by Lucy Watt
Jealousy, raw and unreasonable, coursed through her. She didn’t like this feeling. She tried to shake it off. She scolded herself for working out how long it would be until he got back. It was none of her business. Especially as she had given him no reason to return immediately.
But the questions wouldn’t go away. If he’d had a daughter, where was the mother? Did he still see her? Was she beautiful? Smart? Funny? A total hornbag? Or a bitch? She hoped it was the latter.
The day dragged out into one long stretch of hot, boring, hard labour, made slower by constantly looking at her watch and counting down to four o’clock, which she’d calculated as the earliest possible time she could reasonably expect his ute to roll back down the driveway. Once the small hand ticked past that, she became increasingly irritable.
She threw dipper loads of chaff into buckets without caring if it all landed in its intended place and slammed the lids down on the feed bin, sending dust and particles spiralling into the shafts of light that beamed through the open feed room windows. Then she kicked a pile of stacked up buckets, sending them rolling across the floor. She shoved her way out the door with three buckets in each hand and cursed when one of them slipped from her grasp and spilt over the floor. She kicked that too, then went and got another one.
Young Pete came to ask where Jim was and she grunted, ‘How would I know?’ She felt mean, seeing him quickly remove himself from the shed. When all her jobs were done, she made excuses to stay out in the shed, cleaning the saddles, organising the gear and grouping ropes and straps and who knew what else into what was useable and what should have been thrown out years ago. She sorted through miscellaneous nose bands and broken cheek straps, all stiff and green with mould. She gave the leather surcingles a good clean and oil, and then started on an old set of harness from many moons ago. Over the next three hours she organised the entire lot, cleaned it and hung it up neatly on hooks.
And then it was seven o’ clock and he still wasn’t back.
Stop being such a cling-on, she told herself.
She resolved not to think about him anymore, and she didn’t, until she hit the shower and noticed a tiny yellow bruise on her nipple. She dried off, turned to inspect her back in the mirror and found tiny red marks where he had rolled his spurs over her. He’d marked her, laid claim to her. And she had to admit, she’d loved it.
Then she sank to the floor. What sort of idiot was she? This wasn’t okay. For a guy to mark her like that? It was sadistic, dark and disturbing.
And very, veryhorny.
At dinner, she tried to be nice to Pete, but not so nice that he would get the wrong idea. Young pups like him were easily led, she had learned, and that wasn’t her intention at all. After eating, she joined the boys for a game of pool and lost badly. She regained faith in herself by not checking out the window for his car once. She could handle this. She was strong and independent. As always.
But where the hell was he?
His ute rolled slowly down the driveway just after three in the morning, its lights dimming and then turning off before it reached the house. His lights went on for a short while before switching off, and then the station was silent again, except for screeching bats over the fig trees.
He was back.
Sophie collapsed into her bed and fell asleep.
* * * * *
The next day he gave no clues as to where he’d been. Why would he? In fact, he barely acknowledged her unless it involved work. With anything to do with the horses or the property, he was polite and reasonable. But then he just got on with working.
She found it easiest to mirror his behaviour and pretend he didn’t exist. It was weird at first, but over the course of the week, working in silence alongside him, she nearly got used to it.
She tried not to think of him naked; she banished all thoughts of lying on top of him in a bathtub under a blue gum in the middle of the outback. And she certainly didn’t recall sucking on his cock in the back of the truck or being chained while he bit her nipples so hard she wanted to scream. And as for his hand down her silk pants circling her clit – she just didn’t go there.
Except at night.
His shutters stayed down, but she saw his lamp on until the small hours, glowing softly around the edges of the shutters. Did he think of her while he sat up late? Were his sheets really white? Did he wank with one hand or two? Man, she had to stop thinking like this.
Did he remember her coming in the bathtub while he watched?
Or did he think of her in the front of the truck. Good grief, she hoped not – what an idiot thing to do. Thank goodness he was the tight-lipped sort who wasn’t likely to share that little encounter with anyone. Or did he think about Sam? His daughter. How old was she when he lost her? How did he lose her?
When she thought of the hurt in his eyes when he said his daughter’s name, she badly wanted to go to him, but Liz’s voice of reason stopped her. He was a fucked unit and she should forget about him.
So she got on with her job and tried to pretend he wasn’t there. He made that easy, carrying on as if nothing had ever happened between them.
On Saturday and Sunday, he stayed behind closed doors. Monday and Tuesday went okay. But Wednesday didn’t.
Hand serving three outside mares was excruciating. The stallion, called Bully, while usually quiet to handle was a territorial breeder and aggressive around mares. So of course Brett had to handle Bully, while she held the mares.
He was the ultimate professional while the stallion roared its head off and screamed noisily, waving its big dick all over the place and flinging semen all over the mare. She stood holding the mare by the halter, wishing horses weren’t so noisy with this. They were so loud and in your face. It was impossible to whistle happily, look around and pretend it wasn’t happening.
Brett, sadist that he was, insisted on breeding hobbles, buckling the mare’s back feet and attaching them to a rope around her neck so she couldn’t kick the stallion in the nuts. Not that the stallion didn’t deserve it – his manners were atrocious – but his nuts were worth their weight in gold to Boss Carney, who stood watching on the sidelines, so on went the hobbles.
Meanwhile, the stallion was allowed to bite the mare as hard as he liked. Sophie held her steady and looked the other way, up at the sky, down at the ground, over to the office building, anywhere but at Brett. Meanwhile the stallion teetered around on his hind legs, screaming loud and proud, aiming his enraged schlong through the tail of the mare and thrusting her so hard she fell forward into Sophie’s hold. He pushed back and forth a few times, grunting and squealing, gave one final push, jerked, rolled his eyes and collapsed over her back, looking drunk and dopey with his forelegs slung either side of her rib cage.
When he didn’t look like getting off, and Brett did nothing to make him, she couldn’t help herself; she stepped forward and flicked him on the nose with one finger. ‘Get off her,’ she snipped. The stallion jerked back in surprise and then slowly slithered off the mare. His dick hung limp and drooling. She immediately began untying the mare’s restraints.
That was Wednesday.
On Thursday she watched him ride the small grey colt for the first time. It moved freely and without resistance from the first step as it walked around the arena. It was a beautiful thing to watch. Resistance, her father had taught her, always killed the beauty in a horse’s movement. This animal had none, walking calmly, maintaining its pace without rushing or slowing, at peace with what was happening. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. He pushed it into a trot and then a canter with the same result. She could watch him ride all day.
By Friday she couldn’t keep up the distant professionalism any longer. She joined him by the steel rails of the yard and took his hand. He gave her a sharp look, but let her guide his hand. She curled his fingers into his palm, guided his index finger over the dust and wrote BRETT into the rail.
Her heart took a major dive when he pulled his hand away.
‘They’re r
ight, Sophie,’ he said quietly, and without malice. ‘You shouldn’t get involved with me.’
He gathered up a coil of rope he’d been using, slung it over his shoulder and walked away.
CHAPTER SIX
Sophie was a mess. She sat on the couch sobbing while Liz hurriedly pulled tissues from the box. ‘Oh for Pete’s sake, you’ve only known him for a week,’ she scolded. ‘Pull yourself together, girl.’
She brought Sophie a beer from the fridge, stood over her while she drank it and then passed her another one. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Get up and get ready for the rodeo. We’ll get a lift with Mike. All the Bangaloo crew will be there, and the local fireys. There will be a ratio of men to women of about twenty to one. Get your dancing shoes on!’
Sophie smiled through her tears. Maybe that’s what she needed. To get off this isolated property. To remind herself that there were more than twelve humans in the universe. If there were any alright men within cooee of this place, they would be at the rodeo tonight.
Last year she had shagged Rene Jones, the most gorgeous bull rider on the circuit. She’d won the ladies steer ride, being one of only two competitors and he’d won the bull ride. They’d celebrated with a night of debauchery in the back of his truck. Then they’d swapped undies to take home and hang over their trophies, which had been hilarious at the time, but seemed kind of trashy, looking back. She wondered if he would be back again. He was sort of alright.
She nodded and got up. ‘Skirt, shorts or jeans?’
‘Are you riding?’ asked Liz.
‘Nah. Entries closed weeks ago.’
‘Go the short skirt. If I had your legs I’d wear one up to my armpits.’
‘You scrub up okay, Miss Lizzy,’ she smiled. ‘Let me do your make up.’
‘Deal.’
By the time Sophie was finished with her, Liz looked great. Big though she was, she was perfectly proportioned, with large breasts and a beautiful face. Her hair was blonde and silky and whipped around her face in a way that was soft and feminine.
‘You’re beautiful,’ said Sophie, applying the last touches of makeup and standing back to admire her friend. ‘I might take you home tonight myself.’
‘If I drink too much, please do,’ said her friend.
They decided on perfumes and then Sophie went to her room to get changed. As she went to close her blinds, she noticed Brett’s were up. His lamp was on. Her whole world ground to a halt. What did that mean? He wanted her to come over? Unlikely.
He didn’t want her to go to the rodeo? More likely. Control freak.
Suddenly everything got complicated again. Was she blowing yet another chance to be with him? Should she be with him? Should she stay the hell away from him? A thousand questions played in her head while she pulled on a short skirt and Cuban-heeled boots.
She was over-thinking this. She wasn’t the centre of his universe. He was probably just sick of living with his windows shut. It was a hot February night, after all. Maybe he wanted a cool breeze through the house. Maybe he opened the shutters because he thought she’d already gone out.
Maybe.
Or maybe not.
There was only one way to find out. She slipped into her shirt, finished off her makeup and slung her bag over her shoulder. ‘I’m just going to pop my head in and say goodbye to Brett,’ she said as she passed Liz in the lounge room. ‘I’ll see you at the car.’
She rolled her eyes.
‘He’s not an axe murderer, Liz,’ she snapped.
‘Close enough.’
Sophie ignored her and slipped out the front door.
* * * * *
Her boots made a clunking sound as she climbed his front steps. She walked briskly around the verandah to the side door, where the light was on. The hall was dark, but the lounge light burned softly at the end.
She found him sitting on the floor with his back to the couch. His long legs were stretched out and at the end of his jeans, his feet were bare. He wore a threadbare singlet top. A thick book sat in his lap, opened. He looked up and seemed surprised, startled even, to see her. In his face, she saw as many questions as she had. What was she doing here, all dressed up?
She didn’t even know herself. This was a mistake. She turned to go.
‘Sophie!’ he barked and scrambled off the floor.
She spun around.
He stood in the doorway of the lounge room, mostly a silhouette. They paused and drank each other in. His physique was perfection. Shadows cast over his face, hiding his eyes. But she knew they were running all over her.
She suddenly wished she’d worn jeans. The skirt brought attention. She had crazy long legs and she knew it. She didn’t want him thinking that she was setting out to go and get laid by some cowboy out the back of the chutes. All he had to do was say the word and she would dump her bag and stay with him. She waited. Why wasn’t he speaking?
‘Just stay safe,’ he finally said.
‘I’m not riding,’ she said.
He cocked his head, questioningly.
‘Steers. I ride steers,’ she said.
‘You ride steers?’
‘Usually. But I didn’t get my entries in.’ She shrugged. ‘Forgot.’
He whistled and scratched the back of his neck.
‘You can come if you want.’
He shook his head.
She walked up to him with her thumb hooked under her handbag, reached up on her toes and gave him a peck on the cheek. It was fleshy, clean shaven and smelled unbelievable. Kissing it seemed so weird and wifey.
As she turned to leave he took her by the hand and pulled her back to him, wrapping both arms around her and putting his face in her hair. She ran her hands up his back and had to stop herself from running her leg up his too. The smell of him, fresh out of a shower and with clean clothes, was just wonderful. His arms squeezed. The warm, smooth skin of them touched her face.
Then he pulled back and looked her in the eye. ‘I was thinking more on the road. Drive safe. Heaps of pissed idiots around after rodeos.’
She shrugged. The lecture seemed out of character for him. ‘Yes, Dad.’
He flinched ever so slightly. ‘Sorry,’ she whispered.
He kissed her briefly. It was forgiving but also possessive; enough to warn her not to bring anyone else home.
As she turned to leave she felt a sharp sting across the top of her leg. She spun around as she realised he had slapped her. Hard. ‘And don’t be a brat,’ he said in a rough voice.
She dropped her hand bag, raised her skirt and pulled her lace pants to one side, making sure he got a full view of her cheek. ‘You left a mark on me,’ she said with mock horror. Then she bent slowly, arching her back and pointing her arse to the sky, picked up her bag and sauntered down the hallway, wriggling her bum back into her skirt. She couldn’t get the grin off her face.
* * * * *
Mick drove through the front gates of the rodeo grounds and then stopped to pay a little old couple at the gate. The sun had set and the halogen lights blared over the main arena. Mick got chatting for so long that Liz and Sophie got out and headed for the grandstand.
The Ladies’ Barrel Race was in full flight and Liz clambered to the top of the grandstand to watch. Sophie followed up the wide concrete steps. On the way up she nodded hello to Jaimie and his Bangaloo mates. They lifted their hands in hello and kept talking among themselves. Whatever they were talking about seemed intense, so she kept walking. Men were tedious when they started arguing.
They passed Pete and Paul, who sat with a bunch of girls who looked as if they were still in high school. Best not to cramp their style, she thought, feeling suddenly old. She kept climbing.
‘Rene!’ She called out and he spotted her. He gave her an uncomfortable smile and waved, but didn’t shift over to offer a seat, instead quickly turning back to the people he was sitting with. What was with everyone tonight?
The only spare seats were at the very top of the grandstand, behind a mo
b of young blokes who looked as if they would be riding bulls later in the evening: they wore large black hats, rodeo belt buckles and dirty jeans.
‘Why is everyone so uptight?’ she said to Liz as she looked down on Jaimie and his mates. Usually everyone buzzed with warm welcomes on rodeo night. Tonight everyone seemed so serious. Maybe they just hadn’t lubed up yet.
‘They don’t want to be seen talking to Brett Sampson’s girlfriend,’ Liz answered.
‘Seriously?’ She was incredulous. ‘I’m not his girlfriend. We’ve never even shagged.’
Liz gave her a disbelieving scoff. ‘Do you think we’re all stupid?’
‘I haven’t,’ she swore, swiping her fingers back and forth across her chest. ‘Cross my heart and hope to become a nun, I haven’t.’
‘I still don’t think any bloke is game to go near you.’
Sophie rolled her eyes ‘Why? Do they think he’ll come and murder them or something?’
Damn it. How had Brett done that: kept her under the thumb when he wasn’t even here? He’d been around for little more than a week and somehow managed to lay some exclusive claim over her, a claim acknowledged by the entire district. That would be fine, if he had spoken more than three words to her all week, or actually given her some red hot sex, as everyone at this rodeo seemed to be imagining. He wasn’t even here to sling a possessive arm over her shoulder.
Pfft, what did it matter? They could all just get over it. She was her own person. Always would be. When she got home she would get straight online and look through some dildo catalogues. She’d buy herself a good one. From America. Where everything was supersized.
In the arena, a palomino mare cantered around the barrels. ‘Hey, that’s a Stoneleigh mare,’ she said excitedly to Liz. She took a seat and pulled a bottle of water out of her bag. ‘She was one of the first horses I broke in up here. Out of a quarterhorse mare. Gee, she’s slow! No wonder Boss Carney sold her.’ She took a guzzle and replaced the lid.