Some days I wake up and I don’t know where I put my sheep. Other days, I wake up and I don’t remember I even have sheep.
My name is Harry Murchison. At least, I think that’s my name. Sometimes I have to check. I’m seventy two years old, I live on a property called Murchison’s Run, and I have Alzheimer’s disease.
Most days, I can tell you about the war. I can tell you about Vietnam, about the heat and the fear and coming home to find the woman I loved had moved on. Those memories are crystal clear, like they happened yesterday.
Yesterday? Now that’s a different story. Can’t remember a damn thing about yesterday.
But today? Today I remember enough to tell you a story. So you’d better listen close, because tomorrow I might forget I told you.
The Sheep That Keep Going Missing
Travis Bailey is my neighbour. Good bloke. Reminds me of myself when I was younger, though I’d never tell him that. His ego’s big enough already.
Every week, sometimes more, I call Travis because my sheep have gone missing. Someone’s stolen them, I tell him. Those mongrels from the mine are trying to scare me off my property.
Travis comes over, patient as a saint, and we go looking for my sheep. And you know what? We always find them. Right where I left them in the back paddock. Right where they’ve been all along.
I know what you’re thinking. Poor old Harry, losing his marbles. Can’t even remember where he put his own livestock.
And you’d be right. But here’s the thing about Travis Bailey: he never makes me feel stupid. He never gets frustrated. He never says, “Harry, we did this yesterday, remember?”
Because I don’t remember. And he knows that. So every time, it’s like the first time. Every time, we find those sheep together. Every time, he treats my panic like it’s real and valid and worth his time.
That’s the kind of man Travis Bailey is.
The Farm I’m Losing
I’ve lived on Murchison’s Run my whole life, except for the years in Vietnam. My parents farmed this land before me. It’s in my bones, this red dirt. Even when my mind forgets everything else, it remembers the feel of this soil under my boots.
I used to grow canola. Now I grow daisies.
Same yellow colour, see? As long as there’s something yellow growing in my fields, I can still pretend I’m a proper farmer. Travis helped me plant those daisies. Never said a word about how crazy it was. Just helped me seed them, water them, watch them grow.
The Bannisters want my land. John Bannister has wanted it for fifty years, since before the mine opened. Now his mongrel grandson Zac circles like a vulture, waiting for me to forget one time too many, waiting for them to cart me off to a nursing home so they can swoop in and buy it for nothing.
But Travis won’t let that happen. Doc Benson won’t let that happen. They’ve got some plan about a lifestyle village, about me staying on my own land even when I can’t remember my own name.
That’s what neighbours do in Wongan Creek. They don’t abandon you when remembering becomes impossible.
The Lost Love I Never Forgot
Her name was Eileen. Irish lass, red hair, green eyes, laugh that could light up a room. She was a nurse doing country practice in Wongan Creek. I was twenty five and stupid in love.
We were going to get married. Then I got called up to Vietnam.
I told her I’d come back. I promised her. But war changes things. While I was dodging bullets and watching friends die, Eileen was back in Wongan Creek, pregnant and alone. She didn’t think I’d make it home. And John Bannister was there, younger than me, smoother than me, with promises he never intended to keep.
She left him after a month. Too late, though. The damage was done. She married another Irish bloke, moved to Darwin, had her baby girl. Sent me a letter a year later letting me know.
I’ve carried that letter in my shirt pocket for fifty years. Some days I forget where I put my keys, but I never forget where I put that letter.
Funny thing about Alzheimer’s: it takes your recent memories but leaves the old ones crystal clear. I can see Eileen’s face like she’s standing in front of me. I can hear her laugh. I can remember every word of our last conversation before I shipped out.
What did I have for breakfast? Couldn’t tell you if my life depended on it.
The Girl Who Looks Like Eileen
When Heather Penney arrived in Wongan Creek as our new social worker, I called her Eileen. Kept calling her Eileen. Because for a moment, just a moment, I thought my girl had come back.
She has the same red hair, the same Irish features, the same way of tilting her head when she’s listening. It used to confuse me something terrible.
Then Doc Benson showed me the truth. Those old photos I’d kept in a box for fifty years? Turns out fate has a sense of humor.
Eileen was Heather’s grandmother. The baby in those photos? Heather’s mother.
All those years I thought I’d lost Eileen’s family forever, her granddaughter was working as a social worker in Darwin. And Doc Benson and his detective work brought her right back to Wongan Creek. Right back to me.
Some days I forget this. Heather has to remind me she’s not Eileen, she’s Eileen’s granddaughter. But even on my bad days, I know she’s important. I know she belongs here. I know she’s family.
The universe took fifty years, but it brought my girl’s granddaughter home.
What I Know (When I Remember to Know It)
Travis loves that social worker. Even when I can’t remember her name, I remember that. I see the way he looks at her. Same way I used to look at Eileen.
And I know Heather loves him back. Loves Casey too. Loves this cranky old man who keeps forgetting who she is.
I also know that John Bannister is a mongrel and his grandson is worse. I know Tracy Bailey didn’t just drown in that creek. And I know that if Travis doesn’t watch his back, the Bannisters will take everything from him the way they took Eileen from me.
Some things, you don’t forget. Even when your brain is Swiss cheese and you can’t remember your own sheep, you don’t forget injustice. You don’t forget the people who matter. You don’t forget love.
Because here’s the truth about Alzheimer’s: it might take your memory, but it can’t take your heart.
Why This Old Man’s Story Matters
I’m not the hero of this story. That’s Travis, fighting for his niece and his sister’s justice. That’s Heather, brave enough to love despite uncertain tomorrows. That’s little Casey, who draws pictures for an old man who can’t always remember her name.
But I’m part of it. Because Whispers at Wongan Creek is about more than romance and mystery. It’s about:
- Community: How neighbors show up, even when you can’t remember they came yesterday
- Dignity: Being cared for without being made to feel broken
- Lost loves: How they shape us, even fifty years later
- Found family: How fate sometimes brings people back where they belong
- Fighting for what’s right: Even when you’re losing your mind
- Legacy: What we leave behind when memory fades
This story is about Travis and Heather falling in love. But it’s also about an old farmer who planted daisies instead of canola because his neighbour understood. It’s about a social worker who turned out to be the granddaughter of the only woman I ever loved. It’s about a town that doesn’t throw people away when they start forgetting.
For Just 99 Cents
For less than the cost of the tea and biscuits Travis brings me every morning (even though I can’t always remember he brought them yesterday), you can read about how love works in Wongan Creek.
You’ll see how Travis shows up for me day after day, sheep hunt after sheep hunt, without ever making me feel like a burden. You’ll discover the shocking connection between Heather and me that took fifty years to reveal itself. You’ll watch as a town rallies around its own, even the cranky old ones who can’t remember names.
And you’ll understand why some bonds transcend memory. Why love endures even when everything else fades.
Grab your 99c copy of Whispers at Wongan Creek and meet the people of a town that understands: we’re only as strong as how we treat our weakest members. And sometimes the old farmer who can’t remember where he put his sheep remembers the most important things of all.
In Wongan Creek, neighbors don’t abandon neighbors. Even when remembering becomes impossible.
From Harry Murchison
Farmer (retired), Vietnam veteran, keeper of old letters, and Travis Bailey’s biggest fan (even when I forget his name)
Genre: Rural Romance | Romantic Suspense
Setting: Wongan Creek, Western Australia
Perfect for fans of: Fiona McArthur, Alissa Callen, Rachael Johns, and Fleur McDonald
Content note: This book handles Alzheimer’s disease with sensitivity and respect, showing both the challenges and the dignity of aging with dementia.
#MeetHarry #WonganCreekWednesday #AlzheimersAwareness #CommunityMatters #NeighborsCareForNeighbors #RuralRomance #99cDeal