The Australians' Brides. Lilian Darcy

Jac and Carly away from last week because of the snakes that might be living underneath.

      Callan stood on top of the posts, tanned legs braced and broad shoulders working loosely as he casually caught the tools that Pete tossed up to him. He wore sturdy work gloves—possibly as a concession to the snakes—khaki shorts that came halfway down his thighs, heavy boots and the ever-present hat.

      He looked so gorgeous like that—so physical, so strong, so much in his element—it made her ache.

      Last night made her ache.

      He waved at her and she waved back, starting to smile.

      Then he turned away.

      She stood like a marble statue, rocked by the strength of her response to the sight of him, stomach dropping at the brevity of that wave, hoping none of it showed. He was saying something to Pete, whose full head of white hair contrasted in the sunlight with skin that looked like hot chocolate fudge, dark and shiny.

      Callan was definitely avoiding her.

      Leaping down from the rear tray, he went around to the driver’s side of the vehicle and climbed in, calling Lockie at the same time. “We need to get going, mate.” Lockie scrambled into the middle of the front seat, Pete climbed in after him and Callan revved up the engine.

      The truck circled out of the yard in the usual boiling mass of dust, bouncing its cargo of fence posts noisily up and down. Pippa and Flick stood in the back like sentinels and barked at the rush of air that increased as the vehicle picked up speed. Carly and Josh ran from the dust, shrieking as if pretending it was chasing them like a monster, up the veranda and into the house.

      Callan waved at Jacinda again through the dry, choking curtain. Lockie and Pete did the same, and then they disappeared from sight heading down the track that headed toward the alleged road to Adelaide.

      Jacinda’s breathing went sharp in her chest and she was shocked at how vulnerable she felt. Because of one kiss? Because it hadn’t ended with the promise of more? Because Callan’s wave and turn told her he’d meant what he’d said, last night, and the fact that he hadn’t stopped to introduce her to Pete only served to emphasize his state of mind?

      Or just because she wasn’t going to see him all day?

      “I’m too emotional. It’s just stupid,” she muttered, moving aimlessly around the yard as she listened to the ebbing sound of the engine.

      But she’d always been this way. She knew it. Could manage to pep talk herself out of it sometimes, if she was really careful about it. Today it might be tough, because there was so much going on inside her. Yesterday, she’d felt so alive. Exhilarated. Proud of herself. She’d jumped into that water hole. She’d heard the echo of her voice thrown back from the rocks like a battle cry.

      All of that was still there in this potent mix of feelings, but she didn’t know what to do with it, how to match it against Callan and his apparent rejection.

      There was more to his reaction than met the eye. She felt sure of it. With time, she would understand and it would be all right.

       Give it time, just give it time.

      Turning to go back inside the house, the sudden certainty calmed her spirit, gave her direction, but then she hit the shade of the veranda and the certainty ebbed just as suddenly as it had come, the emotional transition as sharp as the physical one between heat and shade.

      Callan wasn’t Kurt.

      Kurt was the king of complex, incomprehensible reactions, shifting layers that you had to peel back and pick apart. Callan was probably as simple and uncomplicated as he seemed. He’d kissed her. He’d defeated that initial impulse of curiosity and chemistry between them. He’d decided that any kind of involvement was a mistake. He’d stopped. He didn’t want it to happen again, and he’d told her so.

       Get a grip, Jacinda.

      In the kitchen, Kerry was kneading bread dough, while Carly and Josh bickered over LEGO in the next room. Josh still acted more protective of his territory than Lockie did. He wasn’t quite convinced that Carly’s presence at Arakeela Creek was a plus. “I need all the curved bits for my tower,” Jac heard him say.

      “But I’m making a tower, too.”

      “I started making my tower, first. You’re not old enough for LEGO. Your fingers aren’t good enough.”

      “Yes, they are.”

      “They’re not, and anyway, I started my tower, first.”

      Kerry and Jac looked at each other, wondering about intervention. “Give it another minute?” Kerry suggested.

      “Can you teach me what to do with the bread, while we listen and hold our breath?”

      Kerry laughed. “That’s about right, isn’t it, holding our breath?”

      “I wonder why Carly and Lockie do so much better together. He’s that much older, I guess, and she’s less of a threat to his space.”

      “More than that.” Kerry paused for thought and thumped away at the elastic ball of dough, flinging it with some violence onto a floured wooden board. The nearest store was several hours away, so if you wanted fresh bread out here, you made it yourself. When Jac smelled it baking, every second day, she practically drooled.

      “Josh is like Callan, I think,” Kerry said after a moment. “He works hard to get his life just the way he wants it, and then he doesn’t like it to change.”

      “That’s Callan?”

      “It’s a part of Callan.” Kerry paused in her thumping and began to knead, pushing the dough away from herself so that it stretched into an oval, then folding it toward herself again and rotating it ninety degrees. The fluid efficiency of the movement said that she’d done this thousands of times before. “Which makes him sound too rigid, doesn’t it?” she added, shooting a sharp look at Jac.

      “I wouldn’t say he was rigid, from what I’ve seen of him,” she answered carefully.

      “No, he’s not. I’m glad you can see that. He just … needs time with some things.”

      They were both silent for a moment, and the air felt a little too heavy, too full of meaning. Kerry seemed extra alert to nuances today, watchful somehow.

       Watchful of me. Watchful of Callan and me, and the way I react to his name.

      Jac didn’t know if that was a good thing, or not. What had Kerry thought about the two of them taking so long to retrieve Lockie’s Game Boy last night? What had she sensed in the air between them?

      “Want to have a go at this, then?” the older woman said eventually.

      “Can I? Will I ruin it? I’ve never made bread before. Should I thump, or knead?”

      “I’ve done enough thumping. It releases the gluten in the flour, makes the bread lighter and more elastic. And it’s good for working out your aggression.”

      On cue, they heard Carly’s voice rise in an angry scream. “You did that on purpose!”

      “Somebody else is working out some aggression, I think,” Kerry drawled. She strode out to the children, the firm rhythm of her feet signaling a no-nonsense approach. “Joshie, we need to work this out,” Jacinda heard.

      She began tentatively kneading, thinking that Kerry was probably the best equipped to handle the situation, in this instance. Kneading bread dough was tougher than it looked, however.

      Push, fold, quarter turn. Push, fold, quarter turn. Tougher than it looked, but it felt good. The dough was like a baby’s skin, satiny smooth and warm from its first rising. The dusting of flour slipped across it like talcum powder on that same baby’s tush. Push, fold, quarter turn. Physical, creative, satisfying. Human beings had been doing it for thousands of years.

      Kerry