Talk of the Town
RACHAEL
JOHNS
TALK
OF THE
Town
About the Author
Rachael Johns is an English teacher by trade, a mum 24/7, a chronic arachnophobic and a writer the rest of the time. She rarely sleeps and never irons. A lover of romance and women’s fiction, Rachael loves nothing more than sitting in bed with her laptop and electric blanket and imagining her own stories.
In 2016 The Patterson Girls was named General Fiction Book of the Year at the Australian Book Industry Awards. Rachael has finaled in a number of other competitions, including the Australian Romance Readers Awards. Jilted won Favourite Australian Contemporary Romance for 2012, The Patterson Girls won the same award for 2015 and she was voted in the Top Ten of Booktopia’s Favourite Australian Author poll in 2013.
Rachael lives in the Perth hills with her hyperactive husband, three mostly gorgeous heroes-in-training, two fat cats, a cantankerous bird and a very badly behaved dog.
Rachael loves to hear from readers and can be contacted via her website www.rachaeljohns.com. She is also on Facebook and Twitter.
Also by Rachael Johns:
Man Drought
The Hope Junction novels
Jilted
The Road to Hope
The Kissing Season (e-novella)
The Next Season (e-novella)
The Bunyip Bay novels
Outback Dreams
Outback Blaze
Outback Ghost
Outback Sisters
Secret Confessions Down and Dusty: Casey (e-novella)
The Patterson Girls
The Art of Keeping Secrets
A note from Rachael Johns
Can you believe it? Talk of the Town is my tenth print book for Harlequin Australia and my twentieth published story, but who’s counting?
One of the questions I most get asked by readers is what inspires my stories and where my ideas come from. As most writers would probably agree, this is not an easy question because every book is different. Some ideas come fully formed in your head (my book Man Drought was a little like that); some start with one tiny seed (The Patterson Girls began when I drove past a paddock of purple weeds); others grow from a real-life experience (Outback Blaze was inspired by a tragic fire at my husband’s workplace), but most ideas are like jigsaw puzzles—with a little bit of all the above working together to create inspiration magic.
Talk of the Town was definitely like this. It grew out of my love for old buildings and my fascination for ghost towns. I always wanted to write about a ghost town, but I wasn’t sure how until one day three or four years ago, I had a brief dalliance with jogging. Every day I used to run around our town (or rather try to run) and I distinctly remember going past an old house that someone had mentioned was haunted and having a visual of a young woman who’d moved there to live alone. I imagined how such a woman might feel should someone tell her the house was haunted and this one line landed in my head: ‘She had enough skeletons in her closet, she could deal with a few ghosts.’
And it was from this line the story grew. As with many ideas, I started asking questions—Who was this woman? What were her skeletons? What on earth had happened to her to make her move to a new rural town all alone? What if the house she’d bought wasn’t only haunted and run down but was located in an actual deserted (ghost) town?
I had other stories to pen and this woman was put on the backburner for a number of years, until last summer I visited an ice-creamery with my husband and our sons while we were holidaying in the south-west of WA. Suddenly I decided that I wanted my next rural romance to be set in dairy farming country and I had a clear image of a dairy farmer who was a single dad and still grieving the tragic loss of his wife. I can’t explain why, but I knew this hero was the guy I’d been waiting for for my ghost town heroine and that it was time to write this story.
But although I thought cows were kinda cute, I knew absolutely nothing about life on a dairy farm, so before I could start I had to do some research. Researching for Talk of the Town took me to a real working dairy farm in Waroona, Western Australia, where I had to get up before the crack of dawn to watch the early milking get done. Although I’m not a morning person, the process fascinated me and I decided getting to watch the sunrise every single day would be pretty special. I couldn’t wait to get started on my story.
The dairy industry across Australia has been through some hard times of late and I’ve touched on some of them briefly in this book. So as you read, I hope you’ll remember how important dairy farmers (heck, all farmers) are to all of us and, if you can, shop local!
Happy reading
Talk of the Town is dedicated to all my wonderful and faithful
readers who have been with me on my journey to this, my tenth print
book! Your support and enthusiasm for my stories means the world.
Here’s to ten more good reads together!
Contents
About the Author
A note from Rachael Johns
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Megan McCormick froze at the sound of a car door slamming outside. She’d been there five days already and hadn’t seen or heard anyone, which was exactly how she wanted it.
Thankful she always kept her door locked, she cocked her head to one side and listened to the distant mumble of conversation. The part of her that wanted to know who was out there pushed to her feet, but she’d not even taken one step before she fell back onto the seen-better-days sofa. She clutched her needle and the half-made black and white tea-cosy against her chest as if she were some kind of granny, not merely twenty-five years old. Her heart racing, she looked down into her lap to see her hands trembling.
You’re being ridiculous!
Did she really think whoever was out there had come because of her? The media might have been interested in her in Melbourne, but it was highly unlikely they’d track her down all the way out in rural Western Australia. She laughed nervously at her paranoia and forced herself to stand again. This time she dumped her crocheting on the sofa and strode across to the front window. Her fingers still shaking, she peeled back the curtain only enough to peek outside.
On the normally deserted road right out the front of the rundown, early 1900s shop she’d just moved into, she saw a once-whi
te ute. Not far from the ute stood a tall, tanned man scratching his head and a little boy tearing around madly with a football. There’d been the occasional vehicle pass through the deserted town site since she’d arrived, but only two or three a day, and every time they did, she held her breath, praying they wouldn’t stop.
None ever had, until now.
The man and boy looked out of place on the main street of Rose Hill, a tiny town, stuck somewhere in the late 1970s when most of its residents had abandoned ship for one reason or another, or so said the estate agent.
‘Dad!’
Meg startled, the curtain jolting in her hands, when the little boy shrieked and then she watched as he kicked the ball. He’d been aiming for his father but the oval-shaped ball veered in the other direction and landed in one of her tiny, weed-ridden garden beds. She let go of the curtain as if it were on fire, her heart stammering as the voices came closer to her hiding spot.
‘Not bad, mate,’ said the man.
She heard the patter of small feet and then the few thuds of bigger-sized shoes scrambling in the undergrowth right outside her house.
‘There it is,’ shouted the boy. And Megan started breathing again. Maybe now they’d get back in their car and stop intruding on her solitude.
‘Awesome,’ said the dad. ‘Let me change the tyre and then we’ll have a few more kicks.’
What? No! Her heart jumped back up into her throat; at the same time the little boy shouted, ‘Yes!’
She could almost hear him punch the air in excitement but the prospect made her palms sweat. What if the kid fell and scraped his knee? The thought of having to go outside and offer first aid made her feel physically ill. Silently, she prayed the summer sun would mean they didn’t hang around too long. As she forced breath in and out of her lungs, she told herself to be thankful it looked like a farmer who’d got a flat rather than someone from the city, who might have needed her assistance.
As she stood there, still clutching the curtain, she thought of the whole array of things she’d learned these past few years—some useful, some most-definitely not, and one of them … how to change a tyre. She’d surprised herself by how much she’d enjoyed the car maintenance course but perhaps it had been because it reminded her of her father and brother. They’d both been car mad and when she’d been reading the textbooks or tinkering with the test cars she’d felt close to them. Then again, if she were honest, eventually she’d enjoyed almost all her courses—anything and everything that had kept her busy and stopped her thinking had been a blessing.
Shaking her head clear of those thoughts, Megan cocked an ear towards the window and listened. Although she hadn’t heard the ute drive away yet, the chatter outside her window had ceased. Thinking the man had gone off to attend to the tyre and the boy to get up to who knew what kind of mischief, she risked peeling back the curtain again.
And when she did, her heart leaped up into her throat. Standing on the half-rotten windowsill outside, clinging to the glass like some kind of spider-man, was the boy. He took one look at her and he started screaming.
She screamed too as he jumped down onto the verandah.
‘Ned?’ the man shouted from his ute, startling her into action.
She yanked the curtain closed and stood, frozen, her heart pounding as she listened to the conversation unravel outside the window. The boy was crying now.
‘What is it? Did something bite you?’ The man sounded both frustrated and concerned. ‘Ned, you need to talk to me! Are you hurt?’
‘I … saw … a … ghost.’
Oh! Megan stifled an amused gasp. Not that she found the boy’s terror funny, but she’d never imagined he’d mistake her for a poltergeist.
‘Don’t be silly, son, there’s nothing there.’ Although she couldn’t see through the curtains, the warmth in the man’s voice made her imagine him ruffling the boy’s hair. ‘Maybe we should stop reading those Goosebumps books at night, hey?’
Goosebumps? She’d loved those books as a kid.
‘No, Dad.’ Ned’s voice was vehement. ‘I definitely saw something. The curtain moved and then a woman’s face was there. She looked white and a little sick. Exactly like a ghost.’
Megan frowned, her hands rushing to her face to palm her cheeks as she made a mental note to get outside in the sun a bit more.
‘And then,’ the boy continued, his tone becoming more and more agitated ‘when I screamed, she screamed too. What if she’s angry with me? What if she comes after us? What if she …’
Megan had heard enough. Putting her crocheting down on the tarnished coffee table, she pinched her cheeks in the hope of adding obviously necessary colour and then marched across to the front door. After slipping her feet into a pair of boots, she took a deep breath and opened it.
The bright light of the midday sun almost blinded her but she stepped outside and shut the door behind her. Shielding the glare with her hand, she cleared her throat. ‘Um, excuse me?’
The boy stopped rambling as he and the man turned to look at her.
Wow. Her gaze skipped from the kid to his father. Wearing dusty boots, khaki shorts and a blue chambray shirt pushed up to the elbows, he looked even better close up than he had from a distance. Her insides flickered a little, catching her by surprise. No. She’d moved here to get away from people—and, even if her situation were different, this man, with his cute little sidekick, was obviously off the shelf.
‘I told you I saw someone.’ The boy stepped closer to his dad as if he still believed she was a ghost. He had blond hair almost as light as his dad’s was dark, and it was curly—so much that he looked like an honest-to-God cherub.
The man put his hand on his son’s shoulder and drew him back against his body. Quite rude considering he didn’t know anything about her and technically, they were the ones trespassing. Unless …
He recognised her!
Her heart hitched a beat and she braced herself but his expression relaxed a little.
‘Hi,’ he said, sounding just as good as he looked.
‘Hi,’ she managed, swallowing.
‘Are you a ghost?’ asked the boy; Ned, she remembered. Now he could see her in the flesh, he sounded more intrigued than terrified.
She looked down and forced a smile. ‘Not last time I checked,’ she said, pretending to pinch her hand.
Ned laughed. ‘Well, what are you doing here then?’
‘Um …’ That question was far too complicated to answer, but she hadn’t expected visitors so she hadn’t come up with a plausible story. Rookie mistake.
‘Sorry,’ the man apologised, letting go of Ned and stepping forwards. He held out his hand but he didn’t quite smile. ‘I’m Lawson, Lawson Cooper-Jones, and this is my son, Ned. He doesn’t mean to be rude—it’s just we’ve been driving through Rose Hill for years and rarely seen any sign of life. You surprised us.’
‘I’m … I’m Meg … Meg Donald.’ Her new name almost caught in her throat, and her hand trembled as she reached out to accept his greeting. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d voluntarily touched anyone. A pleasant spark shot up her arm at the connection and she hoped he didn’t notice her cheeks flare.
‘Pleased to meet you, Meg. Have you been here long?’
‘Five days.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Wow, I didn’t even know it was for sale. Or are you renting?’
When she didn’t immediately reply, he added, ‘Sorry. None of my business.’
‘I bought it.’ She almost told him that the whole tiny town was pretty much on the market, and you could buy any one of the dilapidated properties on the once-main-street for not much more than you’d spend on a new car. But she bit her tongue, because although she had no reason to believe this man might be interested in such property when no one else had been for years, she didn’t want to risk him telling someone who might be. One could never be too careful.
‘Anyway,’ she said quickly, ‘I just wanted to check your son was okay. Nice
meeting you.’
Megan turned to head back into the house, but before she closed the door behind her, Ned asked, ‘Have you got anything to drink? It’s real hot and I’m real thirsty.’
She froze, torn between pretending she hadn’t heard him and offering him a glass of the orange juice she’d squeezed that morning. The garden might be overrun with weeds, but the old fruit trees out the back were strong and healthy. She had so many oranges and lemons she’d already used every baking, bottling and squeezing trick she had.
‘Ned!’ Lawson admonished. ‘You’ve got water in your bottle in the car.’
The child groaned. ‘But it’s hot and yuck and tastes dirty.’
Even when he whined, he was somehow still adorable. Megan remembered how long and hot summer car journeys had felt when she was young.
She took a deep breath and turned around. ‘Do you like orange juice?’
The little boy’s eyes lit up and he nodded eagerly. ‘Do I ever! Although I’m not allowed to drink it much.’ He shot an accusing look at his father.
Lawson raised an eyebrow. ‘If Meg’s offering, you can have a treat. It is hot.’ Then, he lifted his arm and wiped his brow with the back of his hand.
Ned started towards her as if about to come inside but she held her hand up to halt him. She’d spent the first three days cleaning so the place wasn’t a total bomb, but that didn’t mean she was about to invite strangers inside. No matter how hot the day, how endearing the boy or how good-looking the man. ‘I’ll bring your drinks out,’ she promised, retreating inside and closing the door before man or boy could protest.
‘Okay. Thanks,’ Ned called as Megan leaned against the back of the door and sucked in quick gasps of air to catch her breath.
When she’d woken that morning, she’d lazed in bed, listening to the kookaburras laughing in the trees outside her bedroom window, relishing the freedom to do as she pleased and the sounds of nature that had been absent from her life for so long. The novelty of living alone in her own place hadn’t worn off, but she knew that being alone and idle would drive her to insanity, or worse. She needed to keep busy, and so, determined to make the most of her time, she made a mental list of things to do to while away the long hours ahead. The house needed renovations and, although she had enough left over from her grandparents’ inheritance to survive on for a while, she also needed to come up with a way to earn in the future.