Page 71 of Where the Wattles Bloom

With the nausea largely controllable and more sustenance going into her system, Rowena’s colour rapidly improved. She was still exceptionally tired but, as a midwife, she knew that was par for the course in the first trimester.

And, at her age, probably for the rest of it as well.

It made her very grateful, however, for her chauffeur service, especially on a late shift. She lost count of the number of times she fell asleep as Lachlan drove her home over the next few weeks.

One moment she’d be talking to him, and the next thing she knew, Lachlan would be shaking her awake on the farm. Then she’d rouse enough to stumble into the house before crashing on her bed and falling instantly asleep, where she barely moved until Acca Dacca woke her the next morning.

Lachlan, not satisfied with just being her personal chauffeur, had appointed himself her personal alarm clock on the days she worked the early shift. And, she had to admit, she was actually growing quite fond of waking to the primal sound of pipes, which were a hell of a lot louder here than they’d been at the bunkhouse.

No chance of sleeping through it, that was for sure.

One day, in the last week of August when she was giving Shirley—who’d never made it back to the shed—her morning bottle, Lachlan asked if she’d like to see the property.

‘I’m going to do a fence check and suss out some water levels and I thought you might like to tag along?’

Rowena, who was on day one of three long, blissful days off, jumped at the chance. She really only knew the part between the homestead and the bunkhouse, yet Lachlan came home every night from down the paddock, all dusty and dirty from doing who knew what, and she was curious.

She hadn’t even seen the shearing shed.

‘I’d love to.’

‘Be ready at four? We can watch the sun set over the billabong. It’s nice out there.’

Excited at the prospect, Rowena nodded. ‘I’ll be ready.’

Seventeen

With a packet of trusty Life Savers in her pocket and a mournful Shirley bleating her displeasure as Rowena shut the vehicle door, they were off at just a few minutes after four. Reggie had packed them a picnic, wicker basket and all, which Lachlan had stowed in the back with a couple of deck chairs.

Rowena wore boots—proper ones she’d bought in town a few weeks ago—jeans and, because the days were heating up now, a plain v-necked t-shirt, fitting extra snug around her boobs. She tossed in a hoodie, though, for when the sun sank below the horizon and the chill set in.

They passed the bunkhouse and headed into the great beyond, the sky an endless blue arc ending at a horizon that seemed a million miles away. She’d spent a lot of time staring out over the deck when she was living at the bunkhouse. It had been her favourite spot for her morning coffee—back when she could stomach coffee—watching the endless play of morning light over the trees and scrub.

And now here she was, venturing forth into it.

They stopped at the shearing shed first. It was surrounded on three sides by big old gum trees, shading the stumped, corrugated-iron building from the worst of the Australian sun. Inside, the hardwood floorboards, still naturally polished from the lanolin, were in good shape.

‘We haven’t sheared a sheep for four years. We destocked during the second year of the drought and decided to go into meat sheep. It was risky—people around here thought we were crackers—but with strong lamb prices it’s paid off for us.’

Rowena frowned. ‘Don’t all sheep need shearing?’

He shook his head. ‘We run Australian Whites. They have hair, not wool. Did you not notice that with Shirley?’

‘Oh …’ She supposed, thinking about it, Shirley did have a fine fluffy covering. ‘I just assumed it was her baby coat. Like baby teeth.’

Lachlan laughed. ‘Nope, that’s her wool,’ he said, performing air quotes. ‘It does grow and get thicker over winter, but it sheds in summer, which means no shearing. And no flystrike either. They’re hardier, too, as are their lambs, and they eat anything.’

Rowena looked around the eerily empty space, which seemed to echo with long-ago voices. It felt as if the shearers had just left for the day rather than several years before. ‘Do you miss it?’

He quirked an eyebrow. ‘Shearing?’

‘Yep.’

‘Yes and no. It’s hard work. But it’s great camaraderie so …’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe one day it’ll be profitable to run Merinos again, but out here you’ve got to adapt to survive. We’ve had a couple of good wet seasons and good rain going into winter, but the next El Niño could change all that. You’re always trying to make decisions based on next year and long-range weather forecasts.’

She nodded, impressed that Lachlan was prepared to be nimble and change things up according to the conditions. Looking at farming as an outsider, it had always seemed a job steeped in traditional ways. ‘It’s good not to be stuck in your ways.’

He shrugged. ‘Can’t afford to be.’