Free The House On Burra Burra Lane by Jennie Jones Page A

about Thomas passing on bad things to your boys (note I say ‘your’ boys — Thomas didn’t want them). Each has his own path to tread. They both took to the woods and it wasn’t your fault. It’s the one who came back you need to be worrying about…
    The ink was faded over half of the next page.
    … I’m talking about the emotional punches. Those will sit hard with him, Linnie. Mark my words now and let him be. Robert has gone. You give all that love to the son you have. He’s going to need a lot of love, and it won’t be the girl who changes him, and it won’t be you. I just hope there’s someone in his future who’ll see beyond …
    … sooner she’s gone, the better. He should never have done it…
    … God bless, Linnie, I’m thinking about you. I’ll be down soon, and you won’t be alone when the time comes, if he’s not around …
    Your sister …
    It sounded tough, as though there were no chances left for the persons involved in the story. But it wasn’t a story. Some woman had written this letter a long time ago and sent it to the woman Linnie, who must have lived in Sammy’s house. Perhaps their ghosts still wandered around, invisible, looking at the wallpaper and glad the new owner had decided to keep it.
    There was nothing bad in her house. It was warm and living and breathing, if a bit tatty and run-down. Not hopeless, just forgotten. She’d turn the neglect around, had already altered the house with love.
    She looked at the dusky night outside the window.
    Ethan.
    A feeling of loss wedged inside her, as though she’d been promised a present but hadn’t received it.
    He had taken extra trouble for her and it wasn’t fair to take him up on every offer of assistance. Perhaps that’s why he had appeared troubled after he’d run her home from the Smyth farm. And snappy. She knew him well enough to recognise his frustration, controlled though it was. More than the way he’d held his shoulders stiffly, or the way he hadn’t met her gaze for too long. A disturbance shimmered around him sometimes, as though he was drawing a deep breath and holding something back.
    She wanted him happy and content again. To let him know she’d forgotten about their warm kiss in the stables, but he hadn’t come round. They didn’t have a schedule worked out or anything remotely like a contract. He just turned up, usually every afternoon, sometimes each day at the weekend, and got on with the next task.
    His non-appearance for two days was a frightening stab in an otherwise safe world. Had she ruined something by responding to his kiss? It had been a moment between friends sitting in a barn with a sick animal, that’s all. The kiss had stemmed from companionship … friendship … love. Was he worried about it?
    A light breeze fluttered the hair over Sammy’s shoulders. She plucked a sheet from the washing basket at her feet. No grass, it had been cleared. Her messy garden looked forlorn without so many weeds.
    Three days since she’d heard Ethan’s truck roll up the packed earth of the driveway. She didn’t turn to it. She pegged the sheet.
    The gravel crunched as he brought the vehicle to a stop outside the shed.
    She bent for another sheet and watched him through the veil of her hair.
    The tarpaulin snapped as he threw it back on the tray.
    ‘Hi,’ she called.
    He picked up a tool case. ‘Hello, Sammy. I’ll go on in and make a start.’ He headed for the shed.
    ‘Okay.’ She billowed the sheet, the ache of being dismissed knotting in her stomach. She wouldn’t go to him. She’d peg the bed linen, then go to the house.
    Ethan put his toolbox onto a makeshift work table, settled his weight to one side and put his hands to his hips. He looked out of the grimy old window.
    She pegged a large white sheet. The washing line was too high but he ignored the knowledge he’d have to lower it for her. His intent was to look at her. Just take a good look now, while he had the chance. He felt a fool, but