The House On Burra Burra Lane

by Jones, Jennie

  Ethan cupped her chin and tilted her face. His eyes were narrowed, the planes of his face fixed like granite. ‘Because you were being pressured and they had your back against the wall. Not anymore. You don’t contact him until we’ve thought this through. He comes near you, he calls you, writes to you—I want to know.’

  ‘I don’t think he’ll do that.’

  Surprise rocked the scowl from her face as he took hold of her shoulders and shook her, bodily shook her. ‘He’s a man. I know how he’ll manoeuvre you. I’ll deal with him if he comes near you but you have to promise to tell me.’

  ‘Ethan, don’t … ’

  ‘He wants you.’

  She pounded her fists on his chest. ‘No!’ He didn’t understand. ‘He doesn’t want me, he wants to silence me and he’s prepared to marry me to get that silence. He thinks I’m incompetent. He told me I wasn’t enough woman for him. I wasn’t sexy enough.’ She pushed Ethan hard, knowing she was taking her frustration out on him, but resentment of what had happened and why stung. She looked away. ‘I’m not sexually alluring enough. Okay?’

  ‘Now you are being silly.’

  She huffed a laugh. ‘That’s me. Silly, vulnerable, unsexy Sammy Walker. You said it yourself.’

  He inhaled sharply. ‘I never said that.’

  She stared at him. Why had he turned up this morning of all mornings? If he’d gone about his business as usual, she’d be happily three sheets to the wind with an empty bottle of brandy. ‘You didn’t have to put it into words—I know what you think. You didn’t want to kiss me. You said I didn’t suit diamonds … ’ She was rambling, and couldn’t stop now she’d started. ‘You said I wasn’t a queen, that I was dusty and dirty … ’

  ‘Stop it.’ He shook her again.

  She fired her gaze straight at him. ‘I don’t want to stop. I’m on a roll!’ She wrenched from his grip and flung her arms wide so he could take a good look at the girl in the flannelette pyjamas. ‘I’m on an unsexy girl’s high! I’m angry. Get it?’

  Her body thumped against his chest a moment before his arms crushed her and his mouth hit hers.

  Eleven

  His arms were around her … just like that. She was pressed against him. Fast. He’d moved like lightning.

  He held her so hard she was on the tips of her toes, battened against him, her head forced back from the pressure of his mouth.

  Tighter still. Height and strength. Heat and wood dust. Tantalising. Don’t stop.

  She wound her arms around his body, fingers fanned on the width of his back, and clung to him; the safest person she’d ever known. Press harder. Hold tighter.

  Her body soared, ready to give as soon as he asked. Why weren’t his hands roaming over her? Begging her for more.

  At last …at last. He pressed a hand to her spine. He caught hold of her hair. He didn’t stroke, he took a handful and tangled it in his fingers. He tugged, and the faint hairs at the nape of her neck rose. She was inside the waterfall.

  This was the darkened Ethan. Pushing her, controlling this kiss. Do it. She’d follow him anywhere. He was a storm in the dark hours, his electricity lighting the road for her. Rough. Powerful. Perfect man.

  A moan fluttered in her throat.

  He released her as fiercely as he’d taken hold of her.

  She stumbled. Too short. Not enough. She reached for him, caught his shirt, pulled.

  He took her by the shoulders, gripping her.

  ‘I’m not going to apologise for that.’ His voice was sharp. His fingers biting into her arms.

  He’d pushed the breath out of her with his kiss. She couldn’t catch it.

  ‘You’re all woman, Sammy.’ The blue gaze was hard, unyielding. ‘You’re everything that’s woman, and you needed to know it.’

  Reality struck her. He’d kissed her to make a point. To prove her femininity to her, nothing more.

  Disbelief reeled in her mind. ‘No,’ she whispered. It had been exhilarating. Don’t ruin it.

  ‘That’s why he wants you.’ He shook her by the shoulders; fierce little shakes, as though to wake her up. ‘He sees the sexy woman, believe me. And if the son of a bitch comes round you again I’ll deal with him, not you. From now on you lock your door. Lock the damn door! Do you hear me?’

  This wasn’t a cascading waterfall, it was a gushing torrent. He was all storm, no kindness, no courtesy.

  ‘He calls you, you call me. I don’t care if it’s the middle of the night, you tell me.’

  She lifted her hands, took hold of his elbows tenderly. ‘Okay, Ethan. It’s okay.’

  With a jolt, he stepped away, turned his back, ran his hand over his head. The sunlight streamed through the window and the specks of builder’s dust floated around him.

  Her body held the imprint and pressure from his. Where his arms had been, his hands, his mouth. She put her fingers to her lips, throbbing with the touch of his.

  She reached out to the draining board, grabbed the bottle of brandy and a glass. She was drunk on shock, alcohol wouldn’t do her further harm. She poured the brandy, raised the glass to her mouth, felt the sting on her lips, her tongue.

  He swiped it from her, spilling it. ‘You don’t need that.’

  It smelled strong and sharp, the way it tasted.

  He swung to the sink, grabbed a cloth, mopped the spill, then threw the cloth into the sink, on top of the shattered glass.

  He put his hands to his hips, his knuckles whitened.

  ‘Come here,’ he said suddenly, one arm reaching for her.

  She went to him. Not scared but wanting to press comfort into him, be in his arms again.

  ‘I’m sorry I shouted.’ He straightened the shoulder seams of her pyjama top. ‘I’m sorry. I messed you up.’ He could apologise but couldn’t look her in the eye.

  A different pain sank in her chest. One that was for him. ‘What’s wrong, Ethan?’

  He blinked, still didn’t look at her.

  ‘Not me,’ she said. ‘You. What is it?’

  He took a breath, sighed deeply. ‘We all have stories. Mine had a mother too, and an older brother.’

  ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She paused, not knowing what deeper consideration he needed for his loss.

  His face was shadowed with pain, his gaze hard-bitten when he lifted it to meet hers. ‘Don’t apologise to me. Don’t ever do that.’ Harsh again. His voice deep.

  ‘Then what is it?’ If he told her, she could help. She would listen, as he had for her. ‘I don’t understand why you … ’

  He closed his eyes, clenched his jaw.

  He wouldn’t tell her, he was a man who kept himself apart. If he had secrets he wouldn’t share them. She had a fierce need to place her arms around him, and feel his around her, taking away the anguish for both of them. ‘Are you sorry for kissing me?’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  Not enough. ‘Why?’

  He cast his gaze down, and she couldn’t read any thoughts. ‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘I can’t.’

  She took a breath.

  He cleared his throat, inhaled; emptying the confusion from his mind maybe. ‘You’ll be okay now. You were in a bad way when I came in.’

  She was worse now, but he wasn’t in a place to hear that. ‘I’m better,’ she told him. ‘Thank you for doing the friend thing.’

  He stepped back. ‘I want you to go upstairs and take a hot bath. Take a long, hot bath and then sleep, or rest at least. Will you do that?’

  ‘Is it because of your wife, Ethan?’

  The stillness around him burned the dust in the air until she inhaled the singe.

  No answer.

  Exhaustion crept over her, from the soles of her feet to the back of her neck but she had to speak, take this chance while he was calmed. ‘Did you love her very much?’

  His grimace was like a gunshot of pain. ‘That’s nothing you need worry about.’

  Oh, her heart scorch
ed at that. Hope she hadn’t known she was holding so tightly withered in the smoke of his answer. The woman had hurt him, and he hadn’t got over the pain of her. She’d asked the one question he hadn’t expected or wanted. He wouldn’t allow further enquiry. She’d lost her chance. He’d leave now.

  It wasn’t even nine o’clock on a stupid, bright, sunny morning but she wanted to sink to the floor, close her eyes and forget everything.

  ‘I won’t work today, the noise will disturb you.’

  ‘Okay.’ She should bow her head, look away from his discomfiture, but she couldn’t take her gaze from him. Wanted to run to him and hold him.

  ‘Will you be all right?’ he asked after a moment.

  She nodded, her head as heavy as her heart.

  He moved. ‘Ethan.’ She waited until he turned at the door and looked her in the eye. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t want me to listen to you. I would have done that for you.’

  Still nothing. No denial, no admission. No resolution. His face was tightly planed, kindness gone as he struggled with the thoughts that hurt him. The difficulties she’d brought to the fore.

  ‘Don’t forget what your intentions are,’ he said. ‘You’re strong, Sammy.’

  He meant Oliver and her mother but her thoughts were all Ethan. Gone were her secret hopes of intimacy with him.

  He turned, left through the kitchen door.

  The ute burst into life as she sank to a chair. He’d kissed her to show her she was a woman, and he’d made her feel like a diviner of seduction. Was it possible a man could behave that way? Create a furore of strength and pleasure in a woman— then end it with such cold detachment. A man like Ethan, who cared about others but never showed it with more than patient acquiescence?

  Something had taken hold of his quiet confidence, and made him behave in a forceful way. His hold of her, his mouth and his bruising kiss. But no matter how much she wanted to believe that she’d shook him into that scorching passion it hadn’t been her. It had been someone else.

  Ethan’s blood was cold by the time he reached his ute. His heart pounded against his ribcage.

  He forced himself to use restraint as he closed the door, turned the key in the ignition. But the engine roared when he planted his boot on the accelerator.

  At the end of her driveway he was in third gear. He sat high enough in the cab to see the road. It was empty and he took the corner from her gate at speed. The tyres slid, spitting pebbles and earth as the truck veered left and straightened.

  He let the ute have the road. A wide lane, nothing on it except his vehicle and the throb in his chest.

  She’d been vulnerable and upset and he hadn’t been able to keep his hands off her. He was no better than the man she’d left. The bastard who’d tried to force her. Fuck! The heel of his hand smashed against the steering wheel. The pain of that didn’t help, his mind too riotous to register it. He hadn’t shown restraint, he hadn’t helped her at all. He’d pressured her.

  If he could go back now and take her in his arms, he’d show her tenderness. He’d run his fingers lightly through her hair, stroke his hand down her spine. Kiss her throat where that pulse had been tapping like a hummingbird.

  But he wouldn’t do that.

  Guilt. He had more of it than Sammy, understood its ugly nature, its mean streak when it struck your heart and made you feel like a beaten dog. Sammy had done nothing except work out how to live her own life under pressure from others. She’d done nothing to deserve the burden of guilt but accept it. He hadn’t accepted it. He hadn’t wanted it, he’d pushed it away …

  He was like the rat in her shed, running in circles, looking for a clean exit. Get me out of here. Twelve years of absolute control washed down the drain with one kiss.

  Desire for her struck the pit of his belly so hard it agonised. He’d never taken a punch that hurt this much, and he’d taken enough. He’d given more, when he’d had to.

  His hands shook on the steering wheel. He slowed the truck to the speed limit. He’d driven past the surgery, he was on his way back to hell.

  He’d been a youth with regard for nothing but himself, no matter his well-meaning deeds when he thought he’d become an adult.

  Who had he thought he was? Some guiding saviour? Martyring himself for the good of others. What a fool. He’d come back to town a twenty-year-old kid with a wife in tow. A wife who’d been battered by his older brother. Ethan Granger, adult, so proud of himself and what he’d done to help her. Until he’d felt the eyes on him, watching for signs that he’d strayed the same way as his brother and father. Wondering who had beaten up the young woman he called his wife. They disliked Carla, polite up-front, throwing meaningful glances behind her back. Carla hadn’t cared, about them or Ethan, not even about her baby.

  She’d left him two weeks later, even though he’d begged her to stay. She’d gone back to his brother, Robert, who had got lost in the mire on the streets, thieving and abusing himself with drugs. Six weeks after that, he’d buried Carla, Robert and their unborn child, then returned home to bury his mother, and had grown up.

  He almost laughed then. He hadn’t stopped punching the world until he’d lost everyone. He’d lost Sammy now.

  Was he in love with her? It was as unfamiliar a sensation as any new thing.

  He’d buried the thought that he was like his father, like his brother, but those abusive traits might be inside him somewhere, waiting to pounce. He’d grabbed Sammy hard; he’d hurt her. And he was full of anger now.

  He turned the air conditioner up in an attempt to keep the vision of her soft, doe eyes out of his mind. Icy air blasted in his face. He couldn’t handle love, didn’t know what it was.

  He’d had his share of women over the years. Never anyone from town, it was too close. He looked for distance not disturbance. Casual sex, no emotional content and a kind thank you at the end. No need for deep-meaning words or furthering the relationship. But by God he wanted Sammy. Wanted to take the clothes from her body and love her. He nearly had, when he’d heard that soft sound of compliance in her throat.

  There were words he could give her she needed to hear for her own peace. She’d offered to listen to him but what could he say?

  Suddenly he was standing in her living room, the light from the bay window stinging his eyes as Grandy pulled the drapes back and let the daylight in. The old man had turned up after his mother’s funeral, looking shattered and older than he had been. ‘You need to talk now, son,’ he’d said. ‘Can’t go holding it all in.’

  But all Ethan had done was shake his head, turn from Grandy, ashamed that the man who had kicked him out of town was taking the trouble to put him straight again. All he’d seen was red fury—and the memory of the shattered look in his mother’s eyes when he’d first told her he’d married Carla for Robert. That Carla was pregnant with Robert’s child but he’d run off on her, left her after beating her, but it was okay, because Ethan was going to fix it. Ethan was in charge. He had everyone’s mess under control.

  He didn’t want to see the same shock in Sammy’s eyes.

  He slowed the ute even more and tried to steady his breathing. God damn the world for making him his father’s son. He hadn’t expected to find a woman who mattered this much. The need to prove himself to Sammy burned inside him.

  How was he going to fix this?

  Twelve

  Sammy parked the SUV outside Cuddly Bear and gripped the steering wheel. She closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe. She wanted to be alone with the fallout of her life, but life wasn’t letting her be. Hard work yesterday hadn’t helped, and sleep hadn’t come cleanly. But she’d finally got the kitchen garden cleared of weeds, stones and old tin cans. It was now a masterful display of corrugated troughs ready for planting.

  Be thankful. She had her house and her land. That’s all she’d wanted.

  She shook her head, her hair flying around her face as she whipped herself into a better frame of mind. She’d need her smile, her common sen
se, and a dusting of community spirit. She was giving an art lesson to Mrs Johnson’s grandchildren, Andy and Jane, who had won joint first prize in the art competition with their drawings of Ruby—the pig she’d fallen over the day she met Ethan.

  She brushed her knuckles over her closed eyes. She hadn’t cried. Not a drop, and neither would she—even if she had to superglue her tear ducts. No. She got out of the car. If she did that she’d have to answer to, ‘Why so desperate’?

  Up on the walkway her sorry mood was pushed to the breeze as Cuddly Bear’s door flew open so fast it rang the bell above it as though it had been shot with a rifle. Mrs Johnson moved out of the door like a hurricane, one small child in each hand.

  ‘Can’t stop,’ she said, headscarf flying.

  Sammy stared after her.

  ‘She’s gone for one of her walkabouts, that’s all,’ Mary Munroe cried out from Cuddly Bear’s doorway.

  ‘Who’s gone walkabout?’ Sammy asked.

  ‘Ruby. Dug under her pen and got out. Not the first time. She’ll be in the high field by the Smyth farm, that’s usually where she wanders.’

  Sammy glanced over her shoulder at Mrs J and her two young charges fleeing to the street and the ancient 4WD parked behind Sammy’s SUV. ‘Does she have anyone to help her?’

  ‘Mr Johnson is on a fishing trip. Typical huh, just when you need your husband.’ Mary swept a hand through her hair. ‘Don’t worry. She’s treated that pig like a third grandchild ever since she turned up as a piglet, lost and wet on her doorstep. Couldn’t find her owner, and after a few weeks little piggy was christened Ruby and Mrs J bought a lead.’

  Sammy smiled. There was always something sweet to think about. Then she frowned, looked over her shoulder again.

  ‘All those drawing packs arrived from Sydney,’ Mary said. ‘And there’s a lot more interest about your art lessons.’ She folded her arms and nodded at the store. Today’s earrings were interwoven shimmering silver circles, dangling to her shoulders. ‘There isn’t a mother in town who wants to be left out, in case you decide their child is a genius.’