Ringer (2 page)

Chapter Two

Miranda

“I’m not going
back, I don’t care how desperate they are.”

I folded my arms indignantly as I sat
across from my aunty at her kitchen table.

“Oh, you’re just jet lagged.” Aunty Megan
waved me off.

“I’m fine.” I straightened. “I just don’t
need the guilt trip right now.”

Not ever.

From the streets of Paris to the dusty
plains of Ballan: no way, I thought, as I studied the gloss on my manicured
fingertips.

“Well, you know your brother’s not going
home?”

My eyes flicked up. “What?”

“Max has a job and he can’t go home.”

A new panic surfaced inside of me.

But Max always goes home.

It was the unspoken agreement that he would
do the dirty farm work, and I would travel around, because, well, that was just
the way it was meant to be. I had wanted to escape Moira Station so badly, I
had resorted to hitching rides into town, any which way I could, to get out of
the most boring place on earth.

“Well, they will just have to make him.”

Aunty Megan curved her brow at me, as if to
say, “How can you make a Henry offspring do anything?”

Damn straight, I thought, because if there
was one thing I was completely, totally, whole-heartedly defiant about, it was
that I was not going back to bloody Ballan.

Four years.

That’s how long it had been since I had
been back home; I couldn’t believe it had really been that long.

I had been kind of a nightmare—playing up,
getting drunk at the only source of entertainment, the local pub. I had planned
to gain some of my parents’ attention in a way and, boy, had I ever. They
decided that perhaps a private all-girls’ school would be best. And I had
completely agreed, aside from the all-girls’ thing.

My school became a welcome reprieve from
the dust and solitude. I excelled academically, probably because it had given
me hope that I wouldn’t end up a farmer’s wife. Instead, I did so well that my
parents allowed me to be a foreign exchange student in Paris for my final year
of high school, and even supported my desire to stay on afterwards. Mum and Dad
had been good to me—so good—but expecting me to come back home to do something
so completely foreign to me was a bit of a joke, and an absolutely ridiculous
ask. I had been in Australia for less than a week, and they wanted me to come
home and play caretaker because my dad didn’t want to hire someone in place of
Max? And it’s not like my little sister, Moira, could be anything other than a
thing under foot; she was only thirteen. And, yes, she was named after Moira
Station, so naturally she thought she owned the place, little brat.

It’s not like I hadn’t seen my family. They
had holidayed overseas frequently to see me, the times when Max was around to
take care of things. Max had even come over for a stint. I’d probably had
better quality time with my family being an ocean away than I would have had at
Moira, locked in my bedroom, hating the world.

The same claustrophobic feelings of my
childhood bedroom clawed at my soul: even after all these years I couldn’t
think of a worse place to escape to.

Escape to? Ha. More like escape from.

“I won’t go,” I said, pushing back my chair
and heading for the kitchen door.

“Mm hmm,” managed my aunty, as if she
didn’t believe a word I had said.

I paused at the doorway, piercing her with
a poignant stare. “I. Am. Not. Going.”

Famous last words.

Chapter Three

RINGER

I careened my
’77 canary yellow Ford down the dirt track, admiring the trail of dust that
rose from my rear-view mirror.

My suntanned arm rested on the wound-down
window as I tapped my free hand cheerfully on the steering wheel to Air
Supply’s ‘Lost in Love’, a song I disturbingly knew all the words to. I paused
from my singing, a smile creasing the corner of my mouth; if only the boys back
home could see me now. I shrugged. It wasn’t exactly my choice of driving
music; still, my tape player was stuffed, so I had to put up with any outback
radio station I could get reception for. The music crackled momentarily with
white noise.

“Not now. This is the best part.” I growled
in frustration as I banged my fist on the dashboard.

Aside from the rather dubious romantic
tunes of Air Supply, I was relishing the solitude. A true stroke of genius on
my part that had me escaping the loved-up fools of Onslow. My offer to help out
Max’s dad by volunteering to work on the family farm in his place had been met
with mixed emotions from Max. First uncertainty, and then fear. A fear to hope
I was serious.

But I had been deadly serious, obviously,
as I fishtailed along the desolate farm road towards…I squinted.

“You’ve got to be kidding me?” I groaned.

Slowing down to a full stop I tipped my
sunnies down and shook my head. In front of me was another farm gate. The fifth
one I had been faced with having to open. I didn’t grab the details of how big
the Henry’s property was; I wasn’t interested in the logistics. All I wanted to
know was if there was a comfy bed and a cold beer waiting for me at the end of
the day. Being assured of both, I was satisfied. But what I really should have
asked was how many fucking gates the property had.

I opened my door and slid out of the
leather driver’s seat. I pushed my arms to the sky, groaning with the
satisfaction of stretching my muscles as I slid my hand up my T-shirt sleeve to
retrieve my packet of Peter Jacksons. I opened the packet, delving in and grabbing
a smoke that I flipped into my mouth with expert ease. I reached for the zippo
lighter from my back pocket, flicking it to life; I blocked the hot summer wind
from the flame as I lit up and inhaled my addiction. I stood next to the opened
car door, turning slightly, taking in the great nothing of my surroundings with
each slow draw. Flat, desolate scrubland, with no pinnacle to focus on, no
homestead in sight, no cattle or sheep to be seen. Only yet another divide of
fencing and a weather-beaten farm gate.

I shielded my eyes from the penetrating
rays of the February sun, before taking another drag and ducking into the
console of my Ford to retrieve Max’s mud map to ‘Moira Station’.

Scribbled crudely on the back of a Carlton
Draught beer coaster (my one and only token from Onslow), I studied the
squiggly lines that proved to be a pretty easy route, now that I had turned
onto Sheehan Road. All I had to do was just go straight, straight until the
fork in the road. Left was Moira, right was the Sheehan’s property.

Simple enough, I thought. When it came to
Ballan, I had predicted that everyone and everything would be pretty simple,
laid back to the point of slipping into a coma. Nope, complication was not on
the agenda here. I may have been standing in the middle of nowhere, surrounded
by salt, bush and dust. But the silence, the red earth and rusty gate I walked
towards and started to unchain, all of these elements were beautiful to me, oh
so beauti—

I paused. Cocking my head slightly to hear
the distant thrums.

Was that a car?

I stilled my hands on the gate, turning to
see. Sure enough, a distant billow of dust burst into the sky as a little speck
gunned along the track. I could have heard it from a mile away; the car was a
shit box and in desperate need of a service. The sound sliced through the
stillness of what was once a silent and heavenly existence. I shielded my eyes
as I watched the white hatchback Mazda speed closer. Maybe this was my would-be
boss? Max’s dad, or maybe a Sheehan from the neighbouring property? It would be
more than a surprise as most farmers drove flash four-wheel drives, not the
screeching bomb like the one nearing.

Regardless, I threw down my cigarette and
swivelled it out in the dirt, waving my arm in the air as a way of a friendly
greeting while I slowly worked on opening the gate. I smiled, ready to meet my
new acquaintance—the new acquaintance that wasn’t slowing down. I worked on the
chain faster—the new acquaintance, who was now beeping their horn like a raving
lunatic. I clawed and tugged at the chain, glancing up from my hands only long
enough to afford myself the view of the fast-approaching white rocket that
barrelled down the track.

The horn sounded in a long, insistent
beep-beep-beeeeeeeep.

Oh shit! OH SHIT!

The psycho wasn’t slowing. I had visions of
the buzz box driving over my car like a monster truck, pinning me to the gate
while it smashed its way through.

Beep-beep-beeeeeeeeeeeeep.

I unlatched the last of the gate with
enough time to latch onto it and catapult myself, attached to said gate, away
in a wide swing. The beaten-up hatchback swerved violently around my car and
sped through the barely opened gap.

The force of the gate slamming into the
wire fence knocked me from my hold; I fell backwards into the dusty shrubs with
an
oomph
. I heard the car come to a skidding halt. I rolled onto my
side, catching the breath that had been knocked out from me. I may have been in
a momentary world of pain, and my life may have just flashed before my eyes,
but it did little to stem the tide of anger that rose to claw its way out of
me.

Clasping my ribs, I slowly got to my feet
and glared at the rattling-arse end of the car before me.

“Hey! Hey, what the fuck?” I screamed,
hobbling over to the car and slamming my palm on the back window before
doubling over in pain. It was then I saw the driver’s window was being wound
down slowly, not because the driver was doing it deliberately slow, but because
it looked like it was being shunted downwards by force; the window was clearly
stuck and was taking considerable effort to open. I stood to the side, clear
from the car, my brows narrowed, waiting for an apology, for a question of
concern maybe? Instead what I got was a glimpse of a delicate feminine hand as
it appeared from the gap in the tinted window, a turquoise beaded bracelet, and
immaculately pearl polished, manicured nails. I was momentarily stunned by the
unexpectedness of it, more so when the dainty little hand extended me the
middle finger.

What the fuck?

My lips pressed into an incredulous smile
as I quickly stepped towards the car wanting to get a look at who was behind
the wheel, but as I skidded to the driver’s door, grabbing onto the handle, the
car spun its back wheels and gunned it down the track, leaving me in a shower
of dirt and a Mazda door handle in my grasp.

What the fuck?

I coughed at the dust that was lodging in
my throat, a cough that turned into hysterical cackling as I fixed my eyes onto
the door handle. I wiped the tears from my eyes as I watched the Mazda thunder
down the track until it was a speck in the distance, a speck that had me
raising my brows with interest as it veered right. Taking the fork in the road
that I couldn’t quite make out, the car blazed its way towards the Sheehan property.

Interesting.

Chapter Four

Miranda

I wasn’t ready
to go home.

Not just yet; in fact, despite my erratic,
maniacal driving (I had never been a good driver), I had wanted to avoid
getting back to Moira Station at all costs. So my decision was clear; as soon
as I had veered left off the main highway and saw the Sheehan Road sign, my
first point of call would be to pay my dear old friends a visit. Right after I
inadvertently almost kill a stranger. I grimaced, casting my eyes into the
rear-view mirror, seeing nothing more than a hazy speck in the distance. I had
felt bad, kind of. But how was I supposed to know he was so bloody slow at
opening up a farm gate? It wasn’t bloody rocket science, he would have had to
have opened at least four before then, the idiot. Must be from the city?
Although his car and attire hadn’t screamed so. I bit my lip; what if he was
visiting the Sheehans? Or worse – Moira? Either way, I was screwed; my hands
became clammy on the wheel and I wasn’t sure if it was down to the fear of
running into the clearly crazy, swearing man, or the fact that my car had no
air conditioning? At least with the window wound down I afforded myself some
fresh air: fresh air for life now that it was firmly wedged open. You always
took your life into your own hands each time you chose to operate anything in
my car; still, it was mine and had been since I had driven away in it four
years ago.

I neared the final gate that led towards
the Sheehan’s homestead; mercifully there was no canary-yellow Ford blocking
the way, and no stunned stranger with fear in his eyes. A smile pressed the
corner of my mouth, thinking back to the look on his face when I had flipped
him off. Absolutely priceless. It had been so worth almost running him over for
that look.

I stopped the car with less violent force
this time as I readied myself to get out to open the gate. The screeching
unoiled hinge of my car door was music to my ears; sure I copped a lot of flak
about it, but she was my car and I loved her just as much as the day I got her.

I went to unhook the gate, but was stilled
by distant screams and the sound of footsteps.

“Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my God.
MIRANDA.” Melanie Sheehan knocked the wind out of me, hugging me so severely
she restricted my breathing, her arms circled around my neck like an anaconda
crushing the very life out of me, pinning me, and my chest, into the gate
between us.

“Dad said you were coming home, but I
didn’t believe it.” She stood back, grasping my shoulders and studying my face
as if what she was seeing before her was a mirage. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
she asked.

Dear, sweet Mel, my lifelong childhood
friend and astonishingly dedicated pen pal. She was a few years younger than
me, but she had been my only playmate as a child. How I had missed her clear
blue-sky-like eyes, and the light dusting of freckles across her nose. She wore
her hair in a constant ponytail; the lighter wisps of her brown hair bleached
by the sun swept around her face. She looked just like her dad.

I smiled, an actual real smile that I
hadn’t done since I couldn’t remember when. “I’m sorry, it’s been insane since
I got back, I haven’t had much time to find my feet really. It’s not like Mum
and Dad gave me much choice,” I said, trying to sound light about it.

The brightness in Mel’s eyes dimmed and her
mouth gaped in a question that was stilled when we heard a distant wolf
whistle. Over Mel’s shoulder stood a man I would never be able to forget, a man
whose essence no photograph over the years had ever been able to capture. Mel’s
dad was tall, built, and had an electric presence of power and masculinity.
Even though he was my dad’s best mate and more of an adopted uncle, any female
could appreciate his draw. Aside from that, to me he was just Bluey. Luke
Sheehan, nicknamed ‘Bluey’, a namesake that drew much popular debate. Some say
it’s because he only owned Blue Heeler dogs, others put it down to his
affection for blue dungaree pants and blue checked flannel shirts, but the one
I believed true was because of the piercing blue of his eyes. Had to be.

He leant casually against a verandah post
of his homestead, watching on at our reunion.

A crooked curve lifted his mouth as he
shook his head. “There goes the neighbourhood,” he said, straightening from his
casual stance and making his way down the steps towards the gate.

I tilted my head. “Oh hardy-ha! I could
probably teach you a thing or two, old man.”

“Old man? Ouch,” he said as he approached,
towering next to Mel. He rested his elbows on the top of the gate. “Your old
man will be glad to see you,” he said, ruffling my hair up.

I pulled away, feigning annoyance as I
brushed my hair back into place. “I bet he will, his own personal slave he can
push around the farm.”

“Slave? More like princess,” Bluey scoffed.

“Ha! What kind of princess is asked to man
the fort while her parents leave her to go to cattle auctions? I think not,” I
said, brushing a layer of dust off my jeans.

Bluey’s eyes dimmed in the same manner
Mel’s had before; it was a look of genuine bewilderment, more so when Bluey
shifted uneasily and caught the eye of his daughter.

“Man the fort?” he asked.

“Yeah, can you believe it? I haven’t even
been home for a week and he wants me to babysit Moira Station, as if I have a
clue what to do; it’s preposterous.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Exactly. Thank you.”

“That’s why he’s hired someone.”

“What?”

Bluey shrugged. “He’s hired someone Max
recommended.”

“But … but he said he needed me home.”

“Needed or
wanted
you home?” Bluey
emphasised the latter.

I blinked; thinking back to the
conversations that had gone on, the only link in my mind, now having thought about
it, was Max wasn’t going to be there, so naturally I would be the one expected
to … oh God! They had merely wanted me to come home, lured by my own stupidity.

Mel laughed. “You running Moira, now that I
would like to see.”

My eyes narrowed.

“You said so yourself it would be pretty
preposterous.” Bluey smirked.

Right!

I stormed back to the car, madder than
hell: mad at my dad being shady on the details; mad at Max having a life; mad
at the Sheehans for making me feel foolish.

“I’ll see you later,” I called, rage
bubbling under the surface, because most of all, I was mad at myself.

I reached to grab the handle of my door.

“What the … ?”

My hand hovered over the bare alcove of my
missing door handle, and a new dread swept over me.

He hired someone.

Someone Max recommended.

Oh shit!