A Mother for Ella - Book 2 in the latest Wirralong series from Holiday Books and Tule Publishing
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Outback Babies - Book 2 - The Blurb They both desperately need a second chance… After enduring a family tragedy and scandal, all Amber McGuinness wants is to bury her past. She settles in faraway Wirralong and opens an accounting practice, hoping for a fresh start. As she settles into town and is embraced by the warm community, Amber gets her first client. His taxes are a mess, but his smile, dimples, and adorable baby more than make up for it. Between work, parenting, and fighting for custody of his fifteen-month-old daughter, Todd Sinclair—Sinclair to his friends—is barely keeping his head and farm above water. His new accountant puts his finances in order, but she messes with his heart. After his disastrous marriage, he’s sworn off romance, but Amber gives him renewed hope. As Amber and Sinclair spend more time together, they wonder if the mythical magic of Wirralong is real—until a reporter starts digging into Amber’s past, revealing secrets that threaten her newfound happiness. Can Sinclair convince her to stay and fight for their life and new family together? LIke the blurb? Then read on for an excerpt from Chapter One below! Read more of the Outback Babies by reading the entire series. Find out more at TulePublishing.com! The Outback Babies Series Book 1: His Best Friend's Baby by Barbara Hannay Book 2: A Mother for Ella by Trish Morey Book 3: The Baby Whisperer by Fiona McArthur Book 4: Lola and the Single Dad by Kelly Hunter |
Excerpt - Chapter One
Welcome to Wirralong
Population 5,790
AMBER MCGUINNESS GAVE a weary smile as she drove past the welcome sign on the outskirts of her new town. She sure could do with a welcome somewhere, and if she hadn’t just spent four days behind the wheel driving the three-thousand kilometres from Cairns, she’d almost be tempted to fish out the roll of black tape she knew she had packed somewhere amongst the boxes and bags stuffed into the car and turn that zero into a one.
But that little impulse could wait, because, more than anything, all Wirralong’s newest resident wanted to do was find the house she’d agreed to rent from an agency listing online; the little house with an office at the front and living space at the back. It was small and simple, but it came furnished and would provide her with both a business address and somewhere to live. Best of all, it was cheap, and cheap was all Amber could afford for the foreseeable future.
So, first things first, she’d pick up the keys and stretch her legs while she unpacked the sum total of her belongings from her jam-packed car. Then she’d collapse into bed and sleep for a week. Or at least until she felt human again. Nearer the town itself the landscape was changing, the wide-open paddocks filled with winter crops that she’d passed for the last hundred kilometres or so giving way to a gum tree–lined verge, punctuated every now and then with old weatherboard houses with peeling paint and tin roofs, and wide verandahs laden with overstuffed armchairs. So different from the palm trees and Queenslanders on stilts she was used to in Cairns. An old man sitting on one verandah raised his hand as she passed. She waved back. A friendly town, she decided, swallowing down a wave of nervous anticipation tinged with hope, and crossing fingers and toes that this move would work out. After the barely veiled animosity and snide remarks that had been directed her way in her hometown for the last twelve months, a friendly town would make for a welcome change.
She passed the local agricultural supply store, a farm machinery outlet brimming with brightly coloured tractors on display, and a garage, and then she was over the hump of a small bridge and onto the bustling high street that bisected the town proper. Quaint, she thought, taking in the two- storey shops and businesses that lined it and that looked like they harked back to an earlier century. And then she saw the landmark she’d been looking for—a big hotel with a wrapa- round balcony on the corner opposite a green park with a central rotunda—and she knew she was close. She pulled into a parking spot and opened the door, only to encounter a wall of heat so dry it almost sucked the air out of her lungs.
Whoa, she thought, having second thoughts about step- ping out of the blessed air-conditioned comfort of her car, so this was late summer in Wirralong? When she’d left Cairns, there’d been a cyclone swirling ominously off the coast, and the humidity had been so high you could almost scoop up the moisture-laden air with a spoon. This air seemed to want to shrivel you to a crisp on the spot.
But what choice did she have? She clambered stiff- leggedly out, catching a whiff of freshly baked goods coming from a bakery on the nearby corner. Even despite the heat of the day, her stomach rumbled. How long since she’d eaten? Not since she’d stopped for petrol hours ago; she’d been too excited at the prospect of finally reaching her destination to stop again. The thought of a sandwich and maybe a loaf of freshly baked bread to go on with made her mouth water.
Just beyond the bakery, she could see the sign for the real estate agency. She glanced up at the glaring sun, still high, and made for the shade of the verandah. It might be mid- afternoon but still there was a healthy trade going in and out the door of the bakery and if that wasn’t a good sign, she didn’t know what was. As soon as she picked up her keys, she’d be back to line up herself.
The estate agency was housed in another of the quaint timber two-storey buildings that lined the main road, and inside it looked every bit as original as the outside. Every- thing from floorboards to chairs were constructed of timber, while a wide counter that looked like a slab cut from a massive gum tree divided the room in two. On top of the
counter sat an old-fashioned index card box, a blotter with a pen attached on a chain, and a bell. If there was a computer anywhere on the premises, it had to be hidden in the little room through the door to one side.
She rang the bell, heard a, ‘Yoohoo, be right there,’ and twenty seconds later a woman bustled out to welcome her.
‘What brings you to Wirralong, lovey?’ she asked, once the two women had identified themselves. Mrs Marsh, the sixty-something property manager, had a kindly face— another good omen? Amber knew it was curiosity rather than nosiness that prompted the enquiry. Being a stranger in town, she knew to be ready for the odd question. Not that she was about to give anyone her life story, mind; this was about a brand-new start where nobody knew her past.
‘I was looking for a change,’ Amber said, practising the lines she’d rehearsed, ‘and Wirralong looked like a nice place to live.’ There was no need to add that Amber had closed her eyes and stuck a pin in a map and Wirralong was where it had landed.
The older woman nodded sagely as she flicked through the index file on the counter, pulling out an envelope that Amber could see bore her name. ‘Looking for a change of pace, I get that,’ she said, as she held the envelope upside down and let a set of chunky keys fall into her hand. ‘We get all kinds of tree-changers here, escaping from the big city. Like I say to the croquet girls, who can blame them? We’ve got everything you could possibly want here in town. There’s a hairdressing and beauty salon, an award-winning bakery and a hotel that serves up the biggest and best chicken parmies this side of the border, or even a posh steak if you want it. We’ve got one of those fancy city-style coffee shops to give all the city types passing through another reason to stop, and there’s even a wedding business out of town now going gangbusters.’ She looked up at Amber with narrowed eyes. ‘Are you married?’
Amber held up her ringless left hand, glad that the sun had obliterated any trace of the ring that was once there. ‘No.’ And with her engagement imploding the way it had, there was little likelihood of her needing a wedding venue any time soon. Frankly, it would be a wonder if anyone ever trusted her again, let alone wanted to marry her. ‘I’m strictly single.’
Mrs Marsh tut-tutted, as she handed the keys over. ‘Nev- er say never, is my motto. We’ve had a spate of weddings here in Wirralong in the last few years. Some of the girls in the croquet club think there must be something in the water.’ She put a paper on the blotter and pushed it towards Amber. ‘Sign here, if you would, to acknowledge receipt of the keys.’
Amber picked up the pen and signed her name. ‘And is that what you think, that there’s something in the water?’ She wasn’t really interested in the wedding angle, but anything that gave her insight into the town and its residents could only help Wirralong’s newest resident find her feet in her new home. Maybe she should think about offering a two-for-one deal for income tax return preparation for newlyweds?
The property manager’s eyes darted each way before she leaned closer, as if she was about to impart a major secret. ‘It’s not the water, in my book,’ she whispered, nodding. ‘But it is a kind of magic.’
‘Oh?’
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ the woman continued. ‘Not any of that funny woo-woo kind of magic, mind, but the magic that people bring with them. Wirralong was a dusty town losing its young folk to the city and shrinking the way of country towns everywhere, when out of nowhere these bright young things appear and before you know it, there’s new businesses popping up everywhere, a mood of enthusiasm spreading amongst the townsfolk, and romance is suddenly in the air.’ She sniffed authoritatively, as if she’d offered all the evidence that was needed to prove her case. ‘Well, it has to be a kind of magic, don’t you think?’
Amber smiled. She’d long ago stopped believing in mag- ic, and her view of romance had taken a decided turn for the worse recently, but that wasn’t what Mrs Marsh wanted to hear right now. ‘It sure sounds like something special is going on.’
‘It truly does,’ the older woman said, peering through the reading glasses perched low on her nose to check the paper- work was all in order. ‘What is it you do, lovey? Do you have any plans to start up a business? The property’s got a nice little office space at the front. I’ve often thought it would be perfect for a dressmaker or craft studio.’
‘I do have plans, actually,’ Amber said, although none of them concerned anything resembling handicrafts. ‘I’m an accountant.’
The older woman’s jaw dropped, before she recovered with a spluttered, ‘Well, I never did. Just like old Mr Abbott in that case. Did you know that?’
Amber shook her head. The advertisement had given no hint of its former resident, although given the set-up of the little home with office out front, Amber had figured it must have been a lawyer or accountant or similar professional. ‘No.’
‘Well,’ Mrs Marsh said, shaking her head, ‘just wait until I tell the girls at croquet about this. If that’s not magic, you turning up out of the blue like this, I’ll eat my hat.’
Amber smiled as she jiggled the heavy keys in her hand. ‘I’m sure there’s no need for that. Thanks, Mrs Marsh. I’d better go get myself settled in.’
Welcome to Wirralong
Population 5,790
AMBER MCGUINNESS GAVE a weary smile as she drove past the welcome sign on the outskirts of her new town. She sure could do with a welcome somewhere, and if she hadn’t just spent four days behind the wheel driving the three-thousand kilometres from Cairns, she’d almost be tempted to fish out the roll of black tape she knew she had packed somewhere amongst the boxes and bags stuffed into the car and turn that zero into a one.
But that little impulse could wait, because, more than anything, all Wirralong’s newest resident wanted to do was find the house she’d agreed to rent from an agency listing online; the little house with an office at the front and living space at the back. It was small and simple, but it came furnished and would provide her with both a business address and somewhere to live. Best of all, it was cheap, and cheap was all Amber could afford for the foreseeable future.
So, first things first, she’d pick up the keys and stretch her legs while she unpacked the sum total of her belongings from her jam-packed car. Then she’d collapse into bed and sleep for a week. Or at least until she felt human again. Nearer the town itself the landscape was changing, the wide-open paddocks filled with winter crops that she’d passed for the last hundred kilometres or so giving way to a gum tree–lined verge, punctuated every now and then with old weatherboard houses with peeling paint and tin roofs, and wide verandahs laden with overstuffed armchairs. So different from the palm trees and Queenslanders on stilts she was used to in Cairns. An old man sitting on one verandah raised his hand as she passed. She waved back. A friendly town, she decided, swallowing down a wave of nervous anticipation tinged with hope, and crossing fingers and toes that this move would work out. After the barely veiled animosity and snide remarks that had been directed her way in her hometown for the last twelve months, a friendly town would make for a welcome change.
She passed the local agricultural supply store, a farm machinery outlet brimming with brightly coloured tractors on display, and a garage, and then she was over the hump of a small bridge and onto the bustling high street that bisected the town proper. Quaint, she thought, taking in the two- storey shops and businesses that lined it and that looked like they harked back to an earlier century. And then she saw the landmark she’d been looking for—a big hotel with a wrapa- round balcony on the corner opposite a green park with a central rotunda—and she knew she was close. She pulled into a parking spot and opened the door, only to encounter a wall of heat so dry it almost sucked the air out of her lungs.
Whoa, she thought, having second thoughts about step- ping out of the blessed air-conditioned comfort of her car, so this was late summer in Wirralong? When she’d left Cairns, there’d been a cyclone swirling ominously off the coast, and the humidity had been so high you could almost scoop up the moisture-laden air with a spoon. This air seemed to want to shrivel you to a crisp on the spot.
But what choice did she have? She clambered stiff- leggedly out, catching a whiff of freshly baked goods coming from a bakery on the nearby corner. Even despite the heat of the day, her stomach rumbled. How long since she’d eaten? Not since she’d stopped for petrol hours ago; she’d been too excited at the prospect of finally reaching her destination to stop again. The thought of a sandwich and maybe a loaf of freshly baked bread to go on with made her mouth water.
Just beyond the bakery, she could see the sign for the real estate agency. She glanced up at the glaring sun, still high, and made for the shade of the verandah. It might be mid- afternoon but still there was a healthy trade going in and out the door of the bakery and if that wasn’t a good sign, she didn’t know what was. As soon as she picked up her keys, she’d be back to line up herself.
The estate agency was housed in another of the quaint timber two-storey buildings that lined the main road, and inside it looked every bit as original as the outside. Every- thing from floorboards to chairs were constructed of timber, while a wide counter that looked like a slab cut from a massive gum tree divided the room in two. On top of the
counter sat an old-fashioned index card box, a blotter with a pen attached on a chain, and a bell. If there was a computer anywhere on the premises, it had to be hidden in the little room through the door to one side.
She rang the bell, heard a, ‘Yoohoo, be right there,’ and twenty seconds later a woman bustled out to welcome her.
‘What brings you to Wirralong, lovey?’ she asked, once the two women had identified themselves. Mrs Marsh, the sixty-something property manager, had a kindly face— another good omen? Amber knew it was curiosity rather than nosiness that prompted the enquiry. Being a stranger in town, she knew to be ready for the odd question. Not that she was about to give anyone her life story, mind; this was about a brand-new start where nobody knew her past.
‘I was looking for a change,’ Amber said, practising the lines she’d rehearsed, ‘and Wirralong looked like a nice place to live.’ There was no need to add that Amber had closed her eyes and stuck a pin in a map and Wirralong was where it had landed.
The older woman nodded sagely as she flicked through the index file on the counter, pulling out an envelope that Amber could see bore her name. ‘Looking for a change of pace, I get that,’ she said, as she held the envelope upside down and let a set of chunky keys fall into her hand. ‘We get all kinds of tree-changers here, escaping from the big city. Like I say to the croquet girls, who can blame them? We’ve got everything you could possibly want here in town. There’s a hairdressing and beauty salon, an award-winning bakery and a hotel that serves up the biggest and best chicken parmies this side of the border, or even a posh steak if you want it. We’ve got one of those fancy city-style coffee shops to give all the city types passing through another reason to stop, and there’s even a wedding business out of town now going gangbusters.’ She looked up at Amber with narrowed eyes. ‘Are you married?’
Amber held up her ringless left hand, glad that the sun had obliterated any trace of the ring that was once there. ‘No.’ And with her engagement imploding the way it had, there was little likelihood of her needing a wedding venue any time soon. Frankly, it would be a wonder if anyone ever trusted her again, let alone wanted to marry her. ‘I’m strictly single.’
Mrs Marsh tut-tutted, as she handed the keys over. ‘Nev- er say never, is my motto. We’ve had a spate of weddings here in Wirralong in the last few years. Some of the girls in the croquet club think there must be something in the water.’ She put a paper on the blotter and pushed it towards Amber. ‘Sign here, if you would, to acknowledge receipt of the keys.’
Amber picked up the pen and signed her name. ‘And is that what you think, that there’s something in the water?’ She wasn’t really interested in the wedding angle, but anything that gave her insight into the town and its residents could only help Wirralong’s newest resident find her feet in her new home. Maybe she should think about offering a two-for-one deal for income tax return preparation for newlyweds?
The property manager’s eyes darted each way before she leaned closer, as if she was about to impart a major secret. ‘It’s not the water, in my book,’ she whispered, nodding. ‘But it is a kind of magic.’
‘Oh?’
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ the woman continued. ‘Not any of that funny woo-woo kind of magic, mind, but the magic that people bring with them. Wirralong was a dusty town losing its young folk to the city and shrinking the way of country towns everywhere, when out of nowhere these bright young things appear and before you know it, there’s new businesses popping up everywhere, a mood of enthusiasm spreading amongst the townsfolk, and romance is suddenly in the air.’ She sniffed authoritatively, as if she’d offered all the evidence that was needed to prove her case. ‘Well, it has to be a kind of magic, don’t you think?’
Amber smiled. She’d long ago stopped believing in mag- ic, and her view of romance had taken a decided turn for the worse recently, but that wasn’t what Mrs Marsh wanted to hear right now. ‘It sure sounds like something special is going on.’
‘It truly does,’ the older woman said, peering through the reading glasses perched low on her nose to check the paper- work was all in order. ‘What is it you do, lovey? Do you have any plans to start up a business? The property’s got a nice little office space at the front. I’ve often thought it would be perfect for a dressmaker or craft studio.’
‘I do have plans, actually,’ Amber said, although none of them concerned anything resembling handicrafts. ‘I’m an accountant.’
The older woman’s jaw dropped, before she recovered with a spluttered, ‘Well, I never did. Just like old Mr Abbott in that case. Did you know that?’
Amber shook her head. The advertisement had given no hint of its former resident, although given the set-up of the little home with office out front, Amber had figured it must have been a lawyer or accountant or similar professional. ‘No.’
‘Well,’ Mrs Marsh said, shaking her head, ‘just wait until I tell the girls at croquet about this. If that’s not magic, you turning up out of the blue like this, I’ll eat my hat.’
Amber smiled as she jiggled the heavy keys in her hand. ‘I’m sure there’s no need for that. Thanks, Mrs Marsh. I’d better go get myself settled in.’
