Free Christmas at Waratah Bay by Marion Lennox Page B

early, taking feed supplements to the cattle, clearing his head. When he got back, the house was stirring. Doug had the kids out on the veranda. They were sharing toast with the dogs.
    The kids informed him Sarah was the toast maker so he went to find out.
    She was wearing jeans and an oversized shirt. She had two tea towels knotted together and tied round her waist. She’d tied her hair up in some sort of bun, not very successfully. Wisps were wafting everywhere.
    Gerome and Bing were sitting by the firestove in Bing’s basket, watching her every move. She had a pile of toast sitting in the oven and was making more.
    She looked . . . happy.
    She looked beautiful.
    She looked up from the stove as he entered and she beamed. All the tensions of the night before had clearly been put aside.
    “I got the fire lit. So cool—you have a stove with knobs on for recipes and the firestove for toast. I hope you didn’t mind me lighting it. Toast made this way tastes better than anything.”
    He did. He remembered the first time he’d seen this farm. He’d arrived early-ish and Harold had invited him in for tea and toast. Max had seen the beach, seen the land, seen the cattle soaking up the sun on the undulating paddocks and by the time Harold had made toast, using the toasting fork before the open door of the firestove, Harold could have named his asking price.
    And now . . . Sarah was sitting before the fire, toasting her toast, and he thought yep, she could name her price, he was buying.
    Except he was sensible, and he’d made life decisions and . . . and . . .
    And Sarah was pushing her chair sideways and tugging another up to join hers and a man was only human . . .
    “Isn’t that a pile already made?” he demanded, looking at the open oven door where a plate was laden.
    “Yeah, I can’t resist cooking. There’s heaps of bread, and I’ll buy more in town. It’s more fun to make your own.”
    It was. He sat and cooked his toast, and Sarah got up and made two mugs of steaming tea and he sat feeling like Ma and Pa Kettle only Sarah didn’t look like any version of Ma Kettle he’d ever seen.
    “I took some up to Katie,” she told him. “She’s having a lie in. Did you know this last pregnancy was a mistake? Three’s enough, they decided, but this little one snuck up when they weren’t looking. But this is it, Doug’s in for the chop.”
    “She told you that?” How? The thought of asking such questions of his sister horrified him. Though he’d worried . . . Four kids would be straining their limited income—and energy—and he’d had visions of his mother . . .
    *
    “She’s not like your Mum,” Sarah said, as if she could read his mind. “She’s lovely. Maternal, but not dumb. But oh, this pregnancy’s got to her, and she and Doug hate the city so much. I’m determined she’ll have a rest for the next few days. Now I’ve been making a list.”
    She reached back to the table for her laptop. “I’ve found this awesome website. It has recipes even I can make. Look, doesn’t it look fabulous?” She pointed to a picture of a laden Christmas table, groaning with every conceivable Christmas food. “The recipes are all here. I just need ingredients. I’ll do a shop before I pick Harold up.”
    He looked, dubiously. “It seems a lot of work.”
    “It’s just recipes. How hard can that be?” She raised her toasting fork and grinned. “So far I’ve conquered toast and mince pies and spaghetti. Is there no end to my talents?”
    He wouldn’t know. She took his breath away.
    She was so darn close. He finished his toast, rose and headed to the far side of the table to butter it. Trying to collect himself. “You’ll need help bringing Harold home.”
    “I can manage.”
    “And if he falls?”
    She hesitated.
    “I don’t mind,” he told her. She looked crestfallen that she had to agree to his assistance.
    “Okay.” She compressed her lips. “But I’ll go in now and do the