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‘And Willa?’

‘Has very little interest in anything to do with being a Carrigan, except for Rex and me.’

‘I see.’

‘I doubt it.’ A frown flickered on his face. Willa’s life had been just as messed up by their father as Rex’s and his, and yet she seemed the least affected by it. She was—and always had been—a free spirit. He didn’t want to get into that, though.

‘Come and have a look over here,’ he suggested, to change the subject, guiding her towards the now-dilapidated stockyards. The timber posts were weathered, some falling down, others rotted through, and despite the stockyards not having been used for nearly twenty years, he could still smell the cattle and the dust—memories of a time when he used to come down here and watch the men work.

She put a hand on one of the timber pieces and looked around, her gaze settling on one of the raised corrugated-iron water tanks that helped irrigate the field.

‘There’s something so elemental about this place,’ she murmured, dropping her hand to her side and turning to face him, fully.

That was exactly how he’d describe it. Elemental. It was nature unveiled.

‘Do you ever get lonely?’

He didn’t tell her that he craved loneliness. He didn’t admit that the thought of marrying, and having a baby, was something he’d run a mile from, all his life.

‘There’s twelve permanent staff on the station, and more than twice that during musters.’

‘So many? I hadn’t realised. Where are they?’

It was yet another excuse to touch her; he didn’t care. Placing one hand on her back and the other on her chin, he tilted her away from the old stockyards. ‘See that building there?’

He felt her harsh intake of breath and hid a smile of understanding. She clearly wished their chemistry weren’t burning out of control, but that didn’t make a bit of difference.

‘That’s where the ringers sleep. It’s mostly bunk accommodations, a basic kitchen, showers.’ He tilted her face a little more. ‘That’s the manager’s cottage. Everett lives there with his son, Max.’

She angled her gaze towards him; they were so close all of a sudden. That was on him. Without intending it, he’d moved closer, and the hand on her back shifted to her waist, pressing there gently.

‘Just the two of them?’

‘His wife died a few years back,’ Tate said, tone grim. He could still remember the shock of that afternoon. ‘She was trampled in a muster.’

Sarah sucked in a sharp breath of air. ‘That’s awful.’

‘Damn straight. One of the worst days of my life.’

‘How old is Max?’ she asked, her voice hoarse with emotion.

Tate smiled when he thought of the boy. ‘Seven.’

‘That’s a sweet age.’

‘Do you have much to do with kids, Sarah?’

‘Yes, in fact, I do.’

‘Family?’

Her expression turned wistful. ‘I have no family.’

Curiosity sparked in his chest at that. He couldn’t say why, but he’d presumed family was one of the reasons she’d been planning to move back to the UK—for their help and support with the baby.

‘I’m a teacher,’ she said after a beat, pressing her hand to the timber rails of the old stockyard, then glancing back at him. ‘And I’m going to need to find a job, at some point. I presume there’s a school in town?’

He furrowed his brow. ‘You must know you don’t have to work.’