‘Lucky I like you like that.’
As their conversation devolved into murmured endearments, Hamish discreetly looked away, studying the distant wall of the hay shed. Both he and Lachlan were covered with a good layer of dust. They were trialling an early run of seeding in some of the paddocks, direct drilling in the hope the mice wouldn’t get to the grain before the rain came and the seed germinated. It had been a decade since Hamish had worked the land and, thanks to Lachlan’s generosity in sharing the farm that was his birthright, he was enjoying getting back into the flow. Even if it didn’t fill all his needs.
‘Roof on that shed’s going to need replacing before winter,’ he said eventually.
‘Mmm,’ Lachlan grunted.
Hamish winced. It was tough being the third wheel. ‘I might head into Settlers and grab a burger at the diner. Ethan wants to catch up.’
‘No, no,’ Charity insisted, unwinding herself from Lachlan’s embrace. ‘I’ve got dinner on. I just thought you might like some charcuterie first.’
He tried not to chuckle at her fancy name for smallgoods that would work best between a couple of slabs of bread. ‘You don’t have to feed me all the time, Charity, you’ve enough on at the school. And with this one.’ He tipped his head toward Lachlan.
‘Letting you starve would be an option.’ Charity stood, pulling her light sweater straight. ‘But then Lachlan would have to work harder, and I’d never see him. So I reckon if I have to cook for you every day, it’s a small price to pay.’ As she made to step away from the wicker chairs, Lachlan caught her hand. She threaded her fingers through his and leaned her hip against his chair. ‘Besides, you’d both better take the cooked dinner while it’s on offer. Lucie gave me aton of feijoas, so for the rest of the weekend I’ll be up to my elbows in preserves and jam for the CWA.’
Lachlan pulled a face. ‘How come the CWA get all the good stuff?’
‘To fill up Tracey’s new shop. But you’ve obviously not been in the kitchen this afternoon,’ Charity said. ‘Not only is there a feijoa crumble for your dessert—because, oddly enough, I did think of you before the CWA—but there’s not a spare inch of counter space. Apparently Jack has feijoa trees as windbreaks on the farm, and Lucie uses the peel in her skincare products. But she can’t keep up with the quantity of fruit they’ve picked this year—I guess the wet summer was good for something.’
‘Good for bringing up all the ugly weeds,’ Hamish muttered, pulling a horehound burr from his plaid shirt.
‘That reminds me, don’t put your gear in the wash with those prickles still in it.’
Hamish hoped Charity’s direction was for his brother, not him, but was careful not to glance at her. He felt guilty enough that she insisted his farm clothes get chucked in the load she or Lachlan ran through the machine on the weekend.
‘The water sets them in the fabric,’ Charity continued. ‘Come spring, you’ll be sprouting weeds in your socks. Anyway, I told Lucie I’ll use the feijoa pulp to make chutney and jam for the CWA, and freeze the peels for her to process later. So, long story short, you’re going to be sick of anything even vaguely feijoa-adjacent soon enough.’
‘Except for muffins,’ Hamish suggested, reaching for another piece of cheese and a couple of almonds, now that he could risk looking at the tray without it seeming like he was perving on the loved-up couple. ‘Thought you were dead against having anything to do with the CWA, though?’ Likemost women of a certain age—she would have killed him for putting it like that—Hamish and Lachlan’s mum had been a member of the Country Women’s Association. Baked cakes under cling wrap and Tupperware full of sausage rolls had featured large in his life, as had the comforting and comfortable presence of the community-minded group, even after Mum died.
‘My resistance has been worn down,’ Charity said in a glum tone, even as she looked rather smug. ‘Though I told the committee that, after this lot, I’m only interested in a policy and advocacy role. Cooking and craft fundraisers really aren’t my thing.’
‘I’d say the cooking istotallyyour thing,’ Lachlan said, kissing her knuckles. It was rare for the two of them to not be touching in some way, whether it was a passing caress, hand-holding or full-on canoodling. ‘But if they’re getting your expertise on the administrative or organisational side, they’ll be winning. I know I sure am.’
‘That’s an awful lot of hats you want me to wear,’ Charity murmured.
Hamish had to look away once again as she found ways to reassure Lachlan that he didn’t need her business acumen. Lucky he’d snagged the cold cuts while he could.
The usual evening peace was punctured by the surprisingly deep, rolling call of the ewes and the high-pitched, panicked responses of the lambs echoing through the valley. Lambing season had kicked off a few weeks back, and the little buggers were starting to give their mums a hard time, wandering out of sight.
He’d missed this, being part of the simple progression of life, the repetition of seasons and tasks that culminated in actual achievement. The feeling of well-deserved rest after a day of growing and producing. The tingle of windburn fromthe chill breeze, fatigued muscles, hands dirty with soil or lanolin from the sheep, rather than the chemical smears of the workshop. The realisation of permanence as he kicked back on the verandah, looking out at the buildings his ancestors had created, cementing each stone with hope for the future. The farm was more than a business; it was a life. A venture that was at once alive and living, rather than a stagnant money-making project. A growing, thriving world for which he was responsible … but not on his own.
Although, right now, being on his own might have been preferable. Was it more awkward if he kept silent and pretended not to be there, or if he carried on a one-sided conversation, as though unaware of Lachlan and Charity’s total absorption in one another?
‘I went out to the Jaensches’ place the other month to take a look at Indi’s old Massey,’ he said, keeping his gaze on the horizon. ‘Pete reckons they’re looking for more land to sharefarm.’
‘Aren’t we all?’ Lachlan said.
‘More? But you’re already so busy,’ Charity protested. ‘I thought that was why you were dry seeding early. How could you take on more land?’
‘Catch twenty-two,’ Lachlan said grimly. ‘We need more land to make our farms viable. But then we need more hands to work that land.’
‘Lucky I’m worth ten good men.’ Hamish flexed his biceps, then flinched: the injury from the rollover a year earlier still gave him trouble and was getting worse with the cooler weather.
‘Or lucky we’re all in it for the love of the job, not the money,’ Lachlan responded. ‘And that the garage gives us that bit of extra liquidity on a nice, regular basis.’ The previous year, the brothers had struck a deal to pool theincome from Hamish’s mechanics shop and Lachlan’s farm in a family trust to spread both the risk and profit of the two ventures. ‘I would have thought Indi and her dad were flat-strap with what they’ve got, though?’
‘Pete’s got some idea of selling a couple of hundred acres of marginal land further out and picking up sharefarming instead.’
‘Indi down for it?’
