Page 4 of Secrets of Riverside

The diehard countryman galloping like the wind upon his faithful stockhorse had learnt hard and fast, very early on in life, that danger lurked almost everywhere, and that you could trust no one.

But out here, in the beyond that was his backyard, surrounded by the beauty of Mother Nature, all he felt was …

Freedom, protection and euphoria.

On the one day of the year that was especially his, Jarrah King was in his happiest of places, enjoying his own company with nothing and nobody to hamper him. Rising as he always did to savour his usual extra-strong coffee, then saddling up before dawn, he’d spent a good part of the morning galloping the open landscape of Riverside Acres while witnessing another jaw-dropping sunrise. Not that he was about to let anyone know that on this very day thirty-eight years ago he’d come into this dog-eat-dog world. He didn’t like a fuss being made over him, nor was he comfortable with being the centre of attention. He’d rather fade into the ebb and flow of everyday life, and allow others to stand in the limelight.

And for damn good reason.

With the life he’d lived, remaining a little mysterious, and extremely guarded, was a good thing. Nobody needed to know his business, because that could lead to them learning his secrets. And he couldn’t risk that. The skeletons in his closet were ugly. He’d worked too hard to evolve into the man he now was, and he wanted to keep it that way. His past needed to stay dead and buried. There would be nothing gained from looking back at it. And that’s what a birthday was essentially about, wasn’t it? Looking back on where you’d come from, so you could celebrate surviving life up until that point. Although he was grateful, and somewhat surprised, that he’d survived his treacherous path. Now his present life was all about the present moment. And as for the future, well, that was the gift of tomorrow.

Right in this very moment, with the wide expanse of powdery blue above him and the open arms of Riverside Acres surrounding him, he felt at peace, and safe to be the man he truly was, down to his country-loving core. It was as if here – surrounded by the tropical rainforest on one side and the far-flung view of the ocean on the other, with the wind whipping past him, lush green pasture beneath him and the mid-morning sun beating down upon his back – time stood still, and all the bad that had happened, never did. He could almost imagine another life, where everything went as planned. Where his loved ones were still alive and well. The freedom of this allowed him to momentarily let go of the chains wrapped around his heart, and take the breath he felt he had to hold to get through each day.

Inheriting money while in prison, from a grandfather he’d sadly never met, had been his saving grace, and had helped him to buy Riverside Acres so he could finally put down roots. His professional bull riding had helped him to keep the initially failing property out of the bank’s greasy fingers, as well as his tireless work painstakingly developing it into the fruitful business it was now – with horse agistment and training, along with a roadhouse breakfast café and eight studio-style motel rooms. That didn’t mean he didn’t have times of struggle, and times of self-doubt, but every drop of his blood, sweat and tears that had dripped into the fertile landscape had been worth it. To be able to call such a majestic place home was the greatest of blessings.

Riverside Acres was a far cry from the streets of Sydney he’d grown up on.

Silently bearing the scars of his past, both physical and emotional, Jarrah hadn’t gone by his birth name of Luca Martino in seven years. His beloved mum would have turned in her grave, a hundred times over, if she’d known the unlawful things her husband had forced her two beloved sons to do. He missed her gentle ways and optimistic spirit so much, but in a way he was thankful for her early departure from this world, as it saved her the heartbreak of learning exactly who the man was that she had married way too young. Gazing through rose-coloured glasses at a man who knew the art of being devious like the back of his hand, an incredibly naïve Kate King had been given no reason to believe that her new husband was a ringleader of one of the biggest underground crime rings in New South Wales.

God rest her innocent, trusting soul.

No matter how angry it made him, Jarrah couldn’t hold his turbulent childhood against his mother. Desperate to leave her strict, god-fearing parents and country lifestyle behind her, Kate had fallen for the flashy Carlo Martino in a heartbeat, moved to Sydney, and immediately cut ties with her disapproving parents and church group. Believing Carlo was the owner of a successful car dealership – it had been purely for money laundering – she’d happily fulfilled the role of wife and home-keeper, given birth to two healthy boys within the space of two years, and then died in a head-on collision five years later. Leaving Jarrah and his younger brother to be raised by a very bad man who resided in a very dark world.

A world he’d hated, and yet one his brother, Joey, had worshipped.

Chalk and cheese. Night and day. He and Joey were never alike. But Jarrah had loved his little brother. Unconditionally. After Luca had spent his teenage years trying to keep Joey out of harm’s way, and out of prison, Joey and his wife had died from point-blank gunshots to the back of the head at their very own dining table. With their terrified eight-year-old son peering through the thin slats of a linen cupboard. This heart-crushing, soul-destroying knowledge was cruelly revealed to Jarrah while watching the nightly news from the confines of his prison cell. His father hadn’t even had the decency to tell him. The son of a bitch. He hadn’t even been able to attend Joey’s funeral. His estranged father had made sure his paid connections at the prison had kept Jarrah in solitary confinement for an invented wrongdoing that very day. Just another thing that Jarrah would never, ever forgive him for. It was safe to say there was no love lost between father and son. For Jarrah, when it came to Carlo Martino, blood did not run thicker than water. In his mind, for him to be able to have any sort of a normal life, his father was dead and buried.

All Jarrah could pray for now was a safe and honest existence for his nephew. Becoming eleven-year-old Tommy’s guardian the day after he’d walked out of prison had been a lifelong commitment that he took seriously. He’d made a solemn promise to Tommy’s sick maternal grandmother that he would keep her beloved grandson away from the anarchy of Carlo’s rule. So far, so good. He might not have been able to save his brother, but as long as he could keep Tommy away from his paternal grandfather, and Carlo’s rotten world filled with rotten people, he believed that as well as doing right by Tommy, he might be able to find a way to live with the grief and guilt of Joey’s horrendous death.

Slowing Waylon to a canter, then to an easy walk, Jarrah gave his horsey mate’s neck a few hearty taps as he turned towards home. He’d started afresh, tried to make things right and get on with the life he wanted for himself and Tommy, but he knew his existence had inevitably become a complete lie. It was a crippling conflict for a man who had once prided himself on speaking the cold, hard truth. And in fact, still did when it was in his control to do so. But to be able to have any chance of redemption, what else was he meant to do? He hated knowing he’d become what he’d chosen not to be as a young boy – a storyteller, a fabricator of his past, present and future. The patriarchal Martino blood might run thick through his veins, but so did his maternal bloodline, rich with country traditions, so that was what he took pride in. His late grandfather, William King, was the man he aspired to be. But to do so, he had to leave everything behind him. It had been his grandfather’s dying wish that he change his name and start afresh – it had been a prerequisite of his inheritance, and he’d been honoured to do it. And he would respect his grandfather’s memory by upholding his fair and wise request.

Still, he sometimes wondered: if he was ever put in a position where he had to reveal his true identity for a greater cause, would he? It would have to be for a very significant reason. And even then, he wasn’t sure he could. He’d slaved for way too long to shed the skin of Luca Martino – the convicted arsonist who’d been charged with taking three innocent lives. He’d stood wrongly accused in the courtroom, eyes facing the floor, while the courtroom had erupted in cheers and onlookers had called him every name under the sun as he’d been led away. He’d chosen to take the rap, for his brother’s sake. At that point in time, he had nobody to love and nothing to live for. Joey, on the other hand, had a fiancée and a toddler. And after growing up without a mother, he didn’t want his nephew to grow up without a father.

Being in the wrong place at the right time, with the best of intentions and the wrong kind of people, had seen him thrown in prison for eight long years, but given the chance to do it all over again, so he could protect his brother, he would, in a heartbeat. Try as he might, he hadn’t been able to stop Joey and his gang of heavies starting the fire that wasn’t meant to kill, but to warn the police officer who was threatening to expose Carlo’s underground drug running and weapon sales in the Blue Mountains unless he paid him a bigger percentage of bribe money. But he’d saved her. At the very least, he had that to hold onto. The secrets he kept about the motives behind the tragedy were not so much for himself, or Joey, but for her. Amelia Price had been through enough. She’d suffered immeasurable loss. Immeasurable heartbreak. There was nothing to be gained from her knowing the truth about who her father really was – a crooked cop who was as bad as the men he worked for. In his heart of hearts, Jarrah believed he had to take that knowledge to his grave. She deserved that much from him. It was all he had to give her. If only he could turn back time and twist fate’s arm, slap the hand of destiny away, he would.

But he couldn’t.

Even after fifteen years, the guilt, frustration and torture he’d carried around in his heart had never left him, nor lessened. He’d just learnt to lug it around with him, wherever he went, as best he could. If only he could get back into bull riding, now that would give him a place to vent, to push himself to the limits, but even he knew he was getting a bit long in the tooth for challenging death. His doctor had warned him in no uncertain terms – one more fall and it could be the tumble he never got up from. And after racking up fifteen broken bones, countless bruises, sprains, hundreds if not thousands of stiches, five concussions and one near-death experience when a bull had decided to throw him around the arena like a rag doll, he’d finally listened to his doctor’s hard-hitting advice and hung up his chaps and spurs. But that didn’t mean he didn’t miss it. One hell of a lot. The only thing he didn’t miss was the attention that came with being a champion bull rider. That bit of it was not his cup of tea.

Passing the dam, with its glassy top and cool water that flowed in from the surrounding creeks, he couldn’t resist the urge to stop for a quick dip, and he could tell Waylon felt the same. So he gave his four-legged mate the okay. He stayed in the saddle and they plunged into the water until it was up to his waist. His boots instantly filled with water and his jeans clung to him, but he didn’t care – spontaneity was the spice of life, and with so much on his plate he didn’t get enough of it lately. With his ears pricked, Waylon’s powerful legs kicked, propelling them towards the bank on the opposite side. Jarrah laughed out loud at his equine mate, Waylon’s excited whinnies music to his ears. Innocent, live-for-the-moment, free-spirited: animals were so much better company than humans. Which was why he chose to make horses his life, his living, the very reason he got out of bed each and every morning.

With a snort and a fart, Waylon clambered back onto dry land, and after he shook himself off like a dog, much to Jarrah’s amusement, off they went on their adventures again. Eventually reaching the trickling stream that narrowed into a small waterfall, Jarrah urged his ten-year-old stockhorse onwards with a slight hand and heel. Waylon didn’t need any more of an invitation as he dropped his head and accelerated towards home like a plane taxiing along a runway. With hoofs rhythmically pounding the earth, and a far-reaching bright sky above, man and horse rode hell for leather towards the one and only love of Jarrah’s life.

His two-storey home pretty as a picture in the distance, Riverside Homestead shone like a beacon amid the lush, thick tropical landscape, and just beyond that the Riverside Roadhouse invited passers-by into its welcoming hospitality. Bright pops of colourful flowers adorned the perimeter, the pink hibiscus, orange birds of paradise, yellow frangipanis, red gingers and lobster claw heliconias he and Tommy had planted a few years ago in full bloom. Alongside the Queenslander-style building – sitting on one-metre-high stilts with cool, wide, wrap-around verandahs to while away the time with a beer or coffee in hand – the well-known truck stop’s car park was jam-packed with campervans, semitrailers and road trains, some loaded with cattle. Some of the drivers would have slept in their trucks overnight and some would have pulled in that morning.

Over at the roadhouse the breakfast rush was in full swing, and it made Jarrah happy to know the customers would be enjoying their break in the air-conditioned dining room after being stationed behind the wheel. Some would then choose to use the paid showers, while others would be on their way after their bellies were sated, chasing the white lines so they could pick up or drop off their load. In Jarrah’s mind, that part of Riverside Acres was the front of house, the bit that Tommy liked to manage on a day-to-day basis. As for Jarrah, the back of house was more his style; the training and feeding of the agisted horses, along with handling his small herd of cattle, was his role. The upkeep of the buildings and machinery was shared between them.

Slowing as he and Waylon neared the communal areas, Jarrah lifted his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. He hoped the new cook’s mind was on the job, and not on Tommy, like it had been of late. He didn’t want any more complaints about the quality of food slipping. Since Mary had decided to retire from her kitchen duties two months earlier, after seven years of service, he had to admit the meals had taken a nosedive, but with the lack of people interested in the cook’s position, he’d had to bite the bullet and hire the only half-decent person who’d stepped forward to take the reins of the kitchen. Who just so happened to be Tommy’s biggest admirer, Jasmine Jasper. He hadn’t caught them in the act, yet, but he wasn’t stupid – the attraction between the two was evident. His own personal rule was ironclad: no relationships between staff. Every employee knew about it and Tommy certainly knew about it. If she was willing to break his trust in this way, he was not going to extend any further benefit of the doubt about the terrible meals, customer complaints, late-start early-finish shifts and insolent attitude.

Then he’d be strapping on the apron himself until he could find a replacement. Which might take a while. But he’d have to grin and bear it. The number one rule of Riverside Acres was no relations, physical or emotional, with the hired help. And Tommy knew that.

Standing at the back door of the kitchen, a smouldering cigarette in hand, Tommy turned to the sound of Waylon’s hoofs. Locking eyes, he offered Jarrah a tip of his cap. Smiling, Jarrah tipped his wide-brimmed hat in return, noting there hadn’t been a fragment of a smile on Tommy’s face. He wasn’t his usual self – friendly, albeit a little moody at times, since teen-aging was a tough gig – and Jarrah couldn’t help but wonder what was going on with his nephew since he’d returned from a seven-day break. Tommy’s hazy details about his camping trip were weird, because he’d always been forthcoming with his occasional trips away, usually relishing in telling Jarrah how big the fish were and how many mud crabs he’d caught and eaten. This time, Jarrah had heard nothing of the sort. Wasn’t a holiday meant to relax a person, not wind them up like a two-bob watch? Jarrah could only put it down to the conversation they’d had the day Tommy had left, about steering clear of the very pretty, very flirty cook. Then again, it could just be a typical eighteen-year-old, flexing his adulthood muscles. Either way, Jarrah wasn’t going to put up with it for much longer. Respect was everything. As was loyalty. He’d done a lot for Tommy and expected both from him.

After dismounting in the shade of the stables, it didn’t take him long to get Waylon unsaddled, hosed down and back into his paddock with a bucket of hay topped with a treat of molasses. He crossed the paddock that led towards Riverside Roadhouse and the adjoining motel rooms, the long grass swaying around him as he made sure to shut both gates behind him. Still wet through to the skin, he chuckled at his squelching boots as he made his way up the pathway towards Tommy. A shower followed by bookwork and the weekly payroll was next on his agenda – he needed to get a move on if he wanted to make it into town before the bank shut. Friday afternoons were an early knock-off for the bank’s staff – sometimes three, sometimes three-thirty, it all depended on how generous the manager felt. The joys of small-town living.

‘Hey, Tommy, how’s tricks mate?’

‘Hey, can’t complain.’ Tommy looked him up and down. ‘You’ve gone for a dunk in the dam again, I see?’

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