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ago. The night I kinda went a little crazy.
    “You were back rather early?” She poured beef stock into the monstrous pot on the stove and added a handful of fresh tarragon and oregano. “Thought you’d be gone for a few days.”
    “Maybe I missed you too much?” I winked and the sixty-something cook blushed.
    “You’re full of it,” she said, grabbing a ladle and stirring the stew. “So what really happened?”
    I couldn’t tell her the truth, for the simple fact I hadn’t quite figured out what had happened myself.
    After the forty-year-old blonde had rooted me on her Ute, I’d made my way back to the main arena. And stood on the outskirts for the next two hours, feeling like crap.
    Empty on the inside. Mixed with a healthy dose of disgust.
    What kind of a soulless prick hooked up with nameless women?
    Pricks like me.
    Because that’s how I’d felt, watching couples dance and make out and drink until they were comatose…like I had no soul.
    I felt dead on the inside. Like nothing or no one could touch me.
    And it had scared the shit out of me.
    I’d stopped drinking right then and grabbed a few hours sleep to give the alcohol time to work out of my system, before hitting the road and heading back here.
    But the empty feeling hadn’t subsided and nothing I did these days could shake it. Not even long rides on horseback, sleeping in a swag beneath the stars or losing myself in concocting new recipes.
    I needed to shake things up but had no frigging idea how to do it.
    “Nothing happened.” I took the chopping board over to the pot and scooped the onions in. “Do we put the spuds in now or later?”
    “Stop trying to distract me with cooking talk.” She waggled her finger. “You haven’t been yourself since you got back from that ball and I’m worried.”
    A little piece of my hardened heart melted. Ever since I’d arrived at Cooweer four months ago, Mrs. Gee had been like a makeshift mum. Rather nice, considering I hadn’t had a mum since mine had done a runner when I was six. At least she’d lasted two years longer than my dad, who’d bolted when I was four.
    Mrs. Gee saved me the choicest cuts of meat, made my favorite passion-fruit pav regularly and imparted her best recipes with regularity. She was great. But I wasn’t used to having anyone worry about me, least of all an older woman I barely knew.
    “Don’t worry about me.” I blew her a kiss. “You’d be better off being concerned about me figuring out your secret ingredients and winning the Royal Agricultural Show next year.”
    She snorted. “You’re going to hang around that long?”
    I shrugged. “Maybe.”
    The truth was, I had no idea how long I planned on staying. After Mum left, I spent ten years of my life being shunted from one foster home to another, until I’d had a gutful at sixteen and escaped. Barely. The beating I’d received from a sadistic older ‘brother’ at that last house stayed with me, all the incentive I needed to fall off the foster system map and go bush. And I’d been traveling ever since, working my way across outback New South Wales and into Queensland.
    I liked being a nomad. Multi-tasking; anything from shearing sheep to picking up horseshit. Landing the cooking gig had been totally unexpected and the first thing in my life I actually enjoyed.
    “I’ll make you a deal.” Mrs. Gee folded her arms and propped against the island bench in the middle of the huge kitchen. “You stick around a little longer and I’ll show you how to make my famous jelly lamingtons.”
    “I don’t do cakes,” I said, secretly thrilled she liked having me around that much.
    “You shove them down that big mouth of yours just fine.” She grinned and I smiled back, enjoying our unexpected camaraderie. I didn’t let many people get close. Mrs. Gee was definitely an exception to the rule.
    “Well, you’ll have to stick around another month at least, because we’re having house guests.” She jerked a thumb over