By the time I turn off the road at the entrance to the Coach House, the rain has eased. As the house, a single-storey sandstone structure with a pitched roof, belongs to the Oldfields, I’m not surprised it’s well maintained, but it’s grander than I expected. A winter-bare wisteria vine winds up the sturdy verandah posts and trails across the beams. Bare-branched standard roses supported by sturdy stakes march either side of the path to the steps. I take the turn-off to the right of the house towards a well-lit parking area fronting an enormous barn. Between the back of the house and the barn is a post and rail–fenced paddock.
Matthew, driving a truck, winds down the window as I pull up in the parking area. ‘Luke has taken the bosses back to Denman,’ he says. ‘Your stock is safe and sound.’
‘How is Merrylegs?’
‘Still with us.’
I glance at the clock. Two am. ‘I’ve brought a … sleeping bag.’
‘I got hay from the supplies I keep for the cattle, and I raided the loft for straw. There’s plenty to tide you over.’
I park near the shingle-roofed barn, which is twice the size of my house. I could change into sneakers, but my sheepskin boots are warm and the path between my car and the large double doors of the barn is paved with brick. When I get out of the car the wind is light but cold; I pull a coat over my faded pink hoodie and pick up a small backpack. The path is already lit, but additional sensor lights snap on as I walk.
After passing through the entrance, I glance into an empty tack and storage room and an equally empty feed room. A central aisle leads to a series of stable doors, three on each side. The first stable, with thick straw bedding covering the floor and two troughs filled with hay, is double the size of a regular stable, easily accommodating the two goats and Eeyore. The goats are lying on their sides. Eeyore, propped up like a sphinx and as far away from the goats as he can get, looks perfectly miserable.
I tiptoe past the goats, who look up sleepily, to rub around Eeyore’s ears. ‘You’re warm and dry, so there’s nothing to complain about. Have a good sleep.’
Juniper’s head and neck appear over a half-door. His eyes are bright and curious.
‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’ As a Group One racehorse, Juniper would be more familiar with a comfortable stable block than the draughty shed he’s had lately. He’s wearing an oversized canvas rug that Matthew must have unearthed. ‘See you in the morning.’
Bonny, in the stable next to Juniper, is munching hay at a trough. He looks up and snorts before going back to his feed.
‘Goodnight, boy.’ I talk through a yawn. ‘Sleep tight.’
Merrylegs, front legs tucked under her, back legs to the side, is draped in blankets and also lying down in a stable. Blake, his dark hair damp and a horse rug pulled over his legs, leans against a timber lined wall. His eyes are closed; his lashes are dark against his cheeks. His veterinary case and oilskin are just inside the half-door. I shut the door behind me, but as I turn, his eyes open.
‘Prim.’
I prop my bag against a bucket of water in the corner of the stable before kneeling at Merrylegs’ side. Her thick white coat is damp under her mane. I flip it to the other side and smooth the hairs.
‘How is she?’
‘Exhausted. The foal seems fine.’ He straightens his shoulders, winces. ‘I presume you’ve said goodnight to the others?’ He indicates his case. ‘I checked them over too.’
‘Is your shoulder painful?’
‘It flares up, catches. It’s okay.’
Merrylegs snuffles at my palm. ‘Good morning, little one. Are you hungry?’ Under the blankets, she’s warm and almost dry. When I rest my hand low on her belly, I feel movement. ‘Your baby is awake.’
Blake searches my face. ‘You’re exhausted too.’
It’s an effort, but I roll onto my knees, then stand. ‘Thank you.’
‘Team effort.’
‘I should have moved them earlier.’
‘According to Matthew, the water has never risen so quickly, nor so high.’
‘I’ll find … somewhere else tomorrow.’ I hold in a yawn. ‘I mean today.’
He gets to his feet and stands in front of me. His sweater is blue. So are his eyes. Do I lean towards him? Or away?
‘This barn, and the paddock between here and the house, is part of my lease. You can stay longer.’
‘I couldn’t do that.’
His jaw tenses. ‘Why not?’
‘It … w …’ I shove my hands in my pockets. ‘It … wouldn’t be right.’
‘It’ll take weeks for your paddocks to drain. Douglas Farquhar will have to repair the fences and shed.’
‘I’ll get him to do it as … soon as possible.’
Blake has lines at the sides of his eyes. Pain? At the stable door, he bends to pick up his case. But then he hesitates, straightens again. ‘I’m flying to the UK tomorrow. A conference.’
‘W … w …’ I shake my head. ‘Will you … see your parents?’
‘I doubt it.’
My brain is mush. My legs are shaky. I focus on the spot where he was sitting. I should sit there too. The hay is thick and uneven under my feet. I hold out my arms to—
In a few strides, he’s back. He takes both my arms. His lips are a little apart.
‘Blake?’
He mutters a curse. ‘What are you thinking?’
I’d like you to hold me again. What would he say if I told him that? And what would I say if he questioned why? One kiss wasn’t enough. You might not have intended to be a vet, but you’re a good one. I’m not sure why, but I think you should see your parents and—
‘Prim?’
I stand on tiptoes, press my cheek against his. ‘Thanks again.’ His skin is cool, his bristles rough. His hands go to my shoulders. A shaky breath—mine or his? He touches my neck. A fingertip? Deliberate or not? A tingling sensation flares through my body. I’m dog tired. He’s in pain. So why—
He searches my face. His hands slide down my arms to my waist. ‘You can barely stand.’
There’s no room for a heated body or racing heart or …
Immediately I pull back, he releases me.
‘W … when …’ I count to five. Recalibrate. ‘When … will you be back?’
‘Three weeks.’ His voice is gruff.
‘Billy … will miss you. And Andrew.’
‘You need to sleep.’
I hold in a yawn. ‘Thank you.’
‘Now you’ve said that three times.’ He hesitates. ‘There are spare rooms in the Coach House.’
‘I don’t—’
‘Two guest rooms have ensuites.’
Yawning again and stepping carefully through the straw, I walk to the place where Blake slept. Didn’t sleep. After spreading out the horse rug, I rest a hand on the wall to steady myself. And, when I’m sure of my balance, I kneel and then sit. Leaning forward, I brush straw from my sheepskin boots.
‘I’ll … sleep here … with Merrylegs.’
Later in the morning, I yawn and stretch, adjusting my sleeping bag and pulling it over my shoulders before repositioning my coat under my head. Merrylegs, lying down but eyes alert, gazes back. The shadows are long, but dawn light creeps through gaps between the timbers. A door scrapes open. Footsteps. Juniper nickers and Merrylegs scrambles to her feet. She walks to the half-door but isn’t tall enough to look over it.
I scramble to my feet too. ‘Coming!’
Blake leans over the door to stroke under Merrylegs’ chin before resting his forearms on the ledge at the top. He’s dressed casually but smartly. Hair pushed back, white linen shirt with an opennecked collar, navy jacket.
‘I filled the hay nets an hour ago,’ he says. ‘I hope it didn’t disturb you.’
A car horn sounds.
‘Who is that?’ I push back my messy hair, tuck it under my hoodie.
‘My lift to the airport.’
‘You’re going already?’
‘My flight out of Dubbo leaves at ten.’ He hesitates. ‘Douglas Farquhar left a message on my phone. He’ll be in Ballimore on Monday.’
‘I’ll call the agent.’ I link my hands. ‘I’ll explain how I need to get back.’
‘Bonny is sore.’
‘His feet? It’s the … wet.’
‘Matthew will be here later. Tell him what you need—feed, supplies—and he’ll get them.’
It’s only a few steps to the stable door. ‘Blake?’
His gaze softens. ‘Primrose?’
‘Thank you.’
The car horn sounds again.