Outback Secrets by Rachael Johns

Chapter Two

‘Evening, boys,’ Liam said as local farmer Ryan Forrester and his new husband Grant approached the bar. It was the first Saturday of December, and they were busier than they’d been in weeks.

‘Hey,’ Ryan said as Grant nodded a hello. ‘How’s things tonight?’

‘Busy. Finally. It’s been a bit quiet in here lately, that’s for sure. Guess you guys have finished harvest too?’

‘Ah huh. Thank God.’ Ryan grinned and ran a hand through his unruly, dark blond hair. ‘Every year it feels like it’s never going to end, and I always feel kinda surprised when it does.’

‘He’s been a bit of a bear to live with these past few weeks,’ Grant said, smiling fondly at Ryan. ‘Lucky I’ve been busy with end of year reports and school stuff to miss him too much.’

‘Sounds like you could both do with a drink then?’ Liam said, already reaching for glasses.

Being the publican of The Palace for almost ten years meant he knew what most of the locals wanted without having to ask. While he poured Ryan a pint of lager and then Grant a glass of red, he asked the kinds of questions he’d never have imagined asking anyone when he was growing up in Silver Ridge, Colorado. Questions about canola prices and broken combs on headers. Liam didn’t pretend to be a farming expert by any means, but over the years he’d picked up a few things. He certainly knew enough to hold his own in conversations with his customers.

‘You staying for dinner as well?’ he asked as Grant pressed his credit card against the EFTPOS machine.

‘Yep.’ Grant glanced over to the dining room, which was filling up fast.

‘We were supposed to be heading to Geraldton for dinner at the Italian restaurant,’ Ryan explained, ‘but then Adam called and said a bunch of them were getting together for an impromptu end of harvest celebration and …’

‘Here we are,’ Grant finished, lifting his glass and taking a sip. ‘You know Ryan, he can never resist a good party.’

Liam laughed. ‘Well, enjoy. Lara will come and take your orders soon.’

As the men headed into the dining room to join their friends, he poured another pint for Rex Carter, who was more commonly known as Sexy Rexy and pretty much a permanent fixture at the bar once the sun went down. No matter what was going on around the place, Liam could always rely on Rex and a few other townies who liked to play cards of an evening to keep him in business. The past few weeks, with most of the town stuck on headers twenty-four hours a day or driving trucks constantly up and down the main street on the way to the wheat bins, it would hardly have been worth opening if it weren’t for the blokes he’d nicknamed the ‘Poker Pensioners’.

‘Thanks, champ,’ Rex said, lifting his glass to his mouth, the froth catching on his thick, unruly moustache.

‘You’re welcome,’ Liam replied before turning to the next patron. Normally, Rex liked to have a bit of a chat but there was no time tonight. Liam and his two backpacker bartenders—Lara and Dylan—were all run off their feet, and behind him in the kitchen he could hear Macca barking at Tegan as they worked hard to fill the many orders.

‘Do you mind if I sneak off to the bathroom quickly?’ Lara asked during a brief lull at the bar. ‘Dylan’s just taking an order to table ten, but he won’t be long and I’m—’

‘Go,’ Liam shooed her out of the bar, then picked up a glass and began to polish it, smiling as he surveyed the crowded pub. This might not have been the life he’d envisaged for himself when he was growing up, but it was the one that had saved him.

The Palace wasn’t anything like its name; when he first arrived, it had been in desperate need of a lot of TLC, but something about its rustic country decor and non-pretentious vibe had got under his skin. Not to mention the long chat he’d had with then publican, Arthur McArthur, following which he’d made an offer to the man that was too good to refuse.

Sure, the hours were crap and at least once a week he had to manhandle a lout who’d had one too many, but there were also plenty of perks. He got his beer at cost price—not that he drank that much himself anymore—and his nights were never boring. He’d made many acquaintances during his time here, people like Ryan, Grant, and even Sexy Rexy—not friends exactly, but living and working in the pub meant he got plenty of social interaction. Sometimes more than he wanted.

Over the years he’d made improvements—putting a new lick of paint on both the inside and outside of the building, handcrafting tables and chairs, overhauling the menu and introducing a jukebox, which he quickly removed when he discovered some people had dire taste in music. Spice Girls on repeat was not something he wanted to hear in his pub ever again. Now he had surround-sound stereo and only he selected the tunes—currently Kings of Leon—and he could play something softer in the dining room than the rest of the pub. Occasionally he even got in a live band, and on those nights The Palace was packed to the rafters.

He’d single-handedly transformed it from a place where only itinerant farm workers and cray-fishermen hung out for the sole purpose of getting sloshed, to somewhere locals could enjoy a nice meal with friends or family. These days many community groups chose to hold their meetings in the dining room rather than in the vast Memorial Hall; he had a quiz night once a month and themed food different days of the week. Like it had been in eras gone by, The Palace was once again the hub of this close-knit community and somewhere tourists weren’t scared to go in the holiday season.

‘Excuse me? What’s a girl got to do to get a drink around here?’

Liam blinked, startled from his reverie at the sassy voice of a woman. If it wasn’t for her exclamation and subsequent thump against the bar, he probably wouldn’t have seen her—she wasn’t much taller than the bar itself. But what she lacked in height she made up for in beauty—natural beauty, not the caked-on glamour variety. And she didn’t look as if she cared much about fashion either. She was wearing the same shapeless blue shirt that most of the male farmers usually got around in, only on her it looked sexy as all hell.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I said …’ Her dark eyes flashed with mischief below her thick chocolate brown fringe. ‘What’s a girl got to do to get a drink around here? Actually … don’t answer that.’

Her tone said she’d expected him to say something crass and he bit down on the impulse to defend himself. ‘What can I get you?’

‘A pint of Guinness, please?’

‘Coming right up.’ He grabbed a glass and started to pour, scrutinising her in what he hoped was a surreptitious manner. Was the pint for a boyfriend or something? She wasn’t wearing a ring, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Most of the girls around here drank wine or mixers. Although she was about the height of a pixie, she sported a ‘don’t mess with me’ expression that indicated she wasn’t in the best of moods. That only piqued his interest more.

‘You’re not a local,’ he said as he handed over her beer. Though there was something vaguely familiar about her, as if maybe they’d met before, but he couldn’t place her.

‘I’m more damn local than you,’ she retorted, slapping a twenty-dollar note down on the bar and taking a sip of her drink. ‘Ah, that’s better.’ She sighed and gazed at the glass as if it had just given her the best sex of her life.

Then before he could ask her name, she tucked the change into her pocket and sashayed into the dining room, her tight, skinny jeans giving him the perfect view of her pert behind. For such a tiny package there was certainly a lot to like about her. She weaved her way through the tables, pausing occasionally to exchange a few brief words with people she passed, before settling at the large table where Ryan and Grant now sat with their friends. The sexy Guinness-drinker was the odd one out in the group—the only one who didn’t appear to have a partner.

Not that that meant anything. Her boyfriend or girlfriend might be otherwise occupied tonight, but whether she was in a relationship didn’t matter because whoever she was, she clearly had connections in Bunyip Bay, which meant she was off limits. When it came to romantic liaisons, Liam kept a strictly no-strings policy. In the past, he’d enjoyed a bit of fun with the backpackers who worked in the pub—people who were in town for a good time not a long time—but these days most of them were far too young for him, which meant his liaisons were few and far between.

‘I wouldn’t go getting any ideas about that one if I were you,’ said Rex, downing the last dregs of his beer.

‘Huh?’ Liam tore his gaze from the dining room to the scruffy man.

‘Firecracker, she is. Reckon she’d be way more trouble than she’s worth.’

‘Really? Who exactly is she?’

‘Henrietta Forward, although call her Henrietta and I hear she’ll deck you. Goes by the name of Henri. She’s Fred and Fiona’s youngest. Was always getting into scrapes as a young’un.’

Liam racked his mind trying to recall what he knew about her family. The Forwards owned one of the largest farms in the region. Fred Forward had died a few years ago from a heart attack. There were two brothers—both farmers—and a sister, Tilley … now he recalled Fiona Forward sometimes talking about a younger daughter with a mixture of pride and frustration. Hadn’t she once told him her youngest was the only reason she was such a regular church-goer? That if she kept on God’s good side, hopefully he’d take care of her daughter.

‘She’s a pilot or something, isn’t she?’

Rex nodded and pushed his empty pint glass across the counter. Liam refilled it with Carlton Draught. Looking at Henrietta, you’d never have guessed she flew planes for a living—she didn’t look big enough to see over the controls in the cockpit.

‘So, she doesn’t live in Bunyip Bay?’ he asked.

‘Nah. I don’t think she lives anywhere. Like most in her field, she follows the work—all over Australia, probably all over the world.’

‘I bet Fiona’s happy to have her home for a bit.’

Rex snorted. ‘From what I’ve heard, Fiona will only be happy when she gets her home for good.’