Joan Kilby - Home to Hope Mountain

Asha snorted, eyes wild. She arched a neck marred with jagged scars and danced away from Hayley, tossing her silver mane and tail. Feeling her frustration rise, Hayley stopped. Nearly a year on, she’d made almost no progress with the registered purebred Arab.

Asha’s scars meant the show ring was out of the question, but she could still be bred and used in the Horses for Hope program—if she could be handled. Aside from the loss of income, which was certainly an issue, Hayley was hurt and baffled that she couldn’t connect with her own horse—especially given that her nickname was the “horse whisperer.”

Tipping back her battered Akubra hat, she pushed strands of dark blond hair off her forehead. At least no one was around to witness her humiliation except for Rolf and Molly. Her father-in-law was busy installing a hot water heater outside the garage where she’d been living since the fires destroyed her home. Earlier he’d put in a water tank to collect rain off the roof. Rolf wasn’t paying attention, but no doubt her mother-in-law was watching through the single small window at the back of the garage. Molly would be sympathetic, not critical, but still...

Molly emerged from the garage carrying a steaming mug. Her rounded figure was clad in a loose floral top and stretch pants, and she stepped gingerly over the muddy ground in her town shoes. “Coffee?”

Hayley hung the coiled reins over a fence post. “Thanks,” she said, accepting the hot drink. “I can use a break.”

“Maybe you’re pushing her too hard. That horse has been through so much. You should be easier on her.”

That was Molly-speak for You should be easier on yourself. But Hayley had to keep trying; it was what she did. “Left alone, Asha will never get better. I’m not hurting her. I’m trying to help her.”

“How is the rebuilding coming along?” Molly asked, changing the subject.

“Slowly.” Which was to say, not at all. “But I’ll get there.”

The 1880s homestead built by her great-grandparents had burned to the ground in the bushfires along with the stables and outbuildings. All that remained was the house’s brick chimney and the concrete block garage, a modern addition.

Hayley had cleared the car parts and junk out of the garage and put in a table, an old couch that pulled out to a bed and a makeshift kitchen. With the new hot water tank she would have the luxury of hot running water. A few pots of geraniums, her attempt at beautifying her dwelling, stood on either side of the door.

The fire-ravaged clearing was still charred and black in spots. Temporary horse shelters, a corral and a small paddock had been built between the garage and the dam for her five remaining horses. Besides Asha there were Sergeant and Major, who were brothers, both golden brown geldings with white socks; big old Bo, a palomino Clydesdale; and Blaze, a chestnut mare who’d disappeared the night of the fires. She’d been found three months later by a cattleman in the high country, running with a herd of wild horses. Several months had passed before Hayley realized Blaze was pregnant.

Despite the devastation, Hayley loved the property where her pioneer ancestors had homesteaded. She and Leif had started their trail-riding business here with the goal to expand to a dude ranch. Her plan to rebuild and fulfill their dream was all that kept her going.

And until that day came, she gave victims of the bushfires therapy using horses. Like her ancestors, she’d dug her heels in and said, “My land, my home. Nothing and no one will take it away from me.”

“Leif would’ve been so proud of you,” Molly said. She and Rolf lived in town, on a small block of land that had been spared the vagaries of the fires. They’d asked Hayley to come and live with them, but although their three-bedroom brick home was comfortable, it was no place for a cowgirl.

“I need an assistant part-time in the café now that winter’s over and the tourists are trickling back,” Molly added. “Do you want the job? You could probably use the extra money.”

Hayley adored her in-laws. Since the fires they’d been a lifeline. The hard part was keeping them from doing too much. “You and Rolf have been great. I appreciate the offer, but I couldn’t fit it in around my Horses for Hope program.”

“Leif wouldn’t want you to struggle so hard,” Molly insisted. “He’d hate seeing you all by yourself out here.”

“Yes, well...” Leif had battled the fire threatening Timbertop, the big estate on the other side of the ridge, and he’d lost. She still didn’t understand why he’d been there instead of at home, defending their property and their animals. Everything they’d worked for, built and loved, was gone while Timbertop’s double-story log home and the surrounding forest had escaped untouched. But that had been Leif’s way, always helping others. He was a hero and she loved him for it, but... “Leif is dead.”

The words fell flat on the quiet mountain air. In the blackened, twisted eucalyptus that circled the charred clearing, a kookaburra called to its mate. An answering laugh echoed deep in the woods. There was no mate and little laughter left in Hayley’s life—she just felt numb. But she carried on, because that was what she did.

Molly glanced at the dark clouds gathering overhead. “I heard on the radio we’re in for a storm.” She called to her husband, “Rolf, are you about done? Rain’s coming.”

“We could definitely use it,” Hayley said. The reservoirs and water tanks needed to be replenished, and the horses could sure use some grass in their paddock. The few brave spears of green that poked through the burned soil were nibbled down almost as soon as they emerged.

Shane gave a sharp warning bark and jumped to his feet at the sound of wheels crunching on gravel. Over the slight rise came a burgundy Mercedes-Benz convertible with the black top up. Fifty yards from the corral, the car slowed to a halt.

“Are you expecting someone?” Molly asked.

“Nope. It’s probably sightseers gawking at the burned-out town. They get lost and come down my track once in a while.”

“Don’t dismiss the tourists,” Molly said. “We need the business for the town to get back on its feet. I need them.”

“I know.” Her mother-in-law’s gift-and-coffee shop had been gutted by fire and had required major renovations. She’d reopened two months ago and was struggling to stay afloat.

The Mercedes had a sleek, almost retro look to it. Hayley didn’t know much about cars, especially luxury ones, but she would guess it was vintage. As the male driver got out, she saw he was a luxury model, too. Tall with dark hair, he wore a suit, pants and a dress shirt, with polished black leather shoes. City clothes straight from the big end of town. He looked vaguely familiar....

Hayley was suddenly acutely aware of her dirty jeans with the rip across the knee and the soft green flannel shirt she’d owned since forever, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows to hide the fraying cuffs. She tucked honey-colored strands of her fraying braid behind her ear, resisting the urge to pull out the hair elastic and retie it. A teenage girl with long red hair, wearing the local high school uniform dress of blue-and-white gingham, got out of the passenger side. She hung back, her gaze drifting to the corral where Asha trotted restlessly.

Molly sucked in a sharp breath. “That’s the girl I caught stealing a pair of earrings yesterday.”

“Really? Are you sure?” Hayley’s gaze narrowed.

“Can’t mistake that red hair. I recognize her father, too. Not many men around here look like they’ve stepped out of GQ.”

Now she recognized him. He was the jerk who’d yelled at her the day before when she was riding Asha. “Are they locals? What did you do when you caught her?”