'I'll try to make you proud, Dad,' Jenn heard him murmur.

She stepped forward, then dropped her own small branch of leaves. I know I'm running away again, Jim. I wish I had your strength. I wish I had Mark's strength.

Mark waited at the back of the crowd. She'd come to the cemetery alone, before the service, to sit by the graves of her parents and Paula, and to see Paul and Sean when they arrived.

Throughout the short service she'd been aware of Mark, his intense eyes, his gentle smile of support.

Now she walked to him. He bent his head and kissed her cheek.

'You're worried. I saw you texting on your phone.'

'Yes. There was an earthquake in Indonesia this morning. I'm booked on a six a.m. flight from Sydney tomorrow. I'll drive to Dubbo shortly, and catch a flight from there late this afternoon.'

'So, you're going again.' He swallowed hard. 'Already. Will you come back?'

'Yes.' Some time. She couldn't promise him when. 'Mark, I know I'm running away. I know I've done that a lot of my life. That's one of those uncomfortable questions I'll be contemplating while I'm gone. Mark, I don't know ... I don't know if I can do this. I'm scared and I need to find out if I'm strong enough to love anyone enough.'

He drew her into his arms. 'I know you need to do this. I won't stop you. But believe me, Jenn a if you don't come back here, I'll come and find you.'

She held him close, reluctant to move, and wished she could be as sure as him.

TWENTY.

In a plastic tent in a field of hundreds of plastic tents Jenn watched a mother feed her baby while rain poured down, spattering on the plastic, sending rivers of water and mud all around them. The woman, who'd lost everything she owned in the earthquake, smiled at her child and stroked his forehead, and thanked Jenn in fractured English for the baby clothes she'd brought.

Jenn stuffed her camera back into its waterproof bag under her perspiration-drenched raincoat and left the tent, heading out into the monsoonal rain and the cloying heat. The inadequate tents provided little shelter for the thousands displaced by the earthquake. There was a story there, a story about suffering and bureaucracy and the struggle back to normality.

There were other stories, too, about families and love and courage and the determination to overcome hurdles and achieve dreams. They were the ones that kept coming to her.

She pa.s.sed a father walking hand in hand with his child, a little girl about the same age as Alicia, and Jenn caught herself thinking of the Dungirri children again. She turned and stood in the teeming rain watching the progress of the father and daughter until they ducked into a tent further down the row.

She would never see them again, never know how they fared, never know their names and dreams and stories beyond the first few days of this disaster.

She was an observer, not a partic.i.p.ant, and that was growing increasingly unsatisfying. As she walked back to her car, the understanding that had been pushing at her for days took a clear shape.

She'd lived her dreams, achieved her goals. All that she'd been able to imagine at seventeen, she'd worked her b.u.t.t off for and made happen. Now, at thirty-five, what dreams did she have? What goals? The vague dream of being good enough to win the respect of a major prize for her journalism a but what the h.e.l.l did it matter if she never won a Pulitzer?

She could research to uncover truths, find answers to unasked questions; she could weave words with talent and skill to relate facts clearly, to inform, to persuade, to raise consciousness and evoke anger or sorrow. All these things she could do well, and she was proud of her skill, of upholding good journalistic ethics and working to make the world better, more informed. Her work mattered.

But she hadn't let much else matter.

She'd run away from everyone she cared about and buried herself in work. Head work, not heart work. Maybe it was time a past time a to stop observing and reporting and start living. Time to stop running away to avoid risking pain and sorrow. She hadn't avoided the sorrow anyway, and it had been laced with regrets.

The driver opened the car door for her.

'The airport now, Miss?'

'Yes. Thank you. It's time to go home.'

TWENTY-ONE.

She drove into Dungirri on another hot, dry day, the wind stirring dust devils on the dirt road ahead of her as she wound through the last of the scrub. Coming out of the trees to cross the low bridge over the creek, she caught sight of the large cloud of smoke to the north of town.

Bushfire. A bushfire in the scrub, the humidity so low the air crackled, and the wind coming from the north a driving the fire towards Dungirri.

Still kilometres away yet. She hoped. She'd never been much good at estimating distances, let alone when the horizon was shrouded in smoke. She'd lived five years in this district and she'd never forgotten the risks, the way the locals kept a constant watch on the horizon through the summer months, the ever-present awareness of temperature, humidity and wind.

On Scrub Road, just beyond Ryan and Beth's home, an SES crew was setting up a road block and a police car edged past it. Going to evacuate people? Perhaps. Not a good sign.

She hadn't expected to see Christmas lights strung across the main street, or the painted nativity scene filling the window of one of the empty shops. A very Australian Santa in singlet and Stubbies relaxed in a rocking chair surrounded by Australian animals in the next window, and she saw several large posters advertising a carols service.

Dungirri was fulfilling its plans of giving the children a Christmas to celebrate, a Christmas to heal.

She drove on past the pub. Cars and utes were parked all along the road outside the Rural Fire Service shed, just beyond the showground. She found a spot towards the end of the line of vehicles and pulled in to park.

So much for driving straight to Marrayin and Mark. Although she'd sent an email to tell him she was leaving Indonesia, she hadn't told him of her spur-of-the-moment decision to hire a car at the airport this morning. He wouldn't expect her until tomorrow.

He was in the RFS. With a fire burning in the scrub she wouldn't find him at home. She could phone him a but that would warn him of her arrival, and for some reason she couldn't entirely fathom, she wanted to see him, watch his unguarded reaction when he saw her.

The RFS shed a extended several times since her day a bustled with activity. Two RFS utes were parked out front but the large bays that housed the tankers were empty. Several guys sorted equipment and others were erecting a tent beside the shed and setting up trestle tables.

The door of the control room stood open and as she approached she could see familiar faces inside. Jeanie Menotti caught sight of her, her face blossoming with a sudden, wide smile.

'Jenn! Welcome back. If you've got nothing better to do, I could use your help.'

'I was going to Marrayin, but I guess Mark's not there.'

'No.' Jeanie nodded to the map on the wall, marked with pins and string. 'He's in sector one on Dungirri One Bravo. Paul's on Dungirri Two Alpha protecting Friday Creek. We've got two Birraga crews as well and there are others from the region on their way. This could be a bad one, Jenn. There's a wind shift forecast but if it doesn't come in time Dungirri itself might be in trouble.'

'What do you need me to do?'

'Phone calls. We need to get on to all the landholders in this area and make sure they're aware, find out if they're evacuating or staying to defend their places.'

At one end of the room, she made phone call after phone call, but every time the RFS radio on the other side of the room crackled, she held her breath, listening for any news of Dungirri One Bravo.

She stopped breathing when the radio crackled loudly and a panicked male voice burst through. 'Emergency! The road's blocked a we're trapped. The fire's jumping the break everywhere ...' A pause came, voices in the background, and then Mark's voice, deep and even. 'Firecom, this is two-seven-one-five on Dungirri One Bravo, calling an emergency sitrep.' Clear and concise, he proceeded with the situation report according to standard operating procedures. And the calmness and clarity terrified Jenn more with each word. 'We are on Toms Creek Road, at the Woolshed Gully fire trail. The road is blocked by trees to the west and the fire has jumped the firebreak to the east. All the crew are in the tanker, and we have five hundred litres of water remaining. We are commencing emergency procedures now. Please confirm receipt of sitrep.'

Commencing emergency procedures. The bland words stood for a nightmare. Taking refuge in a truck from a firestorm. Six fire-fighters, all volunteers, crowding under blankets in the cab of the tanker while the world burned around them.

Jenn stood, frozen on her feet, her pulse thudding in her head. Mark.

'Confirmed, Dungirri One Bravo.' Ryan, the radio officer, spoke as evenly as Mark had, although his face had faded to grey and sweat beaded on his forehead. 'We will despatch units to your a.s.sistance. Take care and good luck, mate.'

Someone swore the minute the radio went quiet, and someone else slammed a fist into the wall.

'Don't think it,' Jeanie ordered, her voice so harsh that everyone in the room turned to her. Her gaze swept around them all. 'You pray, or send them strong thoughts, or hold them in the light, or whatever works for you, but do not panic and imagine the worst. Mark knows what he's doing; he'll make sure they follow the procedures. They have plenty of water, so the protective sprays on the tanker will last a while.'

One part of Jenn's brain heard and acknowledged the logic. Another part screamed.

No. No. No. No, he couldn't die. Couldn't be dying right now. Because she couldn't bear it if he died. Couldn't bear it if he died and never knew that she'd come to her senses and come back. If she never had the chance to tell him she loved him and finally, finally wasn't afraid to feel it.

The minutes dragged past, tension holding them silent except for the voices on the radio, arranging a.s.sistance, although no truck could get close to them straightaway.

Jeanie's arm came around her shoulders and they stood together, unmoving, all attention on the radio.

Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. Twenty.

The radio crackled again and Mark's voice came into the room, a little croaky and breathless, but still even. 'Control, Dungirri One Bravo portable. Sitrep a we're all okay. Repeat, everyone's okay. The tanker is heavily damaged, but no major injuries. We are sheltering in a burned-out area approximately twenty-five metres east of the tanker. Please confirm receipt of sitrep.'

'Confirmed, Dungirri One Bravo,' Ryan said. 'Thank G.o.d. We'll have someone in to pick you up in ten minutes.'

The rescue truck brought them in an hour or so later and Jenn found him, leaning against a wall outside, gulping down a bottle of water, red-eyed from smoke and exhaustion. His yellow uniform jacket lay on the ground at his feet, his helmet beside it.

His wide, weary smile when he saw her melted away any uncertainties, and struck her heart. Oblivious to all the people around, she walked straight to him, and when he reached out and pulled her close she went without hesitation, burying her head in his shoulder, breathing in the smoke and sweat and reality of him. Hip to hip, shoulder to chest, his cheek resting on her head, she fitted there with him, encompa.s.sed, belonging.

'You came back,' he said at last.

'Yes.' She took a deep breath. 'I hope you're willing to help me with my new research project.'

'Which is?' Underneath the hint of teasing, she heard a hitch of uncertainty.

'Researching stories about life, and courage, community and friendship, and strength and love,' she told him. 'I figure there's probably a fair few out here in regional Australia that need telling. And maybe my skills can be useful here in Dungirri.'

He gently lifted her chin to look into her face. 'So, you're staying for a while?'

'Yes. I'm staying for a while. I've taken six months' leave of absence. It seems as though that's enough time to learn some things I need to learn, and to decide ... decide if there's a future here for me.'

He brushed a strand of hair back from her face, and smiled, light dancing in the warmth of his eyes.

'I've missed you, Jenn. Not just these long, last two weeks, but the eighteen years before that. Count on me to help you with this research project. As much as you want. Anything you need.'

She cupped his face with her hands and he met her kiss, long and slow and breathtakingly tender, that gentleness, the strength of him, the centre of him.

A burst of laughter nearby brought them back to reality and a fire-fighter slapped Mark on the shoulder as a group of them pa.s.sed. Andrew Pappas, grinning widely, although he'd been on that truck with Mark facing death not so long ago.

'Free food at the pub for emergency services,' Andrew told them. 'You two coming?'

Mark's warm eyes smiled at her. 'I don't know about you, but I'm starving. Shall we go?'

'I'm not an emergency worker.'

He reached down to pick up his jacket and helmet. 'I hear you've been working the phones for hours.' He put his helmet on to her head with a grin. 'You're one of us, Jenn.'

Arms around each other, they followed their friends along the road through the dust and the heat, the dry leaves swirling in the promised wind change, towards the pub and the town with enough heart and strength and determination to survive, whatever the odds.

Bronwyn Parry grew up surrounded by books, with a fascination for places, people and their stories. Bronwyn's first novel, As Darkness Falls, won a prestigious Romance Writers of America Golden Heart Award for best romantic suspense ma.n.u.script in 2007. Her second novel, Dark Country, was named the Favourite Romantic Suspense Novel of 2009 by the Australian Romance Readers a.s.sociation (ARRA) and in 2010 was a finalist in the Romance Writers of America RITA Awards a the Oscars of romance writing. Dead Heat was named the Favourite Romantic Suspense Novel in 2013 by the ARRA and was a finalist in the RITA Awards. An occasional academic, Bronwyn's active interest in fiction and its readership is reflected in her PhD research and she is pa.s.sionate about the richness, diversity and value of popular fiction. Bronwyn lives in the New England tablelands in New South Wales and loves to travel in Australia's wild places.

www.bronwynparry.com.

Also by Bronwyn Parry.

As Darkness Falls.

Dark Country.

Dead Heat.

OTHER BOOKS BY BRONWYN PARRY.

Haunted by her past, Detective Isabelle O'Connell is recalled to duty to investigate the abduction of a child from her home town. She and DCI Alec G.o.ddard have only days to find the girl alive, with few clues, a town filled with suspects and a vast wilderness to search. It quickly becomes a game of cat and mouse, with Isabelle directly in the killer's sights.

For Isabelle, this case is already personal. For Alec, his best intentions to keep it purely professional soon dissolve as his anguish over Isabelle's safety moves beyond concern for a colleague. Their mutual attraction leaves them both vulnerable to their private nightmares a nightmares the killer ruthlessly exploits.

'an impressive debut' The Australian Women's Weekly.

'a strong debut from an author who could be a future star'

Australian Bookseller & Publisher.

Most people in the small town of Dungirri have considered Morgan 'Gil' Gillespie a murderer for eighteen years, so he expects no welcome on his return. What he doesn't expect is the discovery of a woman's tortured body in the boot of his car, and new accusations of murder.