Outback Reunion (Bunyip Bay #6)

Chapter Twenty-eight

‘How d’you like your new home?’ Mark asked the camels as he leaned against the fence of the paddock nearest to the house. Rookie appeared to be both curious and terrified of the giant creatures and was running back and forth along the fence line in her usual insane manner, jumping almost a foot into the air if a camel so much as looked at her.

One of them leaned its head over the rail and tried to grab his beer, but he didn’t know if it was Lenore, Rosie or George. Luna had told him about their very disparate personalities when they’d been ushering the camels into the trailer yesterday, but he couldn’t yet tell the difference between them.

‘I don’t think so.’ He yanked the bottle out of its reach and took a sip. ‘I might share my land, but I don’t share my beer.’

To be honest, he wasn’t sure if it was his fifth or sixth of the evening—maybe even more—but if you couldn’t drink your pain away when the love of your life was about to leave town, when could you? Whoever said it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all was a lunatic.

Yet no matter how much he hurt when he thought about Gabriela leaving, he couldn’t regret the last week they’d spent together, so maybe the lunatic had a point.

‘What am I gunna do with you three?’ he mused, reaching out to pat one of the non-beer stealers. Luna had said that Rosie was a grump, so when the animal kind of snuggled against his hand, he guessed it must be Lenore or George.

Although Mark found them cute in their way, his dad would almost certainly see them as pests—he had friends on stations further up north that were shooting thousands of feral camels a year. But that seemed like such a waste. They were beautiful beasts, and it wasn’t their fault their ancestors had been brought to Australia in the eighteen hundreds and then abandoned once they were no longer needed. It made much more sense to use them for good—as some other farmers were starting to. He’d heard that in some parts of the country, camel farming was becoming quite the thing—people milking them, making cheeses, using their fur, eating their meat and in some cases even using their shit for fuel. ‘But I can’t do much with just three of you, can I?’

In reply, the camel rubbed its nose against Mark’s neck. ‘Do you want to work the land somehow or will you miss performing? Where’d you come from anyway? Were you guys wild camels? Did the Saad sisters train you or—’

He stopped mid-sentence when he realised he was talking to camels.

Rescue camels who he was hanging out with, alongside his rescue dog.

Shit. He was turning into his mother.

As if she knew he was thinking about her, his mobile rang in his pocket. He’d been expecting this call ever since Gabriela had stormed away from him at the party and Tahlia had made her surprise appearance, but so far nothing. No missed calls when he’d finished helping at the circus last night and nothing all day. He figured she must finally be properly relaxing.

He contemplated letting the call go to voicemail, but she and Dad would be home in a couple of days and having this conversation would be even more mortifying in person. Besides, he’d have to break the news about their new guests sooner or later.

‘Hey, Mum,’ he said, trying not to slur as he answered the call.

‘Hey, sweetheart. How are you?’ She sounded even chirpier than usual. Was she drunk too?

‘I’m fine,’ he lied, waiting for the grilling. No way Eileen Brady would have kept her mouth shut about the spectacle at Forrester’s Rock.

‘Lovely. That’s lovely. Now, I need you to do me a favour.’ She giggled and he heard his dad laugh in the background. ‘I need you to look in our old family albums for something.’

‘The photo albums?’ He grimaced—Mum was always trying to get him to sit down and go through those things with her when he was a kid, but he’d never sat still long enough to humour her. ‘What’s this about?’

She giggled again. Yep, she was definitely tipsy. ‘Your father and I are talking—’

Dad snorted in the background. ‘ Talking? I think you mean arguing!’

‘Shh, Trevor. Okay, Dad and I are arguing about who won mini golf on our honeymoon.’

What the?! Mark was in no mood to deal with this.

‘I think he might be developing dementia because he seems to think it was him, but I know for a fact that it was me and I kept the scorecard to prove it. It should be in the album from our wedding and honeymoon.’

He downed the dregs of his bottle. ‘And you want me to go look for it? Now? ’

‘Do you have anything better to do?’

‘Not really.’ And just because he was miserable, didn’t mean he should ruin his parents’ night as well. ‘Fine. I’ll go have a look and call you back if I find anything. No promises.’

‘Thank you, darling. Oh, and before you go, I had another call from Eileen this morning.’

‘I’ll bet you did,’ he said, ‘but do you want me to look for this scorecard or what?’

‘Okay, speak soon.’

He ended the call, bid the camels goodnight and stomped grumpily back into the house. He’d changed his mind; he didn’t want to talk about Gabriela and Tahlia. Bloody Mrs Brady had probably told Mum all she needed to know anyway. He’d have a quick look in the albums and if he found the scorecard, he’d take a photo, send it to her and then turn off his phone.

His beer was empty, so he grabbed another from the fridge before wandering into the formal living room and switching on the light, Rookie darting in and out between his feet as he crossed to the old wooden cabinet where Mum kept her precious albums. The last time Mark remembered them being taken out was when he’d brought Tahlia home for the first time and his parents had insisted on showing her all his embarrassing childhood photos. Burying that memory, he rifled through the box of tomes until he found a pale pink one labelled, ‘Our Wedding and Honeymoon’, and then he took it to the couch.

He couldn’t believe this was what his life had come to—talking to camels and looking for mementos from before he was born to placate his parents. If his teammates could see him now!

The first few photos were of Mum and Dad newly engaged and smiling at the camera. Her hair was longer than he’d ever seen it—up in a high ponytail with a bubble-gum pink scrunchie that matched the overalls she was wearing—and Dad wore the ugliest tracksuit Mark had ever seen. The next were of her getting ready for their big day—his grandma, June, fussing as Mum stood in front of a floor length mirror in her shiny-white, puffy sleeved princess dress. He was about to skip ahead to the honeymoon when something stopped him—a photo of Mum and her two bridesmaids dressed in frilly gold gowns, and a little flower girl with frizzy red hair that clashed terribly with her pink dress.

The flower girl was the spitting image of Luna.

His heart shot to his throat. What the hell was this? Who was this?

Forgetting entirely about the mini golf scorecard, he grabbed his phone and called his mum.

‘Who was your flower girl?’ he asked the second she answered.

‘Oh, did you find the album? What was the score?’

‘Never mind the fucking score.’ His pulse was thumping. ‘Who’s the little girl with the red hair in your wedding photos?’

‘Language!’ Mum screeched, laughing. ‘That’s Aunty Carrots. And she was the worst flower girl ever. Did I ever tell you how she lifted my dress when—’

But Mark didn’t hear any of the story. His mind was exploding! His aunt Karen was fifteen years younger than his mum and had been a teenager when he was little, but he never remembered her being a redhead.

‘But she’s a brunette!’

Mum snorted in a way she’d consider impolite if she hadn’t had a few drinks. ‘That’s what she likes everyone to believe. Her hair was as orange as a carrot until she started dyeing it in her late teens. Why else do you think we call her Carrots?’

‘Because her name’s Karen! And Karen and Carrots kind of sound similar?’ He took a much-needed breath. ‘Where did the red hair come from? Did Gran or Pop have it when they were younger?’

‘Yes, your grandfather was a ginger. He came from a long line of redheads. I got lucky and I was surprised when you were born with a head of thick brown hair. What’s this about anyway? Why are you getting so worked up about Karen’s hair?’

‘Because...’

He could feel his heart flapping wildly as if a bird were trapped in his chest. Holy fucking shit. Could Luna—with her wild orange hair, prominent chin, cheeky smile, and feisty personality—actually be his daughter?

Maybe he was going insane, clutching at ridiculous straws. Paternity tests were supposed to be pretty accurate. But as he scrutinised the photo, he knew something was very wrong. It wasn’t just Aunty Carrots’ red hair, her whole face resembled Luna’s. He and Karen had the same sticky-outy chin—everyone always made fun of them—which meant he and Luna also had the same chin, and Loud Mouth hadn’t been wrong about them both having bigger than average noses.

Not to mention she was a gun with a football. Just like him.

He should have realised when she executed an almost perfect kick. He had . But Gabriela had been so adamant that Luna was Dante’s and he’d accepted her word for it.

Dante! Mark had never known it was possible to hate someone you hadn’t met, but he loathed that man. The way he’d treated Gabriela was despicable enough, but the thought of what he’d stolen from Mark enraged him.

‘Mark! What’s going on?’ his mum demanded, but he couldn’t tell her his suspicions. She’d probably insist Dad sober up and drive them home immediately. She was going to go crazy if they found out she already had the grandchild she was desperate for, and she’d adore Luna. How could anyone not? She was bright and talented, confident, curious about the world and had a way with animals just like her grandmother.

Mark yanked the photo out of its plastic sleeve and stood so fast his head spun.

‘Sorry, Mum. I’ve gotta go.’

He disconnected before she could say anything else. He had to get to the circus and see this so-called paternity test.

And that’s when it hit him. Maybe there never even was a paternity test!

His chest tightened at the thought that maybe Gabriela had lied to him. It would certainly account for why she hadn’t mentioned having a daughter when they’d talked about almost everything else that night at The Palace. Her excuse about compartmentalising her life had sounded weak; maybe she and Dante had decided when she’d discovered she was pregnant that they would make it work even though Luna wasn’t his. She’d said he’d offered as much, and their lives were so entwined that maybe they’d chosen to stay together rather than blow everything up.

Whatever the truth, he would get to the bottom of it.

All he knew was that this wasn’t just about him and Gabriela now. If he was Luna’s father, then he’d already missed almost eight years of her life. There wasn’t a chance he was missing a moment longer. Luna was already everything to him. He wanted the best for her. He wanted to give her the best. He wanted to give her everything he could.

He was almost at the ute, Rookie yapping at his heels wondering what all the excitement was about, when he realised he couldn’t drive anywhere thanks to the beers he’d been downing like water the last few hours. Dammit . He slammed his fists on the bonnet and kicked the tyre. No matter how desperate he was to confront Gabriela and see Luna, he wouldn’t risk driving drunk. Fathers—good fathers—didn’t do such things.

And he wanted to be a good father. He wanted to be the best.

He’d have to jog into town, or maybe he could call Adam and ask him for a lift? His phone was out of his pocket, and he was bringing up his neighbour’s number, when he had second thoughts. This conversation was too important to have when he was half-trolleyed. It would be sensible to calm down first. To have a shower, get a good night’s sleep—if that was even possible—and go see her first thing in the morning.

At least he’d made this discovery before the circus left town.