She stopped mid-stride. Maybe something had gone wrong and that’s why she couldn’t reach Sean. She allowed a brief niggle of concern to rise before she pushed it away and set off again. He was a truck driver, on the road a lot, and she’d learned not to worry. When he was away overnight he rang her from wherever he was regardless but a weekend at the shack with his mates was a different thing. He’d have had plenty to drink and be distracted by his mates. Sean was usually a sensible bloke, she never doubted his reliability, and the rational explanation for his lack of communication was that he was sleeping off a big weekend or perhaps was somewhere out of range. He’d know she’d be waiting to hear from him.

Bree tossed her phone on the bed, sad to let go of the brief connection she’d had with Owen. He was putting in long hours at the garage, getting caught up on as much work as he could, and packing up his house. He’d suggested they catch up Thursday night. She’d thought he meant in town. She had to go in to the doctor Thursday afternoon to have the stitches removed, but Owen had mentioned Laura’s offer of a meal.

“You could stay the night again,” she’d said and he hadn’t hesitated to agree.

Bree belatedly thought about the logistics of that then berated herself. She was twenty-eight and had her own quarters. If she wanted to share her bed with her boyfriend she damn well would.

She did a slow stretch, conscious of the slight tug of the wound on her injured leg. It had been a bit tender when she’d finished her day getting everything sorted in the sheds but since she’d showered and laid down on her bed to talk to Owen it had settled again. She was sure she’d be right to get back out into the paddock for mustering tomorrow.

Before she reached the kitchen she heard banging. Laura looked up as she entered, a meat mallet poised mid-air.

“What the hell are you doing?” Bree asked.

Laura grinned. “Making pork schnitzels.”

Bree wandered closer. The length of the bench was covered, as was usual when Laura cooked; egg shells dribbled gooey trails of white across the bench, which was scattered with small jugs, bowls and cups, and flour overflowed from a plate onto the work surface. Laura’s meals had been enjoyable so far but she made a hell of a mess preparing them. Bread slices fell forward from an open bag beside the food processor. Bree picked the bag up, found the tag under the butter tub, twisted the top and slipped the tag back in place.