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  That’s rich, thought Lara. From the good-humoured look on Tim’s face, her brother-in-law was thinking the same thing.

  Tim left with Lucy and his newspapers, Dallas busied himself sorting the outgoing mail and Lara served customers.

  Karen and Denise lingered, catching up on gossip.

  ‘Did I tell you about my grandson, Lara? Real snazzy dresser and he cooks. He’d be a good catch.’

  Lara’s reply was sharp.

  ‘Good for him. The milk’ll be three dollars, Karen. Only the paper today, Denise?’

  The older ladies exchanged an incredulous look. Even Dallas glanced up from the mail, his brows knitted together.

  ‘Mrs Beggs’ store has a history of friendly service,’ said Karen pointedly.

  Lara injected some over-the-top cheer into her tone. ‘See you at midday, Karen.’ The ladies chuckled as they left.

  ‘Darn do-gooders,’ said Dallas. ‘They try to set me up all the time, too.’

  Lara swallowed her snort of disbelief just in time. Was he serious? They were the same age, but with premature balding, a bad attitude and terrible dress sense, Dallas wasn’t the world’s most eligible bachelor. She couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to inflict Dallas on their single friends or family.

  ‘It’s like a blood sport around here,’ he continued, tucking his colourful shirt into his jeans. ‘I’m perfectly happy by myself. In fact, I should get it tattooed on my forehead, to save everyone time and effort.’

  Lara had often thought the same thing, not that she would tell him.

  Lara stripped off as soon as she got home, pleased to be out of her pie-scented clothes. She tugged on her running tights and a singlet, but the phone rang before she’d even laced her sneakers.

  ‘You’ll never guess what I found out today.’ Penny’s tone carried the smile in her voice.

  ‘Mrs Beggs has made a miraculous recovery and I can go back to cleaning leg ulcers and immunising babies full time?’

  Penny chuckled. ‘Ha, smarty pants. I was going to tell you there’s another runner in town and he happens to be six-foot, brown-haired, blue-eyed and hunky.’

  Toby’s a runner?

  ‘He’s also got a daughter about the same age as Evie. She probably goes to the same boarding school and everything.’

  Did he now …

  ‘And that’s important to me because … ?’ Lara peered out the window, annoyed at the tiny spark of interest Penny’s news ignited.

  ‘Geez, I discover the only other marathon fanatic in town, and you can’t even manage a thank you? I thought you’d like a running buddy,’ she said, attempting to sound indignant.

  Not this again.

  The mobile rang again immediately after she’d finished talking to Penny.

  ‘Hey, Mum. How was the shop?’

  Lara’s grouchy frown turned upside down at the sound of her daughter’s voice. ‘Hi honey. Not bad for my first month. It hasn’t changed much since I used to work there,’ she admitted.

  Lara moved into the kitchen as they spoke. It was her favourite room in the house, the one that reminded her the most of Evie. They’d planned the renovation together, and both rolled up their sleeves and made a mighty mess pulling the shabby old kitchen to pieces. Every fitting, every cupboard and every appliance had been a joint decision, from the navy cabinetry to the stone benchtops. The new kitchen hadn’t been cheap, even with her brother-in-law Rob providing mates’ rates, but Lara had allowed them the luxury. It was her reward for so many years spent fighting for a say in the money she earned and the life she lived.

  ‘I knew you’d get back into it. Any buyers yet?’

  ‘This is Bridgefield we’re talking about, not Daylesford or Dunkeld. The real-estate guy’s bringing someone through tomorrow.’

  Fluffy clouds had threatened all day, and they gathered as Evie filled her in on the comings and goings of school. She loved that Evie still told her everything and hoped it would always stay that way.

  Through the window, Lara watched Basil dash for his kennel. Moments later, a clap of thunder came from nowhere. The mountain ranges disappeared behind sheets of rain, which pelted the dusty glass. A burst of lightning illuminated the sky. No running tonight.

  ‘Miss you. Basil’s missing you too, Evie.’

  ‘At least you’ve got him to keep you company, Mum.’

  Lara thought about it long after Evie had signed off. The dog drove her nuts sometimes, but he was as loyal as they came, quick to alert her if a car ventured down their driveway, and officially the main man in her life. Exactly how she liked it.

  Toby set up the camera-cleaning station on his dining table, and began his weekly ritual of cleaning the tools of his trade, slowly and fastidiously eradicating the dust that could make the difference between a ‘meh’ photo and an award-winning shot.

  The Nikon had cost a month’s wages years ago. Although he’d told Holly there was nothing wrong with it, the upgrades on the top-of-the-line model had been beckoning to him for quite some time. It was worth the effort to at least attempt an award-winning entry in the national photography contest.

  The upcoming full moon was sure to attract the young fox he’d spotted skulking around the shearing shed on his early-morning runs. If the wind was blowing from the south, Toby could find a spot downwind to frame the animal against the old shed and, if the skies stayed clear, silhouette the Grampians in the background.

  Lara’s email came through as he was repacking his camera bag. It was short and to the point, much like the woman herself. ‘Thank you for the article. Volunteer roster almost full. Much appreciated. Lara’

  He walked through the house, switching off lights with a spring in his step. She was different to any other woman he knew, there was no doubt about it, and he wanted to find out more. She was a little socially awkward too, compared to her sister Penny, who had dropped into the newspaper office that afternoon to order an enlargement of Eddie and Pearl’s photo.

  He hadn’t known Lara was a runner until then, but now Penny had mentioned it, there was something in her gait that made it obvious.

  ‘Maybe you’ll bump into Lara when you’re running,’ Penny had said, smiling as she paid for her print. Toby put his sports watch on charge, ready for the next morning and slid into bed.

  Maybe I will, he thought as he drifted off to sleep.

  Six

  The sky was clear the following day and Lara dressed quickly, eager to hit the road. She paused to lock the door and slip the key into its hiding place. It might be the only house in the district locked on a daily basis, but the peace of mind was invaluable. Basil sat in his kennel, alert and awaiting her command.

  ‘One paw out of place and you’ll be tied up for the rest of the week,’ she told him sternly. Basil cocked his head to the side, his tail thumping. ‘Seriously. Best behaviour, right? No buggering off like last time. We can’t chase the first thing that smells good, can we?’

  Suddenly, Toby crept into her mind. She blinked away the image. Her judgement of men was obviously flawed. Even if he was single, and did have handsome written all over his face, she didn’t have time for any more drama in her life.

  Lara planned her day out as she ran, racking her brain for volunteers to fill the final gaps in the general store roster. The sun was a few inches off the horizon when she emerged from the tree-lined avenue of honour, planted to remember soldiers who hadn’t returned from war, but there was no sign of Basil in the yard.

  If he’s chasing those damn donkeys around McCluskey’s paddock …

  The landline started to ring when she was unlocking her front door, and she nearly did a hamstring in her attempt to catch the call.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, sweat pouring down her midriff. But instead of a shop volunteer, like she’d hoped, it was McCluskey.

  ‘Your dog’s on the loose again,’ he grumbled, slurping coffee.

  ‘Sorry, Clyde. He was with me five minutes ago.’

  ‘He was harassing my donk
eys four minutes ago. If you can’t keep him under control, you should keep him on the chain,’ he said before hanging up abruptly.

  No wonder he’d won the unofficial award for Bridgefield’s grouchiest hobby farmer for the past three decades. How many times had his sheep squeezed through the saggy fences and into Lara’s pasture? He refused to go halves in replacing the boundary fences, and she didn’t have the money to fork out the entire cost. And he never remembered to get his steers de-horned, meaning they were not only annoying, but dangerous, every time they jumped into the paddock with Lara’s cows.

  Lara made a face and talked to the dial tone. ‘No worries, Clyde. You have a fabulous day too.’

  As she retraced her footsteps down the driveway she thought about taking him a plate of biscuits tonight to smooth things over. She was considering which recipe might work best when she spotted Basil in the long grass on the other side of the road. Four black-and-tan paws pointed skywards as the kelpie rolled from side to side, his tongue hanging out in delight.

  ‘Basil, you grommit! C’mon,’ she said, clipping a lead onto his collar. ‘Phewee!’ The rancid smell made her stomach flip, but the present he dropped at her feet was even worse.

  Blowflies clustered around the half-decomposed magpie. Basil stood at her feet, waiting to be lavished with praise.

  ‘Gross,’ she said, dragging him away.

  McCluskey’s ute rumbled down the driveway on the other side of her fence. She lifted a hand to wave. Her neighbour’s response was a slow, distinctly ticked-off shake of his head.

  Seriously? No biscuits for you, misery-guts, Lara decided. As she walked, her gaze shifted a few paddocks over.

  In the early morning half-light, a tall figure loped along the track. Her running track.

  Toby Paxton?

  Penny had been right. Not only was he a runner, but he was an early bird. And as she headed back inside, Lara begrudgingly conceded those two qualities meant a heck of a lot more in her books than a handsome face.

  Toby collected the empty coffee mugs that had somehow multiplied on his desk and pushed the clutter of newspapers, magazines and notepads into something resembling a pile. He hadn’t been there long enough to get a filing system together, and with the poor state of the business, tidiness had been the least of his worries.

  He dumped the coffee mugs in the tearoom sink, gave them a half-hearted scrub and passed the rest of the dishes through the soapy water while he was at it. Working in a small newspaper meant that his position as editor incorporated news gathering, advertising, sales, photography and—he examined a cup rimmed with the receptionist’s pink lipstick—it seemed he was also chief bottle washer.

  Bide your time and you can slide into the top job in Ballarat, Toby reminded himself, loading a backpack with his camera, a sandwich he’d brought from home and a cold bottle of water. It wouldn’t take him long to ride out to Bridgefield Lake, and in the middle of the day, exercise was always a welcome respite from arse-in-seat syndrome.

  Toby buckled his bike helmet, already picturing his lunchtime vista. The lake was a great spot to eat, and if he happened to get a few nice photos between mouthfuls, it was worth the short ride.

  ‘Hold on, Cadel Evans,’ the receptionist called out. ‘You’ve got a phone call from the big boss.’

  Toby leaned his bike up against the reception counter and strode into his office, shutting the door behind him.

  ‘Mick, what’s wrong?’

  Toby’s boss and mentor gave a sharp laugh. ‘What would you say if I told you nothing was wrong, Paxton?’

  ‘I’d call bullshit, Mick.’

  ‘That’s my man, always on alert. Thought I’d trained you well enough to know there’s no such thing as off-duty when you’re a newshound. We’ve got a problem with one of your advertisers.’

  Toby’s heart sank. He’d brought a few new advertisers on board since starting at the newspaper, but not everyone had appreciated the shake-up, especially the older advertisers who were used to paying a pittance for prime ad space, when the paper was barely making a profit.

  Mick talked Toby through a few suggestions to balance out the new advertisers while keeping the older ones happy. ‘You’ve got a big job ahead of you, Paxton, but try not to get too many noses out of joint, right? You’ll need to nail the balance if you want to fill my shoes when I retire.’

  Toby scribbled the revised ad rates on a Post-it note and stuck it to the screen of his computer. When Mick said jump, the necessary response was, ‘How high?’

  ‘Leave it with me, I’ll smooth it over,’ said Toby.

  ‘Be sure you do. What’s on for the rest of the week, Paxton?’

  ‘Nothing out of the ordinary. I’m working over the weekend, boss. And I’m about to volunteer at the general store.’

  ‘Ah, going undercover to get the inside scoop on the general store sale? Your article was good this week, really good.’

  ‘It’ll be an easy way to immerse myself in the community.’ Purely work related, he told himself.

  Mick continued, admiration in his voice. ‘I like it, Paxton. It’ll be a cracking little series, and generate loads of traction on our social media. Imagine how many papers you’ll sell if you sniff out any dodgy dealings or hot leads? Smart thinking.’

  The buckle of the bike helmet felt tight underneath Toby’s chin. He wasn’t trying to trip anyone up. It wasn’t like there was a huge untapped market he could infiltrate; the newspaper only covered Bridgefield and a handful of the smaller local areas. He was surprised the Advertiser was still in circulation. Its mantle as the longest-running country paper was its saving grace, and it had to be one of the smallest towns in Victoria to still have a weekly publication.

  ‘While I’ve got you, Paxton, have you heard anything about that Kingsley bloke? Your quiet country town cropped up in yesterday’s newsroom meeting. Remember the story we ran up here about a sex-tape scandal?’

  Toby’s ears pricked up. He hadn’t been assigned to the story but he’d followed the blackmail case in the media. He’d never understood men who justified behaviour like that. His blood ran cold at the thought of Holly falling prey to such a man.

  ‘Bastards like that give towns like this a bad name,’ Toby said, shaking his head. ‘Nobody’s mentioned it since I arrived. Anything new happening with the case?’

  Mick cleared his throat. ‘Still in jail for now.’

  Where he belongs.

  ‘But keep your ear to the ground. If he lived in Bridgefield, he obviously has connections there. If we can get a sob story or two, then we might pull in a few advertising dollars to run on one of those promo days.’

  Promo days? ‘You’ve lost me, Mick.’

  ‘You know, they’ve got days for everything now,’ said Mick. ‘Beanies for brain cancer, crazy-sock day for endangered crocodiles, that type of thing. The advertising department has been spit-balling angles. There’s some good coin in it if you come up with something from one of the victims, now you’re at the scene of the crime, so to speak. They could run it on White Ribbon day, or whatever awareness campaign they use for domestic violence.’

  The conversation weighed on Toby’s mind as he pedalled past the Bush Nursing Centre and across the bridge to the lake. Advertising dollars put food on the table, but Bridgefield was different to the city. He was working to build a rapport with the locals, and he was pretty sure they’d rescind their warm welcome if he started chasing city-style exposés or exclusives.

  Investigative journalism to uncover an important issue or save people at risk? Absolutely. But for the express purpose of padding out an advertising feature? That had hairs on it.

  Toby paused at the lookout. The mountains were reflected in the lake’s vast surface, creating a highly Instagram-worthy panorama. And if he turned back in the direction he’d come, he had a spectacular view of the town centre and the farms surrounding it like a patchwork quilt.

  Mick might be the best at his job, but his idea wasn’t going to wa
sh in a small country town. Toby would keep an ear to the ground, as requested, but he’d be the one to decide how far to go for the story.

  Lara rushed through her morning at the nursing centre, and arrived at the general store to find Eddie Patterson ready for the afternoon shift.

  ‘You’re making me look bad, Eddie. Rolling up early and working late. The new owners will be delighted to hear we’ve got such a great team of volunteers,’ she said, scrubbing her hands in the sink.

  He blushed at the compliment, radiating so much happiness that Lara couldn’t help but smile. She listened to the baker working with Eddie to prepare the week’s worth of pies. Most small stores stuck with the bog-standard mass-produced pies, but house-made pastries had always been Bridgefield’s calling card.

  Lara sorted the mail with one eye on the front counter, where Dallas was serving customers, and the other on Eddie and the baker. After double-checking Eddie’s ingredients, the baker gave the okay to start the industrial mixer.

  ‘Put the guard down,’ he prompted. Eddie followed the instructions to a tee and was soon pulling pastry dough from the mixer.

  She hoped the new owners would continue the initiative. As well as workplace skills and social opportunities for people with a disability, the initiative brought joy to both the participants and the general store volunteers. And from the conversations she’d overheard earlier that week, it had sparked a new wave of community connections.

  ‘I hear Jaylee’s doing sewing lessons with Nanna Pearl,’ she said, watching Eddie light up at the mention of his best friend, a bright young woman with cerebral palsy whose cheery nature lit up every room she entered.

  ‘Jaylee making skirts,’ he grinned. ‘Pretty ones.’

  Lara returned to the counter, her smile dimming slightly as Dallas sniffed.

  ‘Waste of time if you ask me,’ he said in a lowered voice.

  She raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I mean, he’s never going to run his own bakery, is he?’ Dallas went on. ‘It’s all warm and fuzzy in theory, but the baker could pump out twice as many pies in half the time without Eddie slowing him down. Is it really worth it?’