Dear Banjo

  About the Book

  They were best friends who were never meant to fall in love – but for one of them, it was already way too late.

  Willow ‘Banjo’ Paterson and Tom Forrest were raised on neighbouring cattle stations in the heart of the Kimberley. As young adults, sharing the same life dreams, something came between them that Willow cannot forget. Now ten years have passed since she’s even spoken to Tom.

  When her father falls ill, Willow is called home to take over the running of the family property, Paterson Downs. Her vision for a sustainable, organic cattle station is proving hard to achieve. She needs Tom’s help, but is it too late, and all too complicated, to make amends?

  Tom’s heartfelt, decade-old letters remain unopened and unmentioned between them, and Willow must find the courage to finally read them. Their tattered pages reveal a love story like no other – and one you’ll never forget.

  Dear Banjo is a wildly romantic and utterly captivating story about first love and second chances from an exciting new Australian author.

  CONTENTS

  The Pact

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  The New Pact

  Acknowledgements

  Author Biography

  To Jane, Emily, Louisa and Lucy,

  for teaching me to appreciate wonderful romance.

  Willow Paterson and Tom Forrest, aged 15

  ‘Ow! That hurt, Banjo!’

  ‘Well, keep your hand still and it won’t.’

  ‘Why do I have to be the one who bleeds?’

  ‘I’m going to bleed too, you idiot.’

  Crouched beside him, her face bent over his hand, Willow lined up with the needle again and jabbed.

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘Keep your voice down.’ Willow glanced at the open feed shed door but the only movement was from a couple of horses at the bale feeder. She brought her gaze back to Tom’s finger. ‘Look, it worked. Squeeze it to get a drop of blood.’

  ‘You know, for a vegan you’re pretty bloodthirsty.’

  She jabbed her own finger next and pinched the end until a bright drop appeared. Tom looked on, impressed. ‘Didn’t that hurt?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘You’re tougher than you look, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Give me your finger.’ She squished hers onto his, rubbing them together for good measure. ‘Now, the pact. Repeat after me.’ Willow looked into Tom’s eyes. ‘For the sake of our future . . .’

  ‘For the sake of our future,’ he repeated, openly puzzled.

  ‘I solemnly swear that I will never . . .’

  ‘I solemnly swear that I will never. Never, ever, ever,’ he added, to make her laugh.

  ‘Tom! Never screw up our friendship.’

  He completed the pact and she nodded with grim satisfaction before wiping her finger on her shirt. Willow pocketed the needle and sat back against a grain barrel to contemplate the clear blue sky outside the shed. The sweet scent of hay was heavy in the air. Tom watched her from his spot seated against the shed’s tin wall.

  ‘Or what?’ he asked.

  ‘Or what what?’

  ‘What if I do screw it up? Do I hope to die or stick that needle in my eye, or what?’

  ‘You just don’t screw it up. Full stop.’

  ‘So there’s no actual consequence?’

  Exasperated, she gave his boot a kick. ‘The consequence is a messed-up future, dummy. That’s why we have to make the pact now, before we even get started. If we want in on the dream, we stick to the rules. Don’t screw up the friendship.’ She stood.

  Tom shrugged and sucked his finger as he got to his feet. ‘Weird pact. I can’t believe I bled for that.’

  They headed back towards the house and he sneaked a mischievous look at Willow’s face. ‘My first blood pact. Does this mean we’re engaged?’

  She shot him a warning glance. ‘That’s not even funny, Tom Forrest.’

  ‘Excuse me, Dr Paterson?’

  Willow lifted her head and chuckled when she saw the first-year student hovering by her table. ‘Not Doctor.’

  He reddened, rubbing a hand through his close-cut hair. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No need to apologise – you actually promoted me. I don’t have a PhD, just a masters.’

  He scratched his cheek. ‘Er, Miss Paterson . . .’

  ‘Call me Willow. We’re pretty casual around here.’

  ‘I was wondering,’ he recommenced, and she had to strain to hear him above the cafeteria clatter. ‘I liked your class but Professor Dale’s lecture was really confusing. Could I ask you a couple of questions about it?’

  ‘Maybe it would be better to ask Professor Dale,’ she suggested.

  The student, who looked fresh off the farm, stared at the floor.‘I could but he kinda scares me.’

  Willow laughed again but part of her sympathised. Ten years had passed since she’d arrived in Perth and had her first class with the renowned Professor Quentin Dale – then Dr Quentin Dale – but she remembered how she’d been intimidated by him back then too. She used to come out of the lecture hall bewildered and overwhelmed. It had taken a full year for his lectures to make sense. Even now she sometimes wished he would just use plain English. Most of the students in the University of Perth’s agriculture department came from farming backgrounds, and were used to a plainer way of speaking. But Quentin was Quentin. He would rather use a thousand esoteric words where a hundred simple ones – or better yet, a diagram – would suffice.

  ‘Which bits were confusing?’ she asked, and invited the student to sit down.

  Willow spent the next twenty minutes explaining the fundamental differences between biodynamic approaches to farming of the last century and those of today. When he departed he looked much happier and Willow, satisfied, returned to her marking and her lukewarm coffee. She only got three more minutes in before the departmental secretary came rushing into the cafeteria.

  ‘Willow! I’ve been trying to get hold of you,’ Tanya puffed. ‘You left your phone in your office again. I could hear it ringing through the door.’

  ‘Ack, sorry.’

  ‘There’s a call for you. You need to take it.’

  ‘Who from?’

  ‘Your sister.’

  ‘Beth or Free?’

  ‘Beth.’ Tanya glanced at Willow’s pile of marking. ‘Can you come back to the office so you can talk to her?’’

  ‘I’m kind of busy at the moment. I’ll ring her later, okay?’

  Tanya seemed agitated. ‘No, you need to call her back now.’

  Willow frowned. ‘Tan, what’s going on? Is something wrong?’

  ‘I didn’t want to be the one to break it to you.’ Tanya’s face was a picture of discomfort. ‘Your dad’s in hospital. They think it was a heart attack.’

  ‘Why did this happen?’ Willow closed the office door and slumped into the swivel chair, gripping her phone. ‘He’s only fifty-five, for God’s sake.’

  ‘With the arteries of an eigh
ty-year-old,’ said Beth. ‘It’s congenital, mainly, but his lifestyle sure hasn’t helped. You know what he eats. Plus the beer. And he carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, which is probably the worst thing for him.’

  ‘Are they transferring him down here, or up to Darwin?’

  ‘No, he’s stable, and the cardio team at Mount Clair know their stuff. He’s okay up here.’

  ‘I’ll come up. I’ll get a flight as soon as possible. I’ll ask for a week off.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘Beth?’

  ‘I think you should talk to Dad before you leave.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He wants to ask you something.’

  Willow’s heart sank. Muster. Of course. Her father wouldn’t be able to direct the cattle mustering this year. Beth worked fulltime in her GP clinic and, anyway, she lived in the Mount Clair townsite these days, which was close to the hospital but 120 kilometres from the family property, Paterson Downs. Free, their other sister, was still in Europe, and she wouldn’t know the first thing about managing muster even if she was home. Willow thought frantically.

  ‘What about the assistant manager – Hegney, right? Or the Forrests? Can’t they run muster for Dad?’

  ‘Willow, it’s not just muster. We need someone to make decisions. Dad can’t do it. We can’t let him work or he’ll get even sicker. If he thinks the Forrests or Hegney or anyone else might be calling the shots, then he’ll try to get involved. You’re the only one he trusts.’

  Willow swore. ‘It’s halfway through semester, Beth.’ Beth went quiet again and Willow sighed. ‘I’ll call Dad.’

  Pride battled frustration as she dialled the number of Mount Clair hospital. What Beth had said was true. Barry Paterson only trusted Willow with the running – and the future – of the station. Even before she’d gone to university to study biodynamics and sustainable agriculture, it had been an accepted Paterson family fact that Willow would one day run the station. Well, perhaps not universally accepted. Willow had seen how her sisters had to bite their tongues when their father only listened to Willow’s advice. It bugged Beth in particular.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Willow.’

  A stab of panic ran through her. He sounded so weak. ‘Beth told me what happened. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Like three kinds of crap kicked sideways.’

  She forced a laugh. ‘What does the doctor say?’

  ‘He’s given me enough tablets to sink a dinghy. I have to take them for the rest of my life, he reckons, but if they do their job,I won’t need surgery.’

  ‘Surgery?’

  ‘Y’know, sticking something in there to keep the tubes clear.’

  She guessed he was referring to arterial stents. ‘How long do they think you’ll be in hospital?’

  ‘Not too long, the doc reckons. Maybe only a couple more days. The food’s bloody terrible, so the sooner the better. And mustering’s about to start, of course.’

  ‘Well, you just rest. No stressing out, Dad. I’ll be home in a couple of days to help with muster.’ She cursed herself silently. She didn’t want to help with muster – she couldn’t, in fact. Not if she wanted to keep her job at the university. Being sessional staff, she didn’t have the option of taking leave.

  ‘I think I’ll need a bit more than just help with muster this time, sweetheart.’

  ‘What do you mean? Don’t talk like that.’

  There was a silence that went on so long she wondered if the signal had dropped out.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Willow. Are you ready?’

  ‘Ready for what?’

  Willow shoved clothing into her suitcase with trembling hands. She had emptied a drawer of tops and a drawer of jumpers before she realised what she was doing. Then she gave a half-laugh and yanked all the jumpers and work blouses back out of the case. They could go to charity bins now. She wasn’t going to need them where she was headed.

  Her small collection of T-shirts, shorts and jeans fitted into the case much better. Her bedroom at Paterson Downs was so small, she would have to be ruthless with throwing stuff out. Willow was glad to toss her mid-heels into the charity box. Heels had never been her thing. She moved on to the bathroom to empty the cabinet. This makeup would be wasted up north, where it melted off your face faster than you could reapply it. She kept some eyeliners, lipsticks, and a tinted SPF lotion she used when she did university fieldwork, and dumped the rest in the bin. She caught sight of her flushed face in the mirror and stopped, sinking onto the toilet lid.

  Is this real?

  Her dad’s words ran through her mind again. Willow. Are you ready? Are you ready to take over the station?

  Holy shit. Her life’s dream, handed to her on a platter, and much earlier than she’d ever expected. Was she ready?

  ‘God, yes,’ she muttered.

  As soon as she’d finished talking to her father, Willow had abandoned her marking, hastily explaining the situation to Tanya as she packed up her personal items in the sessional staff office. Tanya had watched worriedly, not saying much as Willow left, even when Willow handed over her office key. But later, a text message arrived from her friend saying she would help in any way Willow needed. Willow promised to drop by Tanya’s place to say goodbye in the morning, and booked a one-way flight to her hometown of Mount Clair.

  She stared unseeingly at the bathroom tiles and made a mental list. She had to call Quentin, cancel the utilities at her apartment, arrange for the furniture to be removed, speak to the other sessional tutor Kevin about taking on her teaching load – so much to do. She’d already notified the property manager that she was breaking the lease, and had booked a cleaner.

  I won’t miss this place, she thought as she resumed packing. The bland little one-bedroom apartment was simply somewhere to live, within walking distance of the university, while she taught classes and worked on her sustainable pasture research. Her lack of interest in interior decorating meant she’d never put her stamp on the place. Everything was functional, from the modular bed frame to the second-hand wooden table that didn’t match the couch. The apartment had never really felt like home to Willow. She’d recently contemplated getting a few new kitchen gadgets, since cooking was one thing she did put energy into when she got home each night. She was glad now she hadn’t bought anything. It would have been a pain to transport heavy appliances back to Mount Clair.

  The bathroom done, she went back to her bedroom and emptied her bedside drawer onto the bed. Right at the bottom, which meant they landed on top when she flipped the drawer, were Tom’s letters. Willow gathered them up and hesitated with the pile in her hands, the familiar sense of discomfort bubbling in her stomach. She’d only ever read the first two. They’d hurt so much that she’d taken to shoving each new letter unopened to the bottom of the drawer, always with plans to read them ‘later’. It was now ten years later, she realised. They’d been just eighteen when he sent those letters, which arrived throughout her first year at university.

  A knock came at the front door, shaking Willow out of her reverie. She hurried to answer it before realising she still had the letters in her hand. Looking around, she spied her handbag on the hall table and slipped the bundle in there before she got the door.

  ‘Oh! Hi, Quentin.’

  ‘Hello, Willow.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ That sounded ruder than she intended. ‘What a nice surprise.’

  ‘I’ve been at the department office, talking to Tanya.’

  ‘Ah – I was just about to call you.’

  He made a move to step past her so she drew back and let him through.

  ‘I’m pretty tight for time,’ she said. ‘I’ve gotta —’

  ‘Pack?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry. I should have called. It was a huge shock to me, too.’

  Quentin made his way to the kitchen table and sat down. Willow wasn’t sure what to do. Offer him a drink? But then he might hang around.

 
‘My flight’s tomorrow at seven a.m.,’ she said, thinking aloud.

  ‘You’re really going?’

  His voice seemed tight. She sat across from him, watching as he cleaned his glasses on a handkerchief. The lines around his eyes were more pronounced than usual. ‘Quentin, I really am sorry to leave you in the lurch like this. I’m sessional staff, so I don’t technically have to give notice, but you know I would have if it hadn’t happened quite like this. Dad’s really sick and he needs me. I’m not going to have time to come back to Perth to clear everything out later because I’ll be too busy at the station, so it just makes sense to organise my stuff and go now.’ She gabbled, trying to make her sudden abandonment less brutal. ‘Kevin’s more than ready to take on my classes, and the doctoral prep, that can go on hold.’

  Quentin put his glasses back on. ‘Really, Willow? You’re going to be a farmer?’

  She blinked at the veiled contempt in his voice.

  ‘Uh, a grazier actually and yeah, of course I am. Why else would I have a degree in biodynamics and agriculture?’

  He studied her. ‘You’ve got a promising academic career at your fingertips. Why would you give that up?’

  She couldn’t help a short laugh. ‘What kind of agriculture lecturer would I make if I hadn’t actually worked on a farm?’ Too late, she remembered that was precisely how Quentin had forged his academic career. ‘I mean, I need to walk the talk. But more importantly, my family needs me. Beth can’t do it. She works fulltime. And Free – well, Free just can’t do it. You know there’s no one else.’

  ‘Your dad will probably take control of the station again as soon as he’s better. You know what these old, dyed-in-the-wool farmers are like.’

  Willow considered this, remembering her father’s words on the phone. I’m not going to throw away my life. You girls lost your mother far too young and you won’t be losing your dad as well.

  ‘Maybe. I guess it’s possible.’ She looked him in the eye. ‘Quentin, I’m really sorry to leave the department so abruptly. But I have to do it. I’ve wanted this forever.’

  He regarded her in return. ‘And what about your friends – your relationships?’