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‘Yes. He would say we deserved it.’

‘No child deserves it,’ she hissed, angrily. ‘No adult, either. No one person should lay hands on another.’ Warmth flushed her cheeks. ‘I mean…not like that.’

His expression flashed with heat. ‘I know what you mean.’ He sobered quickly. ‘And I’m glad you feel that way. I never thought I’d have kids, but I can tell you this: I knew, even as a boy, that I would never do that to my own child. We hated him so much, Sarah. For so many reasons. In the end, hating the old man was what brought Rex and me together, in a way. That, and Willa.’

And even though this was all new—and strange—Sarah reached down and laced her fingers through Tate’s, holding his hand to offer both comfort and companionship, to hint at understanding. ‘What’s she like?’

‘Different.’

‘From you? Or generally?’

‘Both.’ He squeezed her hand, and Sarah’s heart gave a corresponding palpitation. ‘She’s a free spirit.’ They began to walk away from the horses, with Sarah sparing a last glance over her shoulder to make sure the animals stayed put. As she watched, one bent its head down and began chewing a patch of thick grass. ‘Like you, it’s just her and her mother. Though Willa and she parted ways a long time ago.’

‘You mean they’re estranged?’

‘They never really got on. But also, Willa likes to be on her own. She marches to the beat of her own drum, travels where she wants to go, stays with friends, rather than having her own place.’

Sarah frowned. ‘That’s not at all like me.’

‘I told you, she’s different.’

Sarah glanced up at him. ‘Do you have any idea why?’

‘I have some thoughts.’ At the base of one of the trees, he stopped walking and held their joined hands out to the trunk. ‘Feel this.’

Obediently, she ran her fingers over the bark, still warm from the day’s sun. The coarse texture bit at her fingertips, and the grooves were wide enough for her to bury a finger inside. She leaned closer, breathing in the heavy eucalyptus scent.

She hesitated a moment before glancing at him, weighing the words she wanted to say. There was no harm in being open. Something had shifted between them the night before, and they couldn’t go back. It was as though they’d both pledged to give this a proper chance, at least for a few days. ‘You know,’ she murmured, dropping her hand away and losing his in the process, ‘this is what you reminded me of, when I first came out here.’

His brow quirked infinitesimally.

‘Ironbark. Hard and unyielding, made stronger with each season you live through out here.’

One side of his lip lifted, in amusement, or agreement, she couldn’t tell.

‘You’re resilient, Tate. One of life’s survivors. I’m sorry your dad put you through what he did, but I know it’s part of what made you like this.’

‘Hostile to nice young women who find themselves stranded on the side of the road?’

‘No. You’re strong. You cope with anything. Whether that’s coming here at four years old and having to work out a whole new way of life, or finding out you’re going to be a dad and pivoting in record time.’

‘And bullying the same nice young woman into marriage? I’m sensing a theme here.’

‘Hey.’ She reached for his hand again, squeezed it. ‘Don’t do that.’

‘Say the truth?’

‘I’m strong, too. Stronger than I look. You and I both know I would have got the hell out of here that first day if I’d really wanted to.’ His expression was inscrutable. ‘And we both know you wouldn’t have stopped me. Not if I’d insisted on it.’

‘I don’t know what I would have done,’ he said, honestly. ‘All I could think of was not letting you go. The baby, I mean,’ he clarified. He didn’t need to. Sarah knew this had nothing to do with her, and she also knew his amended sentence shouldn’t have stretched a part of her the way that it did—stretched to the point of something like pain. She tried to ignore it, to pretend she didn’t feel it. Because to acknowledge that pain would be to acknowledge she wanted more from Tate than he’d ever give—just like her father.

‘Are you saying you’re here because you want to be?’ he asked, after a beat.

Sarah liked that, for all its vastness, it was never really quiet in the Outback. There were crickets and bees, birds and trees, in the distance a cow mooed lazily. And far beneath them, at the base of the cliffs on which these ironbarks grew, was a creek, wending its way through the property, the gentle hush of water like a silent incantation. But she could barely hear any of it over the thumping of her heart. She felt as though she was approaching something dangerous, something she should steer clear of even thinking about, much less saying.

‘I wanted to give this a chance. You made a pretty good argument for our baby deserving that from us.’

‘I meant it.’ His voice, though, was raw. She swallowed hard, but it did nothing to clear the lump from her throat.