It had been enough to tip her over the edge financially. Her tiny mortgaged-to-the-hilt art gallery had ceased to be.

But she was still irrationally pleased that Mike hadn’t seen her cry. If I can cope with Mike without tears, I can cope with this, she told herself, staring out at the kids on the gate while her stomach plummeted as far as it could go and then found a few depths she hadn’t known existed.

The kids were puzzled that she wasn’t turning in. The oldest kid-a pre-adolescent girl with short, copper-red hair that looked like it had been hacked with hedge clippers-had jumped off the gate in preparation for opening it.

Surely she’d got it wrong.

She wound down the window-just a tad-admitting nothing.

‘Is this Two Creek Farm?’ she called.

‘Yes,’ the oldest boy called. ‘Are you Shanni?’

‘Yes.’ Her voice was so faint it was barely a squeak.

‘Finally.’ The girl with the bad haircut hauled the gate wide while the three kids still sitting on the top rail swayed and clung. ‘Dad says we can’t go inside until you get here. What are you doing, parking over there?’

‘Your dad’s expecting me?’

‘You rang. Didn’t you?’

‘Um…Yes.’

The girl looked right, looked left, looked right again-had there ever been another car up here?-and crossed the road to talk. ‘Dad said, “Thank God, Ruby’s come up trumps. We’ve got a babysitter.”’

‘I see.’ She swallowed and looked again at the kids on the gate. ‘I guess…your dad’s name is Pierce?’

‘He’s Pierce MacLachlan.’ The girl poked her hand in the open car window. She was all arms and legs and a mouthful of braces. ‘I’m Wendy MacLachlan. I’m eleven.’

‘I see,’ Shanni said faintly, while her hand was firmly shaken.