Christmas at Waratah Bay Read Online Free Page B

was a disused pine plantation on the boundary of his property. The big stuff had been cleared years ago—his plan was eventually to clear it completely and reforest it with natives to help form a wildlife corridor—but for now it was a barren piece of land with young pines springing up all over.
    It was Christmas tree heaven. He was off to bring a Christmas tree . . . home.
    “So why are you living in that great big homestead all on your own?” Sarah asked, and it was like she was slicing right into the heart of his thoughts. She’d barely spoken since she’d followed him back to the homestead in her car. He’d ushered her into the house and she’d gone silent. She’d greeted Paddy and Tip, Harold’s ancient dogs, Paddy a grizzled border collie, Tip a fat little fox terrier, by kneeling on the floor and bursting into tears as she’d hugged them. “I’m so glad to see you guys again—so glad.” But, that was all she’d said. She’d gone from room to room, occasionally touching, seeming awed. She’d entered the room she’d apparently used when she was a child, and when she came out he could see the tracks of more tears.
    There’d been things he wanted to ask her, but couldn’t. What had gone wrong with her family that meant she’d had to leave school and put herself through nursing? Where did she fit?
    But he didn’t ask. It wasn’t his business. He was surprised when she’d insisted she come with him to find the tree, but for the first half of the bumpy trip she’d stayed quiet, looking out at the paddocks, at the big, sleepy Hereford cattle dozing under the great river red gums, at the sea beyond. Occasionally, she sniffed but he’d ignored it. He wasn’t getting personal.
    He could do this, he’d thought. If she kept silent, if she kept her herself, he could get through this Christmas.
    But then . . .
    So why are you living in that great big homestead all on your own?
    The question hung.
    “It’s my business,” he said at last and she nodded.
    “Okay. I won’t ask again.”
    She didn’t. She went back to staring out the window and he thought . . . she’s restful. She really wouldn’t ask.
    Why did her decision not to push make him really want to tell her?
    “I lived on a farm as a kid,” he said, as if goaded, because suddenly goaded was how he felt. “Well, farms plural, really. Two of my step-dads were farmers.”
    More window gazing. More silence. Wasn’t she going to ask more? He’d said more than he ever said. Most women would be in there with questions.
    He didn’t want questions, he told himself. He didn’t talk about it. Why would he?
    For some reason, he wanted to tell her . Why? He didn’t have a clue, but the compulsion to explain was almost overwhelming.
    “My Mum was . . . ditzy.” It was as if the words were forced out of him. “And selfish.”
    “Perfect parents are harder to find than you might think,” she said at last, almost nonchalantly, but he heard pain behind her words. If he told her his story, then she might tell him her hers, he thought, and besides . . . He didn’t know why but he wanted to explain to this slip of a girl.
    Except, she wasn’t a slip of a girl. She was every inch a . . .
    Um . . . don’t go there. That was one complication he didn’t need.
    “My mum had two loves, horses and babies,” he told her. “She had easy pregnancies. She loved being pregnant and she loved the drama of birth.” His hands tightened on the steering wheel, trying to suppress the anger that kicked in whenever he thought of his mother’s flippant approach to parenting.
    “She got pregnant with me when she was seventeen, but she never said who to. I was never convinced she knew. She loved the pregnancy bit, but she wasn’t interested in me, and of course, my grandparents and my uncle were there to support her. My grandparents were small-holding farmers, struggling financially, and when I was born my Uncle Eric was all of fourteen, but