Blackpeak Station

by Holly Ford

  ‘Really? You sure his name isn’t Mattel?’

  Luke laughed again. He reached out a hand, fingering her satin lapel as if judging the fabric, and then looked suddenly into her eyes. ‘Are you jealous?’ he taunted.

  Willing herself to stay upright, Charlotte stared back at him — defiantly, she hoped. ‘Of course not. Why would I be?’

  ‘Why indeed?’ He dropped his hand to her waist, stroking his thumb over the tuxedo button. ‘You know, this really is beautiful tailoring.’ He hooked a finger inside the lapel. ‘Is it silk-lined?’

  ‘Charles — there you are!’ Nick’s voice made her jump. She turned, running her hands over her dress just to check it was still there.

  ‘I found Luke,’ she explained.

  ‘So I see.’

  ‘I was just trying to talk Charlotte into having dinner with me,’ Luke said smoothly.

  ‘Shame.’ Nick smiled. ‘We’re having a family thing tonight.’

  Shit. She’d forgotten all about that.

  A muscle in Luke’s jaw twitched. ‘You can’t get out of it?’

  ‘No, she can’t,’ snapped Nick.

  She glared at him. ‘We don’t all get together very often,’ she explained.

  ‘Of course.’ Luke’s voice was flat. ‘Excuse me — I’d better find Suzy.’

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ said Charlotte bitterly, as Luke walked off. ‘Why do you have to be so rude to him?’

  ‘He deserves it, the arrogant prat. Where does he get off trying to make you cancel your plans for him?’

  ‘Where do you get off trying to run my social life?’

  Nick grinned. ‘I’m doing my big brother thing.’

  ‘Well, stop it. It doesn’t suit you.’ Charlotte turned her back on him and headed for the door.

  Her temper was already cooling by the time she got to the Wrightsons tent — she could never seem to stay angry at Nick for long. Would Luke forgive her as soon? He didn’t strike her as the patient type. She sighed, thinking how much she’d rather have dinner with him than her mother.

  Scanning the inside of the tent, she spotted Rex leaning on a bar table. He was talking to Jim Clements, an old mate who used to manage Poverty Hills. Charlotte set off in their direction — she hadn’t seen Jim for years. She collided with a man struggling to balance four plastic glasses of beer. It was Carrick Fergusson.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Carr began, than peered at her again. ‘Christ — Charlie? Is that you?’

  She grinned, feeling suddenly silly in her tuxedo. ‘Hi, Carr.’ He was still staring at her, open-mouthed. ‘I’m just on my way over to say hi to Jim Clements,’ she added.

  ‘Oh. Right.’

  Jeez, Carr must have been there for a while. ‘You look nice!’ she heard him call belatedly, as she made her escape.

  ‘… can’t get any worse,’ Rex was telling Jim, as Charlotte came up behind him.

  ‘Hi!’ she interrupted. ‘How are you, Jim? What are you up to these days?’

  Jim stared at her, nonplussed, a smile hovering on his face.

  Rex turned. ‘Oh, hi, Charlie. Want a beer?’

  ‘Charlie?’ said Jim. ‘You don’t mean to tell me this is little Charlie Black?’ He looked her up and down. ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘How’s it going?’ she smiled.

  ‘Good, girl, good. I can’t believe how much you’ve grown.’ He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. ‘You know, you had me going for a minute there — thought it was my lucky day.’

  She laughed.

  ‘Rex tells me you’re running Blackpeak now.’ Jim winked at Rex. ‘Giving him a right runaround too, I’ll bet.’

  ‘Oh, I think he’ll survive … But what about you, what have you been doing with yourself?’

  ‘Well, I’ve got a few acres of my own now, out near Springfield — not much, mind you, just enough to keep me out of trouble.’

  Charlotte raised an eyebrow in disbelief, and Jim laughed.

  ‘Well, most of the time, anyway. Actually, I was thinking about doing another season in the high country this year.’

  She smiled sympathetically. ‘Why don’t you come down and give us a hand sometime? We can always do with a good man.’

  Jim’s face rose. ‘Thanks, I might just do that. Suppose I’d better have a word to the old girl about it first, though.’

  ‘Might be an idea.’

  ‘Speaking of balls and chains,’ Jim winked, ‘where’s yours?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The bride!’

  Charlotte stared at him, not comprehending.

  ‘Well, isn’t that your wedding suit?’ he asked, sides shaking with mirth as he pointed at her outfit.

  Reddening, she tried to look amused.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, girl.’ Jim wiped a tear from his eye. ‘I just thought since you’re wearing that, there must be a bloke in a white dress around here somewhere!’

  Charlotte forced another smile. She felt ridiculous. What the hell did she think she was playing at, with these clothes, and VIP tents, and fancy dinners? It wasn’t her — she didn’t belong with the Michael Cromptons of the world, nibbling canapés and sipping bubbly. She belonged here, in this tent, with these people. Real people.

  ‘I was sorry to hear about your dad,’ Jim was saying, serious now. ‘He was a good man.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She assumed her accepting-condolences face and hoped he’d change the subject.

  Jim smiled, and rested a hand on her shoulder. ‘He’d be proud of you, you know. Your dad.’

  Charlotte blinked. If John Black had any idea what was going on at Blackpeak today, she was willing to bet he’d be a lot of things — but not proud. She exchanged a glance with Rex, who shifted uncomfortably.

  ‘Where’s Nick got to?’ he asked tactfully.

  ‘Nick? Is he here too?’ said Jim.

  ‘Yeah, he’s around — I’ll go see if I can find him, I know he’d love to see you.’ Charlotte slid off gratefully, making her way back out into the car park.

  It was largely deserted — the drone of the loudspeaker and the distant crowd clustered along the rail told the story of a race underway. She took a few deep breaths. The old oak trees around her still bore the pale green of spring. Range Rovers and Porsches sprouted in the leafy shade, empty champagne bottles and the remains of upmarket picnics littering their boots.

  She leaned against a gnarled tree trunk. Her feet hurt. Looking around the flat green lawns, she felt a wave of homesickness for her own sun-bleached hills. She tried to shake off the mood. It was silly to get so depressed over — what? Jim’s teasing? Her father? Why was it that, every time she stopped for a moment to think these days, she felt so unhappy?

  You’re just tired, she told herself, tired and hung-over. Better go and find Nick.

  She turned back towards the VIP tent and, blinking in a sudden shaft of sunlight, bumped, for the second time in ten minutes, into a man. This one, however, didn’t smell of beer, and his arms were free to tighten protectively around her.

  ‘Sorry,’ muttered Charlotte in embarrassment.

  ‘I’m not,’ said Luke, pushing her gently back against the tree. ‘I was hoping I’d, um’ — he smiled — ‘run into you.’

  Cautiously, she raised her eyes to his, and found herself caught in that green gaze. I’m a snake and he’s my charmer, she thought helplessly — or maybe he’s the snake and I’m the mouse … He hadn’t let go of her. If anything, his grip was getting tighter, and that look could strip paint, never mind her Fratelli Sammartino. Her lips parted as she strove for something — anything — to say.

  Luke beat her to it. ‘Christ, you’re lovely.’ His fingers ran down her cheek, stroking her jawline, raising her chin. He kissed her softly, exploringly, slowly, then drew back to look at her again.

  Charlotte could feel herself quivering like a timid sheepdog. Why did her eyelids feel so heavy? The only thing holding her up was the oak tree — and Luke. He kissed her again, harder this time, pressing her
back against the tree.

  ‘I want you,’ he breathed into her ear. Oh! She could feel the proof of it hard against her stomach. ‘Tell me that you want me.’

  Charlotte closed her eyes, unable to summon words. She felt his mouth on hers, kissing her this time with real passion. Oh God. Her hands crept up around his neck and through his hair as she pressed her hips against him.

  ‘Tell me.’ His voice was insistent.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes what?’

  ‘Yes, I want you!’ Half submissive, half angry, she stared up at him.

  His eyes glittered. ‘Tomorrow night you’ll have dinner with me.’

  She groaned. ‘I’m going home tomorrow night.’

  ‘Stay.’

  ‘I can’t.’ She felt like crying as Luke drew back.

  He brushed a finger over her lower lip. ‘Tomorrow morning, then. I’ll pick you up at ten. Okay?’

  Charlotte nodded dumbly.

  ‘And now,’ he leaned in, kissing her slowly again, ‘I’d better get back to the party.’ He pulled back, closed his eyes for an instant and shook himself. Glancing down, he gave a wry smile and buttoned up his jacket.

  It was lucky for Charlotte that everyone else was either too tight or too tired to notice her extreme absentmindedness that evening. Having returned to the VIP tent and downed a glass of champagne much more quickly than it deserved, she floated through dinner at Andrea’s on a tide of lust and expectation.

  She woke the next morning to find the tide was out, and she was washed up in the flotsam and jetsam of nerves and fear. Thankfully, everyone else was going out after breakfast. Kath wanted to drag Rex off to the mall for his yearly shop. Andrea was taking Nick to the airport.

  This is crazy, Charlotte told herself, as she scrubbed herself in the shower. I hardly know this man, she added, surreptitiously spraying her mother’s perfume on every pulse point she could think of. It’s downright nuts to let some guy pick you up, take you away, have sex with you and then bring you back again, she went on, rummaging for her best underwear. Oh well, she concluded, ready at last — too late to back out now.

  A knock on the door told her she was right. She opened it tentatively, amazed it was possible to feel more nervous than she had five minutes ago.

  ‘Hi.’ Luke stood there with the morning sun behind him, looking surprisingly normal. No pitchfork, no tail. In his faded Levis — oh, she remembered those — and a grey cashmere sweater, he looked younger and safer, and she felt herself relax a little. ‘Are you ready?’

  She nodded, mustering a smile.

  As he opened the door of the Porsche for her, Charlotte recognised it as the car under her oak tree. So he hadn’t been looking for her at all. She stretched out her legs, feeling more amused than angry. ‘So where are we going?’

  ‘We’re going to have brunch.’

  ‘Am I dressed okay?’ Unsure of the dress code for mid-morning seductions, she’d eventually settled on a red jersey dress stolen from Andrea’s wardrobe.

  ‘You look lovely.’ Luke draped a hand over her bare thigh — the dress was short on her and a little tight. ‘Brunch is at my place,’ he added.

  The Porsche rumbled through the leafy streets, past the park and the river sparkling in the sun, and accelerated smoothly as they hit the long, straight estuary road to Sumner. Luke turned up a narrow, steep road that climbed the cliff to give a stunning view of the ocean, and swung abruptly into a driveway.

  Above the double garage rose two storeys of concrete and glass. Luke ushered her up the stairs and onto the terrace, where, in front of the ocean, a lap pool gleamed and a table was set for two. He pulled out a chair for her.

  ‘I’ll get us a drink.’

  He came back with a bottle of champagne — God, did he ever drink anything else? — in an ice bucket, and poured two glasses.

  Charlotte sat back, admiring the view. Settling the bottle into the ice, Luke sauntered around to stand behind her chair. His hand stroked the back of her neck, her throat, her collarbone. Slowly, it moved down. She arched under it, resting her head against the muscles of his stomach.

  ‘Hungry?’ he asked softly.

  She shook her head.

  Prowling around her like a cat, he took her hand and raised her from the chair. God, that look again … like he was just making up his mind where to start … oh, but he had to touch her soon. Please. She could hardly stand it. In fact, she could hardly — well, stand.

  ‘I’m disappointed,’ Luke said, in his lowest, most stomach-clenching voice. ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about unbuttoning you. But I guess …’ He ran his hands down her thighs, and lifting the dress, pulled it slowly over her head. ‘… this will have to do.’

  Chapter TWELVE

  Ahead, Charlotte could see the holding pen and the end of a long day’s work. The sea of brown and white backs stretching before her was less stormy now — they were all tired, cattle, dogs and humans. Dusty and footsore, tongue lolling, her huntaway jogged beside the slow-moving mob, administering a nip here and there to a recalcitrant hock, dodging the kick that followed.

  It had been a tough mob to move — it was months since these cows had been handled, and they were protective of their calves, which, never having seen man or dog before, bolted here, there and everywhere at the slightest provocation. Keeping them calm and moving in the right direction was an exercise in patience and frustration. One of Charlotte’s dogs, a victim of the latter, now lay across the back of her saddle, unable to walk after collecting a kick to the shoulder. Fly was a promising bitch — she hoped she wasn’t going to have to sell her off down-country.

  Charlotte sighed, and wiped the film of dust and sweat from her face. Nearly there now.

  A creek divided the scrubby flat. On its far side, she could make out the hut, a ramshackle affair of weathered tin tacked up around a stone chimney dating back to her great-grandfather’s time. On this side of the creek, straight ahead, was the holding pen. The first cattle had their noses in it now. It was half an hour before the last of the mob followed suit, shouldering their way through to the water trough, inhaling it in great slobbering gulps.

  Charlotte ran an eye over the old beech-log fencing. A cold nose inserted itself in her ear as Fly, still mounted, reminded Charlotte of her presence.

  ‘Don’t forget you’re cooking tonight!’ yelled Matt, as she led horse and dog towards the hut.

  ‘I cooked last night, didn’t I?’

  ‘Like hell you did,’ came the reply. ‘And hurry up, I’m starving!’

  ‘Fine way to talk to your boss,’ muttered Charlotte. She lifted Fly down and watched as she tried to bear weight on her injured leg, only to lift it again with a whimper.

  Charlotte bent to stroke the bony black and tan head. ‘It’s all right, girl. We’ll soon get you fixed up.’

  She unsaddled Archie and turned him loose in the paddock behind the hut. He dropped to the ground, rolling in the scratchy tussock.

  Fly limped around the hut and opportunistically followed Charlotte inside. Seeing the shadow cross the threshold, Charlotte hesitated. It was her secret that when out alone in the huts, she let her dogs sleep inside — Matt would never let her hear the end of it if he found out. She shrugged. Oh, whatever. Fly needed a bit of TLC. Rummaging in the store cupboard, she came up with an old potato sack, on which Fly curled up gratefully, watching through half-closed eyes as Charlotte got a fire going.

  Down at the creek, Charlotte took off her boots and let the cold water run over her feet. It was the time she loved best, the long summer evening when the sun slid behind the mountains, trailing gold across the top of each ridge. Around her, the shadows deepened to purple, and the air was so still she could hear the cattle snuffling in their pen. She breathed the clear air in. It just didn’t get better than this.

  Charlotte rose and made her way back to the hut, the billy banging and splashing against her legs but failing to dent her mood. Inside, she found Matt trying to e
vict Fly, who had apparently developed a hearing problem and was lying with both eyes squeezed tightly shut.

  ‘Leave her, Matt, I put her there.’

  Matt stared at her. ‘What the hell for?’

  ‘She’s hurt.’ Seeing his pitying expression, she added gruffly, ‘She could be in shock. Best to keep her warm.’

  ‘Come on, Charlie, she stinks.’

  ‘Yeah, well, so do you, but you don’t hear me complaining.’

  Matt made an obscene gesture in her direction and sank down on his bunk. ‘Bloody women, I don’t know.’ He rummaged in his pack and came up with an ancient enamel mug and plate. ‘Is tea ready yet?’

  The light was failing by the time they’d eaten and washed up their dishes in the creek. Charlotte shoved another log into the fire and sat back to watch as the dry beech wood flamed and cracked, the sparks swirling up the chimney like a swarm of fireflies. After they’d had a couple of games of cards and another mug of tea and an easy natter, they stoked the fire up and turned in, the whole routine as familiar and comfortable as a blanket. Charlotte fell asleep to the sound of the cattle shifting in the pen, the snort of a horse and the call of a morepork. Matt snoring across the hut, Fly scratching on her potato sack in the corner. The lullaby of the cattle muster.

  She woke at first light, and while Matt continued to snore, set about making breakfast. Pausing in the doorway on her way to the creek, she surveyed the day outside. The sun was still behind the ridge to the east, and the flat was soft and grey, the tussock blanketed with dew. As she watched, the first finger of sunlight crept over the hills, lighting the spiderwebs in the grass. It stirred the cattle, and a chorus of mournful bellowing echoed in the morning air. Behind the hut, she could hear the horses stamp and snort and begin to graze.

  Charlotte brought in a load of firewood, the crash of logs in the hearth waking Matt at last, and went out again to feed the dogs tied up in the lean-to. They eyed her balefully, jealous that Fly had been allowed to sleep inside. She could hear splashing as Matt washed in the creek, gasping at the coldness of the water.