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Days ago, she wouldn’t have dared allow herself to hope that this could happen, yet here he was, showing up, just as he’d said he would, to prove that he was genuine. And when they walked, they talked. He told her more about his childhood, the rejection he’d faced every day, and she wished she could reach through time and hug him, to tell him he was worthy of love.

For though she knew a lot about rejection, too, she’d had her mother, and her mother had been such a balm. Tate had had no one in those formative years. He’d built the parameters of his world to protect himself, and, finally, he was starting to see that love could be safe.

Their physical chemistry had first brought them together, but, without talking about it, they were both careful now, avoiding doing anything that might draw them into bed, because now it meant so much more. It was bigger, somehow, a connection that needed to be honoured and revered.

They touched, and kissed, but pulled back quickly, and it was three weeks before Tate suggested Sarah join him for dinner at his hotel room—a hotel room that turned out to be an enormous penthouse in a premier building with sweeping views of Sydney Harbour on one side and the Central Business District on the other. After dinner, they sat on the wraparound balcony, looking out at the lights, and Sarah sighed.

‘I miss the way they shone out there.’

Tate looked at her, one brow raised.

‘On the station. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.’

Tate nodded slowly. ‘They’re there, you know. Waiting for you.’

Sarah’s heart stammered, and she glanced at him, smiling softly. ‘I think I’m ready to go home, Tate.’

He let out a noise that was pure joy and swept her into his arms, holding her against his body, so that even if she’d had any lingering doubts—which she didn’t—he would have assuaged them completely. His reaction was so incredibly instinctive, so obviously delighted, that she was left in no doubt of what she meant to him.

‘Let’s go home,’ he agreed, head buried in the curve of her neck, and, though she couldn’t see his face, she heard the emotion in his voice and wanted to weep for them. For how close they’d come to losing this. But they hadn’t. They’d both taken gambles—her, in telling him how she felt, and Tate, in following her to Sydney—and it had paid off. Every day they spent together made their love stronger and fuller.

The day after Tate’s cast was removed, they rode their horses to Ironbark Ridge, right as the sun was setting. And it was there that Tate knelt before Sarah, and said, ‘My darling Sarah, the last time I proposed, I knew I didn’t want to lose you, but I didn’t understand why. Now I get it. You are everything to me. All my life, I’ve been going through the motions, but not fully understanding what life could be, until I met you. I’m asking—begging—you to marry me, not for the baby this time, but because I love you more than I will ever be able to say: though if you’ll agree, I plan on spending a lifetime showing you how much I mean it.’

Tears slid down her cheeks as she nodded and he slipped another ring onto her finger, different from the one she’d worn before.

‘Tate,’ she whispered, staring at it—a huge white solitaire, surrounded by a circlet of black diamonds. ‘It’s…so beautiful.’

‘It’s the night sky,’ he admitted, standing, staring into her eyes. ‘Marry me, Sarah. Please.’

She laughed and nodded. ‘Of course, of course I’ll marry you.’

And she did. A week later, at sunset, on that very ridge, with Rex, Everett, and the rest of the station crew as guests, with no media intrusion, no press photographers, Sarah Anderson married Tate Carrigan, and their love, on that evening, outshone every single star in the heavens.

* * *

‘You don’t have to stay, you know.’

Rex’s gaze was focused on the window in the study, the view out towards the old Stewart Station over the hill. He looked intently, though Tate couldn’t imagine why. Perhaps looking to acquire the property, given the state of it. Like a lot of stations out this way, the drought had hit it hard, so it was almost impossible to make ends meet.

‘It’s fine.’

‘You hate being here.’

‘I hated coming here back then, when our old man ran the place. It’s different now.’ His shoulders were tense as he turned to face Tate, his expression contemplative. ‘She’s made it different. You, too. You’re good together, Tate.’

Tate’s throat tightened at his brother’s observation. ‘We think so.’

Rex’s features tightened. ‘I like seeing you with her. Like this.’

Tate grinned. ‘You sure? ’Cause you look like you’re about to tell me someone’s died.’

Rex’s eyes widened, and a moment later he forced a smile that was more like a grimace. ‘I was just thinking—about the station over there. Do you ever see them?’

‘Nah, not much. Old Man Stewart keeps to himself. Sometimes I see his daughter in town, but we don’t talk. Why do you ask?’

Rex hesitated a moment, then lifted his shoulders. He looked as if he wanted to say something, and Tate waited, scanning his brother’s face. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked, eventually, only to be met by a shake of Rex’s head.

‘I’m just happy for you. Now, get going. You’ve got a honeymoon waiting and a beautiful bride to enjoy it with.’