Page 11 of Where the Heart Is

He laughed and released her. ‘You’re in a bad mood, but I guess you’re entitled, what with being ditched at the altar by Fabulous Phil.’

‘I’m devastated by the lack of his financial support, nothing more.’

But he must’ve heard the hint of vulnerability in her voice, the one she strove to hide every day because deep down she hated being alone despite all protestation to the contrary, because he said, ‘I know you’re probably exhausted and counting down the minutes until you boot me out of here, but I’d really love to take a look at the farm-stay project you’re so passionate about that you’d consider marrying that slimeball.’

She’d love nothing better than to show him her pride and joy, with the first cottage nearing completion and the second well underway, but he was right. She had to get rid of him before she did something totally out of character again, like slide into his arms and hold on tight.

‘Phil’s not a slimeball.’

‘Fine. He’s a sleazebag.’

‘You’re being too harsh, especially considering you haven’t seen him in years.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘I doubt he’s changed. Leopards, spots, and all that.’ He grimaced. ‘That guy used to be a ladies’ man.’

She didn’t want to admit that she enjoyed Phil’s light-hearted flirtation because it distracted her from how damn lonely she was, and his lingering glances were the closest thing she came to feeling appreciated as a woman.

So she deflected. ‘Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour, then you’re out of here.’

‘When you put it like that, how can I refuse?’

They headed through the kitchen and out the back door, where Mila veered left, following the path behind the main shed. She’d purposely chosen the expanse of land to the west of the shed because it afforded guests privacy, out of sight of the main homestead.

Her ancestors had been clever in laying out the farm. The homestead and adjoining land where she planned on opening the farm stay were within sight of the main road but set far enough back to ensure privacy. And the silos, paddocks, and sheds housing equipment were situated behind a line of trees that effectively hid the day-to-day operations. Though she loved the silo art in the region and once she had enough capital would love to pay a local artist to paint her silos with local flora and fauna. It could be a drawcard for the farm-stay occupants, something for them to see on the farm other than the day-to-day running.

She loved every aspect of lentil farming: the unique names of the red lentils like Nugget, Digger, Aldinga, and Northfield; the paddock preparation that required adequate weed-control measures before sowing; the rolling to flatten any ridges caused by sowing; how lentils flower profusely in a short period of time. And the satisfaction when she sold a crop at a decent price, a direct result of her hard work … that feeling was priceless.

There was no way she’d lose Hills Homestead without a fight and if she could just get the farm stays up and running, she had a chance. Though starting this project was about more than money and she knew it. She wanted people to experience the same feelings she got when she opened the front window every morning, inhaled the crisp country air and watched the sun crest the horizon in a blaze of gold and sienna. The uniqueness of a cricket cacophony as dusk streaked the sky in mauves and magentas. The warbling of magpies, the rustle of eucalypts, the hooting of owls.

The vastness of the farm engulfed her and she wanted to share her love of the land with those who spent most of their lives running for trams or trapped in a cubicle in a city high-rise.

As they rounded the corner of the shed, the first cottage came into view and Sawyer wolf-whistled.

‘Wow. You did all that?’

‘With the help of the odd tradesmen or two. Gramps helped too.’

‘How does Jack feel about you changing things around here?’

She shrugged, wishing she could share her struggles with her grandfather, but she didn’t want to burden him when he’d left the farming life behind. She’d seen the toll it had taken over the years, though she attributed his stoic sadness to her grandmother leaving as much as the rigours of farming life. He’d always been a quiet man, withdrawn rather than gregarious, and that only intensified after Addy left. But she shared a special bond with her grandfather, and they were happiest when riding quad bikes around the farm or overseeing the sowing of a new crop.

When he’d sold her the farm, she’d been ecstatic. She’d farmed alongside him long enough and it had been time for her to be her own boss. He’d bought a small block of land on the outskirts of town and built an amazing sandstone cottage, leaving her to run the farm on her own.

It’s what she wanted, but lentil farming had been in Gramps’s blood, and a small part of her thought he might pop around more often.

‘Gramps walked away from the farm when he sold it to me. Though he thinks I’m mad pouring more capital into the place when I’m still paying off a mortgage. And as he says,“All it takes is one bad crop” …’ She shook her head. ‘The farm is run well but I’ve had a string of bad years so … I need the farm stay to take off so I can pay off my debts.’

Respect glinted in his eyes. ‘You have it all figured out.’

‘I have plans. There’s nothing wrong with that.’

He held up his hands in surrender. ‘Didn’t say there was. Why so defensive?’

She couldn’t tell him the truth—that insomnia had become a constant companion since she undertook the farm-stay project, that she worried about money constantly, that she couldn’t fathom what she’d do if she lost the farm—so she settled for, ‘So how’s the land-broking business treating you?’

‘I love it,’ he said, pride audible in his smoother-than-caramel tone, the depth of his voice eliciting the same visceral reaction it had when she’d been a teen. ‘I work hard, I get recognised for my efforts. It’s rewarding.’

‘I always knew you’d be amazing at whatever you did.’

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