Regret scooped deeper into her gut with every passing kilometre of red dirt road. 
Recriminations pounded relentlessly as Emma Dawson processed the news she’d received last night. 
Not long and she’d be home at Dawson Downs.

Home.

Strange how her brain was programmed to think of the property as home when she hadn’t lived here, or visited, for fourteen years. 
Wasn’t a homecoming supposed to be filled with joy and laughter? 
Wasn’t home supposed to be a place of refuge—of unconditional love and support?

Dawson Downs represented none of those things. It was here that she’d learned about loss. Heartbreaking loss. The deep type that swooped down unexpectedly like a raptor with its wings spread and its talons extended to claw at her heart. 
At least the family property had provided sanctuary from the cruel whispers that had followed her around the Wattle Crossing school yard and the wider community.
‘There goes that Dawson girl.’ 
‘Wonder if she’s like her mother?’
Emma didn’t realise she’d let out a pent-up breath until her cousin, Jake Bannister, took his eyes off the road for a moment and asked, “How are you holding up?”

“I’m glad I’m not doing this alone,” she admitted.

He nodded. “GPS says it’s around the bend.”

“That’s right. The line of trees ahead on our right marks the eastern border of the property.” None of her distant cousins had visited Wattle Crossing. She hadn’t even known they’d existed when she’d lived here. “There should be two forty-four-gallon drums marking either side of the entrance.” 
Moments later, Emma’s throat tightened as the old boundary sign came into view.
Dawson Downs. 
She sat straighter, determined not to be emotional.
The timber board sagged on its post, its white paint weathered grey with the lettering barely legible. As for the drums that marked the entrance, they were rusty and peppered with bullet holes.
“Someone’s used those as target practice,” Jake said. “Not very neighbourly.” 
Not very neighbourly, but not surprising.  
Nobody in town respected those Dawsons. They’d become the pariahs of Wattle Crossing. Even when she’d never put a foot wrong, Emma had faced years of scorn. Then, to her eternal shame, she’d fuelled the gossip. She’d fallen into a trap and added to the disrepute of the family name. 
On her last night here, Grandpa Henry had sat in his favourite armchair wearing a scowl so deep, she thought his forehead would cave in. He’d held up the ripped shirt that she’d buried at the bottom of the garbage bin. 
“It’s true what they say, Emma,” he’d spat out with bitter resignation. ‘The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” 
“Grandpa—”
“I went into town and heard the whispers. I saw the pictures. Pictures of you and that bloody Hanlon boy pasted up on a street light pole right outside the post office for the whole town to see.”
“No, Grandpa. It wasn’t like that.”
“Don’t lie to me, girl.” His fists clenched and he stood up. “You’re turning into your mother.”
“No!”
When he stamped his foot, the vibration made the mug on the coffee table jump. 
His next words were muttered so quietly, she barely heard them. “You need to turn your life around. Stay here and you’ll go straight to hell.”
Emma’s shoulders rounded in remembrance of the way she’d made herself smaller in the face of the big man’s temper. After Grandma died, Grandpa had tried to drown his sorrows in alcohol. The loving man had vanished. He’d become enraged over the slightest thing—verbally abusing her father or slugging him. When her father had died, her brother, Max, had borne the brunt of Grandpa’s anger.
Once, Grandpa had come very close to striking Emma. His fist had stopped an inch from her cheek. Then, his anger had morphed into horror before he’d swivelled away and locked himself in his bedroom. His desperate cries of remorse had broken her heart.
The next morning, the bin was full of empty bottles and the kitchen sink reeked like a distillery. Grandpa Henry had emerged for breakfast clean-shaven and slightly less gruff. 
She’d never seen a bottle of alcohol in the house again, nor caught a whiff of any on his breath. Even so, they’d never bridged the gap. All the laughter and love Grandpa had given freely, had been buried with his wife.
Now, Emma was returning to bury her grandfather.
The police officer who’d called yesterday said Henry Dawson had drowned in his bathtub, a couple of empty spirit bottles on the floor.
Biting down on her lip, Emma wondered how long after her departure her grandfather had turned back to the bottle. Had the scandal from her ill-advised search for affection tipped him back to his darkest place? Had he been so shamed by the photos plastered around town that he’d sought solace in the bottle, or had he used alcohol as a crutch because he’d regretted sending her away?
Grandpa’s voice had been resolute when he’d thrust a handful of hundred-dollar bills towards her.
“Bus for Brisbane will pass through town in an hour and a half. Get whatever you need and be on it.”

“But where will I go?”

“Your grandmother’s cousin, Grace Bannister, will be on that bus. She’ll take you in and care for you.”
She’d never heard of Grace Bannister. She couldn’t fathom that he was sending her away into the care of a complete stranger. “But—” 
“Don’t ever come back, Emma.”
And yet, here she was. 
Emma’s teeth clenched. She was no longer that cowed young girl who’d fantasised about having an invisible cloak so she could stay out of everyone’s sight. 
Jake shot her another quick look. “You sure you’re okay?”
She swallowed against her tight, dry throat. “I’ll be fine.”
I’ll get through this.
Sure, this was no happy homecoming with warm arms stretched out to embrace her. She didn’t need them. She was far more confident and capable these days and she wasn’t alone. She had the love and support of the entire Bannister family and a great group of friends.
The sight of the property unspooled before her in slow, shockingly depressing frames as they continued down the long driveway. Sections of the fence line sagged with rusty wire. Some sections of fencing were missing altogether—probably where cattle had pushed through. 
These paddocks had once fattened sleek herds of Droughtmasters. Now they lay mostly barren, the cracked earth littered with weeds and prickly burr. Saltbush clustered along the fence lines and the horizon shimmered under the punishing western Queensland sun.
“I wonder how many of the herd are left,” Jake remarked.
“By the look of that fencing, Grandpa didn’t run many. Maybe we’ll find some out the back, closer to the bigger dams.”
“If you’ve inherited the place, mustering them up will be our priority after the funeral,” Jake said. 
“Will you be able to stay long enough for that?” His wife was expecting their first child. “You should get back to Kate.”
“Kate agreed I’d stay for two weeks to help you sort things out.”
Emma felt the sting of tears. “Thank you.”
“Hey, we’re all here for you. I shouldn’t have to tell you Dave and I couldn’t love you more if you were our sister and Mum and Dad love you like a daughter.”
“I’m so grateful.”
Jake pushed through the emotion and became all business. “First priority after the funeral—we take any cattle to the sales yard. Who knows whether your grandfather kept refreshing the bloodlines.”
“There’ll be paperwork.” Grandpa had always been a stickler for paperwork. 
They crested a small rise and the homestead came into view. 
Emma’s breath snagged.
The roof of the wide timber veranda that had once wrapped the house in pride, now drooped. It was as though it was sending a message: I’m done. I cannot be straight and proud when I’m so weighed down by decades of sadness. Just bulldoze me and put me out of my misery.

Emma slapped the negative thought away and tried to inspect the homestead unemotionally. It screamed of neglect with the front steps half-swallowed by weeds. In some places, the faded paint peeled away to expose raw timber beneath. 
Jake slowed the vehicle, guiding it up the gravelled drive. “Some inheritance. The place has been left to rot.” 
Shame pulsed through Emma’s veins and she felt every disparaging taunt she’d grown up with.
“Those Dawsons.” 
“That Dawson girl.”
“Please don’t become one of the judges to my grandfather’s life.”
“I’m angry on your behalf.” Jake stopped the car in front of the stairs and turned off the engine. “It’s not fair that this place has been left to ruin.”
Her skin prickled with embarrassment. The Bannisters were one of Australia’s wealthiest families. Paint wouldn’t dare peel off their homestead and any problem with fencing was fixed immediately. Lawns and gardens on the property were immaculately maintained by a large staff. 
“You talked about this place when we first met, Em. I know you dreamed of coming back and making a go of it but …” He let out a low whistle. “Getting this running again ... You’d be better off selling and buying something smaller on the Darling Downs. That would keep you closer to us, too.”
What he said made sense. Still, assuming she’d inherited the property, there were some compelling reasons to stay and breathe fresh life into this property. 
‘That Dawson girl’ wanted to face the community of Wattle Crossing with her head held high. Wanted to reconnect with the very early times of her past when she’d been happy here. Not only did she want to build her future into the one she’d dreamed about, but she also hoped she could reconnect with her brother and they could do this side by side.
Opening the car door, she heard the iron roofing sheets lifting at the edges, clanging like discordant, out-of-sync cymbals as the dry westerly breeze rattled them. “Let’s see what it’s like inside.”
Jake walked beside her, his presence steadying the storm in her chest. He’d always done that for her. At sixteen years old, she’d met him the day after she’d met his Aunt Grace on the bus ride that had changed the course of her life. 
Grace Bannister had taken her in, guided her and become like a mother to her. Every holiday, Emma had been welcomed to the Bannister home at Lexi Station by Bill and Sue Bannister. Jake and his brother, Dave, had become the brothers she could lean on. They were stable, good-natured and fun to be around—very different from the moody boy Max had become after their mother had left them.
Emma had followed the Bannister boys around, loving being able to muck in with farm chores and even join the musters. She’d learned about raising cattle from their father and he’d often said he wished his sons listened with as much attentiveness.
At the end of every holiday, she’d returned to the township of Toowoomba and finished her education at a fancy private girls’ school. Emma’s dreams of having a station of her own had burned deep. Even though she’d attended university and carved out a career, the need to return to the land hadn’t faded. 
“Watch your step.” Jake pointed to the treads of the stairs that needed replacing. 
Once, there’d been riotous blooms in the garden beds that flanked the stairs. Now the beds were smothered by lantana and thistle.
For a split-second Emma was transported to her very early childhood when the rooms in the homestead had echoed with sounds of laughter. The time machine sped along and laughter turned to voices raised in argument, recrimination and abuse. Then she heard tears. Her mother’s tears. Her tears. It was all so clear, so overwhelming, Emma almost raised her hands to cover her ears—to block out the weeping that seeped from the walls. 
No wonder her mother had left.
Emma’s chest ached. “It was so different when my grandmother was alive. Everything was fresh and the gardens were beautiful.” Unconsciously she breathed more deeply—a ridiculous thing to do when the rose bushes and their perfume were long gone.
Casting her gaze out along the driveway, she remembered how she and Max would run in from the school bus. The mosquito-proof screen door would snap shut behind them, the sound sharp as a whip-crack. Their mother and grandmother would greet them with huge hugs and ask them about their day. 
“Whenever we came home from school there’d be fresh baking.” She crossed her arms and smoothed her hands up and down over her skin. “Anzac biscuits were a favourite—or lamingtons.”
“Stop. You’re making me hungry,” Jake complained. 
Emma envied him his hunger. With the whirlpool of angst stirring low in her stomach, food was the last thing she wanted. The good memories only sharpened the blade of sadness that pushed through her.  
Ruin greeted her now.
Ghosts of the past circled. 
Her grandmother’s death from pneumonia had been the catalyst of the downward spiral. Grandpa had lost interest in the farm—in life in general, really. The pressure had mounted on her parents’ relationship as they’d tried to run the place. There were rumours that her mother was having an affair. Then, her mother had packed her bag and walked away. 
“This neglect doesn’t surprise me.” Jake’s voice pulled her back to the present. “Dad heard that your grandfather had sold the bulk of his stock and wasn’t hiring for musters anymore.”
She swung to face him. “Your dad never said anything to me.”
“He only told me last night, after you got the news.”
Emma’s lips pressed together as bad memories crowded in. Her father had tried to save the place but Grandpa had broken him. 
“After Grandma died, nothing my father did was good enough for Grandpa. I see now that his criticism eroded my father’s self-esteem at a time when Dad was grieving, too.” 
Her mother had issued an ultimatum. ‘Mervin, you need to stand up to your father. Stop allowing the put-downs. Take control.’ 
“Grandpa was intimidating. Mum lost respect for Dad and she walked.”
“I know the story.”
Of course, Jake knew. Everyone knew how Emma and Max had been abandoned.
“Emma, I can’t live here anymore. One day, I’m going to leave but I promise I’ll get myself established somewhere nice then I’ll come back for you and Max,” Pam Dawson had whispered. “I don’t know when I’ll go, but it’ll be soon. You must promise not to breathe a word to anyone. Remember that I love you and Max and I’m going to do this so that all of us will have a better life away from here.” 
Emma hadn’t understood. Dawson Downs was all she knew and she didn’t want a life away from here. After that conversation, she’d lived in fear of coming home from school and finding her mother gone. 
Hugs before bedtime had become even more treasured as she wondered whether her mother would leave in the middle of the night. She’d cried every morning, not wanting to go to school in case her mother wasn’t there when she came home. That last day, their hug had been extra-long and her mother had whispered, “Don’t cry now. Be strong. I love you and I’ll be back. I promise.”
Pam Dawson had left that day, but she’d never returned.
“Are you going in?” Jake prodded.
“Yeah.” But she didn’t move. Couldn’t take that step. Couldn’t reach out to open that door to her past.
The silence around them was heavy, only broken by the distant, jeering caw of crows until … 
They both turned towards the shed at the sound of a car engine starting. 
“Shouldn’t be anyone here, should there?” Jake asked.
“Not as far as I know.”
They raced back down the stairs as a white utility emerged from the shed. After an initial expression of surprise, the driver gave them a friendly wave and brought the ute to a stop.
Oh.
Emma’s throat dried and her lungs had to work harder for each breath as the tall, broad-shouldered man got out of the vehicle. Jake was well built, but this guy was even more powerful and had to be about six foot five.
The stranger was as handsome as sin with a strong jaw shadowed by masculine stubble. Each long stride he took towards her proclaimed inherent confidence, but it was the warm empathy radiating from his gaze as he regarded her that made her feel off-balance. 
No.
Despite a thousand butterflies fluttering in her stomach, Emma resisted the pull of the bluest eyes she’d seen and demanded sharply, “Who are you?”