Page 111 of Stockman's Sandstorm

‘Enough.’ Ryder slammed his beer bottle down on the table. ‘She’s gone. That’s that.’

‘Anyhoodle, this is the baby seat from Bree’s Kombi van. She doesn’t want it anymore and thought you might need it.’ Charlie nodded and stepped off the porch.

‘Thanks, Charlie. Can you please tell Bree thanks for me, too.’ Ash hoped to make amends with the redhead.

‘Hey, why did Bree have a baby seat in her Kombi?’ Dex asked.

‘Oh, that.’ Charlie stopped with hands on hips and a heavy head dropping to his chest. ‘That was my great-grandson’s seat,’ he said, his voice filled with sadness. ‘Bree’s son.’

Dex swallowed hard, sitting forward in his chair with a heavy thud. They all felt it, like they’d been sucker punched in the guts.

Ryder spun around in his seat, to face the old man. ‘Bree had a son?’

‘Liam. He was a good lad, a real spitfire like his mother. He kept Bree on her toes, that’s for sure.’

‘What happened to him?’ Cap asked, the rest of the table listening.

‘Liam got this rare form of leukaemia, where there was nothing they could do for him, just take his pain away. But he was a tough lad, smiling to the very end.’ The old man sniffed, wiping the tip of his nose.

‘How old was he?’ Ryder’s voice was low, soft even.

‘Two. Just a little older than your boy, Ash.’ Charlie faced them squarely. ‘Treasure that boy, because when they’re gone it’s heartbreak like I’ve never felt before and Bree … Well, Bree …’ He adjusted his hat on his head and looked back to the caretaker’s cottage wearing sorrow heavily across his shoulders. ‘Just know, that young lad brings a lot of joy not just to you mob, but to us, too.’ Charlie gave a curt nod and left.

Ash felt like he was standing underwater as he struggled to process the news of Bree losing a son.

Ryder stood from the table and snatched his bottle of Wild Turkey. The other bottle he used for celebrations or commiserations, and he poured a full round, sliding the glasses across the wooden tabletop, leaving the bottle standing on the table, uncorked.

Ash had never guessed Bree was a mother. He couldn’t fathom the pain she’d gone through.

It was Bree who’d helped a wailing Mason on his very first night. She’d known he was teething and how to help him. She’d made icy pops, supplied sunscreen, cooked meals, and had given Harper countless tips on how to care for Mason. She’d even supplied the cot, the special baby carrier for the muster, and the highchair! Not once did Bree ever let on that she was a mother who’d lost her child.

‘Bree told me once that it takes a village to raise a child, telling me how truly lucky I was.’ Ash licked his lips, tasting the bourbon. ‘I thought she was joking, like she does.’

‘No wonder Bree said she won’t babysit.’ Dex swallowed down his glass, hissing as if it was bitter.

‘Do you blame her?’ Ryder gripped his bourbon glass tightly and tossed it back. The man, who normally savoured each drop of his bourbons, slammed it down and poured them another round.

‘Excuse me.’ Ash got up from the table.

‘You okay, bro?’ As the most sensitive of the brothers, Cap was the peacemaker, placing a brotherly hand on Ash’s shoulder.

‘Yeah …’ No. He wasn’t. ‘I’ll be with my son.’ Ash headed inside, his stomach in knots, sickened with the fear of losing someone who had become such a deep part of his soul it scared him. All he wanted to do was hold Mason, while ignoring that part of him that wanted to hold Harper, too. She was gone. Even though she’d deceived him, he missed her terribly.

Fifty

In the back corner of the bar at the Elsie Creek Hotel—which Harper had commandeered—it had been dubbed chaos central. She had her phone and laptop plugged into the wall. Paperwork covered four bar tables she’d commandeered as her desk, with charts, maps and diagrams covering the corner wall where she interviewed farmers, fishermen, storekeepers, the publican and her staff, plus lots and lots of stockmen. Thanks to Cowboy Craig, who’d brought these people over to meet her, all in the name of research.

Harper didn’t even recognise herself.

Once fearful of people hassling her, where her staff sent people away, now, it was Harper who engaged these strangers with small talk before getting into deep conversations with them over how the new mine’s proposal for water rights would affect this region.

Thankfully, the wheels were turning in her head again, the ones silenced by the bomb blast, were now powering at full steam. Pausing her round the world beer tour, she was back to cold coffee, and had befriended the cranky Hungarian chef, named Lenny, who made decadent pastries. She was in sugar-rush heaven, while calling in favours from across the globe.

‘Well, I was expecting you to be hugging it out with a box of tissues.’ Bree stood at the table, tapping on the empty plate of crumbs. ‘Lenny’s pastries?’

Harper nodded.

‘He makes a mean cupcake … So, why haven’t you called me?’

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