The Crossroads

by Pamela Cook

Genres: General Fiction; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Rosie O’Shea dreams of seeing the world. But the Crossroads Hotel she inherited from her husband is falling down around her ears, her bank account is empty, and family duty means she’s staying put in the outback… Drought has hit Stephanie Bailey’s sprawling yet barren property hard, forcing the sale of almost all their cattle. Meanwhile, her husband is growing as distant as the memory of rain… Sydney girl Faith Montgomery is single, out of work, and has just discovered she is adopted. Furious at being lied to for 31 years, she lands a job at the Crossroads Hotel so she can track down her biological mother without revealing who she is. One family. Three women. Will the lies they tell and the secrets they hide lead to more heartache, or will fate bring them together before it’s too late?

Release date: November 29, 2016

Publisher: Hachette Australia

Print pages: 352

Sample

Rose

Some days the dust was like a second skin. Even here, in town. A thick, red, gritty skin that clung so stubbornly to her arms and legs that when she brushed a hand across her limbs the stain on her fingertips was a surprise. Today was one of those days. Eleven o’clock in the morning and already twenty-nine degrees. Ridiculous for this time of year.

Rose O’Shea stared at her upturned palm, fascinated by the strange pattern the red particles had formed. She traced an arc from the base of her index finger to the meaty pad of flesh below her thumb. A fortune teller had told her years ago, studying the lines on her hand, that she would live a long, happy, prosperous life. At forty-nine she figured she was more than halfway through it, and while she wasn’t destitute, prosperous wasn’t a word she’d use to describe her bank balance.

She pulled out the rag tucked into the string of her apron and wiped down the bar as she gazed out through the open door of the pub. Not an awful lot to see – the odd car passing by, a few locals strolling home with their shopping bags trying to dodge the midday heat, Harry Shepherd’s cattle dog stretched out on the footpath waiting for his owner to finish his lunchtime schooner before they wandered off home.

A blowfly zoomed by Rose’s ear and she swatted it away with the cleaning cloth still clutched in her hand. ‘Bugger off.’

‘If you say so.’ Declan appeared beside her, a beer glass in one hand, the other pulling on the tap, a grin on his face.

She shook her head. ‘Don’t you even think about it. I’ve lost enough staff lately. Besides, if anyone apart from that blowie is buggering off it’s me.’

Declan lifted the tap and rested the glass of amber liquid on the bar. ‘Is that right? And where would you be buggerin’ off to this week, Mrs O?’

She looked across the room, out through the open window, but the scene she imagined was far from the one outside. Instead she saw a higgledy-piggledy roofline, a soft opalescent light and bare-branched trees lining the cobbled streets. The Seine ambled below an ancient stone bridge as she sat watching it, sipping dark, bitter coffee and nibbling on a chocolate croissant at an outside seat at a little corner patisserie. All sorts of elegant people bustled by as the afternoon turned to twilight. One by one the street lamps came to life along the Champs-Elysées, and there, presiding over the city, was the Eiffel Tower.

‘Paris,’ she sighed, coming back to reality.

The bartender delivered the drink to Harry and returned. ‘Really? I never pegged you for a romantic,’ Declan teased. ‘And who would you be takin’ along with you?’

He had the same lilt to his voice as Mick. She wouldn’t usually fraternise so casually with her backpacker staff; she preferred to eavesdrop on their tales, hear about all the places they’d been, store the information away for possible future reference. But Declan … well, she could chat to him all day. She stared back out at the quiet street, the asphalt so hot she could almost see the vapour rising into the air, the row of shops huddled in the shade beneath a tin awning. One day she’d pack a suitcase and buy that round-the-world ticket she’d always dreamed about, but it wasn’t going to be any time soon.

She considered his question. ‘Not a soul.’ She rubbed at a stain on the polished surface in front of her and dumped the cleaning cloth into a plastic bag by her feet.

‘Argh now, as someone who has been there I can assure you it’s called the City of Love for a reason.’

Rose smiled in spite herself. ‘You are going to make some girl very lucky one of these days, my friend.’

‘I’m up for it if you are.’ He wiggled his eyebrows.

Rose gave a hearty laugh. ‘Back to work.’ She forced a scowl and nodded towards the other end of the bar where a grey-headed couple perched on stools. ‘The nomads up there look like they could do with a drink.’ Harry, now that he was on his second schooner, was chewing off the couple’s ears about the local sights. Next week it would be a different couple he’d be boring to tears. Different people, same old story.

‘That they do.’ Declan shot her a wink before turning to greet the customers.

Cheeky bugger. Completely full of himself but still a breath of fresh air, especially after that last bloke she’d employed. Up and left without giving a scrap of notice, but not before he’d stuck his fingers in the till and fleeced her dry. She’d sworn she would hire a woman the next time, steer away from the bedraggled young men who landed on her doorstep looking for cash to fund the rest of their adventures. But then Declan had appeared with his Gaelic charm. True, she did have a soft spot for his accent, but he was neat and clean and easy on the eye. Damned efficient too. Hiring the backpackers was so much better then employing locals. It was the gossip factor; stickybeaks poking their noses into her business were the last thing she wanted. Given the rate things was falling apart around here, her bank manager would no doubt prefer it if she were a one-woman show, but there was only so far she could stretch herself.

Meryl the postie strode through the door, the height of fashion in her fluoro orange vest and silver bike helmet, waving an envelope about. ‘Only one for you today.’

Rose thanked her and grabbed the letter, peering over the top of her glasses to study the fine print in the top corner: Wills Shire Council. Hopefully they’d be more amenable than the Department of Environment and Heritage Protection and actually help her out with the funds to repair the place. It could certainly do with it. Her face fell as she took a minute to really look at the broken window sashes, the dry rot spreading through the timbers, the bare patches of thread in the ancient carpet. And that was only what she could see from where she was standing. Parts of the roof had rusted away, and you took your life in your hands venturing out onto the upstairs verandah. Termites. Voracious little bastards. The airconditioning had even carked it a few weeks back. She looked up at the fan whirring beneath the pressed-tin waratahs on the ceiling and thanked God for small mercies. With a bit of luck she’d be able to make a start on some of the renovations this month. If The Crossroads wasn’t heritage listed she could get away with doing it on the cheap, but the number of rules and regulations she had to follow was mind-boggling. She slipped her pinkie under the envelope’s seal to rip the thing open, but a voice boomed through the doorway, stopping her in her tracks.

‘Rosie Barnes, you haven’t changed a bit.’

She stared at the man, frowning. He seemed to know her but she didn’t have a clue about him. It took another long, hard look before she worked it out. The face was more lined, the hair above it greyer and thinner, but there was no doubt in her mind about the identity of her visitor.

The envelope slid from Rose’s hand, dragging her out of her stupor. She bent down behind the bar and picked it up, then slowly folded it into the back pocket of her jeans, took a breath.

After all these years …

‘David Ryan.’ She cleared her throat to rid her voice of its tremor as she stood. ‘What are you doing back in town?’

‘Thought I’d come out and see how a few of my old mates were doing. Start with my favourite girl.’

Mates. Not exactly a term she would have used to describe their relationship. Or rather, lack of relationship.

He took a seat across from her at the bar. Age hadn’t diminished his height although it had added an extra few kilos to his middle where his navy polo shirt wrinkled across his belly. The unruly blond mop was gone, replaced by a respectable crew cut, but his eyes were still the same striking shade of blue.

‘You’re looking good, Rosie. Hair’s a bit redder than I remember, but it suits you.’

What else do you remember?

‘Thanks. You too.’ And why the hell was she choking on her words like a nervous preschooler?

Get a grip, Rose.

‘You look good too, I mean. How are you?’

‘Older, and a bit on the bald side.’ He ran a hand over the top of his head. ‘Bald is sexy these days, so they tell me.’

‘So they tell you or so you tell yourself?’

The man shrugged and gave a quiet laugh. ‘Either or. You, my dear Rosie, haven’t aged a day.’ His smile was lopsided. That same old smile …

‘Well, since I was seventeen when we last saw each other I know for a fact that you’re full of crap.’ Seventeen and climbing out of his station wagon pulling on her knickers, but that didn’t bear thinking about. She rubbed the sweat from her palms onto her apron.

Dave snorted. ‘Same old Rosie. You always did say exactly what you thought. Have you got time for a chat? You can fill me in on what you’ve been doing for the past thirty years.’

It was actually thirty-two years, but she didn’t correct him. The bar top had been buffed to a brilliant shine. She picked up a knife and a lemon from the bowl under the counter and started to cut it into wedges. You could never be too prepared. ‘I’m a bit busy right now, Dave.’

‘Could have fooled me,’ he said.

She looked around the almost empty bar. The nomad couple and Harry were the only customers and their eyes were currently glued to Declan, who was busy spinning them a yarn.

‘Come on, Rosie, you’re the boss, aren’t you? I’m sure you can take a break.’

She was cornered. But curious. Now that the shock of seeing him again was wearing off, she wanted to know more about where he’d been all these years – and what he was doing back here. ‘I suppose I can spare a few minutes.’ She signalled to Declan, who made his way towards them. ‘Dec, can you grab us a couple of light beers?’

‘Not for me thanks, Rosie,’ Dave held his hands up in a stop-right-there gesture. ‘Bit early in the day. I’ll have a lemonade thanks, mate.’

‘A beer and a lemonade coming right up.’

Rose brushed her fringe back off her face, fluffed up her hair in an effort to hide the greys among the auburn, adjusted her T-shirt – one of her oldest – on her shoulders. What a fright she must look. Not that she needed to impress David Ryan, of all people. She lifted the divider and made her way to a corner table.

Dave sat down beside her. There was a long moment of silence before they both started to talk at once.

‘So, when did you—’

‘How long have you—’

He laughed. ‘Ladies first.’

Declan arrived with their drinks before either of them could try again. ‘Here you go. Enjoy.’ He gave Rose a wink and a thumbs up as he left.

She shook her head before turning her attention back to her visitor. ‘So, I’m not sure where to start.’ Certainly not with the last time they’d seen each other. Her stomach fluttered.

‘Well, I know you married an Irishman.’ He gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘And I heard he passed away a few years back.’

She bit down on the soft flesh inside her cheek. ‘You’ve heard a lot.’

‘Bush telegraph, Rosie, you know what it’s like. I’ve kept in touch with a few people out here. News travels.’

‘Hmm, that it does.’ She caught herself fiddling with her wedding ring and dropped her hands.

‘I’m sorry about your husband.’

He sounded genuine. But then he always was a genuine sort of bloke. ‘Thanks, Dave. How about you?’ She’d heard, of course, that he’d married and moved to Brisbane, but that was about as far as it went.

‘I lost Kay eighteen months ago.’

‘Sorry to hear that.’ She really was. Grief was a torture she wouldn’t wish on anyone.

Dave screwed up his face and stared out the window. ‘You’d know better than most how hard it is. I keep thinking I’ll see her walk through the door but then …’

His voice trailed off and Rose followed his gaze to the life-sized statue across the street. An Ichthyosaurus. Itchy to his friends. Farms in the district were dying, shop fronts were boarded up all over town but the local tourism scene was alive and kicking thanks to the dinosaur trail. Itchy and his prehistoric mates. Poor buggers, stranded in that inland sea, never to escape, stuck in the middle of nowhere. She looked back at the man seated opposite her at the table, his brow furrowed, hands clasped and resting in his lap. He’d got away and she’d never really expected to see him again.

‘So, what brings you out this way after all these years?’

Dave pursed his lips, tapping the pads of his thumbs together. He leaned back in his seat and when he turned his head Rose was shocked by the glassy sheen in his eyes. ‘Taking a few weeks, visiting all the old haunts, seeing a few people. I’m thinking about moving here again.’

A strangled noise slipped from her throat before she had time to choke it back.

If he heard it he didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘The city’s not for me, Rosie. It was Kay who wanted to move in the first place. We had a good life, but my kids have their own families now and I’m at a bit of a loose end. Unit living is so claustrophobic. There’s no space. Nothing to look at. I miss the dirt.’

She gave a manic laugh. ‘Are you crazy? Some days I think if I see one more speck of the stuff I’ll scream.’

‘Probably am crazy. I don’t know.’ He was on a roll and there was no stopping him. ‘My daughter, Mel, thinks I’m still grieving, but it’s not just that. Of course I miss Kay, but it’s more. I miss the land. And the people.’ Dave picked up his glass and guzzled down his lemonade.

Was this actually happening? Was David Ryan really sitting across from her pouring his heart out? The last thing she needed was him back in town – a constant reminder of the past she’d left well and truly behind. Her hands had tightened themselves into fists beneath the table. She uncurled them and picked up her glass, suddenly wishing she’d ordered something stronger, a little Dutch courage was what she needed. Since there wasn’t any of that to be had she mustered up the real thing.

‘Coming back might not be as easy as you think.’

‘You left. Couldn’t wait to get out of the place, if I remember rightly.’ He waved a hand towards the bar. ‘Doesn’t seem like coming back did you any harm.’

An angry heat built in her chest and rose to scald her cheeks.

If you only knew.

She looked away, ran her eyes around the collection of faces smiling out from the frames on the walls. People she and Mick had met over the years, right here in this pub. David was right, of course. She had made a life for herself back in Birralong and yes, it had been a good one. ‘That was a long time ago. And I was gone for less than a year. Things have changed a lot since then.’

‘Place still looks the same to me.’ He narrowed his eyes a little, pinned them on her. ‘Weren’t you heading off on a big adventure when you left here, travelling the world? Doesn’t sound like you got very far.’

He laughed quietly and it took everything she had not to reach across the table and slug him. She plastered a smile onto her face instead. ‘I was a kid. Homesick.’ Not entirely the truth but not a straight-out lie.

‘My point exactly. You were born and bred in Birralong, like me. It’s in our blood.’

‘What would you do? If you came back?’

‘Oh, I don’t know, buy myself a bit of land. Try my hand at being a farmer.’

A sudden laugh burst from Rose’s lips. ‘You do know we’re in the middle of a drought?’ Hectares and hectares of dry earth stretched for thousands of kilometres in every direction. What cattle was left had to be fed on food trucked in at higher prices than most people could afford. Life on the land had never been easy, but right now it was harder than ever. And David Ryan, who had never farmed a day in his life, thought he could just waltz on in and become some sort of cattle baron.

‘I know, I know, probably not the best timing.’

Now there was an understatement. And her chance to convince him that moving back was a very bad idea. ‘There’s barely been a drop of rain in the past three years. A heap of people have up and left.’ Rose studied the bubbles foaming around the rim of her glass as she waited for her words to take effect. ‘Awful state of affairs. The roo problem’s getting out of hand again too. Thousands of them. It’s like a plague. Even with the cull they’re completely out of control. Strathmore is riddled with them.’

‘Strathmore? Bernie Bailey’s place?’

Rose nodded. ‘My daughter married Bernie’s son. They’re running it now.’

‘A daughter, eh?’

‘Yes.’ Her spine stiffened. Was she really having this conversation? The best she could do now was try to steer it back on track and then get the hell out of it. ‘Just the one. Stephanie. She’s twenty-seven. And a grandson. Jake. He’s almost five.’

Dave shook his head, huffed out a smile. ‘Hard to believe we’re both grandparents. I still feel like I’m a teenager half the time.’

She stood up and twisted the edges of her mouth into what she hoped was some sort of apology. ‘Well, I’d better get back to work.’

Dave frowned briefly before standing. He placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘Is everything all right, Rosie?’

‘Yes, yes, everything’s fine. I just have a few things I need to get done.’

‘Of course.’ He took a step forward and kissed her cheek. ‘It’s good to see you again. Been way too long. I’m housesitting for the Tinsdales so I’ll pop in and have dinner one night. We can have a proper catch-up.’ He turned to leave but pivoted back. ‘Or I could come and try my hand at being a barman.’

She gave some sort of half-hearted laugh as she watched him leave, her knees shaking, her hands gripping the edge of the table. David Ryan. One of the town’s most eligible bachelors in his day. Two years above her at school. She’d melted every time he said hello to her back then – all the girls had, but she’d taken her crush one step too far. He’d already left town with Kay by the time she’d come running back from Sydney with her tail between her legs.

All these years later and she’d almost managed to convince herself he’d never existed.

She picked up the two glasses and returned them to the bar. Declan had scuttled off to the storeroom to see what needed to be ordered. The nomads were gone, along with Harry, and the place was deserted. A sudden emptiness took hold of her as she looked around the room that had been both work and home for the past twenty-five years. There were days when she’d give anything to get out of the place, to do what she’d planned as a teenager, to travel. Seeing Dave again had dredged up that old urge to flee, but she wasn’t seventeen anymore. She had a life here, responsibilities, promises to uphold. And a pub to run. The past was no more than a story – a story she’d never told anyone.

A secret that was hers to keep.

Stephanie

Scones. You couldn’t get any more clichÉd when it came to country cooking than a batch of scones, which was exactly why Stephanie was sliding the final tray into the oven. She banged the door closed and set the timer. Grandma Barnes’s famous scones were always a hit, and Stephanie hoped that today would be no different.

Hope. It was about the only thing she had an abundance of right now.

She gave a soft sigh and glanced skywards through the kitchen window. Brilliant blue as far as the eye could see. Her heart hurt just looking at it. Even after three years of solid drought she woke every day hoping that when she parted the curtains heavy grey clouds would be looming. Hoping that the rain would come and their property – and their livelihood – would no longer be under threat.

Hoping that life would get back to what it was before.

She dropped the dishcloth into the sink. Everything was just about ready. The first two batches of scones were lined up on the wire cooler, golden brown pillows of dough that smelled like Sundays. It reminded her of afternoon teas after a big lamb roast for lunch. Of damper and the old cast-iron kettle heating in the fireplace. Her dad and grandpa sharing a couple of long necks later on the verandah, yabbering about the price of wool and how many shearers would be in town next week and how good that would be for business – both the pub and the property – while the sun turned the horizon to tangerine.

So much had changed.

There was no use wallowing in misery, though. There’d been worse droughts and the generations before had all survived them. This land had been passed down to them to take care of – well, to Bryce really, but she was his wife and they were in it together. Gritting their teeth and staying positive was their only option, which was exactly why a busload of tourists was about to descend on Strathmore. She checked the clock above the sink: 10.18.

Twelve minutes to arrival time.

She reached around to untie her apron, folded it in half and half again and returned it to the bottom drawer. It was far too hot for denim but she wanted to look the part, and jeans and western boots were her standard uniform. She undid the cuffs on her shirt and rolled the sleeves up a little. The pink checks contrasted nicely with her tanned forearms and the collar made it dressier than her usual singlet top. All she needed was a hat to complete the look. She plucked her favourite from the hall-stand, the one with the feathered band around the brim, popped it on and took a look in the mirror. Not too bad. A bit of make-up probably wouldn’t have gone astray. She pulled a tube of pale pink gloss from her back pocket and ran it over her lips. A smudge of dough had somehow found its way to her eyebrow and she wiped it away before assessing the final result. The woman looking back at her wasn’t exactly model material but she was good enough – certainly good enough to play host to a busload of sightseers.

The anticipation of it all was making her giddy. As much as she loved Strathmore, there were times when she missed the happy chaos of The Crossroads, people coming and going, the stories and laughter and noise. One day on the farm could so easily roll into the next, especially now with the stock so run down and not as much physical labour to be done. Bryce hadn’t exactly been great company lately, either. He’d shrunk so far inside his shell that any form of real adult conversation was pretty much non-existent. And as much as she adored Jake, there was only so much you could talk about to a preschooler – or a horse, for that matter. Her mood flattened. She needed to make sure Bryce was psyched up for their visitors and she had a pretty good idea where to find him.

Walking down the hall towards the office, she practised moulding her expression into something resembling calm. What was that saying her grandmother had about pouring water on oil? Or was it the other way around? Anyway, it wasn’t like she wanted strangers traipsing through their house and across their land either, but if the extra income was going to help pay their weekly grocery bills they both needed to suck it up. She paused at the door of the office. There he was, right where she knew he’d be. Even from behind he oozed tension, his shoulders hunched, his hands clenched into fists on either side of the computer. She angled her head to catch a glimpse of the screen. The weather channel. Same as always. Couldn’t he find a better way to spend his day than scanning the internet? You only had to look outside to see that there wasn’t any rain on the way any time soon. She took a few more seconds to shake away her irritation and smooth out the frown she could feel on her brow before stepping into the room.

‘Hey, babe,’ she said. Pouring oil on troubled waters, that was it, and she hoped she was doing it now. ‘Almost ten-thirty. The bus will be here soon.’

Nothing.

‘Bryce?’

One hand dropped to his thigh and he shifted slightly in the chair but made no effort to turn around. ‘I heard you.’

‘Okay. I’ll go find Jake and we’ll see you outside?’

Nothing.

‘Okay?’

Was it that hard to answer a simple question?

‘I said I heard you, didn’t I?’ He swivelled the chair towards her. She drew in a sharp breath at the flash of lightning in his eyes.

It stirred her own thunder. ‘You could show a bit more interest in this whole thing.’

‘In what?’ He scowled at her, a crimson stain colouring his cheeks. ‘Friggin’ stickybeaks dropping by to feast on our misery? This was your brain child, not mine.’

‘Do you think I like it any more than you do? I’m doing this – no, we’re doing this – to bring in some extra money, not for the entertainment value. At least it’s something practical.’ She waved a hand in the direction of the computer. ‘Beats sitting on that thing for hours every day.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ He stood, hands splayed at his waist. His faded work jeans sat low on his hips and his grey shirt hung loose. Couldn’t he wear a belt? Make an effort to look presentable?

‘I’m saying that checking the weather reports every half-hour isn’t going to make it rain. There’s plenty of other stuff to be done around here.’

He huffed. ‘Like tend to the three sheep and fifty-two cows we have left?’

A vision of the herds that once crowded the station filled Stephanie’s head. Thousands of sheep feeding on land that used to be ripe for grazing. Better days. Days that would return.

‘Look, let’s not do this again.’ She took a step forward, reached out and held his arm, ran her thumb over his bicep. ‘I know it’s not ideal. But it’s temporary, okay?’ She forced a small smile onto her face as she leaned towards him, slipping her hand into his when he nodded and sighed.

A bell chimed. ‘That’s the last lot of scones.’ She turned and made her way back towards the kitchen, a spring returning to her step now that it was almost time. Bryce followed, a few paces behind. Fingers crossed they would get through the morning with him at least pretending to be pleasant. He had to be.

‘Where’s Jake?’ he asked.

She flicked the oven off and eased the tray onto the bench. ‘I think he’s playing with his trucks out the front. He’s pretty excited about our visitors.’

‘At least someone is.’ So much for pleasant. It was going to be up to her to pull them through. She abandoned the tea towels and closed the short distance between them, looping her hands at the back of his neck.

‘It’s not forever. Let’s just see how it goes.’

Bryce nodded. His palms were solid and warm against the small of her back as he brushed a kiss to her forehead. His skin had that same earthy scent she’d always loved, but the spark that used to light his eyes was gone. It had been missing for a while now. The only thing that would bring it back was rain. Not the paltry showers that fell briefly with the grumbling afternoon storms they sometimes had but days and days of a good solid drenching.

A motor hummed in the driveway and they turned together, looking through t. . .