by Rhyll Biest
He led the way to the house, and as she followed him up the stairs she was unable to ignore the generous way time had dealt with his body, adding in some places and subtracting in others. His shoulders had somehow broadened, as if not already ridiculously wide before, and hard work had scooped out his waist and flanks so that his jeans rested loosely over what was no doubt a most spectacularly sculpted behind.
His lean form told her exactly what he’d been doing since she’d last seen him—working hard, perhaps too hard. She would have to keep an eye on him.
Rather than focusing on the fireworks of lust, what she needed to do was focus on the quiet satisfaction of friendship—of being there to help out, of knowing that she knew him better than anyone else. Who, besides her, knew that his first pet had been a duck and that he still loved ducks with a passion entirely unbefitting a grown-ass cowboy? Knew how much he’d hated boarding school and that he’d run away at least once, hitchhiking hundreds of kilometres just to be with his horses. Knew that his mum had died when he was six, and that while everyone else saw a ruggedly handsome, hard-working horse breeder, beneath that surface lay a vulnerable and sometimes lonely man. One so terrified of losing a single farm animal that he sometimes woke in the middle of the night and had to go check on the horses—and the ducks—before tucking the kelpie and himself back into bed.
He thought she didn’t know, but his dad had told her.
And why else had he always been so interested in the wildlife she’d rescued?
Because he was soft, soft as ice-cream left on the counter in summer.
Hell, he made her look almost armour-plated in comparison. She accepted death as part of the natural cycle, part of life, just as she accepted that Bret and she couldn’t be more than friends.
She could even see the positive side of having an unrequited crush the size of Queensland on her friend. It had protected her. If she’d seriously dated anyone before going to university in Brisbane she might have had her heart broken, or ended up a farmer’s wife with just a high school diploma instead of what she now was—a qualified vet with a five-year degree under her belt.
And that counted for something, didn’t it?
It had to.
Inside the kitchen, a room as warm and wholesome as the man before her, Bret paused to stick his nose in the armpit of his t-shirt. ‘I kind of stink. Do you mind waiting while I take a quick shower?’
Shower? Now she had to think about him in the shower? Slick, soapy bubbles sliding across his muscular chest and—in her imagination—stone-hard nipples. Her mouth grew thick with things she couldn’t say. Actually, I’d like to get lost inside your pants and then jump into the shower with you once you found me.
The wayward thought almost had her covering her mouth like some bystander witnessing a car crash.
Though her thoughts sometimes resembled a car crash—ugly, messy and out of control. Was it any wonder that some folk called her nuts and Bret called her Mad Dog?
Get yourself under control, Skye. She pictured all the un-sexiest things she could think of—washing the dishes, the mountain of un-ironed clothes waiting for her at home, cleaning the microwave oven of all those icky, sticky little bits of crap that got encrusted inside it. ‘How about I cook you breakfast while you shower?’ She gave him a big smile full of pure, domestic intentions.
He heaved a big happy sigh. ‘Sounds great.’
She stuck her head in the fridge, thinking he’d disappeared, only to almost give herself a concussion when his deep voice from the doorway snuck up on her. ‘I just wanted to say how good it is you’re back. Like, really good.’
She froze in the middle of taking stock of the contents of his fridge, unable to reply. After all, how good was ‘really good’? As good as winning the lottery or just good as in having a hot shower after a hard day’s work?
Before she could remove her head from his fridge he’d disappeared.
She laid out all the possibilities, the different scales and implications of ‘really good’, as she made scrambled eggs and toast with Vegemite, plus two cups of coffee. Black with one sugar for him, a splash of full-cream milk for her.
But by the time he returned in clean jeans and grey t-shirt, hair damp and smelling of citrusy shampoo and minty toothpaste, she still had no precise meaning for ‘really good’.
She gave up on trying to figure out his words. Stuff it, why not just enjoy the view? Him clean, crisp and fresh—ready to get dirty all over again. And oh how she loved the smell of fresh coffee and cowboy in the morning.
He raised his nose, sniffed the air. ‘They teach you how to cook at vet school?’
‘Sure, it’d be a shame to waste all those testicles. I’ve halved my grocery bill.’
He gave a soft snort and slid her a look as he took a seat. ‘I’m really sorry I missed your graduation. I wanted to come but couldn’t find anyone to take care of the horses, and I needed to keep an eye on Abilene.’
Guessing Abilene was one of his mares, she sat up straight. ‘Why?’
He frowned.
Dammit if her ovaries didn’t ping like a submarine sound pulse when he frowned like that. The man could out-scowl Heathcliff or Mr Rochester any day.
‘She has a lump.’
Folliculitis, a sarcoid, and a dozen other possibilities leapt to mind. ‘I’ll take a look.’
Lips that she’d never kissed curved up. ‘That would be great. I mean, so long as you don’t mind?’
She almost groaned at how considerate he was. That meant he’d probably be even more horrified if he knew she had thoughts about getting lost in his pants and suchlike. ‘Don’t be a muppet.’
‘Thanks, Mad Dog.’ The corners of his eyes crinkled as he sipped his coffee. He swallowed and she was unable to keep her eyes from following the way his throat worked, Adam’s apple sliding up and back down, his nine-in-the-morning five o’clock shadow creeping all the way down from his chiselled jaw to hug said Adam’s apple. Imagining running her hands all over that prickly stubble, or kissing it until her lips were swollen. Imagining what that would be like.
She jumped to her feet. ‘Ready to go?’
He raised his brows. ‘You’re not going to finish your toast?’
‘You can have it.’ All she could taste was stubble under her tongue, skin gritty and salty and seasoned with cowboy.
He downed her toast, the last of his coffee, and stood—shrinking the room. ‘Okay, let’s go then. Thanks for the grub.’
She paused as he held the screen door open for her. Nice to know he still did that. ‘Where’re we headed?’
‘Abilene is in the paddock by Redclaw River, but if you wait at the corral I’ll bring her up to you.’
‘Sounds good.’
‘You do still remember what a corral is, right?’ He slid her a sly, sideways look as he grabbed his hat from the rack by the door.
Cheeky sod. ‘I think so. Thanks for asking.’
He gave her a grin as he planted the Akubra on his head.
The familiar curled felt brim reassured her. She could do this, be his friend. After all, she’d been that for how long? Twenty-three years?
At her lengthy inspection he smiled. ‘What?’
Stop staring at him like a love-sick groupie.
She raised her foot in its cheap running shoe. ‘Got some boots I can borrow?’ She shifted her gaze to the elastic-sided leather boots lined up beside the ancient sofa, all of them the size of small cars.
As he retrieved a pair of boots from between the scarred wooden legs of the sofa he glanced at her feet. He pointed at a pair of old Wellingtons. ‘How about those? They were dad’s, so they might fit you better.’
She nodded. Her feet would still swim in them, but they’d offer more protection from a stray hoof than her runners. ‘Thanks, can I borrow some socks too?’
‘Help yourself.’ He pointed at the clean laundry drying on a clothes line strung along the verandah.
‘Thanks.’ She slipped on a pair al
ong with the oversized gumboots. Hopefully she wouldn’t stack it while trying to walk in them. ‘I’ll see you in ten.’
‘Uh-huh.’ He stood, gestured for her to take the stairs first.
She headed for the corral by the fenced paddocks, following the tiny dirt track worn by thousands of footsteps.
At the corral she climbed the smooth, almost slippery, hardwood log rails. Perched up high, she stared unseeing at the brown expanse and indulged herself by thinking about Bret in the shower. Did he ever … touch himself in there? Probably, but she had no clue who he thought about when he did so. Though she could still make a whole documentary on the subject of him in the shower despite lacking those details. She gave a start when she checked her watch and saw ten minutes had passed.
She’d spent a whole ten minutes contemplating all the things Bret might like to do in the shower.
Jesus.
Don’t think about him like that, it’s creepy, you’re friends. She narrowed her eyes. ‘Only dickheads fail to grow out of teen crushes, Skye. Don’t be a dickhead.’
‘Are you talking to me?’
She blinked. Just like that he was suddenly behind her. He had to be the most silent cowboy she knew. Ninja cowboy. ‘Nope, just giving myself a motivational speech.’ It took her a moment to change gears, and to adjust to the sight of him just walking around like an ordinary person, as if he weren’t tall, built and hot.
‘Do all your motivational speeches end with the word “dickhead”?’ He gave her a look from beneath the brim of his hat.
‘Most of them,’ she murmured, rubbing her ear, checking for a fleck of cow poop that couldn’t possibly be there. ‘Where’s my patient?’
‘I tied her in the shade around the other side of the feed shed.’
‘Well, bring her in here, I could use the light.’
‘Yes, ma’m.’
She looked away from his retreating form. Checking out the view would just be torturing herself.
He reappeared from behind the feed shed leading a sorrel beauty queen. Despite a fine powder of dust, the mare’s coat gleamed where the sun touched her short, refined head and strong, well-muscled body.
Holding the gate open for them, Skye pursed her lips and whistled. ‘And where did you find this looker?’
‘Sydney.’ Bret brought the mare to a halt by one side of the corral and ran a slow, loving hand down the mare’s neck to her broad chest.
Oh, to be a horse.
‘Is she purely for breeding?’ She doubted it as she eyed the mare’s powerful, rounded hindquarters built for performance.
The mare inspected Skye in turn, liquid eyes brimming with well-bred curiosity.
‘Nope, she’s a working girl, understands cows and wants to make them her minions. Fancies herself queen of the campdraft. If the lump turns out to be nothing serious I’ll put her through her paces at the rodeo.’
‘Let me know when you’re competing and I’ll come along and help out.’ It’d be like old times. She held out the back of her hand to let Abilene sniff her. ‘And where’s this lump that’s putting a cramp in her style?’
‘I found it here yesterday when I was brushing her down.’ His hand slid to the mare’s flank. ‘See the way she stiffened? It doesn’t feel hot to the touch, but it could be an abscess if it’s that tender.’
‘Could be. Move over.’ She shouldered him gently out of her way to focus on the mare’s flank. Her fingers found a firm lump no wider than a pea. ‘Yeah, feels like an abscess. She probably picked up a splinter or something and bacteria got in. Clip or trim the area, clean it with some gauze and saline solution and let it dry. Be careful with any pus.’ She glanced at his grazed knuckles. ‘This bacteria is infectious to humans if it’s exposed to an open wound, so use some gloves.’
He nodded. ‘Got it.’
‘I’ll keep checking on it, and if a topical skin protectant doesn’t work I can drain it.’ Stroking the mare’s back she felt the weight of Bret’s gaze on her and looked up, caught him studying her, his multi-coloured eyes intent.
‘What?’
‘How does it feel? Achieving your life’s ambition? Helping animals?’
He’d always treated her interest in healing hurt creatures as pure magic, had looked at her with the sort of wonder in his eyes that gave her a floaty feeling when she showed or talked to him about her latest rescue, whether it was an orphaned joey or a sugar glider mauled by a house cat.
She smiled, her chest thickening as if a second heart was trying to grow in there, at the thought of him thinking about her with awe. ‘Well, I’m about as proud as a pup with two peckers.’
His lips curved into a toe-curlingly handsome smile. ‘Good, you should be. Not many folk from Milpinyani Springs can call themselves “doctor”.’
A feeling so warm and airy filled her that she wondered if it might drag her into the sky like a helium balloon. She could imagine the posters: Lost, one nerdy girl vet, last seen floating above Milpinyani Springs.
The sound of a fighter jet passing high above cut the moment short. Her gaze shifted from the forward flick of the mare’s ears to the jet above. ‘Steady girl.’ She ran a hand along the mare’s back as she watched the rapidly moving speck traverse the cloudless expanse of blue. ‘When did those things start flying over here?’
He looked up. ‘That’s the first I’ve seen one. Maybe they’re doing one of those special military exercises?’
The jet disappeared behind cloud and she dismissed it. ‘Do you have a topical skin protectant like Aardora?’
‘Yeah, I think so.’
‘I have some I can give you if you don’t. Use the stuff to keep the area clean and relieve any inflammation and then tape some gauze over it. Change the—’
Boom! As the detonation of a sonic boom rocked the clear blue sky the mare exploded, swinging her quarters with the force of a wrecking ball. Skye saw it happen in a horrible sort of slow motion, tried to step out of the way, but got tripped up in her oversized Wellingtons and lost her balance, falling backwards for what seemed an eternity, trapped in the same glacially slow flow of movement as the mare.
But as soon as her back hit the railings of the corral, time snapped like an elastic band, speeding up so that she only had one hot, queasy second to anticipate the thousand pounds of horseflesh swinging towards her before it slammed her against hardwood.
Bright pain exploded in her back, ribs and head, stealing all the air from her lungs.
As if from under water she registered Bret’s struggle to keep a hold on the mare’s lead rope as Abilene squealed in fright, a struggle he lost as a second sonic boom detonated and the mare skittered away in the other direction, bolting out of the corral to charge around the adjoining paddock, bucking and shaking her head.
Without a thousand pounds of horse to pin her up against the railings, Skye slid to the ground, her backside hitting the dirt with a force that made her teeth smash together.
Her mouth filled with a coppery taste as Bret loomed over her, blocking out the sun. Even though she could see his lips moving, the ringing in her ears obliterated his words. Everything flattened out, the dust, the wisps of straw, the wood beams of the corral, Bret’s face. All of it became formless grey.
When, in a pounding rush, colour and three dimensions came zooming back, the first thing she noticed was Bret’s hat. It lay several feet away in the dust—at her level.
Why was it so hard to breathe?
The hat disappeared as Bret crouched by her, his body blocking her view as he grasped her jaw with long fingers to turn her head and look into her eyes. A fist clenched her heart and squeezed hard as she realised she couldn’t feel his touch, couldn’t even feel her lips.
Am I paralysed?
Face numb, a bead of sweat trickled down her cheek as the ringing in her ears thinned out to a high-pitched whine.
‘Skye!’
She blinked.
‘Skye!’ His face was oddly pale beneath his tan.
�
��What?’
‘Jesus, finally.’
She winced. His voice hurt like a stick whacking at a piñata—her head being the piñata. ‘Why are you yelling?’
‘Because you didn’t bloody answer.’ His dark brows formed a razor-sharp line totally at odds with his usual carefree good humour.
Was he mad at her for not answering? ‘All the air was squooshed out of me.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell.’ He stroked the hair back from her face, his eyes searching. ‘Are you okay? Anything feel broken?’
I just got booty bumped by a horse. What doesn’t feel broken? ‘I’m fine.’ She drew her knees up to stand and winced as pain shot through her ribs and back.
His gaze sharpened. ‘What hurts?’
She took inventory of her body’s signals. Not as bad as when a heifer knocked her over during blood sampling, but more painful than the bite from a Persian cat with chronic hairballs. ‘I’m fine, it’s just muscular. Nothing some ibuprofen and a heat pack won’t fix.’
He narrowed his eyes. ‘I’m not letting you stand up until you tell me what hurts.’
His firm tone took her aback, as did the pinched look to his nostrils. That only happened when he was really pissed off. ‘Alright. My neck hurts a bit.’ She rubbed it. ‘And I have a slight headache.’
‘Did your head hit the rails? You could have a concussion.’
‘No, I didn’t hit my head, I think it’s more like a whiplash thing.’
‘Alright, let’s get you on your feet then.’
Firm hands slipped beneath her arms and pulled her to her feet like she weighed nothing, which she knew full well she did not.
‘Thanks.’ With a start, she felt her knees wobble and grabbed onto the railing to steady herself. She expected Bret to go reassure the mare that stood a few hundred metres away, ears pricked and tail raised, her snorts signalling her state of high alert, but instead he studied her—no, almost looked right through her—something intense brewing in his eyes.
‘Are you okay?’ She frowned. Had she missed something? Had he been kicked in the head or knocked off his feet while she’d been flailing around in the dust? Because silence was not a natural state of being for Bret. That was more her bag.