LITMIR.BIZ

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in around an iron bed-end. A massive wardrobe took up one wall, a light-cotton cardigan was draped over the back of a chair and a beautifully carved dressing-table held a large silver photo-frame containing a black-and-white photo.

      Sophie picked it up, and suddenly Jack’s eyes reflected straight back at her, only the face wasn’t Jack’s. She was pretty certain she was staring down at Jack’s father when he had been much the same age as Jack was now. She set down the photo and turned to examine the plethora of other photo frames of various shapes and sizes that adorned a tallboy. All the photos were of people—a child sitting on Santa’s lap with last year’s date clearly above Santa’s head, another child on a horse, children playing in a pool—but it was the picture of a family group that really caught her eye. A woman stood surrounded by three younger adults—two women and Jack. Was this Jack’s mother’s room? Were these children her grandchildren?

      Suddenly feeling like she was prying, she backed out of the room, closing the door firmly behind her, and she opened the final door. She blinked at the bright-pink room with its pink-and-blue-striped curtains. Stuffed toys tumbled out of a box and books and puzzles mixed chaotically on shelves, having been put away haphazardly. It was without doubt a little girl’s room, but it didn’t have the faded, aged look of a room once used, loved, and now abandoned. Nor did it have the feel of a space kept as a memorial, forever trapping the memory of a child the age they had been the last time they’d used the room. Sophie could recognise rooms like that in a heartbeat. No; this room lived in the here and now, its tale told by the presence on the window sill of the current fad doll-craze sweeping the western world. Perhaps it belonged to one of the children in the photo. Jack’s niece, perhaps?

       Jack’s daughter? Why else would a man live with his mother?

       Does it matter and do you really care?

      She gave herself a shake. No, none of it mattered. All that mattered was this was her house for her exclusive use over the next three months, the perfect place to avoid Christmas. She pulled the door shut with a click and decided she needed a cup of tea before she did any more exploring and found a bedroom for herself. A cup of tea, a biscuit and then she’d make a shopping list for her supply-trip into town. A shopping list. She laughed out loud, recognising the irony. She’d never been one for domesticity, not since she’d been seventeen anyway, but there was something about this house that made her want to try.

      The kitchen was at the end of a large sunroom and it combined farmhouse cosiness with modern practicality. While she waited for the stainless-steel kettle to boil, she picked up a worn, leather book with faded tooled-gold writing. Running her fingers over the indentations, she traced the word ‘guestbook’ before opening the cover:

      Welcome to Armitage Homestead, built 1885.

      Please sign our guestbook.

      Armitage. The name hit her in the chest. Jack’s surname. Had Jack’s family been in this region and lived in this house for over a hundred and twenty years? The thought utterly boggled her mind, because her own family had moved often and she’d moved even more. She scanned the entries of the last thirty years and imagined all sorts of dignitaries sitting around that very impressive table. Jack had called this place a rambling homestead, and he was right, but that didn’t lessen the fact that this house was steeped in history. His family’s history. A history that connected him to this house and this town. The concept of belonging like that was completely alien to her.

      As she sipped her tea, she noticed a black folder on the flecked-granite bench and she pulled it towards her. It was filled with detailed information about the house such as where the keys to the car were hung and where cleaning supplies were kept and it included many instruction pamphlets, all filed alphabetically, detailing how all the appliances worked. It had all the same dividers in it as the procedure folder Jack had given her at the hospital, the one she’d assumed his receptionist must have put together.

      She wrinkled her nose. She guessed he could have beamed his flirting smile and convinced his receptionist to make up this folder as well. A flash of the serious-eyed doctor giving orientation suddenly jumped unbidden into her brain, lingering for a moment before being quickly replaced by the image of the man in leather, which was how she’d always remember her welcome gift to Barragong. But the delicious welcome was sadly over and now it was time to focus on being Barragong’s doctor.

      Jack had left maps and a GPS so she studied the route back into town and found shopping bags in the large walk-in pantry that groaned with food. She could probably live off the contents for the full three months and restock at the end of her contract, but she never depended on anyone. She’d see to herself, starting from today. Glancing at the house map in what she’d christened ‘the useful OCD folder’, she located the office and in it, pen and paper to make her list. A sticky note was stuck to the computer screen: ‘Use the internet. Password in instruction folder’.

      She shook her head, a silent chuckle on her lips. Of course it would be.

      ‘Min! I’m here.’

      An excited child’s voice accompanied by the echoing sound of fast-running feet on the bare boards made Sophie jump and duck under the desk. Her hand flew to her chest as her heart hammered fast against her ribs, and she breathed deeply to find calm before investigating.

      ‘Min, are you hiding?’ The voice had gone from excited to confused.

      Sophie returned to the sun room to find a dark-haired little girl standing in the middle of the room wearing grubby yellow shorts, a faded and too-small T-shirt and with a pink, plastic rucksack on her back. She clutched a soft-toy emu firmly in the crook of her elbow, its legs dangling against her tummy, its body squished against hers and the vivid-blue neck leaning rakishly over her arm. The beady eyes, astonishingly similar to the live version of the bird, bored into Sophie, making her shiver. The intense brown eyes of the child had the same effect.

      ‘Who are you?’ The little girl stared straight at her with the open scrutiny of a child.

      The patch of eczema on Sophie’s arm prickled and itched. ‘I’m Sophie.’

      The child frowned. ‘Where’s Min?’

      ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know who Min is.’ She tugged at a damned curl that fell over her eyes. ‘Where did you come from?’

      ‘You talk funny.’

      Sophie sighed, trying to keep a lid on the rising anxiety she always experienced when dealing with children. ‘Yes, well, that’s because I’m from England. Where’s your mother?’

      The child pointed behind her, back towards the front door, as she ran past Sophie towards the back wing of the house calling out, “Min.”

      Sophie hesitated for a moment, trying to decide if she should follow the girl and tell her no one else was here or to go and find her mother. A second later she jogged up the hall, astonished to find the front door wide open. She stepped onto the veranda, expecting to see a woman waiting for an invitation to enter, but apart from the cane chairs the veranda was empty. A low-slung, rusted station-wagon, packed to the gunnels and with a plume of red dust trailing out behind it, was on the opposite side of the circular drive, heading away from the house and back towards the cattle grid.

      With a shout, Sophie leapt off the top step of the veranda and hit the ground running, waving at the car. A woman hung her head out of the window, nodding, and waved back. Sophie stopped running and breathed out before catching her breath, fully expecting the car to reverse back to her. It didn’t. It just kept moving forward and in a heartbeat it had crossed the grid with a loud thrum and disappeared around the bend and out of sight.

      Stunned disbelief rocked her to her toes. The mother of the child in the house had just driven off, leaving her daughter without so much as a ‘by your leave’. It was incomprehensible. Exactly what sort of country was Australia if children were just dumped? Her brain struggled to make sense of it all. Who was the child and who in heaven’s name was Min? But, most of all, how on earth was she going to deal with a little girl?

      Sophie forced herself to head back inside,

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