The Australians' Brides: The Runaway and the Cattleman

“Meanwhile, Helen’s still one step behind, at this stage. She looks up to find the woman heading out of there, just quietly slipping away. But fast. As if she’s been given instructions to abort the mission the moment she’s seriously challenged. She had my style of sunglasses, an outfit like one of mine, my hairstyle. She was really well rehearsed. Coached, Callan.”

He looked at her, eyes narrowed in the bright light, and she saw the doubt still in place. Dropped her bits of gravel. Grabbed his arm with dusty fingers. “Yes, I know it sounds paranoid … crazy. But my ex-husband is a big-time TV producer. He has access to desperate actresses, expert makeup artists, wardrobe people, acting and movement coaches. He could pull it off like that.” She snapped her fingers. “I can put you in touch with Helen Franz if you want to hear it from her. We never called the police, in the end, because nothing actually happened, but she wrote up a full report. There were two other teachers in the room who witnessed the whole thing from a distance. It did happen, Callan!”

“I—I guess I’m not doubting it. But who would have gone along with something like that? It was a kidnapping attempt!”

“Kurt wouldn’t have called it that when he hired the actress. He would have called it a reality TV show with hidden cameras, or a method-acting audition for a big movie role. He would have paid in five figures. And he’s Kurt Beale. So people listen. Desperate actresses sure listen! They listen to anything! And they believe him. And they do what he says. He has the power, he has the control. He loves to use it. He’s Kurt Beale,” she repeated.

“Yeah?” Callan said. Then he gave a slow grin. “Well, I’ve never heard of him.”

She closed her eyes. “I know. That’s exactly why I’m here.”

She told him about not being able to write anymore, about being scared the inspiration might never come back, about resigning from Heartbreak Hotel for Elaine’s sake, about fleeing to Sydney and getting all those hang-up calls at Lucy’s.

“And panicking,” she added. “I know I’m panicking. I do know it. Overreacting, obsessing over worst-case scenarios. Do you know what a curse it can be, a writer’s imagination? But there’s no place I can draw the line, Callan. If you seriously asked me, is Kurt capable of taking Carly and hiding her somewhere so I’d never see her again? Is he capable of stalking me in the entertainment industry so that I’ll never write again? Is he capable of murder, that kind of if-I-can’t-have-her-then-no-one-can awful thing that some men do? There’s no place I could draw the line and say, “No, I know Kurt, and I know he wouldn’t do that.” He could do it. Any of it. I know it.”

“Hey … hey.”

“Yeah, enough about me, right?” she tried to joke. “You look like you’re thinking six hundred thousand acres isn’t going to be big enough for both of us.”

“No, no, the opposite. I wanted to tell you that six hundred thousand acres is big. We’re isolated. You’re safe here. For—well, for—”

He wanted the bottom line. How long did she want to stay?

“A month, okay?” she told him quickly. “Our return flight is in a month. I’ll have something worked out by then.”

I’ll know if there’s a chance I can ever go back to writing.

I’ll decide on somewhere Carly and I can safely live. Texas, maybe. Vermont, or Maine. Somewhere like this, where there’s space and air, and where Kurt has no power.

I’ll have talked myself out of the panic attacks, and Carly won’t sleepwalk anymore.

“Carly sleepwalks,” she blurted out.

“Does she?”

“Yes, I should tell you, and the boys, and your mom. It started a couple of months ago, before we came to Sydney that first time. The doctor thought it might be the stress of the divorce and all the conflict, Kurt’s games. She doesn’t do it every night. Maybe once or twice a week.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“No, but it’s unpredictable, and she can get upset if she’s woken up in the wrong place or the wrong way. I’ve been sleeping pretty lightly, though, so I always hear her getting up. If she’s handled gently and not startled in any way, I can just lead her back to bed.”

“I can’t think how it would be a problem from our end. The boys are pretty sound sleepers. And Mum’s in the other house.”

“Yes, it’s probably fine, but I thought you should know.” They both sat silently for a moment, then she added, “You say Mum, not Mom.” She imitated the clipped sound of the word, compared to the longer American vowel.

“Yep. Short and sweet.”

“I like it. What should I call her, by the way, your mom?”

“Just Kerry.”

“And Carly?”

“I’d say keep on calling her Carly.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Might confuse her if you changed it to Goldilocks, at this stage.”

Jac laughed. “Well, Goldilocks is in fact her middle name, but I take your point.” The moment of silly humor was nice. Unexpected. “No, I meant—”

“I know what you meant. What should Carly call Mum? Just Kerry. Or Gran, like the boys do. She won’t mind either way.”

“Thanks. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for this, Callan.”

For seeming so relaxed about it.

For making her laugh when she wasn’t expecting to.

For not being Kurt.

“Does she have any grandmothers of her own, your Carly?” he asked.

“No, she doesn’t. Kurt’s mother died just before he and I met. Mine, when I was twelve. My dad lives back east.” She stood up, didn’t want to talk about any of that, right now. “I love those chickens.” She walked toward the wire mesh that separated them from the vegetable garden and called back, “I never realized their feathers would be so beautiful. The black ones are almost iridescent on their breasts.”

“And they’re good layers, too.” His tone poked fun at her, just a little. Iridescent feathers? These birds weren’t for decoration. They had a job to do!

“Is egg collecting something Carly and I could handle? She’d love it, I think.”

“Sure.” He stood up and came over, and they looked at the chickens side by side.

“Do they … like … bite? I’m good with horses. Kurt and I used to ride on his ranch.”

If you could call six thousand acres a ranch.

She had, once.

But she’d seen Callan’s place, now.

“But chickens …” She spread her hands. She didn’t know anything about chickens. They hadn’t fit with Kurt’s image.

“They’ll peck at anything that looks like it could be something to eat,” Callan said. “Shoelaces, rings. But they’ll stop when it doesn’t taste good. And they’re not aggressive. You can pet ’em and feed ’em out of your hand.” He pulled some leafy sprigs of parsley from a garden bed and gave half of them to her, then bent down to hen level and stuck his parsley through the wire. A red-brown bird came peck-peck-pecking at once. “See? Try it.”

She squatted. “Well, hi there, Little Red Hen.”

“The boys have names for them. They can introduce you and Carly properly after lunch.”

“Her ex-husband was stalking her,” Callan told his mother. “Professionally and personally. She needed somewhere safe, and far.”

“Well, Arakeela should be both,” his mother said.

They stood on the veranda, watching the two female figures in the chook run—the adult and the little girl. Their clothing was bright in the midafternoon light and their hair glinted where the sun hit, one head dark and the other blond. Lockie and Josh had introduced Carly and her mum to the rooster, Darth Vader, and the hens, Furious, Gollum, Frodo, Shrek, Donkey, Princess and Hen.