Morgan's Law

By Karly Lane

When advertising executive Sarah Murphy heads to a small town to fulfill a mysterious last wish of her late grandmother, her journey leads her to love and greater understanding of both herself and her grandmotherWhen Sarah Murphy returns to Australia she desperately needs a break from her high-powered London life. And though mystified by her grandmother's dying wish for her ashes to be scattered under "the wishing tree" on the banks of the Negallan River, she sets out to do just that. While searching for the wishing tree, Sarah stays in the small township of Negallan. It's there that she finally has some time to relax and unwind, there that she finds herself drawn to a handsome local farmer, and there that she discovers her inquiries about her grandmother are causing disquiet within the powerful local Morgan family. Will the Morgans prevent Sarah from discovering the truth about her grandmother? And should she risk her glittering career for a simpler existence in the country, and the possibility of true love? 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Arena
• Release date: Aug 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781742695938

Karly Lane

Karly Lane lives in Macksville on the Mid North Coast of New South Wales. She loves to hear from her readers so find her on Facebook, and say hi. For more information and to find other Karly Lane books, please visit karlylane.com.

Book preview

Morgan’s Law

Karly Lane lives on the mid north coast of New South Wales. Proud mum to four beautiful children and wife of one very patient mechanic, she is lucky enough to get to spend her day doing the two things she loves most—being a mum and writing stories set in beautiful rural Australia.

Karly

LANE

Morgan’s Law

First published in 2012

Copyright © Karly Lane 2012

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

Arena Books, an imprint of

Allen & Unwin

Sydney, Melbourne, Auckland, London

83 Alexander Street

Crows Nest NSW 2065

Australia

Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available

from the National Library of Australia

www.trove.nla.gov.au

ISBN 978 1 74237 910 4

Set in 12.5/17 pt Sabon by Midland Typesetters, Australia

Printed and bound in Australia by Griffin Press

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For my mum and dad

Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Acknowledgements

One

The endless highway stretched out in a ribbon of grey as far as the eye could see. Sarah Murphy had been driving since five in the morning and there was still no end in sight. The last few towns she’d passed through had been little more than a pub and a few rundown houses.

She’d lost the only decent radio station a few hours ago and had turned off the radio with a sigh. Silence. For the first time in years, Sarah was surrounded by nothing but the purring of her car’s engine and the sound of endless miles passing beneath its tyres. No phones, no traffic . . . nothing.

As an account executive at Brandl & McBride, a leading London-based advertising agency, full speed was the only gear Sarah had been operating in for what seemed like forever. She thrived on the pressure of her work, never feeling more elated than when she picked up a new account or managed a successful campaign. The abrupt change of pace in her life over these past few days had been a major culture shock.

Sarah had found herself taking stock of her life since the death of her grandmother six months ago. She’d spent years working tirelessly, despite occasional misgivings about working in an industry with such an emphasis on flogging material possessions. She’d loved all of it—the crazy deadlines, the drama, the long hours—but her grandmother’s death seemed to stop her in her tracks.

The job that had once been the entire focus of her life now felt frivolous and empty, and London, once so glamorous and exciting, just seemed a cold, dull and noisy place that no longer felt like home.

A yellow sign whizzed past and she reached for the map, searching for the small speck of a town called Negallan. She had to be getting close to it by now. A dark shape suddenly appeared out of nowhere, and in a split second Sarah had dropped the map and was braking to avoid colliding with a herd of cattle grazing on either side of the road.

As her traction control kicked in, the tyres gained purchase on the loose gravel and the BMW came to a halt just in time. Heart thumping, Sarah stared dumbfounded through the windscreen. A herd of brown cattle milled about her car, those on the grassy verge continuing to graze undisturbed.

Sarah glanced at the passenger seat and breathed a sigh of relief that her gran’s ashes were still strapped in safely. Maybe it was time to take a breather from driving, she decided, taking off her own seat belt. As she emerged from the car the cattle drifted away; she heard the sound of a motorbike coming up behind her and turned around. The rider skidded to a stop and hastily dismounted from his bike.

‘Are you hurt?’ he asked, looking concerned.

She shook her head. ‘No, I’m okay.’

‘Well, that was bloody lucky. I saw your car go off the road.’ Looking down at her tyres, he shook his head. ‘Picked a bad place to pull over, too. You’re up to your axles in mud.’

‘I didn’t exactly have much time to think about where I was going to stop,’ replied Sarah dryly, following his gaze. Sure enough, thick mud covered her back tyres where they’d angled off into the soft, muddy earth.

‘If you’d read the signs back there—you know, the ones that said Cattle ahead—maybe you wouldn’t have almost killed yourself, or one of my herd.’

‘How was I to know there really were cattle ahead? I’ve been passing signs like that all day without spotting a single cow.’

‘Just because you don’t see them doesn’t mean they’re not there! It’s a big place,’ he said, his blue eyes narrowing beneath the brim of his hat. Sarah judged the man before her to be in his late twenties—maybe early thirties; it was hard to say with his face shaded and the glare of the afternoon sun behind him.

‘Well, I know that—now.’

‘Do you want me to see if I can drive you out? Otherwise I’ll have to go back and get the ute,’ he said.

Sarah stared at him suspiciously. What did a serial killer look like anyway? If the answer was dusty, rugged and not too hard on the eyes, then she may very well be looking at one!

‘Or you can stay here all night,’ he added. ‘Doesn’t bother me either way.’

Letting out a defeated sigh, Sarah took a step back and watched as he slid into the driver’s seat and eased her car into gear. The wheels spun, mud flying everywhere, as the tyres struggled to grip the slippery surface. For a moment it seemed hopeless. Then, without warning, the car lurched forward and out of the mud.

‘There you go,’ he said, getting out and holding the door open for her. ‘By the way, why do you have a seat belt around a vase in your front seat?’

‘It’s not a vase, it’s an urn.’

‘An urn . . . as in something that holds . . . ?’

‘Ashes. Yes. They’re my grandmother’s.’

‘Well, you and your grandmother are good to go now,’ he said, glancing dubiously at the urn.

‘Thanks,’ said Sarah, getting back into her car and driving off.

She looked up into the rear-view mirror just in time to see him swing himself back onto the bike. The dark clouds hovering overhead and the low rumble of thunder in the distance warned her to keep her mind on the road ahead.

The sign announcing she’d finally reached her destination told her Negallan boasted a population of seven hundred and thirty-nine. As Sarah drove down the main street, she wondered where they all were. There was no one in sight and not a great deal in the way of shops, just a grocery store, hardware, bakery and butcher, as well as a majestic-looking pub. The takeaway shop was the only one still open, but there seemed little sign of life inside.

A few old buildings were scattered along the next street, and she caught a glimpse of the town hall and local CWA headquarters. Driving on, she turned in to a petrol station that was open—perhaps someone in there could give her directions to a place she could stay the night.

Wearily pushing open the car door, she climbed out and stretched her legs, then reached up to release the kinks in her shoulders. A long low whistle cut through the air behind her and she froze. She turned, ready to give the Neanderthal who’d wolf-whistled at her a piece of her mind, but before she could say anything a large man with a white beard brushed past her, running oil-stained hands along the sleek lines of her car.

‘She’s a beauty. BMW convertible, don’t get many of these out this way. Do you mind if I take a look inside?’ he asked, almost shyly.

‘Sure, knock yourself out,’ said Sarah.

With the mechanic happily entranced by the car, Sarah looked around her. Across from the old garage sat a tidy, surprisingly modern playground and a small cottage with the sign Negallan Museum hanging on its front door. There was a bridge over a dry creek bed, which rattled alarmingly as an old clunker of a ute drove across it.

‘I don’t suppose there’s a motel around here?’ asked Sarah.

Reluctantly the mechanic unfolded his frame from her car. ‘Yeah, about three hundred k’s south-east.’

‘Really, there’s no motel closer than that?’ When she’d left Sydney, Sarah had been under the misguided impression that she’d be able to rock up to Negallan, spend the night there, scatter her grandmother’s ashes as requested, and then head back to Sydney. She’d begun to realise her mistake once she left the coast and started heading inland.

Having not travelled such long distances before, the endless stretches of highway became exhausting after eight or so hours of driving. She’d stopped for the night when fighting semi-trailers for the road became too nerve-racking to continue, spending it in a claustrophobic motel room in a town she couldn’t remember the name of. The remaining six and a bit hours left would have been all right had her GPS not taken her some obscure way, adding another fifty or so kilometres to her trip. She was too tired to make any decisions after her long drive today anyway.

‘The pub’s your best bet. The rooms are supposed to be okay and the food is pretty good,’ said the mechanic. ‘Driven a long way?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘From Sydney.’ Then she thought for a moment. ‘I’m wondering if you know a local family out here, the Joneses?’

He looked thoughtful for a moment before shaking his head. ‘Can’t say I know of any Joneses.’

‘Seriously? No Joneses?’

‘Nope, not that I know of.’

How could there be no Joneses if her grandmother had wanted her ashes scattered here? Ah well, she’d just have to wait until she got to the pub and could google the White Pages.

As she drove past the front of the pub, she looked up and saw a large canvas banner tied to the verandah rails, high above on the second storey. ‘The Royal’ was written in large black letters. ‘Sounds promising,’ she murmured with little enthusiasm.

Sarah eased into a dirt car park at the rear of the old pub and lifted her suitcase out of the boot. Then, unclipping the seat belt around the silver urn, she carefully slid it into her oversized handbag and locked the car.

Compared to the rest of the town, the pub was a hive of activity. There was a line of older men perched on stools along the main bar, swapping stories and drinking their beer from tall glasses; a group of younger men were playing pool in an alcove off the main room.

Sarah waited at the end of the bar looking out for a bartender. Instead of the male bartender she’d expected, a young woman rounded the corner, almost spilling the tray of drinks she was carrying as she narrowly avoided colliding with Sarah.

‘Sorry,’ said Sarah, her hands automatically reaching out to steady the tray.

‘I’m the one who should be sorry. I didn’t see you there. You all right?’ the woman asked.

‘I’m fine, I just walked in. Can you tell me how I go about getting a room here?’

‘Just let me deliver this lot and I’ll sign you in. Won’t be a sec,’ said the woman.

While Sarah waited for her to return, she allowed her gaze to roam around the intricate fittings of the old pub, which all seemed to be original and in pretty good nick.

‘Okay, let’s get you signed up,’ said the young woman, reappearing. ‘How many nights would you like to stay?’

‘Well, I’m not sure yet, maybe just tonight, two at the most.’

The woman pulled out a large ledger and wrote down some details. She looked to be not that much younger than Sarah, with long amber-coloured hair pulled up in a loose bun. After she’d finished writing she slid the pen and ledger towards Sarah. ‘Just fill out your details there, thanks, and I’ll take you up and show you your room.’

As Sarah scribbled her signature and jotted down her car rego, she could feel the other woman’s curious gaze on her.

‘Great, come on and I’ll take you upstairs,’ said the woman. ‘I’m Tash by the way.’

Sarah tried to keep up with Tash’s chatter as she showed her through the upstairs area of the old pub, but found herself distracted by the sheer atmosphere of the building. You could almost inhale the history of the place.

They came to a stop outside a cream door and Tash slid her key into the lock, pushing the door open and standing back to allow Sarah inside. ‘If you need anything just give me a yell. Bathroom’s at the end of the hall, and the dining room is downstairs. Feel free to come down and order dinner whenever you’re ready.’

‘Wait,’ said Sarah as Tash turned to head back downstairs. ‘The bathroom . . . there’s not one inside the room?’

‘No, there’s a shared bathroom. Oh, and there’s also a community lounge up the other end with a telly, but you can only get one channel, so you’re better off coming downstairs to watch the satellite TV.’

‘Really? There’s no bathroom in the room?’ repeated Sarah, still surprised.

‘No . . . it’s a pub,’ said Tash lightly, smiling. ‘I have to get back to work, but just yell out if you need anything.’

Sarah braced herself and flicked on the light switch, only to be pleasantly surprised. Instead of the gaudy burnt-orange velour bedspread she’d expected, the bed had a tasteful doona in shades of cream and chocolate, and there were delicate lace curtains draped over timber-shuttered French doors.

Putting her suitcase down, she carefully withdrew the urn from her handbag and sat it on a small antique side table. Crossing the room, she lifted the timber shutters, unlocked the French doors and stepped out onto a wide timber verandah. Stretching, she looked out at the quiet scene below. The few streetlights cast a yellow glow along the dark road. The place probably hadn’t changed that much in the last handful of decades, thought Sarah, wondering what connected her gran to this funny little place. It was hard to imagine her out here; her memories of her grandmother were all associated with the city.

Sarah felt a hollowness in her stomach at the thought of her grandmother, who had been the centre of her childhood world, the one steady constant in her young life. Over the past ten years Sarah hadn’t spent nearly enough time with her grandmother on her rare trips home to Australia.

Pain and remorse lingered in her heart as she turned away from the railing. Maybe by fulfilling her grandmother’s last wish she’d find some healing.

The smell of something mouth-watering drifted up from downstairs and Sarah splashed some water on her face at the small basin in her room before changing into jeans and a T-shirt.

In the dining room there was a surprising number of tables clustered together, almost half of them filled with diners. Feeling a little self-conscious, Sarah followed the lead of the two people in front of her, lining up at a small cash register to order from the blackboard menu.

‘You must be the one staying upstairs,’ said the elderly woman manning the cash register. She was eyeing Sarah with open curiosity.

‘I guess that would be me,’ Sarah replied, giving the woman what she hoped was a disarming smile.

‘What can I get for ya then?’ the woman asked.

Sarah cast a hesitant glance at the blackboard. ‘Is there anything . . . light?’

‘Light?’

‘I’m not a big meat eater usually. Do you have anything without meat?’

‘We’ve got chips,’ said the woman. As if on cue, a plate of fat greasy chips was pushed through the service window and a deep voice yelled, ‘Order ready!’

Sarah could barely recall the last time she’d eaten carbs. ‘Actually, the roast of the day sounds fine,’ she said, anxious not to get the woman offside.

The woman’s expression eased slightly as she ripped off a ticket with a bright red number on it and handed it to Sarah.

After paying, Sarah went in search of a table, choosing one off to the side of the dining area and trying to project a carefree air, even though she could feel the curious gazes from all around the room.

She was deep in thought when a voice bellowed, ‘Number 34!’ causing her to jump up and hurry towards the cash register to claim her meal. Sending an uncertain smile of thanks to the woman she’d ordered her dinner from, she picked up her plate, which had an enormous amount of thickly sliced beef piled onto it.

When she took her first bite she felt her palate explode as the rich gravy and flavoursome beef awoke her slumbering tastebuds. She found herself blinking back tears as she remembered the roast dinners her gran used to cook.

Gran, the one constant in her somewhat turbulent life, had been her anchor. Sarah could still picture her gran humming softly as she pottered around her kitchen providing much more than mere sustenance to a young girl who always felt as though she were an inconvenience in her mother’s life.

It wasn’t a coincidence that most of Sarah’s younger memories centred around her gran. Long before it became the norm for grandparents to babysit their children’s offspring, Gran had been the one raising Sarah—maternal instincts had somehow skipped her mother. It wasn’t until she was much older that she realised just how lonely her childhood would have been were it not for that gentle woman who stepped in and made her feel so special. How many hours were spent in that little kitchen in her grandmother’s house?

Sarah continued to enjoy her meal, savouring the robust flavours she’d denied herself for so long, and before she knew it she’d consumed the entire meal. It had been one of the single most enjoyable dinners she’d had in the last ten years.

Thinking back, Sarah couldn’t recall the exact date she’d given up red meat, or carbs for that matter. She’d always loved her food. But, once she moved to London, it was a whole new world. Sarah took notice of the women she worked with: they were elegant and well groomed and the unspoken expectation of the industry she worked in was that you dressed for success. No one was going to swallow the advertising campaign of a frumpy woman who showed no respect for her body or grooming . . . Everything was about the package and, like it or not, if you didn’t conform, you didn’t belong. It also helped that her job was incredibly stressful; more often than not, she was simply too busy to stop and eat, and too exhausted once she went home to do more than swill a glass of wine and go to bed.

Pushing away her empty plate, Sarah wished for nothing more than to go to bed and sleep for a week. After contracting a serious bout of flu on her return from Gran’s funeral, it had taken Sarah longer than normal to bounce back. The virus had completely wiped her out and she was still suffering its effects, sapping her energy and leaving her tired. Today’s driving had been a marathon effort, and fatigue had finally caught up with her. With a weary sigh she forced herself to her feet and headed up the staircase to her room.

She was sure she wasn’t imagining the lull in conversation as people stopped to watch her leave the room. Was it really so unusual for a stranger to be in town? Even though she was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt somehow she still managed to stand out like a sore thumb. With an unsettling memory of the film Deliverance running through her head, she forced herself not to run the rest of the way up the stairs.

Sarah listened to the gentle patter of rain on the tin roof of the verandah outside her room. For all its bluster and noise earlier in the afternoon, the brewing storm had gone around the town, leaving only a light rainfall in its wake.

She loved storms—always had.

As she glanced over at the urn, a smile touched her lips as memories of hot summer afternoons listening to the rumble of thunder on Gran’s back verandah flooded her mind.

Sitting cross-legged on the bed, her back propped up against pillows, Sarah carefully unfolded her grandmother’s letter and map from her bag. She knew the letter off by heart—she’d been reading and rereading it for the last six months, ever since she’d received it from her grandmother’slawyer following the funeral service and cremation.

I, Eliza Jones, request that upon my death my beloved granddaughter, Sarah Murphy, take my ashes to Negallan, a place dear to my heart, and scatter them beneath the wishing tree on the banks of the Negallan River. Included are the directions to my final resting place.

On the roughly drawn map, the river and main road were instantly recognisable but the rest was divided up into different properties and landmarks, their names worn away over time and now illegible.

Tomorrow she would begin searching for the answers she needed. Someone here was bound to know where the wishing tree was located, and maybe after she had fulfilled her grandmother’s final request her heavy heart would feel a little lighter.

Two

Sarah awoke to the sound of banging, shouting, honking and a dog barking incessantly. Doesn’t anyone sleep around here? she wondered irritably, throwing off her bedcovers and stomping over to the window to see what on earth was going on.

As she pulled the cord to lift the timber louvres, she caught sight of a very large hairy man outside her window. She screamed in surprise and let go of the cord, the crashing back into place. Once her heart had stopped thudding, Sarah reminded herself she must be sharing this pub with a number of people, and clearly the verandah outside her room, like the bathroom, was a communal area.

She had to admit her first experience with the whole shared-bathroom thing last night hadn’t been as bad as she’d anticipated. Although old, the shower stalls and separate toilets were spotlessly clean.

Now, pulling on her jeans and T-shirt, she gathered her toiletries and towel and made the trek down the hall again. Halfway to the showers a door opened on her left and Sarah gasped, hugging her towel and makeup bag to her chest protectively, as the big man she’d seen outside her room walked out of the men’s toilet, almost colliding with her.

‘Jeez, sorry love. I didn’t see you there,’ he said.

‘That’s okay,’ she said, trying not to stare at the tattoos running down his arms. ‘No harm done.’

‘Not too sure about

Reviews for Morgan's Law

[shelleyraec · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Karly Lane’s debut novel, North Star was nominated as a People’s Choice finalist by the Australian Romance Readers Association and chosen as one of the fifty books for Australia’s annual Get Reading Campaign in 2011. As a writer of the increasingly popular genre affectionately known as ‘chook lit’ Morgan’s Law, Lane’s second book, is sure to be greeted with deserved enthusiasm.Morgan’s Law is a story of self discovery, family roots, romance, mystery and rural life. Sarah Murphy can’t imagine what ties her grandmother had to a dying farming community like Negallan but takes some time off from her high powered, London based career in advertising to carry out her beloved grandmothers last wishes, to scatter her ashes beneath the Wishing Tree on the Negallan River. Sarah anticipates only an overnight stay in Negallan, she certainly doesn’t intend to share a bathroom for long, but her plan is thwarted when a broken water pump leaves her stranded in the town for a few weeks. As Sarah searches for the Wishing Tree, and some answers about her Gran’s mysterious past, she is surprised to find herself warming not only to the battling community, but also handsome local farmer, Adam Buchanan. Yet Sarah can’t imagine the dusty, failing town of Nagellan could ever become ‘home’ and when her dream job beckons she makes a difficult choice, will it be the right one?There is a depth to Morgan’s Law that I wasn’t really expecting and very much enjoyed. The main plot concerns Sarah’s discovery of what she really wants from her life, whether her high pressure career is worth all the things she has to give up to maintain it, which is a valid question for many women today. I found Sarah very likeable and her conflicts believable. Her difficult relationship with her mother added texture to her personality as does the sudden appearance of her ex-boyfriend and occasional communication with her colleagues in London.Two mysteries create subplots, one having to do with the identity of Sarah’s Gran, the other is raised later in the novel when Sarah unwittingly stumbles upon a clandestine meeting in the bush. Both add just the right touch of intrigue to the story.Underpinning the story arcs is a sensitive portrayal of the social issues such as depression, suicide, elitism and financial hardship that affect rural communities. Lane’s fictional town is representative of many regional areas that are under pressure but fighting with admirable spirit to stay alive. The township of Nagellan has a personality of it’s own in this novel and I found myself with as many hopes for it as I had for it’s characters.The romantic element of Morgan’s Law is well handled, the attraction between Sarah and Adam has some time to smoulder before it ignites and when it does, it is believable. While Adam is sure about what he wants, Sarah is less so and the ambivalence creates just enough conflict to keep things interesting without overwhelming the plot.The pacing is good, I was reluctant to put down Morgan’s Law once I had started reading. **possible spoiler**I did think though that Sarah’s sixteen month absence was a bit of a stretch though.I like Lane’s writing style and the dialogue is a real strength with some great lines that showcase Lane’s laconic sense of humour. I even made a note of my favourite, which is something I rarely do, so I think it deserves a mention. In this scene Sarah is speaking with Adam about her ex boyfriend.“…when you think a guy is some knight in shining armour, he ends up being a moron in tinfoil.” (p84)Morgan’s Law is an entertaining and engaging read with wide appeal and topical relevance. The author proves herself as an accomplished storyteller with Morgan’s law and I expect that Karly Lane has a bestseller on her hands.