Down the battered back steps, the grass behind the house was thick and a deep emerald green, but a rutted track of red dirt led to a rough timber gate and farm buildings beyond.
Joe held the gate open while she walked through. ‘Here’s the workshop,’ he said, ducking his head to avoid the low eaves of an old stable. Ancient tractor tyres were stacked at one end, harnesses hung off nails, the rich smell of horse clung to the air along with the hay motes, and—she had to smile at the incongruity of it—an aqua green moped was tucked in a corner with the bags of chicken feed. A drop saw was set up on an old door that was doing duty on two sawhorses, and artwork—Amy’s she presumed—depicting a stick figure in an akubra with a girl in green gumboots was tacked to the wall.
‘For a macadamia farm, you seem to have a lot of other things on the go as well. Accommodation, animals, niece-minding …’
‘Farmstay 101: the guests like the whole experience, which means dog, horse, cows, chooks. An overgrown orchard, avocado seedlings, baskets of warm home-baked muffins …’
‘You’ve thought this through, I see. And the moped? What sort of farm animal is that?’
He grinned, and she looked away before she overheated. Oh yes indeedy, looked like muffins weren’t the only thing Farmer Joe had no trouble warming up.
‘The cottages are this way,’ he said, leading her through the open back wall to a smallish paddock. ‘I can bring a mattress and linen over from the house.’
‘No need. I have a swag. I can stay anywhere … even the tray of my ute at a pinch.’
‘The tray of your ute?’
She grinned. ‘Hey, there’s starlight above and fresh air. You should try it. Sure, it’s not five-star luxury and margaritas at sunset like the Clarence Hotel Motel, but it has a certain charm.’
‘Ken and Thelma Kwong, right? The decor still a tribute to the seventies?’
‘Sure is, and Ken’s a sweetheart. Loves to chat.’
Joe rolled his eyes. ‘Everyone who lives within cooee of the Town Hall loves to chat. Ken will probably pop into the bakery this morning to buy a loaf of bread and he’ll mention his last tenant just checked out. Someone buying a vanilla slice will sayoh yeah, the chick in the red ute?Then one of the town widows—there’s dozens of them, they cluster together at the bowls club a couple of times a week like crows over a dead cow—will be inspecting the glazed fruit buns to see which one has the most sultanas, and she’ll say she just saw a red ute turn up the driveway on Shannon Gully Road where that Miles boy is living.’
‘Wow,’ she said. Soil clods crumbled like cake as she walked through them.
Joe chuckled. ‘They’ll have us married by sunset,’ he said.
She stopped abruptly. ‘What?’
He stopped, too, and turned to look at her. He’d switched out his new akubra for a battered old straw hat—it looked like something Gus had spent an evening chewing on—and it shaded his eyes but the dimple was gone from his cheek.
‘Sorry,’ he said after a long pause. ‘I was only joking.’
‘Small-town gossip,’ she said, then took a breath and carried on walking to the cottage. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got an excellent strategy for that.’ She was her mother’s daughter, wasn’t she? All she needed was a getaway vehicle and a full tank of diesel.
There was a hard note in Joe’s voice. ‘I wish I could say the same.’