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A door slams. I watch through the window as Cameron, a powerful stride, a graceful one, walks down the path before turning right at the gate. If I were curious, which I’m not, I could have checked his LinkedIn or done a name search. He’s clearly still a local and his physique, his sun-tipped hair, tanned face, arms and hands, suggest he spends a lot of time outside. It was always assumed I’d go to university after school, and it would have been the same for him. He wasn’t only smart, but his mother was a doctor who’d trained in Sydney. His father was a successful accountant.

What did Cameron aspire to?

He’s twenty metres up the road when he turns and, even though he couldn’t possibly see me staring, I take a hurried step back into the waiting room. When I trip over Keith Urban, he looks up apologetically.

‘I’m sorry, Keith. My fault.’

The dog is nudging my leg when the gate creaks open.

‘Cam!’

By the time I reach the door, a boy of around fourteen, tall and gangly with wild fair hair, a cricket bag over his shoulder and a bat under his arm, is standing on the path. He looks vaguely familiar but—

‘I saw the door was open,’ he says. ‘Sorry, miss.’

‘That’s okay.’ I smile to reassure him. ‘I’m Amelie Peterson, the new vet.’

He crosses his arms and when the bat gets in the way, uncrosses them again. ‘I’m CJ.’ His face suddenly lights up. ‘Keith Urban!’

As Keith Urban leaps across the weeds, CJ kneels and buries his face in the kelpie’s fur.

‘How long have you two been acquainted?’

When CJ grins, there’s something about him that—

‘We’re old mates.’ He separates his hands to the length of a ruler. ‘Mr Henry let me play with Keith Urban when he was this big. How come you’ve got him?’

Gordon Henry, one of the few locals who supported my parents in their efforts to close the mine, has owned the saddlery at Summerfield for decades. When I told my father I was Summerfield bound, he passed that on to Gordon and he got in touch. ‘Turns out I’m stuck in hospital till January,’ he said. ‘City smog isn’t healthy for a country dog like Keith Urban, and what about Christmas? He wants to be home for that. Can you do me a favour until I get back to Summerfield …’

‘Gordon thought Keith Urban would like to be home for Christmas,’ I tell CJ.

‘Have you seen my uncle? His name’s Cam McLeod.’

The pieces fall into place. ‘You look like him.’

CJ puffs out his chest. ‘A lot of people say that.’

‘He left ten minutes ago.’

‘If you see him again, can you tell him I’ll be down at the cricket nets?’

‘Sure. Are you a bowler or a batsman?’

‘Cam could do both; he was an allrounderandin the firsts.’

‘How about you?’

An uncertain smile. ‘Last season, I was a middle order batsman.’

‘I was terrified of cricket balls when I was at school.’

‘Cam said it’s all part of the game, but protective gear helps.’ He kicks the bag a couple of times. ‘I’ve got a helmet, shin and thigh pads, arm pads, gloves. Anyway …’ Another kick. ‘You get used to the hits.’

‘I’ll pass on your message if I see Cameron.’

CJ, lifting his bat in goodbye, turns at the gate. ‘Thanks heaps.’

Keith Urban follows me past the waiting room, surgery and bathroom to the door that leads to the living space. According to the scant details Dr Brown sent through, a narrow staircase leads to a bedroom, bathroom and study. Downstairs, there’s a kitchen, dining area and sitting room, courtyard and patch of grass.