgingly admiring glance. That
was actually pretty smooth.
The woman made a not-so-inconspicuous assessment

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of them. Then she dimpled prettily. ‘Never been so happy

to hear those words.’
‘Hamish. This is Lachlan.’ Hamish jerked a thumb at
him. ‘Of course, I’m going to have to ask for your phone
number up front.’ He held up his road service record book,
somehow managing to invest the standard procedure with
a healthy degree of innuendo.
Lachlan was bloody glad there was no need for him to
speak. His mouth dry, he realised he’d forgotten how
to chat up a girl. Hell, truth was, he’d never known; Emma
had done all the hard yards in their relationship, deciding he
was the one while they were still in Year 9, and stamping
her claim before he’d quit school to work on the farm.
He had fallen in line, towed behind her determination like
a harrow behind a tractor.
‘Hope Farrugia,’ the woman confirmed the booking
name.
‘And I’m Kaylee.’ Another blonde quickly moved to
Hope’s side, one hand on her narrow waist.
‘Paris,’ said the third, swinging her hips as she sash­
ayed up.
Lachlan dragged his gaze away from the tanned
expanse of legs, pretending he needed to oversee Hamish’s
note-taking, though the scrawl meant nothing to him.
Hamish rubbed the back of his neck, his slow smile
taking in all three women appreciatively. ‘I guess I just
needed the details of the vehicle owner for the records. But
it doesn’t hurt to have backups, does it?’
‘You can totally have my number to, ah, use when you
want it,’ Paris said.

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Her friends giggled, but the lanky blonde held out

her hand for Hamish’s phone. She clicked her fingers, as
though accustomed to demanding—and receiving.
Seeming stunned, his brother handed over his phone
and Paris tapped at the screen.
Maybe Lachlan was as miserable as Hamish accused,
because the overt flirting left him cold. He couldn’t have
been more turned off if he was a tap.
Evidently, Hamish didn’t have the same reaction. He
held his arms wide so a step forward would embrace the
three women. ‘How about you tell me all your troubles?
I’ve got broad shoulders.’
Kaylee giggled as they turned to the car. ‘Nice to meet
a guy who tells the truth.’
Lachlan stayed where he was, leaning against the bonnet
of the HiLux. He figured the girls were barely twenty and
had a sudden, inconvenient feeling that he should warn
them about the dangers of remote country roads. Though,
judging by the way they flocked around Hamish on the
edge of the sandy track, they were quite prepared to take
advantage of their superior numbers. Maybe his brother
was the one who should feel threatened.
‘Pretty embarrassing that not one of us knows how to
change a tyre.’
He startled. One of the other two women, who’d been
standing further away from the hatchback, had circled
around, either through the scrub or across the blisteringly
hot sand, and caught him staring at her friends.
‘Can be a bit risky out here.’ He indicated the phone
she held. ‘Service is iffy.’

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She looked at her phone and nodded slowly, as though

she needed to take his caution onboard.
‘I guess tyre changing is a bit of a lost art,’ he added,
faced with her considering silence.
‘I’m not sure my sister would call it art.’
Unlike the other three, the woman kept her voice so
low he had to pay attention to catch her words. As she
turned away, gesturing toward the hatchback, he made
a quick assessment. A little taller than average, she wore
jeans that were raggedly hacked off above the ankles and
an unbuttoned shirt over a white t-shirt.
‘Hope, you mean?’ he said. Despite this woman’s dark
hair, the facial resemblance between the two was remark-
able, although Hope was clearly younger.
The woman returned her level grey gaze to him for an
excruciatingly long moment. ‘Copped that good a look,
did you?’ she said coolly.
His guts shrivelled, but he ploughed on. ‘I was checking
to make sure none of you are armed. Bushranger country,
you know. Can’t be too careful.’
She blew a disparaging breath between barely parted
lips. ‘South Australia never had bushrangers.’
‘You’ve not heard of the Birdman of the Coorong?’ He
offered up a quick prayer of thanks to Mum. She’d filled
his head with enough information about both necessities
and trivialities that he could pull something out to make a
conversation. ‘The dwarf who rode an ostrich.’
The woman squinted disbelievingly, one hand slowly
waving away the little bushflies he rarely noticed. ‘You’re

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pulling my leg.’ She sounded uncertain, as though she was

trying to work out whether he was joking or lying.
‘Not even touching it.’ For a second he was pleased
with the amount of suggestive regret he managed to load
into the words. Then he winced. A dozen words and he
was hitting on the woman? They’d been in the car less
than two hours but he’d obviously been hanging out with
Hamish for too long.
His brother, still surrounded, was unpacking the rear
of the hatchback, no doubt locating the spare.
‘It gets more unbelievable,’ Lachlan ploughed on
as though he could talk over his own words. He had a
gut-churning feeling that the woman could see the heat
clawing up his neck. ‘The dwarf, Peggotty, was obsessed
with jewellery, and terrorised the district riding a saddled
ostrich, buck naked except for his stolen bling.’
The woman blinked. ‘The ostrich was naked?’
‘Peggotty.’
‘Wow. And I thought the art gallery at Ki Ki was out
there.’
He made a dismissive click with his tongue. ‘What can
I say? No Netflix signal out here. They have to get inven-
tive with their entertainment.’
The woman gave a throaty chuckle. ‘Charity,’ she
said, her tone decisive, like he’d passed some kind of test
and was now permitted her name. ‘And I wasn’t talking
about Hope. My other sister is the artist.’ She pointed at
the lone woman, who gazed out across the low sprawl of
grey, avocado and lime–coloured mallee, highlighted by
the russet tones of broom bush. She waved away the flies

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with a bunch of tiny, bright yellow flowers, the pungent

liquorice smell, even at this distance, identifying the willowy
foliage as wild fennel. ‘Faith.’
‘Faith, Hope and Charity?’
Charity rolled her eyes.
‘Like the aircraft based in Malta during the Second
World War?’ he added, trying to lift his comment above
the prosaic. No doubt she copped comments on the trilogy
all the time.
‘Ah.’ The noise was a low throb of astonishment. ‘Yes.
The Gloster Gladiators. My dad’s heritage is Maltese, but
no one has ever twigged that’s what the three of us are
named for. It’s always been, you know—’ she displayed
her wrist, a bracelet strung with gold charms catching the
sun ‘—the religious connotation.’
He nodded. ‘The heart, anchor and cross. My mum
had the same charm.’ For once he blessed his memory for
small details, the insatiable hunger for information that
could be stored in his head that circumstance had forced
on him.
‘Hope and Faith wear it, too.’ She flashed a grin. ‘Guess
my folks would’ve been screwed if they’d had a boy.’
‘Or he would have been.’
‘Ha. Yes, I’d never thought of that.’ As she ran a hand
up her forearm, he noticed that her barley-coloured skin
was pinkening under the fierce bite of the sun.
He gestured toward the sparse shade of a scrubby
paperbark tree. ‘You’re burning. I’d better see if I can give
Eggs a hand, so we can all get on our way.’
‘Eggs?’

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‘My brother. See, you’re not the only ones named for
your ancestral heritage. He’s Hamish—or Ham—and I’m
Lachlan.’ He tapped his chest. ‘Descendants of a long line
of similarly named MacKenzies.’
‘Ham—Eggs?’ Charity snorted, then hid her mouth
with one hand, as though holding the amusement in.
‘You got it. At least my name doesn’t lend itself to
anything so bad.’
‘Hey, Lachie.’ Hamish’s head reappeared from the
popped boot at the rear of the car. ‘Grab the jack. I think
this spare’s okay.’
‘Sure.’
Lachlan strode to the HiLux, relieved to escape. For a
few minutes there, making conversation had been effort-
less and interesting, but the moment he’d let his mind focus
on what he was doing, his tongue had grown about three
sizes and choked his words.
By the time he retrieved the jack from the ute, Charity
had headed down the road to talk to Faith. Lachlan wasn’t
sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. Hell, what he
wouldn’t give for a dash of his brother’s cool. Thanks to
his relationship with Em, he’d never spoken to a woman
with intent, and had no idea how to do it without coming
across as either desperate or despicable.
Hamish was surrounded by mountains of luggage
and a couple of corrugated iron-and-twisted-barbed-wire
contraptions that wouldn’t have looked out of place at
the back of the junk shed. He nodded as Lachlan held
up the jack.
‘Goodo. You want to make a start?’

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He passed Lachlan a tyre iron. Then his hands went to

the neck of his t-shirt, preparing to yank it over his head.
‘Seriously?’ Lachlan muttered.
‘You spend a lot of time asking if I’m serious,’ Hamish
said. ‘Thought you’d know by now that it’s rare. But
I didn’t bring loads of clothes with me, so can’t afford to
get this rig dirty. So, unless you’re offering to haul the tyre
out of the Tardis . . . ?’
‘Bee,’ Hope corrected, apparently not getting the sci-fi
reference, which was probably just as well for Hamish’s
cred. A love of sci-fi flicks and a passion for Lego weren’t
going to be a chick magnet.
‘I’ll handle the jack,’ Lachlan said quickly.
He gave the car a once-over, then chocked the tyre diag-
onally opposite the flat. The dry, chalky smell of limestone
dust filled his nostrils as he squatted. He fitted the tyre iron
and spun the t-shaped tool to loosen the lug nuts. Setting it
aside, he scuffed his boot across the sand beneath the car
several times, levelling the ground before placing the base
of the jack under the vehicle.
‘I can help you with that,’ one of the blondes—Paris,
he thought, though it was potentially the other one—
murmured, crouching on his right in a waft of perfume as
he inserted the jack handle and started to ratchet it.
Before he could come up with a response to what he
was pretty sure was a come-on, the other woman knelt on
his left, arranging her short dress over tanned thighs. ‘You
should probably take off your shirt, too,’ she suggested.
‘I’ll be fine.’ He definitely wasn’t ready for any of this
stuff. At least the brief conversation with Charity had

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been . . . entertaining. None of this in-his-face crap. It

wasn’t that he didn’t admire the women’s confidence, but
their predatory behaviour was a red flag. Maybe that was
partly a throwback to Em, too. Once burned, ten years
shy, or something like that.
Evidently, he took too long processing his thoughts,
because Paris and Kaylee exchanged a glance then stood
as Hamish carried the spare tyre over.
‘You could have rolled it,’ Lachlan said dryly as Hamish
dumped the tyre, then flexed.
‘The tread is a bit low on your spare,’ Hamish cautioned
Hope, apparently continuing a conversation they’d been
having at the rear of the car.
‘I’m not even sure what that means.’ Hope fluttered her
eyelashes at him.
‘It means thicker is always better.’
Lachlan flinched, unsure whether to be embarrassed or
impressed by Hamish’s quick comeback.
‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ Hope said, her voice catching.
‘Seriously, you need to pick up two when you get to
town,’ Hamish said.
Kudos to him for actually keeping his mind on the job
for a hot minute, Lachlan thought. He made short work of
replacing the flat and removed the jack. ‘I’ll pack this away.’
He was pretty sure none of the women surrounding
his half-dressed brother even heard him, but Hamish gave
him a wink. ‘Sure. Ladies, you want me to stuff your gear?’
Lachlan managed to hold in his groan as he strode
back to the HiLux. He’d get Hamish to drop him off at
the highway and he’d hitch a lift back to Settlers Bridge

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with a truckie. Because the more he thought about it, the

worse their plan of going to the B&S was. He’d never been
to one as a single guy. As he could barely make conver-
sation with a woman—much less with a group of them,
if they all hunted in packs like this lot—the prospect was
bloody terrifying.
‘Thanks for taking care of that.’
His annoyance dissipated at Charity’s slightly husky
tone. He straightened from stowing the jack and turned to
face her. ‘Not a prob—’
Arms around each other’s waists, Charity and her artist
sister stood a metre from him.
He tried not to gawk but, while the family resemblance
between Charity and Hope was remarkable, grey-eyed
and black-haired Faith could be Charity’s twin.

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