Looking at the letter in her hand, she could feel the excitement again. The thrill of meeting the tall Italian, his obvious admiration for her that no bushman would put out there so candidly, the sensation of fluttering femininity and desirability that he created in her, were all emotions she’d almost forgotten in more than twenty years of widowhood. But lately, Lorenzo’s letters had taken a more insistent note. He wanted to come to her. His son was looking for a station somewhere in the Red Centre, so he would be coming and going between Australia and Italy. Perhaps he could see her? If she wanted him to?

His request last year to write to her every four weeks when he returned to Italy had increased to fortnightly, then weekly, and she still hadn’t told her family, though they had been corresponding for almost a year.

It had seemed such an old-fashioned idea to write letters to a strange man, and embarrassing to tell the others, especially her mother, who would tease her unmercifully, but she’d relished penning every one, and loved receiving them even more.

She’d taken to describing her month, then her week, enjoying the idea of conversation with her male friend, and their distant rapport had supported her in times when she’d felt she needed it. But he hadn’t written last week and she’d missed his endearments, his descriptions of life on his olive farm and his office in town, and his thoughts on her own news and challenges.

Her fingers shook as she carefully unstuck the envelope, pushing it into her pocket and unfolding the crackling paper so she could read. The sun shone so brightly it was hard to decipher the words, so she backed over to the shade of the mulga tree at the gate.

My dear Stella,

I desire this finds you well and happy. Though not too happy without me, I hope. Thank you for your letter. I am glad to hear your daughter-in-law is well with her pregnancy, and that your lovely Ava will be home with you soon for her break.

I have been busy, but that is no excuse to have you wait for my letter, so I write you a short one to say you are in my thoughts as always and all is well with me. Though I miss you and wish, always, that you would consider coming to visit me in my home.

She looked unseeingly into the distance. She couldn’t fathom the idea of spending money to gallivant around the world and leaving her family here to struggle. They’d be lucky to keep the station from bankruptcy as it was, without the burden of her blowing a bundle on chasing a distant Italian. She’d been tempted but embarrassed when he’d offered to book and pay for her flights, meet her in Milan, and generally spoil her. It was a nice dream, though.