Broken Hill

By Amanda Mackey

 

Zayne:
Ears buzzing. 
Crowd screaming:
Drowning in sweat. 
I'm invincible. 
A King. 
A rock God, standing before my people. 
My fans. 
Soaking in the accolades. 
Until I'm not....
Until I'm over 7000 miles away from all I've ever known. 
So far out of my comfort zone in a barren, hick town in the middle of freaking nowhere. 
For three months! 
How will I survive? 

 

Harper:
Hot. 
Dusty. 
Unforgiving. 
A vast expanse of the Australian outback. 
My world. 
My haven. 
Until it's not... 
Until HE arrives. 
All arrogance, swagger and forbidden temptation. 
With no idea what he's in for. 
A newbie to this land who will break in the first week. 
He won't survive..

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amanda Mackey
• Release date: Apr 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201654573

Amanda Mackey

I'm an Australian author. I live in sunny Queensland with my two teenage kids and three cats. I'm an avid reader. I've written 14 books with more on the way.  The majority of my books are set in the US. 

Book preview

BROKEN

HILL

By

Amanda Mackey

Published 2022 by Amanda Mackey

Copyright © Amanda Mackey

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon, or similar organizations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission from the authors.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Acknowledgements

Firstly, thankyou to my family for whom this journey wouldn’t be possible. Thank you for introducing me to books at such a young age. It paved the way for my writing career.

My children, Jordan and Bella. You complete me. It’s that simple. I don’t know what I’d do without you both. I’m so proud of both of you.

Erik Fellows: What can I say Erik? Thank you sincerely for being a part of this book! From the get go you have helped me tremendously with not only the image of yourself for the cover, but for designing the cover itself. I truly love it and love your generosity. I hope we can continue to work together in the future.

My readers. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I never thought I’d ever get published and have people read my books, let alone like them! You continue to motivate me to write more, even in times when I’ve felt like giving up. I’m so grateful I get to do this.

Chapter One

Harper

Gran! What are you doing out here? You should be inside, asleep.

It’s 2:45a.m., my grandmother shouldn’t have been up at such an ungodly hour. But the stubborn eighty-year-old stood before me with extra towels and a bucket of warm water. Her aging face held signs of sleep deprivation as I imagined mine did but her eyes shone the fierce determination I’d come to know so well. She would never be told what to do. By anyone. Especially not at the present moment.  Our ewe, Ingrid, was in second-stage labour and the lamb needed to be turned around due to the breech position. I’d been sitting with her for over two hours after hearing her distress from my bedroom. The large stable we’d  isolated her in, remained a safe haven while she progressed through the labour.

It wasn’t my first delivery. This was my first breech birth though, so my nerves had frayed and snapped. After two attempts to turn the lamb around, I’d  failed, so even though Gran should be inside, her presence relaxed me a little.

She’d worked the farm—over 3000 acres to be exact—for most of her life, but with her age came the stark realization that she couldn’t do as much anymore, although the obstinate woman wouldn’t be told as such. Her mind hadn’t caught up to the degeneration of her joints and bones. And that’s why I loved her. The fight you could still see in her weary eyes. A fire birthed from hard times. A passion for the land, not bred but inherited from generations long gone. It’s all she’d ever known, and to be honest, I couldn’t imagine her doing anything else. She was as much a part of this place as the massive papery gum trees which had withstood the wrath of the Outback, in the same dignified manner.

I  moved from Queensland over two years ago to live with her and take over many of the physical duties so she could focus more on the paperwork. My parents delivered me like some prized cattle when I’d proven too much for them to handle. My errant ways after a horrific incident which spiraled me into a black vortex of alcoholic benders and unemployment sealed my fate with my mum and dad. As foster parents to endless strays, I’d been just another one who couldn’t be saved, so rather than help me face my demons, they figured life in a small town would hamper my temptations and put me on the straight and narrow. In many ways it had. I didn’t have time to party every night and even if I did, the small city of Broken Hill, New South Wales, wasn’t exactly Vegas.

It had been hard. Gran provided the discipline I needed, although at the time I hated her strict authority. What had truly given me peace was the vast open spaces and long hours of hard work. Learning how to shear and take care of the sheep helped keep my trauma at bay. Whether I’d dealt with it or not, I couldn’t be sure, but having enough to distract me all day until I fell into an exhausted sleep at night seemed to do the trick.

With its rich mining history, nearly 18,000 residents and post-apocalyptic landscape, Broken Hill belonged in a dystopian movie rather than the heritage-listed metropolis it was. Known for its beautiful historical buildings and emus leisurely strolling the streets with locals and tourists, the area had grown on me to such an extent, I now considered it home.

I’ll rest when I’m dead, Gran grumbled, showing the tenacious nature I’d inherited. Now move over and let me have a go.

Her billowy nightgown grazed the straw-laden floor, purple, fluffy slippers scuffing pieces aside as she shuffled forward. The dim stable light held only enough glow for our immediate surroundings. I balked at the vision of my grandmother in sweltering footwear on such a cruddy, warm night. Or perhaps I’d perspired because of the circumstances. Still, with temperatures holding in the mid thirty degrees Celsius, the night had barely cooled.

I placed the bucket and towels on the floor beside me. Gran crouched over Ingrid, her knees protesting with a couple of loud cracks. Arthritis had taken root in her arms and legs after years of physical labour but it hadn’t stopped the feisty woman. She’d go down kicking and screaming before she gave up the farm totally. I dreaded the day it happened.

Our eighteen-month-old Border Collie, Buddy, hoisted himself from his bed of straw nearby and came with his tail wagging to greet Gran. He became my shadow as if he sensed I needed companionship. He’d been waiting with me in the barn, albeit sleeping, but just knowing he was nearby provided much needed comfort.

Hey, Buddy, Gran greeted, giving him a rub under the neck before reaching for the small stool I’d placed against the barn wall so she could sit.

The headstrong woman took me in without hesitation, dismissing my initial rebuttal at doing chores and learning the ropes. A tough woman with a heart of gold, she didn’t put up with my crap. After Grandad passed, four years ago she shouldered the entire property of Young Farm herself with the help of two casual farmhands who worked three days per week.

Gran was enthralling to watch. She moved into a different mindset without hesitation. While Ingrid laid on her side with her head raised, bleating regularly, Gran proceeded to turn the lamb around without the same hassle I’d encountered.

I stroked Ingrid during the process to help ease her trauma.

When Gran seemed satisfied, we let nature take its course, watching and waiting, then before long, a gangly, curled up baby lay sprawled on the towels we’d placed down. We both observed in awe as it began to move.

I’ll wait for the placenta, you go back to bed, I offered my grandmother, my eyes fixed on the adorable new addition to our family. I knew it may take a few hours for the rest of labour to take place and that meant staying up until sunrise.

She shuffled closer and placed an arm around my shoulders. Her gloved hands were covered in ‘labour goo’ but it didn’t faze me. I knew I’d well and truly acclimatized to farm life at that moment because just over two years ago I would have run a mile at the sight.

Her eyes held something close to pride as she spoke. Your parents would be proud of what you did here tonight. I’ll be sure to let them know.

My parents, who I called once a week, were happy I’d changed. I hadn’t seen them since moving and sometimes I wished they’d visit. Mom with her own beauty business and Dad who worked part-time as an engineer, were always busy and didn’t have time for much else. With fostering as well, they ate, slept and worked.

The only person I’d truly been close to is my foster brother, Jake. Two years older than me, we’d always hung out. He was a rough diamond but somehow we clicked. I missed him more than anyone, even with his bad habits of smoking and drinking. We used to spend the most time together and in many ways he felt more like family than my parents.

Gran stared down at Ingrid for a moment, then back up to me, her lip quivering. I’m proud of you, Harps. Oh and I’m not going anywhere. There’s still work to be done, cleaning up.

She was the only one who shortened my name and I didn’t mind, really. Everyone else used my full name - Harper. Gran was the special exception.

Upon hearing her words, which she rarely gave freely, I leaned into her embrace, relishing the moment of bonding with the one person who never gave up on me.

You did all the hard work, Gran.

Don’t lessen your part in it. You put in the hours of sitting with Ingrid, keeping her comfortable and attempting to turn the lamb. I’d say that counts for something. Her normally steely eyes glistened with unshed tears which brought a lump to my throat. We’d grown close and while she didn’t hand out compliments readily, the ones she did give were worth their weight in gold.

I knew she wouldn’t go to bed yet but I offered her the reprieve anyway.

Ingrid began sniffing and looking for her baby, moving to stand, even before the placenta had evacuated. The first moments were crucial in seeing if rejection would occur but like the wonderful ewe she was, when she began licking her lamb, we knew all would be good.

With a yawn, I picked up the dirty towels , walking out of the pen to throw them in a bucket.

Do you want coffee or tea while we wait? I needed one. Fatigue began its slow creep over me and waiting out the final stage of labour required an extra-large dose of caffeine.

A small shot of whiskey for me, Harp, answered Gran.

Her stash of Jack Daniels surprised me when I first moved to Young Farm. I hadn’t expected an elderly woman to suck back straight whiskey once or twice a day but I guess we all had our vices. She certainly wasn’t an alcoholic. She enjoyed it in moderation. And why shouldn’t she? We both worked damn hard. Up at sunrise, going until dark. Sometimes after, like tonight.

Sure. Coming right up.

I wandered the short, dusty walk back to the house with Buddy at my heels.

In daylight, the residence resembled a typical Australian colonial home. Wrap-around verandahs on all sides to keep the sun out. Tin roof. Light grey, weatherboard exterior with white timber window surrounds. It was re-painted three years ago after a long-overdue revamp and really was a stunning house inside and out.

The sounds of the night carried us to the back door. Buddy’s ears pricked up to any slight noise as he scoured our vicinity. Complete silence never existed on the farm. Whether it be the deafening sound of cicadas, toads and frogs or other nocturnal animals, background chatter filled the air. I found it oddly comforting.

Buddy proved to be a loyal friend. He wouldn’t run off to just any sound. He waited for the word from me. He thrived on instructions. As a working dog, he assisted in rounding up the sheep to get them into the shearing corrals. He took his job seriously and excelled at herding the masses. Dan, one of the farmhands, worked particularly well with Buddy.

It only took a moment to find the bottle of whiskey in the tallboy near the kitchen. I half-filled a glass and turned the coffee machine on. My lifesaver. I’d become a bit of a coffee snob after experiencing freshly brewed coffee rather than the bottled, store-bought stuff. It took longer to prepare but it was worth it.

The wooden kitchen cabinets sat in keeping with the era of the home, a large dining table and six chairs the focal point of the room. Gran and I spent our indoor time in the kitchen, when we weren’t sleeping or doing outside chores which took up large chunks of the day. It exuded warmth and homeyness. A room we ate in while discussing the day. A place to sort through issues and make decisions. If only the walls could talk, they’d tell of late-night heart to hearts early on when I first arrived. My grandmother consoling my fragile mind after she learnt of my terrible existence in Queensland.

I loved quiet time sitting on the open verandah staring out at the vast property. Especially as the sun lowered. It brought with it, changing colours and shadows from surrounding trees. The dusk creatures woke from sleep, signaled by their native chorus, serenading me with their song. During the day, we heard the distant sounds of the city, depending on which way the wind blew. The house sat far enough away from the main road to keep it in the background. Yep. I loved my slice of heaven and had no plans of leaving.

Once the coffee brewed, I carried our drinks back to the stable, wondering if Ingrid had passed the placenta. A large bat, flew low overhead, making me almost spill my coffee. Damn it. I leaned down and took a sip, realizing I’d overfilled the cup.

The sky sparkled like a blanket of jewels, not a cloud anywhere. Cicadas chirped in sync, their song almost deafening in the dead of night. 

As soon as I entered the birthing pen, I stopped, dropping the drinks. I barely felt the hot spray of coffee coat my legs as my heart stuttered. Buddy shot sideways to avoid being splattered, taking pause as I had. The floor and walls fell away from the barn as my peripheral vision shut down, my sole focus on the fallen form in front of me. My brain lagged as my eyes rolled over Gran. Everything ceased momentarily, including my heart. Almost as if I froze to the spot, I stood and gawped, attempting to process what happened. I couldn’t.

Splayed on the floor, as if professionally arranged beside Ingrid and her baby, my grandmother laid, her hands at odd angles, legs slightly apart. Her ashen face appeared almost stark white under the dim lighting. The ewe and her baby remained unfazed as if nothing untoward had occurred. Blood resurged to my heart and vital organs in fight or flight mode. Panic still seized me but only for an instant longer as my legs acted on instinct.

On a run, I called out, Gran! Gran! Are you okay? Wake up!

When stillness remained, my world imploded.

Chapter Two

Zayne

Ears buzzing. Crowd screaming. Heart hammering even after Spike’s drums finished, I stood with my bandmates, soaking in the applause and accolades. The kick of fans worshiping the ground we walked on never got old. The buzz of desire blurred in there somewhere. I was made for this. Lived for it. Music. Singing. Strumming out chords on my acoustic guitar to match Nix’s base. Girls throwing their scanty panties on stage in the hopes one of us would pick them up and pocket them.

When I stood before a packed house who screamed our names over and over, it gave me a high like no other. In those moments I became invincible. A king. A god. Capable of anything. My ego soared. I drowned in it. Nothing came close. The energy in the arena flowed through everyone and I never wanted it to end. With a glance at my sweaty bandmates I saw their own shit-eating grins, shoulders back, heads held high, pride oozing from their pores.

We took our bows after two encores and ran off stage, letting our eyes adjust to the dimness after being under harsh spotlights for two hours.

Excitement had us all punching our fists into the air, yelping and walloping at such a great show, the final one of our US tour. It had been grueling but thrilling. Three months straight of hotels, late nights, groupies and way too many hours of lost sleep. As a band, we hadn’t torn each other’s heads off and for the most part we all got along. But…

The only dark cloud looming was a five-foot-eleven, brilliant electric guitarist Mitchell or Mitch the Bitch as we called him. His drug habit had begun to interfere with his playing during the last four shows and my patience was wearing thin to the point of having it out with him. Our perfect streak of always getting on was probably about to come to a complete standstill.

Boys! Brilliant show! gushed our manager, Stuart Williams, shaking hands and thumping us all on the back. The crowd ate up every damn song!

And they had. The Cincinnati crowd was our best yet with record numbers attending and everyone jumping and singing along. Our band, Backstage, bordered on the cusp of greatness, a record deal sealed, masses of followers and a talented bunch of musicians with a burning drive to succeed.

Sweat dripped from me so I ripped my shirt off and tipped a bottle of water Stuart handed each of us over my head and torso before downing the remainder.

Josh the keyboardist and Mitchell were already chatting and signing autographs with a small group of fans who won a ‘meet and greet’.

My eyes fixed on Mitchell. I could tell from his glazed eyes and un-coordination, that he was as high as a kite. He missed the intro to one of the encores. Nix had thankfully covered for him but he’d been playing wrong chords all through the show. Stuart hadn’t obviously picked up on it but I’d caught the faces of the other band members at his faux pas. We’d all had enough and if he didn’t get his shit together while we took a three-month hiatus, we’d have to seriously consider looking for another guitarist.

Agreed! I replied back, genuinely smiling and vowing to speak to Mitchell later. Literally everyone was off their seats dancing.

"It’s only the beginning for you boys. I’ve got