“Why aren't you using those crutches?” He watched her with a frown on his face.
“I will when I need them, but it seems pointless from the bench to the table. Hobbling along is so much easier and it doesn't hurt that much anymore. The painkillers the doctor gave me work wonders.”
Once breakfast was done, Blake, Bluey, and Royce headed down to the sheds to prepare for the shearers. Lilly hovered around the table because she had been instructed to stay and help Delilah.
“Did you want to go and tidy up your room or something while I do the dishes? Maybe even make your bed.”
“I’m too little to make my own bed.” Lilly stuck out her lip.
“You know, somehow I don’t think so. I reckon you can do way more than you think.” Delilah crouched down in front of the child. “Why don’t you go and try. When I’m finished the dishes, I’ll come in and see if you need any help.”
“Okay.” Lilly skipped away, leaving the kitchen quiet for the first time this morning. After she filled the sink with hot soapy water, Delilah hurried through the breakfast dishes before rummaging through the freezer trying to sort out what she would make for dinner. She came across a large chicken in a plain wrapper and took it out, turning it over in her hands. Unused to anything not in a properly packaged box, Delilah hesitated about using it. Tucking her crutches under her arms, she headed down the hallway to Lilly’s room.
The little girl sat on her bedroom floor, packing building blocks into a pink bucket. “Um, honey, can you tell me something? Does your dad kill his own chickens to eat?”
“Yes, and sheep and cows.” She grinned. “I made my bed.”
Delilah swallowed, pushing down the saliva pooling in her mouth at the vision of a mass chicken-killing filling her mind, and looked at the rumpled patchwork quilt spread haphazardly over the small bed. “That’s great, good job.”
Before she lost her nerve, Delilah headed back to the kitchen and looked at the frozen bird. Putting her crutches down, she took out the slow cooker and plugged it in. With shaky hands, she took the frozen chicken out of the plastic bag and laid it on the cutting board on the bench. She poked it with a manicured finger, noticing a couple of small feathers poking out of the white skin.
She closed her eyes and breathed hard. What goes well with chicken? Think, damn it. Determined not to fall apart over a dead bird, she opened the fridge and took out a mix of vegetables. While she peeled and chopped, she kept glancing at the frozen carcass, thankful she was a frozen pre-packaged dinner kind of girl at home. This tested all her resolve to do the best she could while she was here.
Delilah tugged at the stray feathers, pulling and flicking them into the sink before putting the bird in the slow cooker, revulsion hitting her hard. She arranged the vegetables around the pot and poured in a packet of stock before slamming on the lid.
Deciding she needed to take a break, she grabbed her laptop off the sideboard, and opened it at the kitchen table. Once she started writing, she zoned out and let the words flow from her fingertips. Line after line filled the pages as her story took shape. Brad Hollows was the last thing on Delilah’s mind as she built the story that had tugged at the back of her mind for the past year. The story her manager wanted her to put aside for now was coming into bloom and, ignoring the retribution she knew she would get when she returned to Sydney, a wave of contentment rolled over her as she worked.
This was it, what she wanted to do. Write independent stories away from the studio series. Maybe it was time to say goodbye to the television show. They could always get another writer if they really wanted to keep it going once her contract was up. The thought didn’t make her sad in any way. It gave her a sense of relief as she chewed over the ramifications in her mind. Her apartment was owned outright, and she had money in the bank. With today’s technology, Delilah could write anything, anywhere if need be. She just had to convince Kim that the timing was right and she could make a living doing it this way.
“I’m hungry.” Lilly stood beside her, a pout on her face. Delilah looked at her watch and gasped. She’d been writing for almost three hours. Time had gotten away on her. Saving her work, she powered down the laptop and closed it.
“Best we get something organized for lunch before the workers come up.” She got up and moved to the fridge. “How about toasted sandwiches and soup for lunch? Do you think the boys will like that?”
Lilly giggle behind her. “Silly you. My daddy is a man, not a boy.”
You don’t know how right you are, little one, and it’s playing hell with my emotions.
By the time Blake appeared at the back door, a pot of tinned minestrone soup simmered on the stove, filling the kitchen with that homemade flavor the manufacturers promised in their adverts, and the sandwiches were keeping warm in the oven.
“Something smells good.” He walked in and looked at Delilah, indecision clear in his eyes.
“Why, thank you, kind sir. I hope it tastes as good as it smells.” She smiled at him, reaching out to touch his arm. Delilah was determined not to have a rehash of her earlier comments about his ability to look after the children and run the farm. If they had to work together, she would rather they were happy and getting along well. “Have a seat and I’ll feed you. Bluey and Royce on their way too?”
* * *
“Yeah, they shouldn’t be too long.” He sat at the table, a sigh of relief leaving his body. He’d
