‘Morning.’ Matt rinsed his hands at the sink before taking his place at table. ‘No fish, Tilly. Couple of young terrapin got in and took the bait.’

‘Oh well, a tinned-tuna bake dinner instead, then,’ Tilly said philosophically. ‘What would you like in your sandwiches?’

‘Anything.’ His ginger head settled lower over his plate as he added quietly, ‘They always taste good.’ He wore his usual jeans and longsleeved shirt, and she could smell the suncream on his exposed skin. A redhead, she reflected, really had no business in an outdoors job, but he was vigilant about sun protection.

‘You’re easily pleased,’ she said as the door opened. ‘Ah, Luke – morning. Any preference in sandwiches?’

‘Hi, Tilly, boss, Matt. Oh, let’s see. Roast beef and pickles?’

‘Uh-uh. No meat. How about cheese and pickles, or egg and lettuce?’

‘Whatever. Good-oh, bacon.’ He helped himself liberally, adding tomato and mushrooms before piling three slices of toast on the side.

Sophie eyed his plate with amusement. ‘You sure that’s enough? I wouldn’t want you starting the day hungry.’

He grinned, his narrow face alive with the mischief that twinkled in his eyes, brilliant blue against his dark hair and smudge of beard shadow.

‘Growing boy, boss. So, Mickey flew this morning. Not far, just from his perch to the ground. He flapped his wings a few times – bit doubtful, like – then spread ’em and wobbled down. He needs a few more feathers still.’

Sophie beamed. ‘That’s great news. Right, so, today. One of you needs to go across to Spadgers Creek to pick up some meat. You’d better do that, Matt. And Luke, you might take a swing down along the coast road, check things out. The station rang last night. Bruce Hansen says there’s a fire burning somewhere along it – he thinks it might be on our country.’

Tilly was surprised. ‘How? It couldn’t be a lightning strike, not in May!’

‘No,’ Sophie agreed. ‘Has to’ve been lit. Fishermen, illegals, tourists even. What matters is stopping it before it spreads. Bit hard to pinpoint from eighty-odd kilometres away. Give me a call on the radio once you know. Bruce said he’d send the grader across if we needed it. Oh’—she looked at Tilly—‘and I almost forgot. We’ve got a guest coming sometime this week. A botanist from the uni in Darwin. He’ll be staying for a bit, camping round the sanctuary and making the homestead his base, so he’ll need the spare room, Till.’

‘Okay, I’ll get it ready for him. You don’t know what day he’s coming?’

‘It was a message on the answering machine. Bit light on details. His name’s’—she wrinkled her brow—‘Colin . . . Carl? Something starting with a c. We’ll find out when he gets here.’