Mick struggled in Mark's grip and let loose a stream of abuse, continuing as Mark and Karl dragged him out of the house and down the front steps. Mark held him face-first against the side of the SES vehicle, and signalled Karl to stand back.

Days ago, when he'd visited Mick to inform him about the accident, the man had been drunk and morose and slow with it, as usual. But without alcohol dulling his system, he became mean and unpredictable. And right now, Mick didn't have enough alcohol, despite the fumes on his breath. Whatever happened here, Mark wanted Karl as a witness, but not involved.

'I'm going to give you a choice, Barrett,' Mark said roughly, only just keeping his fury in check. 'You can get the h.e.l.l off my property right now, or I can ignore Jenn's wishes and call Kris Matthews to come and arrest you for break-and-enter and a.s.sault.'

Twisting around to spit at his face, Mick missed and hit Mark's T-shirt. 'f.u.c.king lying murdering b.a.s.t.a.r.d.'

Mark gritted his teeth and hauled the man around to face him. 'If you want to have a go at me, then do it. But I swear, if you ever touch Jenn again, I won't hold back. You understand me, Mick? She had nothing a nothing a to do with Paula's death. Or Jim's.'

He let Mick go, and stepped back half a pace. For a moment, he thought Mick would swing at him, but the old man must have thought better of it.

'I'll f.u.c.kin' have you for a.s.sault.'

'Then I'll see you in court. And you can be sure I'll explain how I dragged you away from belting Jenn.'

'b.a.s.t.a.r.d.'

Mark folded his arms and regarded him coolly. 'Yes, I can be, and on this I will be. So get out of my sight and off my land before I change my mind and hold you here until the cops come.'

'Sonofab.i.t.c.h. You'll f.u.c.kin' get it, Strelitz. You'll f.u.c.kin' get it one day, you will.'

Mark clenched his jaw, but didn't waste his breath responding as Mick shambled to his ute, still muttering threats.

Karl stepped beside Mark, phone in hand. 'I recorded pretty much all that. Just in case he tries to make trouble.'

'Thanks. Can you go inside and take care of Jenn? I want to make sure he actually leaves.'

'I'll follow him up to his place. You look after Jenn. Last time she saw me, other than last night, she was babysitting me and I put tadpoles into her gla.s.s of water. So, she might have more faith in your abilities.'

For Mark, the cheeky, perpetually scabby-kneed boy had long disappeared in the capable young man Karl had proved himself to be through thick and thin, but perhaps he was right a Jenn didn't know that side of him yet.

The kitchen was empty, but the water pump was on and from outside the bathroom door, Mark heard a tap running, a sniff and then a few swear words. When the water stopped running, he tapped lightly on the door. 'Mick's gone, Jenn, and Karl's following him to make sure he stays away.'

'Good.' He heard another sniff, a nose blow, the gurgle of the sink emptying.

'Are you okay?'

'I'll live.' She pulled open the door. 'Nothing broken except some skin.'

Nothing broken maybe a but puffy eyes, red marks on her face and jaw, scratches still seeping blood, and a damp facecloth wrapped around her forearm, which she held against herself, upright.

The sight of those injuries made him wish he had slammed Mick's head into the wall. But his anger at Mick wouldn't help her and he tamped down the violence simmering within him.

'Come and sit down and let me check you over.'

'I'm not ...' Her hesitation telegraphed her reluctance.

Have a man touch her after Mick's a.s.sault? He understood her hesitancy. 'Would you prefer me to see if Beth can come? Or Kris?'

'I'm okay. Really. Although maybe this cut could do with some tape or something. And I think there might still be a bit of gla.s.s in here.' She indicated a place just above her elbow. 'But can we go outside? It just feels ... not right, being in Jim's house.'

With Karl's first-aid kit, they went out to Mark's ute in the backyard and she sat on the tailgate while he unwrapped a sterile dressing pack and laid out the contents. The dogs watched, noses pressed up against the fence.

'What happened?' Mark asked as he took the facecloth from her arm to examine the cut.

'I was out here with the dogs,' she said flatly. 'I saw Mick through the window. I went around the front and saw he'd broken in. He was helping himself to the contents of the kitchen. Then he took Jim's laptop. We had words. He told me I should be dead. Then he threw a bottle at my head.'

Every one of those staccato sentences raised a dozen questions, but the last worried him most. 'At your head? Did it hit you?'

'Not hard. Just bounced off the side of my skull and then hit the doorframe. That's when it smashed.'

Not hard. Bounced. Definitely worrying. He stepped back a small pace so he could see her eyes and her responses. 'Does your head ache? Do you feel woozy or nauseous?'

She looked straight back at him, direct, focused, and well aware of his examination. 'I'm suffering from caffeine deficiency, sleep deprivation and the remnants of jetlag, and I'm royally p.i.s.sed off with the universe right now. But no, I'm not about to collapse from bleeding on the brain or concussion.'

He wanted to believe her. But the red marks, the bruising beginning on her jaw and face meant there'd been at least two blows to her head in addition to the bottle. He didn't waste his breath suggesting the hospital, yet, although he'd make sure that someone kept an eye on her for the rest of the morning.

'Do you want to formally report the a.s.sault to the police?' he asked.

'I don't know. Probably not. It was stupid of me to confront him. I should have remembered how much he hates me. I do remember it. The day after Paula died, he made sure I understood that it should've been me, with his words and fists.'

The day after Paula died ... Everything kept coming back to that one event. For a moment he didn't dare look at her, didn't dare touch her, his gaze focusing only on the disinfectant wipe as he carefully laid it on the plastic sheet.

'He a.s.saulted you then?' he asked quietly, anger building in his gut again.

She nodded. 'He was drunk, angry and looking for a scapegoat. I was crying in my bedroom and didn't run fast enough. Fortunately, Jim came along and stopped him.'

Mark pressed the first steri-strip across the cut on her arm. The reality of her bruised and bleeding now, as an adult, was bad enough, but imagining the teenage Jenn in the same state, vulnerable, grieving and alone, disturbed him deeply. That he'd known nothing about it, had failed to help her when she'd needed a friend, sat uneasily in his soul. 'Did you report him then?'

'No. Maybe I should have, but what would've been the point? He was grieving for his daughter. I doubt they'd have even laid charges.'

Given what he knew now about the man who'd been the Dungirri police sergeant at the time, the man who'd helped frame Gil, she was probably right. 'Is that why you left Dungirri?'

She paused imperceptibly, but in that moment he both wanted her answer and dreaded it.

'After Paula's funeral, there was no reason to stay.'

No reason. He focused on the task at hand. Of course their friendship had not been enough reason. He had not been enough reason. They'd just been kids with different goals and no defined relationship to bind them.

No reason for his distracting physical awareness of her proximity now, either. No reason other than nostalgia, memories, fondness and pheromones.

They both fell silent as he put the last steri-strip on the wound and covered it with a dressing. He flushed the small cut near her elbow with saline, her skin smooth and warm from the sun, and the small fragment of gla.s.s washed out, a brief sparkle amid a trickle of diluted blood.

She slid off the tailgate while he packed up the first-aid gear, but the tension from being so close to her didn't dissipate with the increased distance.

He couldn't allow himself to spend time thinking about why. If it turned out that he bore responsibility for Paula's death, it would obliterate any remnants of their friendship, destroying his past as well as his future.

Jenn hunkered by the fence of the dog run, their warm tongues licking her fingers through the wire. The dogs' enthusiastic attention seemed surreal in the circ.u.mstances, but she stayed there, wishing the playful contact could restore some badly needed equilibrium.

She couldn't think straight, her ability to objectively a.s.sess a situation totally derailed by the onslaught of unfamiliar and conflicting emotions. The reality of Mick's physical attack had hit her as she sat on Mark's ute, her reaction so disorienting that she'd almost succ.u.mbed to the temptation to turn into Mark's arms and weep. Except that he was the cause of at least half the confusion in her head.

Mark, who'd dragged her b.a.s.t.a.r.d uncle away from her, the rage and power of that moment kept in check, directed by reason, all his interactions with her afterwards unfailingly calm as he responded to her needs.

A man who ... d.a.m.n it, that was the crux of it. A man, not a boy. Standing close to her, tending to her arm with a gentle, considerate touch, his masculinity had inundated her, throwing her even further off balance than her uncle's attack had.

Maybe she'd been half in love with Mark as a teenager. More than half. He'd been a rock, understanding her, challenging her, supporting her in her efforts to shape her own life. Caring for her. But she wasn't a lonely, lost teenager anymore. She'd carved her own life, worked hard for her successes, learned from her failures, and she didn't need a man to lean on emotionally. She didn't need Mark.

She rested her aching head against the high fence and breathed deeply. With some peace and quiet, she'd sort the mess in her brain into its proper place. She had to find Gil Gillespie, ask him about the accident. Do what she could to help Paul and Chloe arrange Jim's funeral. Then return to her apartment in Sydney and her work.

First things first. 'Can you give me a lift back to the pub?' she asked Mark. 'I need to change. And maybe find some coffee.'

'Of course,' he agreed instantly, but underneath the courtesy she heard the rasp of fatigue. Exhaustion carved fine lines in his face, his skin drawn beneath his natural tan. All the signs of a man who hadn't slept much recently.

'Have you eaten?' A simple topic to deal with. Practical, logical, nothing to do with emotion. 'You could probably still get breakfast at the pub.'

'I could do with some breakfast,' he admitted. 'But I have to speak with Steve first. I'll come up to the pub after I've seen him.'

She collected the food and bowls while he put the dogs in the back of the ute and fastened their leads. She paused for a moment to watch the firm but easy way he handled them a remembering him with the first dog he'd been given sole responsibility for, to train from a pup. 'Your old Sammy a I suppose he's long gone, now?'

'Sammy?' He shut the tailgate but she caught his wistful smile as he went to the driver's door. 'Yes. He made it to sixteen, but he died just before I was elected to parliament. I haven't had the time since then to give to a dog.'

But he would take on Jim's dogs, if Paul couldn't. The fact that he'd remembered them, seen to their needs despite everything else happening, spoke volumes.

When they arrived back in town they saw four more police vehicles parked outside the Russells' house, and a young constable blocking the street, directing them around to the hotel via the main road. Mark parked in the shaded side street beside the pub, ensuring the dogs in the tray of the ute were protected from the sun and filling a plastic container with water for them.

'Are you sure you're okay, Jenn?' he asked as she turned to go inside. 'I'd be happier if you were a.s.sessed properly, in case of concussion.'

'I'm fine,' she insisted. 'I promise, if I get a bad headache or start feeling woozy I'll let someone know.'

He didn't like it, judging by his frown, but he didn't argue. 'I should be back in an hour,' he said. 'Then I'll take you to collect your car.'

Inside, the breakfast buffet was still laid out in the bistro, the only guests a couple of young tourists so absorbed in each other they scarcely glanced up when she entered. They must have been in room three. Scandinavian, by the sound of their accents and blond looks. Young and in love and travelling the world, and as oblivious as the dogs to the violence and murder outside. They didn't notice her blood-stained T-shirt.

The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee hit her nostrils and almost, but not quite, overpowered the smell of blood and antiseptic clinging to her skin and clothes. The thought of food didn't tempt her, but the caffeine craving kicked in and she longed for some kind of normality and comfort. Just as soon as she'd cleaned up.

In the solitude of her room her composure wavered, but she caught the beginnings of self-pitying thoughts and stopped them. She would not let Mick, a miserable failure of a man, determine her emotional state. No way in h.e.l.l. Now the initial shock of their confrontation had pa.s.sed she'd square her shoulders, ignore the b.a.s.t.a.r.d, and get on with achieving her objectives.

In the bathroom, she dragged the bloodied T-shirt over her head and dumped it in the bin. A quick wash, a fresh T-shirt and a.s.sertive thinking restored her sense of self and purpose, and she gave her reflection in the mirror an affirming nod. Mick might have bruised her face but that would heal quickly enough, and he couldn't touch the core of who she was.

As she made her way down the staircase, she could see in the hallway the young barman from last night talking with the Scandinavian tourists. Liam, Mark had called him. He indicated something on the map they'd spread out, his easy courtesy and helpfulness drawing warm smiles from the couple. Their conversation finished as she reached the bottom of the stairs, and the couple pa.s.sed her to go upstairs. Liam greeted her cheerfully and followed her into the bistro, busying himself clearing their table.

She heaped several spoonfuls of coffee grounds into a plunger. 'I didn't think Dungirri had anything to offer tourists,' she commented to Liam. 'Were you showing them the thirty-second tour, or the way out of town?'

He shook his head good-naturedly. 'Oh, there's plenty of potential for eco-tourism here. They're interested in wildlife, birds in particular, and asked where to camp. I suggested the Ghost Hill campground.'

'There's a campground there now?'

'Yes. Near the river. Birraga Council has just finished it. Water tanks, outdoor kitchen and composting loos.'

'And mosquitos and deadly snakes,' she added dryly. And memories. A popular camping spot for the local teenagers a without facilities, back then a she'd camped there numerous times, with Mark and Paula, with Jim's boys, sometimes with a crowd of local kids. Brief escapes for her and Paula from the depressing, sullen atmosphere of their home, and for Jenn reminders of better times, camping with her parents on their infrequent leave together from her father's army duties.

But none of those memories was relevant to here and now.

She carried her coffee mug and a bowl of fruit and yoghurt out to the courtyard, and found Gil Gillespie sitting at a table, his laptop in front of him and one hand around a large mug. An old, spreading kurrajong tree cast dappled light and shade over his face, so that she couldn't read his expression clearly as he watched her approach, but the four-cup coffee plunger beside him was almost empty. Without asking permission she sat on the bench seat opposite him.

If she'd been the easily intimidated type, his scowl would have done it, but she doubted that the lover of the local police sergeant posed any serious threat.

'I'd say good morning,' she began, 'but that's a debatable statement. Especially for the Russells.'

'Yes,' he said slowly, taking a long look at her face. 'You been walking into doors?'

The bruises must be coming up. Great. 'Not a door. My uncle. For an alcoholic, he has a mean right hook.'

'Yeah. He does. Seems to be a Barrett speciality.'

'It's a deficit in the Y chromosome.' She bit her tongue as soon as the words left her mouth. He had every reason to mistrust, even hate her family, given his encounter with Mick, Jim and the boys when he'd first returned to town, days before Sean had tied him to a chair and gone at him with a metal pipe. His experiences with the Barretts called for something more than flippancy. 'Gillespie, I'm not proud of what they did. As for Sean ... I can't comprehend how he ...' With the shock and pain of Mick's attack still reverberating, the horror of her cousin's brutal actions constricted her throat and her words faltered. 'I'm sorry ...'

'You didn't do it,' Gillespie interrupted bluntly. 'You weren't there. Sean's crimes are his responsibility, not yours or Paul's or Jim's.'

Despite the harshness of his voice, his generosity of spirit, if not forgiveness, surprised her. She pushed the peach slices around in her bowl, searching for the right words.

'You must regret ever coming back to Dungirri.'

He shrugged. 'I came back to pay a debt. Found more than I expected.'

The police sergeant. And the dark-haired girl on the back of the bike.

'The girl a your ...' She still couldn't get her head around that. 'Barb's daughter a is she close to her grandparents?'

'Megan's fond of them. She's made the relationship work, despite difficult circ.u.mstances.'

And clearly she had made her father proud. Beneath his hard-edged, taciturn manner she began to suspect a soft heart lurked. Well beneath.

But contemplating Gillespie's complexities wouldn't get the answers she needed to the questions raised in the past two days.

'Doctor Russell's death a do you think it's connected to the accident and Mark's announcement?'

His face closed and he studied the laptop screen, hitting a couple of keys. 'No comment.'

'Jesus, Gillespie, I'm not interviewing you.' Frustration rushed the words. 'This isn't about a story. It's about my cousin's death. And perhaps Jim's. You're the only witness to the accident and I need to know what really happened.'

He considered for a long moment before he answered. 'I was. .h.i.tching on the Birraga road. Mark gave me a ride. I'd fought with the old man for the last time and walked out for good, so I wasn't in any mood to be sociable. Paula had a bottle of something and offered it around, but neither of us had any. I saw nothing to suggest that Mark had been drinking. I was in the back seat with my eyes closed, when all of a sudden Mark swore, the car swerved, Paula screamed, and then we hit the tree. That's it. That's what happened.'

Paula screamed. Simple, stark words, and she could see Paula's face transformed in terror. 'Did she ... was it quick?'

'Yeah. I don't know what they told you. A low broken branch came straight through the windscreen. I tried ... I hardly knew what I was doing, but I did try. Although I think she was gone the instant the branch hit her.'

There was more information in those few sentences than anyone had ever told her, and tears flooded her eyes. Embarra.s.sed, she dragged the back of her hands against them, and struggled to find her voice.