Page 14 of The Mistletoe Wish

On Monday morning, she woke to the tantalising scent of hot coffee and frying bacon. She scrambled to her feet, rubbing her eyes for a moment before pulling back the Japanese paper screen dividing the small sleeping area from the rest of the room.

With his back still to her, Darim stood beside the camp stove. “Morning, Sara. I’ve got good news. My sister, Fatima, has a fridge for us. I’ve also located a caravan. Bad news, the caravan is in Armidale.” He shot a quick smile over his shoulder. “I’ll pick the van up when I go to get Skye this afternoon. Thought I’d leave a bit early, say tennish to give myself time to make sure I’m happy with its condition. Sorry. I know you wanted to get your llamas here today.”

“It’s okay. Another day won’t matter. Although, I could walk them here myself.” She swallowed a yawn and fiddled with the edge of a ragged band aid that covered yet another scratch from the wire fence.

Setting the pan down, he turned around and pointed the spatula at her. “I just had a thought. Why not wait until tomorrow? Skye would love to help out.”

Sara smiled. “That’s a great idea however tomorrow isn’t good for me. I’m committed to a bike ride to the rock pool at Ward’s Gully.”

His eyebrows rose and a wide grin spread over his face. “I remember. That nice old lady invited me, too.”

Damn. She’d hoped he’d forgotten all about it. Sara ducked her head as she recalled that blasted tarot card Edwina Lette had laid out on the reception counter in Dodge’s store.The lovers.No. Way. Ever.“Your daughter will be here. Besides, won’t you need a bike? Or rather two bikes?” She tossed off as many objections as she could think of.

“Now. Now. Someone needs her coffee. Come on over, I’ve got your mug ready and waiting.” He turned back to the stove and began to pile a couple of plates with bacon and fried eggs. “You won’t be so grouchy once you have food in your stomach.” Picking up the plates, he walked out the door.

Sara made quick use of the bathroom, gave herself a liberal spray of deodorant and donned a pair of cotton shorts and a tee. About to leave the house, her gaze fell on the folder from the solicitor. What if she could trick Darim into staying away from the house? What was that clause again? Something about forfeiting their claim if they were away from the property? She snatched up the folder and almost ripped the pages apart as she riffled through them until she found what she was looking for. There. Twenty-four hours. All she had to do was work out how to keep him away for over twenty-four hours. Somewhere public. Where his presence would be noticed – and maybe videoed for evidence. Then she’d have the ammunition she needed to remove his name from the deed. The house and land would be hers alone.

Perfect.

Maybe that should have been her mistletoe wish this Christmas instead of some lame idea about being part of a family.

But if she scammed him out of the bequest, he would lose this chance of sharing the holiday season with his daughter. And then there’d be another daughter without her beloved parent at Christmas. A memory rose of how he had glanced over to his car when they’d been helping that old man fix his tyre. Skye had been hanging half out of the side window; her eyes glued to her father. Sara had gained the impression there was a strong bond between Darim and his only child.

Her tummy churned and nausea rose. She dropped the folder. She didn’t want to be that woman anymore – one who ignored others’ needs and the rules to satisfy her own desires. Turning her back on the folder, she snatched up her coffee and marched outside.

She found Darim already settled at the outdoor table which they had placed beneath a shady tree; one in a grove of twelve that after Darim had mown the grass, made an inviting setting. Three gaily striped hammocks now hung from the lowest branches of some of the trees. Perfect for lolling on during the hottest part of the day or for star gazing. Yesterday, Sara had planted some red and white geranium cuttings, and if they took would add splashes of bright colour and make the place look more … inviting.

Sliding onto the bench opposite, she pulled a plate towards her with one hand as she enjoyed her first caffeine hit of the day.

“I’ve been thinking about that bike ride.” Darim munched on a crispy slice of bacon for a second before continuing.

Another thing she’d noticed – and liked – he never ate with his mouth open.

She stared pensively into her mug and nibbled on her lower lip. This constant focus on him had to stop.

“A bike would be the perfect Christmas gift for Skye. She’d be able to ride into town and visit her cousins. Gives her a bit of independence.” He wagged his fork in the air. “I asked your friend, Ms. Lette, if she minded if more people came along, and she was fine with the idea. Us, my sister and her kids.”

That crafty old witch was definitely not her friend. But … an ally - maybe. “What about school?”

“It’s almost the end of term. I can’t see it being a problem with Fatima.”

“I don’t believe I know your sister and her family.”

“She moved here a few years ago with her mother-in-law and two daughters after her husband died of a stroke. She’s my half-sister actually and two years older than me. We were quite close when we were young. Her mother who was a refugee from Syria died not long after she was born, and our father married my mother about a year later. She’s the main reason why I’d like to settle in the area.”

“Fatima. I think I may have seen her around town. Would she wear a hijab? Usually one in bright colours.”

“That’s sounds like her.” Darim smiled. “She’s a dentist and has a small practice in town. Neither of us sees much of my parents. They like to spend their retirement playing golf.”

Sara examined his face. With his olive skin and dark eyes, she supposed he could also be Syrian. But what about his light brown hair? Some strands were bleached almost blond and there was the glint of silver, too. She gave into her curiosity. “Are you also Syrian?”

“My paternal grandfather was from Syria. The rest of our stock came from England and Scandinavia.”

“Then not Muslim?”

A frown settled on his brow, and he actually drew back from the table. “No. That was a choice Fatima made when she was about eight. She decided to follow her mother’s beliefs. Is that a problem for you?”

“Honestly, not in the least. My parents practiced different religions, which meant I grew up understanding a bit about both and a foot in both camps.”

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