She looked down at the table as a vision of a younger Ethan came to mind; smiling and flirting with a pretty girl who looked just like Julia. His wife.
She turned her attention to the brochures and pamphlets, sorting the bundles, struggling to remove the image.
Oliver had wanted Sammy sleek and perfect. Sammy could do it too, she just didn’t want to anymore. She had designer suits and blouses in the box at the back of her wardrobe. And stiletto sling-backs and soft leather pumps. She had jewellery, not gems, but fancy costume pieces, and expensive. She glanced at the jeans she wore. She’d worn them to the Bushman’s Clock that first time she’d visited with Ethan. She’d worn them when he took her to visit his horses.
She looked up, caught sight of Ethan walking towards Julia; children, dogs and balloons trailing beside him. Her heart took a dive from the highest mountain top.
Why hadn’t he told her?
Julia beckoned him over, her manicured hand raised in the air. Ethan listened as Julia tilted her face to him. He nodded, said something in response, and smiled. He slapped the fence rail and moved off.
When he came up the steps to Sammy’s table, shock had worn off, replaced with hostility, running through her veins, skirting the icy shield around her heart. Did she want to further any relationship with him, knowing she wanted more from him? Wanted time with him. She’d been musing and petting her own fancies, taking a look at him, admiring his strong shoulders. But he hadn’t been keen on ringing her bell. He’d told her he could do it, and he’d done it. But not for her. Not for anybody. Unless he still held feelings for his wife.
He smiled his slow, patient smile. ‘You’ve still got your crown on.’
She swiped the circle of flowers from her head. ‘I forgot.’ She slapped it on the table, stared at him.
She’d ask him. She’d simply ask why he hadn’t told her.
Eight
The old shed smelled of dampened earth, mildew and new wood.
‘Thought you might want a coffee.’ Sammy put a mug onto the work table and glanced at Ethan discreetly, even though his back was turned.
‘Thanks,’ he said, but he didn’t look around.
She’d have to make some appeasement before she got her questions answered. She’d been so narked at him yesterday at the fair that her negative response to his suggestion they join the others at the Bar & Grill for dinner had come out barbed and waspish. He’d stepped away from her, frowning when she’d refused, telling him she was far too tired and still had her own work to do.
She’d missed out on a good dinner and decent company by spiting herself with tetchiness, but the pleasure of being useful in town had been drowned by the pain of him having a wife— having any woman before her.
How should she start this conversation? She didn’t want to sound like a jealous fishwife, but she’d go mad if she didn’t know more.
‘I heard you were called out to a dog in the middle of the night,’ she said.
‘Where did you hear that?’
She shrugged. ‘Someone said something at the grocer’s this morning. You know how people talk.’
He looked over his shoulder but didn’t respond.
‘Didn’t think you’d turn up today. Is the dog okay?’
‘He’s fine now. He’d knocked over his owner’s can of beer and drank it. Didn’t agree with him.’
‘Don’t imagine it did. Are you tired?’
He narrowed his eyes, as though unsure about whether to wade into the conversation or not. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘Are you?’
Sammy shook her head. ‘I had a good night’s sleep. I got over my bad mood.’
There was relief, perhaps, in the quick half-smile that flashed. ‘Good.’
‘Sorry about yesterday,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude.’
‘You’re working too hard.’
That wasn’t the problem. ‘Did you have a nice dinner at Kookaburra’s?’
‘I didn’t go either.’ He put a piece of builder’s chalk between his teeth, picked up a metal tape measure and measured one of the heavy sheets of wood lying across builder’s horses. He marked a spot, put the chalk back between his teeth.
‘Doesn’t that taste disgusting?’
‘I imagine your coffee will take care of it.’
Sammy took a breath. Given his terse responses, she wasn’t the only one harbouring a little irritability.
He moved to another stack of wood and bent low on his haunches, measuring the top board. Hunched down, the dark shirt stretched across his back. He had the cuffs rolled up, as always. The muscles in his arms and shoulders were in proportion with the muscles on his back. No need for the tan belt looped through his jeans to cut into his waist because there was no additional flesh.
He looked the same, but she’d lost her perception of him. He was a man with a wife, albeit dead. He’d married someone for better or worse. How badly had she hurt him before she died? So difficult to judge what might have happened from the little she’d been told.
Her feet dragged as she turned to look out of the doorway, giving herself a few moments to organise the words in her head before she spoke. The grass smelled sharp and tangy. One day she’d smell flowers. She’d plant hundreds of them. They’d sway in the breeze next to the wildflowers in the fields surrounding her homestead.
What would Ethan want in a woman? Did she possess any of the qualities he’d look for?
She swung back to him, determined to take this as far as she could. ‘Ethan? Is there a lot of gossip about me in town?’
He turned then. ‘Has someone said something to you?’
She shook her head. ‘Not about me, exactly.’ She swallowed. ‘I think it might be about us.’
He picked up the coffee and sipped. ‘The bet’s still running on you, but no-one is saying bad things about you. I’d have heard.’ He paused. ‘And put a stop to it.’
‘Maybe you wouldn’t know. If it’s about you and me, they wouldn’t say it to your face.’
‘And what would they be saying about you and me?’
Tension pulled at the back of her neck, but she persisted. ‘I get the impression they think I might be chasing you.’ She forced a grin. ‘You can’t blame them, we’re both single. And you’re pretty good husband material—for a woman who was looking for that sort of thing.’
The corner of his mouth tilted but it wasn’t a smile. ‘Take no notice of it.’ Sharpness edged his tone. He put the mug onto the work table.
Perhaps her nudge hadn’t been big enough. ‘By single, I mean never married.’
He fired her a look, brow furrowed. Now he was listening, working it out.
‘And they think you’re after me, too.’ She shrugged. ‘Silly, huh?’
He looked away, stepped around the makeshift table. ‘You’re covered in dust,’ he said. ‘What have you been doing?’
She let her breath out and swept a hand down her ruby-red sweatshirt. Couldn’t blame him for turning away and changing the subject. It wasn’t pleasant asking him to open up about his past. And the time wasn’t right. He wasn’t in the mood. ‘I was moving furniture. I’m going to paint my living room.’ She slapped her thighs and watched sandpaper dust dance to the earth floor. ‘I’m normally dusty anyway, you ought to know that by now.’ The box of city clothes came to mind. Crammed with so many outfits from her other life she’d had to tie the lid down. ‘What you don’t know is that I’m in disguise.’ She lifted her chin. ‘I’m a designer queen beneath all this dust.’
‘Well don’t get your ermine cloak out before you paint the living room.’ He glanced at her and cocked an eyebrow. ‘You’ll be splattered in more paint than you get on the walls.’
She twisted her mouth to a grimace. ‘I could lop your head off for that.’
His smile shone. A full Ethan smile. ‘Want to try it?’
Warmth washed through her. She’d brought him back. Although not for the reasons she’d wanted—where he said how lovely she was, not
to worry, he did like her …
‘Ignore the gossip in town, Sammy.’
Gossip in town she’d cope with, it was the steadfast, non-talkative man in her shed giving her problems. Unless he was prepared to look hard, to look beneath—all she offered was straightened hair, disordered enthusiasm and a joke. Not exactly enticing traits for a man who liked sleek blondes and organised order.
‘Shouldn’t we put it straight? Let them know they’re wrong.’ Were they wrong? She sighed, yanked the hem of her sweatshirt, and looked away from him.
‘Let it run its course. It’ll die down.’
Which meant what? That there was nothing between them, not even a hint of the attraction that had simmered when they’d first met?
‘They’re telling me things about you, Ethan.’
He blew out a breath. ‘If there’s talk about me, I’m not going to listen to it.’
‘You’re good at ignoring what people might say about you. I don’t think I am.’
‘That’s because you’re new, and you’re finding your way. It’s different for me. I’ve been here longer than you.’
She glanced up. ‘Were you brought up here?’
‘Dragged up, mainly,’ he said, his tone sarcastic. He looked down and stared at the mug of coffee. ‘I’m a solitary person these days. I like being on my own and people don’t always understand.’
Frustration narrowed to a spear of annoyance. Did he think she hadn’t already sussed that out? ‘You don’t need anything from anyone, do you?’
He glanced at her, his gaze hardened. ‘Are you offering me something?’
She stepped back, her heart beating faster than it should. She’d pushed him too far, had never heard anything but gentleness in his voice before this.
‘I’m sorry.’ He shook his head, clenched and unclenched his hand. ‘Ignore me, too. I am tired today. That’s all.’
She drew in a slow breath. ‘Ethan, do you think we should have a break?’
Ethan looked up sharply. How would he feel if she asked him to leave and not bother her again? Empty. A field with no sunshine. A mountainside without trees. ‘You think that will stop the gossip?’
She put her hands on her hips and shifted her feet on the earth floor. ‘I’m not worried about that, but perhaps you shouldn’t spend all your free time here. Why don’t you take the day off and go fishing?’
‘You want me to leave?’ He wouldn’t stay where he wasn’t wanted. Needed.
‘Up to you.’ She shrugged.
He focussed more firmly on her. She looked a little shattered. Not tired exactly, perhaps wary because they were getting themselves into an argument.
‘I’d like to get this started.’ He indicated the leaning shed wall.
‘Okay.’ She nodded, hands raised in surrender. ‘I’ll get back to my painting then.’ She turned to the door.
‘Sammy.’ He didn’t want her leaving thinking he was some grouchy guy with a splinter jabbed under his skin. ‘I don’t talk about my past.’
The momentary pause felt like an eternity until she looked over her shoulder, smiled gently. ‘I realise that.’
She left, heading for the house. He blinked, picked up the mug and stared at the coffee so he wouldn’t have to look at her legs in those skinny shorts. If the weather got any warmer, she’d be in skinny tops too. How would he cope with that?
He’d promised himself if she asked about his past, he’d tell her, and as soon as she had, he’d clammed up, changing the subject to queens and ermine cloaks. He didn’t need twenty guesses to know what she’d been told. He’d known the rumours would escalate yesterday, standing in the lovers’ queue with her, kissing her in front of everyone. He should have made sure he missed that bell but with the weight of the hammer in his grip and pretty Sammy standing next to him, some silly pride had taken him over. He’d shown off for her. And now they were talking about her … and his past.
One sordid detail ran over another in his mind. He swallowed the bile in his mouth. He’d been a rough stone on a riverbed of smooth pebbles. A glaringly obvious hazard. He’d lived hard, been born into rough and ready. He’d pulled himself up from that by pure slog and determination, but any counteraction he made to what he’d been, what he’d done, would sound like he was defending himself. He didn’t want to see a look of shock or sympathy veil Sammy’s gaze.
He looked up at the rafters. Every fibre of his being longed to hold her and kiss the breath out of her. He’d have to toughen up. Problem was, she was already too deeply embedded in his heart.
Two hours to prepare the living room for the paint job and get things straight in her head. She’d shifted furniture, stuck tape along skirting boards and pulled nails out of walls. He hadn’t returned the mug, hadn’t asked for a sandwich or a beer. Hadn’t come close. Stuck in his shed, hiding, probably.
He tapped on the front door. It was slightly ajar and he didn’t normally knock. It squeaked as he pushed it open.
‘Hi,’ Sammy called, moving into the hall, hands full of dining room chairs, double stacked, last trip.
He stepped inside but she ignored him as she placed the chairs against the staircase wall. ‘Have you finished for the day?’ Annoyance was suffocating her. At herself, for wanting to be pretty, and at Ethan, for not seeing her pretty.
She itched to shake him, goad him into giving. Pull him towards her and run her hands down his spine. Slip her fingers into the waistband of his jeans and tuck the shirt further in—or pull it out! Reach up and kiss his mouth. Wind her arms around his neck and let the warmth of him set them on fire. All of it. She wanted to taste all of him.
‘I’ve been called back to the surgery.’
She reorganised the chairs, stacking them in a different formation so she had something to occupy her for a few more seconds. ‘Do they call your mobile? You don’t have a receptionist, do you?’
‘They call me on my mobile.’
‘Well. Hope whatever it is gets better soon.’
‘It’s not a sick animal. Young Wendy Jones is home from her holiday and she wants her guinea pig and rabbit back.’
The chairs were stacked. She had nothing else to move.
She turned, she had to, and saw them both in her mind’s eye— her favourite picture—sitting on the bank of the MacLaughlin on a tartan picnic blanket. She was relaxed there, and on a bed of nails here.
He wasn’t behaving like a friend or a possible lover, he was somewhere on his own, not wanting her to tag along or be near him. She was one of his lost dogs. Following him like a fool. Looking for him when he was out of sight. Let off the leash and not knowing where to run first.
A flurry of leaves swirled outside, behind him. They skimmed the grass, the gravel path, and rose to the air with the breeze.
She drew back and blinked, lifted a hand to her eye.
‘What’s wrong?’ He stepped forwards.
‘Something in my eye.’
‘Let me see.’
‘No, it’s okay. Just dust.’ He’d already lifted a hand so she let him take hers away, not wanting to show force or acceptance which was difficult because both sensations were banked in her chest, mixed up and wanting release.
She blinked. He wore the dark shirt. The navy one she’d first seen him in. The breast pocket had a tear in it, the tip of a pencil caught in the frayed edge.
He put his thumb above her eyelid. ‘Look up.’
Straight into his eyes. Piercing blue. Like pools in a patch of summer sunlight. She breathed deeply as he held her gaze.
‘Whatever it was, it hurt you,’ he said quietly.
‘Dust. Gone now.’
He stroked her eyebrow. ‘You have pretty eyes, Sammy.’
She dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands and stiffened her arms at her sides. The clock in the hallway sounded as though it had lost pace, the tick chasing the tock.
‘Where’s the queen?’ he asked, startling her.
She inhaled, trying not to breathe in too mu
ch of him. ‘I put her back in her box along with her ermine and diamonds. She doesn’t belong here.’
‘Diamonds? They wouldn’t suit you anyway.’ His gaze wandered to her mouth. His lips parted. They looked as dry as hers. ‘You need topaz.’
He lowered his face. His mouth hovered a breath away from hers. He kissed her once. His mouth dry and warm on her cheek.
‘I’m sorry I was in a bad mood today.’ He moved back, the space between them cavernous suddenly, the cooler air creeping between their bodies. ‘There are lots of things I don’t talk about, Sammy. It’s not you. It’s me. It’s who I am.’
She licked her lips, desperate for the moisture. ‘We’ll be finished soon anyway.’
He opened his mouth, nodded before he spoke. ‘I’ll put shelves in the shed when I’ve fixed the wall, if it’s okay with you. And I thought I’d pour concrete. Make it usable.’ Another nod. ‘Then we’ll be done.’
She wanted so much more from him. ‘Sounds good.’
‘As long as you’re all right with it? I don’t want to put jobs your way that you don’t want.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t want to … ’ For the first time since he’d stepped through the door he looked disconcerted. ‘I don’t want to do too much for you. I don’t intend to make you feel like you have to accept my ideas. You’ve got your own, I know that.’
‘You’ve helped too much which makes me uncomfortable, but you don’t get in the way of anything.’
‘I never intended to make you feel uncomfortable.’
‘I don’t mean that!’ Exasperation shot through her. She unfurled her fingers, knowing she’d put blood-dents into the flesh of her palms. Their conversation ought to come right back to the reality of the day. The clock needed to tick its normal pace.
‘I’ve learned heaps from you, Ethan. You’re a good teacher.’ He should either kiss her properly or get lost. She hauled in a breath, satisfied by both evaluations.
‘I’m not so sure I’m a good friend though.’
She couldn’t answer.
‘And I’ve been obnoxious today. I’m sorry, Sammy.’
The House On Burra Burra Lane Page 9