“Right.” The single word was heavy with a decade of unspoken accusations. He pushed off the post.“Well, you’re here now. Come on in. The will’s on the table.”
He turned and walked inside, leaving her standing in the blistering sun. Elara took a shaky breath, the past rushing at her with the force of a desert storm. She had come back to settle her grandfather’s estate, to sell her half of the station and sever the last tie. She hadn’t expected the sight of Jax Munro to feel like a hoof to the chest.
Inside, the homestead was exactly as she remembered. Dark wood, worn leather couches, the faint, comforting smell of woodsmoke and beeswax. Her grandfather’s presence waseverywhere. And so was Jax’s. His boots by the door, his hat on the hook, a half-read book on the side table.
He gestured to a thick manila envelope on the large kitchen table.“It’s all there. He left the station to both of us. Fifty-fifty.”
Elara’s heart sank. She’d hoped… she didn’t know what she’d hoped. A clean break.“I can’t stay, Jax. You know that. My life is in Sydney. My job…”
“I know what your life is,” he cut in, his voice quiet but firm.“But the will has a condition. We both have to agree to the sale. And I don’t.”
She stared at him, disbelief turning to anger.“What? Why? You can’t possibly run this place alone. It’s too much.”
“I’ve been running it alone with your grandfather for the last five years,” he said, a flash of old pain in his eyes.“And I’m not alone. I’ve got a couple of ringers. But it’s my home, Elara. It’s all I’ve got. And I’m not letting you sell it out from under me to some corporate agri-business so you can buy a fancier apartment in the city.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” He took a step closer, and she was reminded of his sheer physical presence, the raw, grounded strength of him that had once made her feel so safe, and so trapped.“You left. You made your choice. But this place, our history… you don’t get to just erase it with a signature. You want to sell? Then you’re gonna have to stay. For three months. The probate period. You help me through the mustering, the tailing, the lot. You pull your weight. And if at the end of it, you still want to walk away… I’ll sign.”
The audacity of it left her speechless. Three months. Trapped here, with him, with all the ghosts.
“You’re insane.”
“It’s that, or we’re at a stalemate, and the station goes to wrack and ruin while the lawyers get rich. Your choice, Lara.” He used the old nickname, the one only he and her grandfather had called her, and it felt like a betrayal.
She looked around the room, at the photos on the mantel. One of her, at eighteen, tanned and laughing, tucked under Jax’s arm. They had been going to build a life here. Before her fear, and a university acceptance letter, had given her a way out.
Now, the outback had called her back. Not with a gentle whisper, but with the stubborn, unyielding gaze of the man she’d never stopped loving, and never forgiven herself for leaving.
She met his challenging stare, her own chin lifting.“Fine. Three months.”
A flicker of something—surprise, respect?—crossed his face before it shuttered again.“Fine.”
The deal was struck. The second chance, forced upon them by a dead man’s will, had begun. And the red dust of memory was already settling on her skin, seeping into her soul.
Chapter 2:
The Mustering
The mustering started before dawn. Elara was woken by the sound of a motorbike and men's voices, low and purposeful in the pre-darkness. She pulled on the old pair of moleskins and a work shirt she’d found in her childhood wardrobe, the fabric stiff and smelling faintly of dust and camphor.
In the yard, Jax was already astride a solid bay stockhorse, his form silhouetted against the paling sky. He didn't look at her as she approached, just gestured to a sleek, restless chestnut mare tied to the railing.
"That's Ember. She's smart. Don't fight her."
Another man, lean and weathered, tipped his hat. "G'day. I'm Mick." He offered a gloved hand. Elara shook it, feeling like an imposter.
"Right," Jax said, his voice all business. "We're bringing in the mob from the western paddock. Mick and the boys are on the bikes. You and I will flank on horseback. Just follow my lead. And for god's sake, stay out of the way of the lead steer."
And with that, he turned his horse and moved off at a brisk trot, leaving Elara to struggle into the saddle. Ember shifted, sensing her rider's nerves. It had been ten years since she'd been on a horse. The memory of the freedom, the connection, was a distant echo. Now, it just felt awkward and high off the ground.
The sun rose as they rode, painting the land in hues of fire and gold. The air was cool and clean. For a moment, the sheer, brutalbeauty of it stole her breath. This was what she had loved. This was what she had run from.
The mustering itself was a controlled chaos of dust, noise, and instinct. The motorbikes buzzed like angry insects, herding the slow-moving river of cattle. Jax was a part of his horse, moving with a fluid grace that was both command and partnership. He whistled, called out, his voice a calm, steady force in the din.
Elara tried to emulate him, but she was stiff, her commands a beat too late. Ember, frustrated, began to ignore her subtle cues. They drifted too close to the herd, and a young, skittish heifer broke away.
Without a word, Jax wheeled his horse around. He didn't yell at Elara. He just gave her a look that was more cutting than any reprimand—a look of pure, disappointed expectation. He and Mick effortlessly cut the heifer back into the mob, their movements a silent, efficient language she no longer spoke.
