Cowboy Town (23 page)

Chapter One

"
No one can make you feel inferior without your consent
."

Eleanor Roosevelt

Perhaps my parents should have named me Eleanor.  Maybe then I would have possessed some of her strength, wisdom and courage.

My mother loves to tell the story of how my sister and I were named.  You see, she had this obsession with the television series Green Acres, and she also had an obsession with Zsa Zsa and Eva Gabor.  Actually, she had an obsession with Hollywood royalty period, but she held a particular fondness for the Gabor sisters.  When she fell pregnant with my sister, she was dying to call her Zsa Zsa, but my father told her in no uncertain terms that she was
not
calling his little girl Zsa Zsa.  He managed to convince my mother (with the promise of buying her a Poodle puppy that she could call Zsa Zsa) to call my sister ‘Kennedy’, after Jackie Kennedy Onassis.  He argued that Jackie was a well-respected former first lady and it was a good omen.  They couldn’t call my sister ‘Jackie’ because they had an old sheep dog with the same name.  Mum agreed, thinking it sounded
old-worldly
and
timeless
, so Kennedy Monroe (after Marilyn, of course) Crawley was born.

Three years after Kennedy was born, I came along.  My mother begged my father to name me Eva, but he wanted to name me Ava, after Ava Gardner.  He said with a namesake like that, I would be the most beautiful little girl in the world.  So, with visions of a delicate, brown haired, pouty lipped beauty in her mind, my mother agreed.  My middle name, Elizabeth, comes from another dark haired beauty – Elizabeth Taylor.

My mother and father had spent three years dedicating themselves to catering to Kennedy’s every whim.  Needless to say, when I came along she got her nose put out of joint because she was no longer the center of their attention.  My sister was and is a spoiled brat.  She was never good at sharing -
Anything
; our parents, her toys, her clothes, her food.  She despised me right from beginning for intruding on her perfect life.  It got gradually worse as we were growing up.  I was always beneath her, in her eyes.  She made sure to tell me this on a regular basis and it was exacerbated because I had to wear her hand-me-down clothing and shoes.  She was popular at school – smart, funny and gorgeous.  A triple threat.  She was Queen Bee and had a large following of minions who did whatever she said, when she said.  Mostly, she told them to tease me, make up stories about me and belittle me.  She regularly made it public knowledge that I wasn’t
important
or
special
enough to wear new clothes and that’s why I wore her old clothing.  She liked to put me down to build herself up and unfortunately, I wasn’t strong enough to resist her constant beat downs. After a while, I started to believe everything she said about me. 

I was ugly.

I would never be as well-proportioned as her.

I was too chunky.

I was not as smart as her.

I would never be classically beautiful like she was.

No man would ever love me, especially when they could love her.

Her attacks were relentless for years.  I couldn’t escape them.  I saw her at school and I lived with her at home.  It was constant.

Throughout our teenage years she garnered a lot of notice from the boys.  She loved the attention but she loved to rub my nose it even more.

There’s no boy in this town that will want you, Ava.  And if by the grace of God they do, they’ll be my sloppy seconds and you’ll have to live your life knowing they settled for second best with you because they couldn’t have me forever.

It was probably the only thing she said to me that I
didn’t
believe. 
Surely she couldn’t be that much of a slut.
  Our town was small, sure, but I didn’t think she would have been with
every
guy in our age range.  In all honesty, it should have been the only thing she ever said to me that I
did
believe.  But, alas, I would find out the hard way that when my sister said she’d make sure I got her sloppy seconds, she meant it.

I grew up on a cattle station in Pine Creek, Northern Territory, Australia.  Ours wasn’t the smallest in the area, but it also wasn’t the biggest.  We only ran cattle unlike some of the other stations in the area which had crops and sheep, along with cattle.  My father employed five workers to help him out and because he didn’t have any sons to leave the property to when he retired, he made no secret of the fact he’d like Kennedy or me to marry one of the local boys so he could pass the farm down.  His prime preference was one of the Henley brothers.  My father thought it was an omen that he had two daughters and Maggie and Scott Henley had been blessed with two sons
and
our properties were joined by a boundary fence.  So, this would mean should my father’s wishes come true and one of his girls married a Henley, we could tear down the fence and have one massive station.  My father thought it was a perfect solution and my mother couldn’t agree more.  They would never miss an opportunity to voice their wishes throughout my childhood.  Jackson and Jeremy Henley are identical twins and they’re the same age as Kennedy so naturally my parents romanticized about marrying Kennedy off to one of them.  I don’t really think they ever once factored me into it.  My parents were unashamed in their pursuit and encouraged my sister to date each of the boys.  She was allowed extended curfews, increased pocket money – anything she wanted as long as she fed their whims. 

I had always had a secret crush on Jeremy.  I’m not sure why I liked him more than Jackson but I did.  It was always like that.  I never felt anything for Jackson that wasn’t friendship.  Jeremy was a whole other story.  Every time I saw him, I’d get butterflies in my stomach and my palms would sweat.  And every time he called me
mate
, it felt like those butterflies had turned into knives and were twisting in my gut.  He was tall, tanned, gorgeous and funny with dark hair and crystal clear blue eyes which had the ability to hypnotize.  When he wasn’t at school, he was working on his farm and all that activity had ensured his body was toned and defined.  I remember feeling green with envy any time one of the girls at school would fawn over him; asking him if they could touch his six pack and then gushing as they ran their hands over his muscled abdomen.  I never asked him, but that didn’t mean I didn’t look when he lifted his shirt.

Many times during my teenage years, my parents invited Jeremy and Jackson over for dinner.  They we so blatant with their intentions – they would insist that Kennedy sit in between Jeremy and Jackson and they would spend the entire night raving about how wonderful and talented and funny their first born was.  I would sit off to the side mentally rolling my eyes at their melodramatics. 

But it didn’t matter whether we had dinner guests or not; I was never really acknowledged, noticed or included. 

Always a wall flower.
 

At least that’s how I felt when I was growing up.  I don’t think it was intentional on my parent’s behalf.  I think they just spent so much time fussing over my sister and trying to please her that I got pushed into the background and that’s where I stayed.  It suited me fine though; I was never a child who wanted to be the center of attention.  Where my sister was a show pony and an attention seeker, I was a quiet achiever who liked to escape on the back of my horse. 

Now that I’m an adult, I’m embarrassed to admit the number of times I would ride my horse along the boundary fence hoping to catch sight of Jackson.  A time or two he would be there, fixing a fence or driving past checking cattle, but the other thousand odd times I rode there proved to be fruitless.

When Kennedy would boast about having a date with Jeremy, I would simply shrink away, saddle up my horse and ride for hours.  There’s nothing more amazing in the world than cantering across a paddock on the back of a mountainous beast with the wind rushing through your hair and the only sound you hear is the thud of the horse’s hooves pounding on the ground.  I spent a lot of time with my horse, Jarrah, throughout my teenage years.  She was my best friend. 
My only real friend.

Most of the kids in our town were sent off to boarding school once they reached high school.  My parents chose not to send us away so the few friends I made in school soon forgot about me once they left for the city.  Sure, we’d catch up when they came home for term break but it was never the same.  I was friendly with Jackson and Jeremy, but Kennedy was always more their style. The boys always considered me to be a mate.  This was probably because I was a tomboy and average looking, whereas Kennedy was girly and very pretty.  A teenage boys’ wet dream.

Chapter Two

Over the years, I had two significant
moments
with Jeremy. 

I’d just gotten my license.  I was seventeen.  I’d spent the day in town at a festival that Pine Creek had put on – it was basically market stalls mixed with a few merry-go-rounds and pony rides.  That night a local company had sponsored a massive fireworks display which I had stayed to watch.  I was driving home afterwards and swerved in a panic to miss a mob of kangaroos that hopped in front of me.  My car fishtailed and then went careening off the road and into a ditch.   My head hit the steering wheel with a loud thud as the car came to a sudden halt.  Somehow, the front windscreen had shattered and glass had flown in, cutting my hands, chest and face.  It wasn’t bad, but head wounds always bleed a lot, so there was plenty of blood pouring from me.  My door was jammed shut so I climbed over the passenger seat and got out that way.  I sat down on the grass in shock and looked unseeingly at my car.  I’m not sure how long I had been sitting there, maybe half an hour or so, when Jeremy arrived. 

“Ava, what the fuck happened?  Are you alright?  Fuckin’ shit your face is pissing out blood.  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

“I’m okay, really.  Head wounds always bleed a lot.  My car’s a wreck.”  My words come out sounding emotionless.  Perhaps that’s because I feel numb.

Jackson slides his arm around my shoulder and pulls me close, kissing my hair in between whispered words of comfort.

Okay, so it wasn’t really a
moment
but it was something.  Something sweet, tender, beautiful.  And all ours.  Something my sister couldn’t take away from me.

The next moment, really was a
moment.
A big one.  A moment that led to a catastrophic series of events that would change my life and break my heart.

Eight years earlier

I was twenty and devastated; looking to drown my sorrows.  My horse, Jarrah, had passed away during the night.  I’d had her since I was five and she ten when my dad brought her.  It was old age and for the best; she’d been riddled with arthritis.  Even though I knew it was coming, it still hurt like a mother bitch. Midafternoon, I took myself off to the local pub, The Cow and Calf, to wipe myself out.  I walked in and sat myself up on a wooden bar stool next to Skip.  Skip is an older man who’s lived in Pine Creek his entire life.  He got his nickname because he’s fondly renowned for skipping in and out of the bar many times during the day to grab a beer or two.