Page 40 of Secrets of Riverside

‘So when did you go and see Carlo?’

‘When I was meant to be fishing.’ Tommy’s tightly folded arms dropped to his sides. ‘I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d be angry about it.’

Dropping his despondent gaze to his boots, Jarrah took a moment. It was only after two deep breaths that he could look at Tommy again. ‘I’m more disappointed than angry, because I thought you knew better than to go anywhere near the Martinos.’

Hurt and regret flashed in Tommy’s dark eyes, but only briefly, before his defensive scowl returned. ‘I have a right to get to know my father’s father. And make my own opinion on him.’

‘If you say so, Tommy.’

‘You’re not my father, Jarrah.’

Tommy’s icy tone stung. ‘I’ve never tried to be your father, only your uncle, and hopefully a good role model.’ He was trying to be patient, but his patience was wearing mighty thin.

Verbally backed into a corner, Tommy huffed and cracked his knuckles.

‘Tommy, can you promise me you’re not going to go back to see Carlo again?’

‘No I can’t, and I don’t think it’s any of your business if I do.’ His darting eyes didn’t land on Jarrah’s.

‘I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.’ He felt as if Tommy had just plunged the knife even deeper into his heart – he had to make this stop. ‘And contrary to what you think, it is my business if you want to remain at Riverside Acres.’ Tough love was all he had for Tommy right now.

Tommy glared at him, but the fleeting flash of hurt and regret told Jarrah that the Tommy he knew, the Tommy he’d raised, was still there, in amongst the mess that Carlo had created.

‘I don’t want to talk about this anymore.’ Stomping past him, Tommy disappeared out the door.

Jarrah let him go. They both needed time to calm down. Enough had been said. For now. At the very least, he was relieved Tommy had come clean about visiting Carlo. Next he had to find a way to extract the truth about him delivering the envelope.

All in good time.

As he headed towards his office, his mobile rang out from his back pocket. Snatching it out, he eyed who the caller was, hit answer, and then pressed it to his ear. ‘Hey, mate, long time no see.’

‘Cor blimey, tell me about it, King.’ Marty Williams’ voice held the lilt of his legendary larrikin ways. ‘I’ve been on the road for yonks, following the rodeo circuit all the way around Australia, and haven’t had time to scratch my butt, let alone give you a call.’

‘Ha, sounds like you’re living the life of a bull rider, Marty.’ Jarrah wasn’t the least bit jealous. ‘So what do I owe the privilege to?’

‘I was wondering, on the off-chance, if you’d like to buck it out at the charity rodeo in Mossman next weekend. One of the guys pulled out last minute, leaving us short of a rider.’

Jarrah sank into his chair. ‘You know I’ve hung up my spurs, right?’ After laying quite a few of his demons to rest, he no longer had a death wish, and climbing onto the back of a raging bull came close to that.

‘Yeah, I know, King, but this is for sick kids, mate, and the bulls, well, let’s just say they’re on the tamer side and not like the ones in the professional circuit.’

When it came to children and animals, Jarrah couldn’t say no. ‘Well then, if it’s helping sick kids, then that’s a different story.’ There might be some cuts and bruises, and definitely a sore back, but hopefully nothing worse. It was worth a shot. ‘You’ve twisted my arm, mate, so count me in.’

CHAPTER

13

The working week had flown, landing Millie at the annual Mossman charity rodeo on a balmy Saturday afternoon as if in the blink of an eye. Which was almost the time it would take for Jarrah’s buck-it-out ride today: eight seconds, that’s all it took to hit the leaderboard – or hit the dirt with his testosterone-fuelled ego barely intact. It was also all it took to send a bull rider to hospital, or worse. The thought terrified her, but she was doing her best to push it to the backburner. It had been many years since she’d attended a rodeo – the last one had been the PBR championships in Sydney almost five years earlier – so she wanted to thoroughly enjoy her outing, while remaining positive that Jarrah was going to be able to walk away from the toughest sport on dirt with his self-esteem and body intact. A feat considering he was more of a horseman than a bull rider.

With an expanse of powdery blue sky and not a cloud in sight, the weather had come to the party. Having relished the thrill of the saddle bronc, the first round of barrel racing, and the steer wrestling and roping, Millie had descended from her seat at the top of the grandstands and was now on the hunt for an early dinner. Wandering along sideshow alley, towards the rows of food trucks, she smiled at the line-up of kids dropping balls into the laughing clowns’ rotating heads as their parents stood close by. A game of skill, perfect timing and concentration was required if they were to win a stuffed toy. As for her, clowns freaked her out, so as a kid she’d avoided going anywhere near the popular carnival game. Even now, she walked at a safe distance.

Above her, a cloud of fine dust seemed to hover, and all around the scent of popcorn, burgers, cattle and manure, and pork spit roast clung to the tropical air. The last one was making her stomach growl – she’d be buying a juicy pork roll, with lashings of gravy, a dollop of applesauce and extra crackling, after she’d browsed through one of her favourite shops. Passing the dodgem cars, she chuckled at the frivolity of the drivers and their white-knuckled passengers. There was laughter and squeals aplenty, scarcely heard above the volume of the music booming from the speakers. Stepping into the coolness of the R.M. Williams Western shop, set up in a huge tent, she browsed the reins, leather chaps, stirrups, saddles, boots and clothing. This place was a country lover’s delight. But needing to keep her purse strings tight, she wouldn’t be buying herself anything today.

Half an hour later, with her mammoth pork roll and a can of Coke in hand, she headed back towards the centre ring where country music blared from the suspended speakers, hung high above the arena. In prime position, a big screen gave the crowd an eagle-eyed view of each event. With the grandstand close to capacity, it seemed like every man and his dog had come from near and far to attend. Rowdy groups were gathered at the bar off to the side, families had settled into their seats with bags of fairy floss and tomato sauce–covered dagwood dogs in hand, and then there were the teenage girls, dressed to the hilt in their sparkly jeans, boots and button-up rhinestone-studded paisley shirts. It was clearly a big deal for the small FNQ community of Mossman, and she felt honoured Jarrah had invited her along as his plus one.

Heading towards the VIP section of the grandstands, she grabbed a seat in the third row from the top and settled in for the evening events. Tucking into her pork roll, swimming in thick rich gravy, she continually dabbed her lips and chin. She cracked open her can of Coke, took a sip, and then smothered a burp as she spotted Jarrah climbing onto the top railing, just behind the chutes. If she’d thought he looked manly in his usual country attire before, holy moly, in his leather chaps and matching black hat, lord help her. Her heart rebelled against her pure intentions and sped up as the same butterflies he always aroused spread their wings and fluttered. Unable to help overhearing the flashy group of buckle-bunnies sitting directly behind her, she grinned at their topic of conversation. It was none other than her chaperone to the event, the forever-charming, very fetching, Jarrah King.

‘Oh my god, girls, just check out that King bloke, would you, he’s so ruggedly scrumptious, and that scar on his face is so freaking hot,’ a high-pitched voice affirmed.

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