Hope's Road (5 page)

Tammy decided to ignore the
ain't
. ‘Try me.'

Billy flattened out the piece of paper. Cleared his throat. ‘Me name's Billy Hunter and I'm ten years old. I live on McCauley's Hill, just out of Lake Grace in the Narree Valley with me dad, Travis Hunter. He's a dog trapper with the De . . . De-part – ament of Conservation.' He looked across at Tammy, shamefaced. ‘I can't say it. I can't say De-deapartment.'

Tammy smiled. ‘'Course you can. Follow me. De. Part. Ment.'

Billy said, ‘De-apart –' He shook his head. ‘That's not right. What did you say again?'

Tammy pitched her voice a bit louder. ‘De. Part. Ment.'

Billy looked surprised. ‘There's no “a” in the middle, then?'

‘Only in the “part” bit.'

‘Right,' said the boy. ‘So it's just De-part-ment. Department.' The child grinned as he ran the word together. ‘I've got it, haven't I?'

Tammy nodded with pride. ‘You've got it.'

‘Department, department, department.' He started to run off towards the house (and presumably the computer) chanting at the top of his voice, ‘Department, department . . . I heard it. I got it!
Yes
!'

Chapter 7

Travis threw another strip of wattle bark into the old copper. The water was just starting to boil nicely and turning an inky black. Perfect. He threw in the new Lanes dog-traps the Departmental blokes had dropped in the other day. The Conservation mob constantly kept changing the design of the traps he was to use, so it was an ongoing thing, making the traps smell as much a part of the environment as he could. A dog's sense of smell was one hundred times that of a human and they were damn smart. Some of the old blokes smoked their traps; others made a fire with gumtree leaves and dumped the traps in it. Some just rubbed the metal in dirt and found that worked. He preferred to use a mixture of methods. The wattle bark for some traps and just plain old soil for others.

It was a perfect day up here on his hill, in the bush. He didn't have anyone to annoy him and he liked it like that. He wasn't certain where Billy was but suspected he was floating around spying on someone. Old Joe or the McCauley girl down the bottom of the hill. Or maybe even watching him? Travis let out a sigh. His son, with his big eyes so like Katrina's. He was finding himself getting more and more annoyed with the kid when he wouldn't shut up. Sometimes it'd just become easier to ignore him. Trav liked his peace. Liked to be in his own head.

But now he was paying the price: an ten-year-old who sometimes glanced at him like a scared dog about to dodge a kick. The look in Billy's eyes this morning . . . Trav winced, remembering. It reminded him of how he used to look at his own father. It was obviously one thing to have a son, but another entirely to be a dad.

It was all still so new, this living with Billy again. Maybe he shouldn't have shipped the kid off to his grandmother so young? Trav threw another log onto the fire as he ruminated. But there really wasn't much else he could've done, was there? Well, except leave his job on the dog fence, and he hadn't wanted to do that. Surely it had been better for the kid to be brought up in Burra, go to school with other kids, rather than being out in the scrub? Billy had seemed happy enough with Diane Hunter and Trav had tried to visit when he could. It had all been working out fine until his mother had had her stroke. Life's a bastard, thought Trav, as he pictured his once active but now incapacitated mother.

Diane had done a good job with his son. He owed her a lot and that's why he'd brought her back to Lake Grace and why they were here at Belaren, although he had to admit the boy seemed to relish it too. The kid's bush skills were second to none and that had really surprised him. Like now, even
he
wouldn't know if Billy was watching him. He didn't know where it'd come from, this desire to be at one with the bush, especially since the boy had been living in town for the last few years. He wondered if it was a quirk of genetics, something inherently born to the males in their family? He couldn't see his own father consciously imparting such knowledge even though he'd been a dog trapper too.

His father was more likely to pit himself against the elements and see who could win. Take a swig on a bottle whenever he damned well pleased and pretend he didn't have a family to go home to. He'd been an old bastard, Jack Hunter. Trav hadn't realised how different his childhood had been until he'd met Katrina and her ‘normal' parents. He winced again. Even after eight years it hurt to think of what could have been. He'd lost touch with Kat's extended family years ago. Her parents had been in their mid-forties when they'd had their daughter. They'd moved on into a nursing home not long after Kat had left and then they'd passed away within weeks of each other. Together, always together. Shame they hadn't instilled that ethos into their daughter.

The sound of a car labouring up a hill caught his attention. He loped towards the rocky outcrop which would give him a view of the whole Narree Valley. From here he could see his own driveway, and the vehicle currently traversing it. It was red, that much he could ascertain. Shiny and clean, judging by the glints coming off the duco in the late afternoon sun. Sporty looking too. Spoiler, mag wheels. A younger person's car. Either that or a mid-life crisis kind of vehicle.

The car kept coming and Trav weighed his options. He could disappear into the scrub but that would mean leaving his fire unattended and he really didn't want to do that. He could put out the fire but any dumb fool would know it was very recent. He sighed. Damn it. He'd have to hang around and talk to whoever it was. Maybe they'd leave quick?

As the car turned around the last corner to the house he strode back towards the yard, his hand automatically moving to smooth down the buzz cut which had forced his normally wavy brown hair into submission. He settled his face into an impassive expression while piercing blue eyes took in the vision exiting the vehicle, inch by inch. Something he hadn't seen up on this hill in a very long time. A female. An attractive one at that.

Ms Jacinta Greenaway slowly emerged from the snazzy car like a cat.

‘Travis? How lovely to see you. Just thought I'd drop by.'

Inwardly, Trav groaned. Outwardly, he slung a half-wave in the air and moved forwards quickly, in the hopes he could head her off before she moved too far from the vehicle.

‘Jacinta.'

‘Call me Cin, Trav. What a beautiful . . . er . . .' She stalled as she took in the old and ugly cement-sheet cottage. ‘ . . . view. What a lovely view.'

He'd give it to her: she was a trier. There had been a few of them over the last few years. Always trying to coax Trav into their bed. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the sights and sounds of a good woman. Far from it, he liked them all right – at a distance. It was just that in the early days he hadn't been able to think beyond Katrina. And now? Well, now he just couldn't be bothered. Worst thing was, women seemed to be attracted to ‘couldn't be bothered'.

‘Thanks. If you don't mind I'll keep it to Jacinta, you being Billy's teacher and all.'

Jacinta started flapping her hands as though she wanted to brush his words away.

‘Billy might get teased by his mates if they heard me calling you by your nickname,' he said, scrambling for another reason.

‘Oh yes, I see. Of course.'

Trav could tell she didn't
see
at all. Hell. This one was going to be harder to put off than he'd thought. ‘So what brings you to McCauley's Hill, Jacinta? We don't often get visitors up here.'

‘Well, I was just passing by –'

‘On a dead-end road?' Trav raised an eyebrow.

Cin looked slightly pissed off. ‘Well, actually, now you mention it, there's a little problem with Billy. Your son.'

‘I'm well aware he's my son.' Trav might have been playing it cool on the surface, but his stomach muscles were clenching. ‘What's he done?'

‘It's what he's not doing that is the issue.'

‘And that is . . . ?'

Jacinta sighed, then right before his eyes pulled on another persona. In an instant, it seemed, the flickering eyelashes and the sultry expression disappeared. ‘He's been wagging school. Over the last month he's missed at least four days. And there's been no note.'

‘Four days?'
Shit.
What was the little bugger up to?

‘Yes. And I thought you should know about it. Much better for me to tell you in person rather than over the phone, don't you think?'

‘Four days,' Trav muttered to himself. He never saw Billy off to school, relying on the kid to get ready by himself. Trav had to be gone by five-thirty so he was out in the bush early to check on or set his traps. ‘Right then. I'd better find him and together we'll see what's going on.'

‘Oh no, Travis. That's fine. I'll leave you to talk to him.'

‘No. I'll get him now. He'll be close by somewhere. Here, you sit down on this stump.' He kicked a tree butt across the gravel and dumped it in front of the red car. ‘Just plant your bum – I mean sit here and I'll be right back.'

His last view of Jacinta Greenaway was the one in the rearview mirror of his LandCruiser ute. She looked down at the ironbark log with distaste and then kicked it with her pointed high-heeled shoe.

Chapter 8

Travis found Billy on his second try. One glance at Joe's place from the T intersection at the bottom of the hill and he could see the old man pottering around his sheds. Billy wouldn't be spying on him today. By the looks of it nothing was happening there that was interesting enough.

That left Tammy McCauley, or should he say Tammy Murphy? Billy had been doing some odd jobs for the woman. Trav drove his ute a half a kilometre along Hope's Road in the direction of the Montmorency homestead and pointed his bonnet down the driveway to the house. He could see by the absence of the copper-coloured Mitsubishi Triton ute that Shon Murphy wasn't around. Thank God for that. He couldn't stand the bloke. There was nothing genuine about the man. Plus, according to the boys at the Department, he was cheating on his wife, the bastard.

He remembered the first time he'd met Ms McCauley Murphy. He'd gone with Billy for a drive into Narree. The kid had disappeared while he was getting their groceries, re­appearing just as Trav was going through the checkout. He was carrying a Narree Toyshop bag in his hand.

‘What's in that?' he had asked sharply.

Billy had silently opened the package for his dad to take a look. Three Matchbox cars for his dirt heap.

‘Where'd you get the money from?'

‘Ms McCauley's paying me to do a few jobs for her. And she's really nice. Lets me ride the motorbike.' The kid's eyes were sparkling. Guilt – the guilt Trav always felt when it came to Billy – kicked hard at his guts. ‘I wear a helmet,' Billy added quickly. ‘And she's shown me how to ride nice and quiet like.'

‘You sure she really wants you there?'

The light in Billy's eyes died.
Pooft
. Just like that. Trav's guts churned all the more. He did that to the boy all the time and cursed himself for it while at the same time feeling incap­able of doing anything else.

The kid mumbled, ‘Well, I think so . . .' The remainder of the sentence hung in the air between them . . .
not like some people
.

Trav grunted, paid for their groceries and walked out the door, loaded the bags into the back and then got into the ute, waiting for the boy. He wasn't coming. Where was he? Trav looked around and spotted him.

A woman stood at the door of the supermarket investigating the paper bag Billy was holding out. Dressed in neat denim jeans that cupped her backside like a second skin, a choc­olate brown shirt, dangling beads and elastic-sided boots, she looked as sexy as hell. Her heart-shaped face was animated as she pulled a racing car out of the bag. She was laughing now, and Billy was giggling along with her. Trav hadn't seen that in a long time – his son laughing. Whatever was going on was obviously very funny and Trav found himself undoing the seatbelt, exiting the ute and sauntering up to them.

‘Good morning,' he said. ‘I'm Billy's father, Travis.' He dipped a finger to his hat and tried a half-smile. Smiling was definitely one of his rustiest skills. That and talking. And sex.

The laughter had dried up as he joined them. They both looked at him in consternation. One pair of assessing dark brown eyes. Another smaller pair of concerned hazel. Trav sighed. So much for joining in on the joke.

‘Hi. I'm Tammy McCauley,' the woman said. ‘I'm just admiring Billy's new cars. Classy way to spend your pay packet, that's for sure.' She smiled at Billy. Trav wanted her to smile at him like that. All warm like you were the only person worthy of her attention at that moment. And then there was that voice. It reminded him of rich chocolate. Sinful yet sweet.

What had got into him? He never mooned over a woman. In fact having one in his life wasn't even on his to-do list, as long as that was. He loved Katrina. Correction.
Had
loved Katrina. She'd killed anything he was ever going to feel for the opposite sex.

His heart seemed to have other ideas. Eight years was a long while. Maybe it
was
time to move on? Yeah right, Hunter. Move on to a married woman. Just what he needed, more ­complications.

‘Mr Hunter? Travis?' Tammy was talking to him again and Trav realised he must have been staring because Billy was looking at him like he'd grown two heads. He could almost see the boy's mind working.
What the heck's got into the old man?
He quickly pulled himself together. The best form of defence was attack, right? ‘Billy tells me he's working for you. Sure you want him? He's pretty young and all –'

‘I'm not too young, Dad!' Billy piped up, indignant. Then the boy stopped like he'd just realised who he was talking to. ‘I'm the right size. Ms McCauley said so,' he squeaked.

Travis frowned at his son, pissed off at the interruption. ‘How about we let Ms McCauley answer that one, Billy?'

Tammy moved to stand behind the boy, and placed two hands on his scrawny shoulders. ‘He's the perfect size for a farmhand, Mr Hunter. Not too small that he can't drag a pressure hose around the cow-yard and not too big that he can't clean out the chook nesting boxes. You're built for both jobs, aren't you, mate?'

She had an almost proprietorial air around his son. He had to battle with his natural inclination to tell her to get her hands the hell off his boy. But then he noticed the way Billy leaned into her body, like a pup seeking reassurance off his mother, and he had to bite his tongue.

The woman was obviously trying to help. But she just made Trav feel all the worse. He already knew he wasn't much of a father. He didn't need some do-gooding Tammy McCauley Murphy to tell him so, that's all.

And now he'd been told his son was wagging school, and he had to admit to the kid's teacher he had no idea where the boy was.

Trav pulled his ute up in the yard large enough for a B-double milk tanker to turn around in. Two dogs came screaming around the side of the dairy, yelping their heads off but wagging their tails as they ran. They could probably smell dogs all over Trav's ute. His dog boxes on the ute's tray were empty, but that didn't mean their scent was gone.

Tammy McCauley appeared around the corner of the cowshed. He got a better look at her this time. She was slim and finely built, brown hair clasped tightly back from her face in a ponytail. In the middle of pulling on a peaked cap and donning sunglasses, she had a frown on her face. When she worked out who was in her drive, the frown deepened into a scowl.

He wondered what he'd done to deserve that. ‘Just wond­ering if Billy was around here somewhere?'

‘And why would you care, Mr Hunter?'

‘What?'

‘I said, why would you care?'

‘I know what you said.' Trav could feel his own hackles rising. He couldn't for the life of him work out why she was so angry. ‘I just want to know if my son is here as I need him to come home. Now.'

‘He's here. Working on my computer. Because you won't buy one. Have you ever thought what damage you're doing to his schooling by refusing to get him one?'

‘I don't see that it's any of your business, Mrs Murphy.'

‘It's Ms McCauley to you. And it is my business. That poor kid has to come down here and use my computer to do his homework because his father won't buy him one of those “newfangled” things. Computers are part of the modern world whether you like it or not!'

What was it with the females in this valley today? Now he knew why he'd avoided them. ‘Ms McCauley, I have no idea what's got your goat this afternoon, but I'd appreciate it if you didn't take it out on me. Give me my boy and I'll get out of your way.'

‘What's got my goat? What's got my
goat
?! Listen here, Mr Hunter, if you spent a little more time looking after your son than wandering willy-nilly round the bush looking for four-legged animals, then I think you'd find he might stay where he's supposed to be. At home with you.'

That struck a raw nerve. Finding out Billy was wagging school from a lollypop on legs was one thing, having this stick of dynamite giving him curry for not looking out for the boy was another. He sucked in a breath, trying to hold onto his temper. ‘Where's Billy?'

She pointed in the direction of the back verandah of the house then spun on her neat, well-proportioned legs and stormed off. Trav watched her walk away and wondered how anyone could make such a graceful exit wearing gumboots. But, man, she was a piece of work. Her snug backside sashayed as she high-tailed it in the direction of the dairy. Her ponytail swung in agitation and those boots found every puddle in their path. Splat! Splat! He suspected his face was at the bottom of every one.

Trav shook his head and walked towards the homestead. Compared to his place this joint was huge, all angles and windows. And old, and quiet.

‘Billy?
Billy
!'

A tousled head appeared from behind a screen door. ‘Dad? What're you doing . . . ? I mean, yes, I'm here!'

‘In the ute. Now.'

‘Yes, sir. I'll just shut the compu –' Billy shot his father a look before continuing, ‘No, maybe I won't. Coming!'

Trav spun on his Redbacks and walked to the ute. He was revving the engine when a red-haired streak came flying across the yard and clambered up beside him. He could feel the boy's nervous sideways glances, but he wasn't going to put the kid at ease or let him know what was coming. No bloody way. His son would be punished – grounded for a week – and he'd think up as many boring jobs as he could for him to do. He'd teach the little bugger to wag school.

And he'd show that siren with the liquid brown eyes he was a
responsible
father, whatever that was supposed to be.