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Speaking of hopes, one of mine has always been to become a full time author ... and now here I am!
* happy dancing ... after checking nobody is looking *
I now have seven published books under my own name, and another twelve co-authored with my hubby, Frank H Jordan.
But that's enough about me. Now, let's talk books and writing!
Alicia x
The Barnes family farm, Boronia Station sits in the rural lower south of Western Australia, in the broad agricultural belt that lies just east of the Darling Scarp. The Scarp itself is visible on clear days as a dark ridge of timber along the western horizon, marking the drop from the plateau down to the coastal plain. The country around the station is gently undulating, with red gravel roads connecting it to neighboring properties and the nearest town.
The bush that borders the farm is dry eucalypt woodland, dominated by wandoo and jarrah, and it runs unbroken for miles in the eastern direction. This bush is both a resource and a hazard: it provides shade and shelter for stock that drift to the fence lines, but in a dry summer it carries fire fast and without mercy.
The station, now run by Libby Barnes, has been in the Barnes family for several generations.
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| Libby Barnes |
The land shows the marks of that long occupation: old fence lines running at angles that no longer make obvious sense, a stand of pepper trees planted as a windbreak around the homestead, and a water trough near the yards that has been patched and re-patched over the decades.
Neighboring properties include the Edwards place, which shares a fence line to the north, the Johnson farm, and the Morris property, which lies within calling distance to the east. The nearest town provides a post office, a pub, and a small stock and station agent, and is reachable by a thirty-minute drive on sealed road. The station's position near the Scarp means it catches weather coming in from the coast, and the gullies along the property's southern edge run with water after heavy rain, draining toward the Arthur River system further south.
The smell of the station shifts with the season and the wind. On dry summer days, the air carries eucalyptus oil baked out of the surrounding bush, cattle dust from the yards, and the faint iron tang of bore water running into the stock troughs. In spring, the flowering boronia after which the property was named, releases its sweet perfume to waft from the nearby eucalypt forest. And after rain, the red gravel driveway steams and the paddocks release a deep, loamy smell that settles over the homestead veranda like a blanket.
The veranda itself is the farm's social nerve center: wide enough for a pair of chairs and a small table, it faces west toward the paddocks and catches the afternoon breeze off the Darling Scarp. From here, Libby can watch the tree line for smoke, check on cattle grazing near the fence line, and hear the distant clang of the yards without leaving her seat.
The homestead is a low, weatherboard building with a corrugated iron roof that pops and ticks in the heat. Inside, the kitchen is the warmest room, smelling of tea, laundry soap, and recent baking. The living room holds furniture that has not changed much in two generations: a worn couch, a sideboard with family photographs, and a clock on the mantelpiece that has marked time through drought, fire, and flood.
The hayshed stands a short walk from the house, its corrugated walls stained orange at the base from years of splashed mud. The cattle yards are timber and steel, smelling of livestock, manure, and hay, and they groan and rattle when a mob is being worked through them. The surrounding paddocks run to the edge of the bush, where wandoo and jarrah give way to denser scrub along the gullies.
Boronia Station is a working cattle property, but to Libby Barnes, it's also home.
... The gown’s white and silver-ribbed halter-neck bodice stood out against Abbey’s tanned shoulders and arms. From a silver clasp at the pinched-in waist of the A-lined skirt, the top layer of sleek, pure white fabric tumbled from her hip in an elegant, wavy cascade.
‘Oh, Abs,’ bridesmaid Flip murmured, ‘it’s simply stunning. You’re simply stunning.’...
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Chapter One: The Flock
CLICK.
The line went dead.
Paige stared at the phone as though trying to see her husband’s frowning face at the other end of the call.
That loud noise before the line dropped out, what was it? A mortar attack?
Had hostilities resumed?
Was Rick alright?
Biting her lip, she slumped back in her chair, stomach lurching.
Please don’t let those be our last words to each other. I didn’t get to tell … remind … him how important he is to me, and how much I miss him.
No, she’d been too busy taking umbrage at his words ... ‘I’m glad your girlfriends keep you company when I’m away, babe, but I’m not really interested in hearing their life stories.’ Frustration had deepened Corporal Rick Connor’s gravelly voice. ‘And I know you’re only talking about them to avoid answering my question.’
At her silence he’d blown a long-suffering breath. ‘I asked when you’re going to admit this business venture of yours is a failure, and call it quits.’
Her snarky, ‘Wow, that’s some vote of confidence. Thanks so much for the husbandly support,' had earned her an exasperated sigh that whooshed along the phone line and into her ear. Heavy breathing, but not the thrilling kind like in the early days of their romance.
Look how far we’ve come – fallen? – since then.
While her thoughts had drifted off, his hadn’t.
‘Well what do you want me to say, Paige? That you should keep flogging that dead horse, and to hell with the money it’s bleeding?’
Oh, how she hated that emotionless, Corporal Connors-like tone he’d taken to using with her lately. Like she was one of his troops.
‘No, Rick.’ She had swallowed her resentment but couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice. ‘That’s not what I want you to say.’
‘Then what, Paige? What?’ Another sigh. She’d imagined him raking fingers through his closely cropped dark hair. ‘Because I have no id—’
Then the explosion, and....
CLICK.
Silence. The fraught, stomach-knotting kind.
Slowly replacing the receiver, she bent her head to drag a hand over her lightly freckled face.
A face he used to describe as elfin.
Oh, Rick.
She swallowed a sob, then replayed his often repeated admonition in her head ... 'Don't panic, babe. Phone reception while on deployment is always dicey, so don’t assume the worst if communications are lost.'
Pursing her lips, she blew the pent-up air from her lungs, wiped her eyes, and sat straighter.
Dwelling on negative thoughts could send an army wife crazy. What I need right now is some spirit-lifting company.
She glanced at her watch.
Four fifteen pm.
Good timing.
Reaching for her mobile phone, she sent off a hasty text message.
* * *
Want to continue reading? The full novel is available in ebook and/or paperback from all good retail sites, by clicking here.
And here's what one reviewer had to say about it:
'You've ... orchestrated an entire suburban menagerie of drama, friendship, and hidden pastries! I mean - five women, each with their quirks, secrets, and (possibly imaginary) romance ... you've basically created a reality TV show that doesn't need cameras, just readers ready to sip cappuccinos while chaos unfolds!'
As the friends rediscover themselves, old bonds deepen, secrets surface, a battle looms, and a second act takes shape in the most surprising ways.
Warm, witty and a little wistful, Meals on Heels is a story of friendship, reinvention, and the enduring ties that even death can't break.
In Seabreeze, growing older is only the start of becoming who you were always meant to be.
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| For 2026/27 release |
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