by Ariel Tachna
Deciding his stomach was done rebelling, Thorne forced himself to stand up so he could rinse his mouth out and splash cold water on his face. He had dark circles under his eyes, but those never really went away. His beard had filled in enough to need a trim, but he hadn’t expected to be able to do that until he had a roof over his head again instead of a tent—something that wouldn’t happen while the fires still burned—so he hadn’t brought his beard trimmer with him. His black hair had more silver in it than he was used to seeing, but he ignored that. He remembered his father having the same silver strands in his hair and beard by the time he was Thorne’s age. His mother had called it distinguished and said it only made him more handsome. Not that Thorne had anyone in his life who would care if his hair was black or gray, short or long. He had ties in his bag to keep it off his neck and out of his eyes while he was working. That was all that mattered.
Fed up with his own weakness, he flipped the light off and went back to bed. It was still dark outside. He would go back to sleep, with no nightmares this time, and everything would look better in the morning.
He lay back down and pulled the covers up, but as soon as he closed his eyes, images from his nightmares flashed before his eyes again. “Fuck,” he muttered as he turned over and tried to focus on anything other than his memories.
Neiheisel and Armstrong had been quite the revelation. Thorne had spent half his life ignoring his own sexuality, going out with his squad and fucking anything that moved. Most of the time, it had been girls, who had generally been accommodating enough to let him fuck them in the arse so he could ignore the girly bits. Only when he had been far away from base on leave had he dared to find a guy to mess around with, and those times had been few and far between. Caine and Macklin, though, weren’t anything like those furtive fucks or any of the similar hookups he’d had since he’d retired from the military. He’d spent his life in homophobic milieus and hadn’t expected to find anything different when he drove onto Lang Downs that afternoon. Instead, he’d found Caine and Macklin, with all their openness and their jackaroos who defended them and a house they shared where they could sit on the couch together and talk about their day like any other couple. He’d never considered such a possibility. It only made him more determined to protect this place. Few enough safe havens existed. Thorne couldn’t see one destroyed on his watch.
He’d rolled onto his side, trying to get comfortable enough to sleep again, when he heard a noise from down the hall. He froze, every sense on alert as he tried to place the sound. He knew his battle instincts were out of place here, but they had kept him alive for too long to disregard them now. He stretched his senses, listening for any other sign of trouble, and heard it again—a moan followed by a broken-off curse.
Thorne sat up, automatically taking stock of the weapons at his disposal. He no longer had a gun, but he kept a knife on him at all times. He reached for it now, waiting for a signal to act. Then he heard it again, the voice growing clearer and the words more distinct.
“F-f-fuck, Macklin. D-do that again.”
Thorne collapsed back against the mattress, the knife falling from his hand with a clatter. No danger to his hosts, only to his sanity. The noises grew louder, more impassioned and explicit, Macklin’s deeper tones reverberating beneath Caine’s sighs and groans. The bed frame squeaked then, and then again, setting up a rhythm that left Thorne hard and aching.
How long had it been since he’d fucked a willing arse? He couldn’t even remember. He closed his eyes, trying to summon the image of a lover, real or imagined, to pleasure himself, but his mind remained unhelpfully blank. He wrapped his hand around his cock in time to the noises from the next room. When the fires were out, he would go to Melbourne or Sydney to find a club. He’d find a willing arse and take out all the tension he couldn’t release any other way. He spurted as the noise from the next room crescendoed and then fell silent, but the release felt hollow. He wasn’t hard anymore, but he could hardly call it satisfied.
He’d need a shower before breakfast, so he dragged himself out of bed to dig through his bag for clean shorts and his toiletries. He’d shower and then go see what time the day started on the station.
THORNE WALKED into the canteen to find the room already half full of men and an unfamiliar woman behind the buffet serving the men as they came in.
“Ma’am,” he said politely as he reached her.
“You must be Thorne,” she said. “Kami told me about you last night.” She looked at him critically and put a second scoop of scrambled eggs on his plate. “You look like you’ve missed a few meals, son, but don’t worry. We’ll feed you up in no time.”
“Thank you, Mrs….”
“Lang,” she said, “but everyone calls me Sarah.” She handed him a plate.
“Lang like Lang Downs? I thought Neiheisel owned the place.”
“He and Macklin do,” Mrs. Lang said, “but Caine’s great-uncle took my husband in when he had nowhere else to go.” She glanced back toward the kitchen, where Thorne could see Kami washing dishes. “He changed his name to Lang years ago in tribute to the man who saved so many lives by never turning anyone away, even an aboriginal boy with only the clothes on his back to call his own. Fortunately for all of us, his nephew has followed his example. Coffee’s against the wall, or there’s tea if you prefer that. Anything else you need, you just let me know.”
“Ma’am,” he said again as he took his food and looked around for a table. Her revelation only made him more determined to protect this place and the people who lived on it. It was obviously too special to lose. Emery waved him over, so he joined the foreman, his wife, and several other jackaroos.
“Do you know everyone?” Emery asked when Thorne took his seat with his back to the wall. “I can’t remember who I introduced you to yesterday.”
“Mrs. Emery,” Thorne said with a smile, “and I met…. Simms, was it?” The young man nodded. “But I don’t know the others. Thorne Lachlan, RFS.”
“Jesse Harris, Kyle Jones, and Patrick Thompson,” Emery said. “Patrick’s our head mechanic. Kyle has been here almost as long as I have, and Jesse and Chris showed up at the same time about six years ago. We haven’t been able to get rid of them yet.”
“And you won’t, either,” Emery’s wife scolded. “So stop with the ribbing.”
“Molly’s protective of her ‘brood’,” Emery said. “She won’t let me have any fun.”
“I don’t trust you not to say something stupid in the guise of a joke,” Molly said. “Some things aren’t funny.”
“She lost her sense of humor where certain things were concerned about the same time she found out she was pregnant,” Jesse confided.
That explained Emery’s insistence the day before that his wife leave the station. “What things? I wouldn’t want to end up on her bad side.” He’d watched her bop her husband on the head more than once the night before.
“Anything that might make Chris or me uncomfortable,” Jesse replied. That didn’t help Thorne at all, but before he could ask for clarification, Neil lifted a hand and waved another jackaroo over to them.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” Neil teased.
Thorne froze in his seat. He was sure the man coming toward them hadn’t been at dinner the night before. Thorne would have noticed him for sure. Like the other jackaroos, he was lean and weathered, his skin wind-burned and covered in freckles, but something about this man called to Thorne in a way he could not explain. He grabbed his coffee and took a sip to cover his reaction.
“I’m not the last one here,” the newcomer retorted. “I don’t see Sam and Jeremy anywhere.”
Neil moaned at that and clapped his hands over his ears. “Not listening.”
“I’m sure there’s a perfectly innocent reason why they’re late,” the man continued. “I’m sure the noises I heard when I walked past their house weren’t anything like that.”
“Not listening,” Neil repeated. “Not listening, not listenin
g, not listening.”
“I thought you said you wouldn’t put up with comments like that,” Thorne said.
“I won’t,” Neil replied, “but that doesn’t mean I want to think about my brother having sex. That’s not homophobic. That’s self-preservation. Just… no.”
“How many couples are there on Lang Downs?” Thorne asked before he could stop himself.
“Eight,” Neil replied. “Caine and Macklin, Patrick and Carley, Chris and Jesse, Sam and Jeremy, Sarah and Kami, Kyle and Linda, Andrew and Elizabeth, and Molly and me.”
“And you all have houses of your own?”
“Yes,” Neil said, “and so does Ian. Ian, did you meet Thorne last night?”
“No,” the man Thorne was trying not to stare at answered.
“Thorne Lachlan, this is Ian Duncan. Ian, Thorne’s one of the Firies. He’s here to help us prepare for the fires.”
“Cheers, mate,” Ian said, holding out his hand. Thorne took it, ignoring the way the contact sent tingles up his arm. Ian snatched his hand back as if burned, though, so Thorne pushed his interest aside. “So what’s the plan for today?”
“Get the firebreak built on the south side of the valley,” Thorne said.
“Patrick’s going to start outfitting the utes with the water tanks,” Neil added. “Jesse will probably stay and help him. You can work here in the station or you can help with the firebreaks. Did you get the last of the mob brought in last night?”
“I’m not convinced I got all of them,” Ian said, “but I’m not sure it’s the best use of manpower to search for the strays. Not until the valley is secure, anyway. The fires will drive them this way as it is.”
“So what’ll it be, then?” Neil asked. “Firebreaks or prepping the utes?”
“You’ll never let me hear the end of it if I stay and work on the utes,” Ian said, “so firebreaks it is.”
Thorne didn’t pretend to understand the undercurrents between the two men, but all the banter was clearly in good fun. No one else seemed bothered by it, so Thorne resisted the urge to jump to Ian’s defense. He didn’t have the right, not really, and the defense wouldn’t be appreciated.
“Did you boys get enough to eat?”
Thorne started at the sound of Mrs. Lang’s voice. He was halfway out of his seat before he realized he’d begun to react, but he forced himself back into the seat. Mrs. Lang didn’t deserve his anger.
“I’ll take another piece of bacon, if you’ve got any, Sarah,” Ian said. She served him and patted his shoulder as she moved on down the table. She stopped again where Caine and Macklin were sitting.
“Does she mother everyone?” Thorne asked.
“Pretty much,” Neil said. “She didn’t see Macklin for thirty years. She’s been making up for it ever since she got here, and none of us escape it completely.”
“As long as she doesn’t walk up behind me, I’ll live with the mothering,” Thorne said.
BY THE time they broke for lunch, they had completed half the southern firebreak, and Thorne had spent the morning trying not to stare at Ian. When all the other jackaroos had stripped off their outer shirts, leaving them only in T-shirts, Ian had left his long-sleeved work shirt on.
“Aren’t you hot?” Thorne asked Ian as they all found a place to sit for lunch.
“Better hot than sunburned,” Ian replied with a shrug. He mopped at his skin with a kerchief he kept around his neck for that very purpose. “I have yet to find a sunblock that can keep me from turning the color of a lobster. It’s long sleeves and a hat or skin cancer.” Ian had a shock of red hair and very pale, freckled skin. Thorne could see how the sun was a serious problem.
“Why stay, then?” Thorne asked. “Why not go somewhere you could work inside?”
“Because Lang Downs is home,” Ian replied simply, and the smile that graced his face as he said it was the most beautiful thing Thorne had seen in years. “I’ve been here since I was twenty, and I’ll stay here until I can’t work any longer.”
“Is that typical?” Thorne asked, since he couldn’t ask the questions he really wanted to. “I had the impression sheep stations were more transient than that.”
“For the seasonal workers, it is,” Ian said, “but every station needs a skeleton crew that stays year-round, and Lang Downs has a very loyal one. Macklin has been here for more than thirty years, Kami for even longer than that. Neil, Kyle, and I all arrived about fifteen years ago. Jesse and Chris have been here for six years, and Sam and Jeremy for five.”
“And Caine?” Thorne asked. “He wasn’t born here.”
“Seven years,” Ian replied. “He came after his uncle died. Caine’s great-uncle founded the station in the 1940s and ran it until he died. It passed to Caine after that.”
Ian mopped at his neck again, and as he donned his hat, Thorne caught sight of a small cut oozing blood. “Did you cut yourself?”
Ian looked at his hand and then wiped it on his jeans. “A couple of days ago. I was working on a chair for Sam and Jeremy’s veranda and the chisel slipped. I must have knocked it while we were working today and not realized it with my gloves on.”
“You should wash it and put some Savlon on it,” Thorne said. “You don’t want it to get infected.”
“It’ll be fine until tonight,” Ian said.
“Emery!” Thorne called. “You got a first-aid kit with you?”
“Yeah, are you hurt?”
“Ian is.”
Neil came over and joined them with the first-aid kit in one hand. “What did you do to yourself, mate?”
“I nicked it in my shop a couple of days ago,” Ian said. “I must have knocked it on a shovel or something today. It’s fine, really.”
“Don’t be a drongo,” Neil said as he pulled out a bandage and antibiotic cream. “Give it here and let’s have a look.”
Ian rolled his eyes but held out his hand without further protest. Thorne grabbed it before Neil could, examining the cut carefully. “It looks shallow and clean. An alcohol swab to make sure and a bandage to keep it that way.”
Neil surrendered the first-aid kit. Thorne ignored the expression on his face. Whatever background Neil had, it didn’t compare to what Thorne had learned from the field medics over the years. He wiped the area clean and patched it up. “Be careful with it for a few days and it’ll be fine.”
“Mate, there’s no such thing on a station like this,” Ian said. “I don’t know what you think we do, but a cut like this is nothing. I don’t need to take it easy,” Ian said, “so back off.”
Thorne let the matter drop when Ian stalked off with Neil not far behind, but he resolved to keep an eye on the cut. The worst scar he had—and he had plenty—was from a minor injury that shouldn’t have been anything… until it got infected and nearly cost him his leg. Even the bullet wound to his shoulder hadn’t required as much recovery time as that infected scratch on his calf.
He ate his sandwich in silence until a kid came and flopped on the ground next to him. “Why are you eating by yourself?”
“Because I don’t know anyone,” he replied honestly. “They’re all friends. I’m just here to help with the firebreaks.”
“Caine always says strangers are just friends you haven’t met yet,” the kid said. With the braces and the short hair beneath the baseball cap, Thorne couldn’t decide if the kid was a boy or a girl, but either way, the openness of the statement took him aback. He didn’t think he’d ever been that at ease with himself, much less when he still had a mouthful of braces. “I’m Laura. What’s your name?”
“Thorne,” he said. “Do you live here on the station?”
“Yeah, my mom came a couple of years ago. I like it here. Everyone’s really nice.”
“You don’t miss having other kids around?”
“Nah,” Laura said. “Teenagers are a pain. I like hanging out with the jackaroos better. They don’t look down on me because I’m a girl who’d rather work outside than do girly things.”
“I can see how that would be frustrating.”
“So what’s your story?” she asked.
“My story?”
“Yeah, everyone who comes to Lang Downs has a story. Neil was a hothead who couldn’t keep a job anywhere else. Chris was bashed and Caine and Macklin took him in. Jeremy beat his brother up for being an arsehole and his brother kicked him off the station. So what’s your story?”
“I don’t have a story. The fire brigade captain sent me to help protect the station. That’s all,” Thorne insisted.
Laura looked at him like he was full of shit, but she was too kind to call him on it. “If you say so. Why do you keep staring at Ian?”
“I’m just checking on him,” Thorne said. “He has a cut on his hand, and I don’t want it to get worse.”
“Ian always has cuts on his hands,” Laura said. “He’s always making something in his workshop. He made the furniture on our veranda and now he’s making us a new coffee table for our living room. It’s going to be beautiful. He lets me watch sometimes.”
“That sounds really interesting,” Thorne said. He looked down at his hands. They bore their share of scars, but always from destruction, never from creation. He wondered what it would be like to create something out of nothing, to pour himself into something good for once rather than into death, even death for a cause.