His Brand of Beautiful

by Lily Malone

  Shasta built a bench there.” Tate’s face was tight in concentration, his attention diverted.

  Charlie Brown baulked again, tossed his head, tried to turn.

  Christina gripped the reins, squeezed hard with her thighs and leaned forward. She felt Sunshine’s answering surge and yelled back over her shoulder: “I’ll have lunch ready when you get there.”

  The splash washed her words away, she wasn’t sure he even heard.

  “Whoa Sunshine!” Tate shouted.

  Christina felt propulsion between her thighs; like riding a rocket.

  Sunshine raced through the edge of the ford, lifting her hooves clear of the cascading water. Hooves dug into the bank which wasn’t steep and she leapt up and out, water streaming from legs, belly and tail. Swinging onto the sandy track, Christina gave the mare her head. White mane whipped her cheeks and everything blurred into thrilling strands of sand, water, trees.

  Glancing back, she saw Tate struggling with three horses in the shallows of the stream. She felt a quick twinge of guilt and almost reined the mare in but then Sunshine veered with the river’s course and Tate disappeared from view.

  Christina told herself he had it coming.

  She ducked a low-hanging branch. The speed was exciting but she didn’t want the mare to trip on a root so she sat straighter, let the horse slow to a steady canter until all she could hear was the tattoo of hooves and snorted breath. They reached the clearing in minutes.

  ****

  Tate saw Sunshine bolt, heard Christina shout, but her words were drowned by the rush of heaving water and a wrenching pain in his shoulder as Charlie Brown damn-near yanked his arm from its socket. The leadrope seared a shiny red welt across his palm and he had a second to think: Why didn’t I tie it off?

  Rocket shied right, buffeting Bond’s flank and Bond snaked his ears back. Tate felt the horse ready a kick and urged Bond forward instead, using his voice and sheer will as much as the power of his legs to get the animals moving.

  If Christina screamed? He had no way to hear her until he was out of this splash. No way to help. The thought of her hurt made his blood run cold.

  Once he cleared the river it was easier. He listened hard. Water dripped from legs and tails, cattle lowed on the far shore. He wrapped Charlie Brown’s leadrope around the pommel and kicked Bond into a trot. The mare’s prints were easy to follow and by the time he burst into the clearing, the three animals had hit a canter.

  There she was. Unhurt. Hair shining in the sun. Christina.

  Then he noticed the helmet by her elbow. She had lunch spread on the bench like she hosted the teddy bears’ damn picnic and Shasta’s prize mare, still blowing from the gallop, was tied with an expert-looking slipknot to the hitching rail; saddle upturned against the base of a post.

  Tate hauled back on Bond’s reins, felt the horse’s hoofs chew the ground beneath him, felt the pressure of the trailing animals slacken.

  Sunshine doesn’t bolt. It snarled in his head. His hand closed over the leather so hard it stung the raw welt on his palm.

  “Have you lost your mind?” His voice smashed across the clearing.

  Christina placed her half-eaten sandwich very deliberately on a plank and the skin above her lip tightened to white. She took forever to chew that last mouthful and swallow.

  “Don’t you think you might be over-reacting just a—”

  “What the fuck were you thinking? Are you stark raving mad?”

  Her head whipped back, nostrils flared. “Don’t say that to me. I’m not mad.”

  “That’s not some hack you’re riding, Christina. She’s Shasta’s best mare and she’s in foal. What were you trying to prove? She could have stepped in a rabbit hole and broken her leg. Did that cross your mind? Would you have liked to see me shoot her out here?” His shoulders felt fused to his neck and spine, everything hot and tight as razor wire. Christ, if something had happened to her or the horse?

  Lily Malone

  “I didn’t flog her up the bloody track. I was careful. I do know what I’m doing, in case you hadn’t noticed.” Her hands had clenched into fists, but now she opened them in her effort to explain and part of him noticed she’d cut the fake nails.

  He swung off Bond’s back, hooked the reins over the rail and started untying the two pack horses. It helped steady his breathing, lessened the pound in his heart.

  “Next time you decide to turn all Kamikaze on me, give me some warning. I thought Sunshine had bolted. I thought you couldn’t ride. I thought I’d be collecting bits of you off the dirt.”

  Christina examined the sandwich on the weathered bench, picked at a speck and her green eyes collected his. “If I didn’t know you better Tate, I’d think you were worried.” She bit into a mouthful of pickles and cheese and his eyes slipped to her mouth like she’d called out his name.

  “I’m responsible for you out here. And the horses.”

  “I signed the disclaimer,” she said soberly. “I absolve you from all responsibility.”

  He barked with laughter, and the tension broke. “And what disclaimer is that?”

  “No member of the Newell family nor any or all of his agents will be held responsible in the event Miss Clay falls off a horse and breaks her neck. Yada. Yada.”

  “Jesus.” He said, shaking his head, and held out his hand for a sandwich. “Give me that before the flies get it.”

  Flying insects skimmed over the river. Small birds he could hear but not see, dug for insects in the grass and their insistent calls were like piped notes from a flute.

  “A semester of dressage, my arse,” he said.

  She smiled sweetly. “I always hated dressage. It’s so tame. I like riding fast.”

  “Let’s see how fast you feel by four o’clock.” A brief image of Lila crossed his mind, red sandfly welts on her forehead.

  Christina popped a walnut-sized crumble of apple and cinnamon cake into her mouth and let out a contented sigh. It turned to a groan when she shifted weight.

  “Is it bad?”

  She winced. “It’s not pretty.”

  His voice turned persuasive. “We can turn around if you want. We’ve still got time to get back to the homestead tonight. You can have a hot bath. Nice comfy bed. Soft mattress.

  A quilt. Hell, if you twist my rubber arm, I could throw in a foot massage.”

  He let the offer hang, for the first time unsure what he wanted most to hear.

  Two nights ago as CC and Muddy Pot came to life under his pen all he’d wanted was a chance to get Christina out of his head. Now, he didn’t know what he wanted more. To have her prove him right? Or prove him wrong?

  She didn’t give him time to ponder.

  She stood, a little stiff, and moved around the table toward him. Her left hand trailed on the planks and for one thrilling second he thought she was coming to sit on his lap.

  Instinctively he braced to take her weight, pushing the bench seat back, but she stopped at the corner and leaned back against the table. The plank cut an indent in the curve of her arse.

  And sitting there like that, she laid a kiss on the index and middle fingers of her right hand, resting them on her lips long enough to make the blood in his thighs boil.

  The teal shirt dropped open as she bent toward him. He caught a glimpse of white lace—dusted grey—across the top of her bra and a cashew-shaped birthmark smack in the valley between her breasts. He smelled coconut sunscreen, saw its gleam on her skin.

  “Two things, Tate,” her buttery voice cooed as she stretched her hand toward his mouth. “First. I know about your bet.”

  He tilted his head back, trying to meet her eyes. “Did Bree—”

  She shook her head. “I was looking at photographs in your hall yesterday when you started mouthing-off about humps on a camel. I know you have a vested interest in me quitting this gig. Say, oh, a hundred bucks that I can’t stand the pace?”

  Warm fingers stroked her kiss against his lips. The teal shirt billowed aga
in and he changed his mind about the birthmark, decided it was more peanut-shaped than cashew.

  Her hair tickled his chin. He wanted to twist his face into her neck and breathe her in.

  Her lips opened with a slow pop, very close to his ear.

  “Second. I don’t think Stockholm Syndrome works that fast.”

  His laugh echoed beneath the dappled quilt of mallees and gums and he caught her hand. His thumb slid the length of the tendon at the back of her wrist. “What if I slow down?

  Could you fall in love with your kidnapper then?” He’d meant it as a joke, but her chin shot up.

  “I’m crap at love.” She tugged at her hand. He let it go and it fell to her lap with a dull pat.

  “I’m not giving in just so you can prove I’m too soft for Cracked Pots. I want this brand. I want you to design it for me. I can do wild. Just watch me.”

  He swept his palm toward the horses. “Sweetheart, be my guest.”

  Lily Malone

  Chapter 10

  An army of flies buzzed around Sunshine’s nose and the mare shook her head. Christina opened her right hand and made a face at the three blisters seeping on her palm where the leather had rubbed the skin raw. Something slithered through a waist-high rock outcrop to her right. Snake? After eight hours in the saddle, she was too tired to care.

  Ahead, Tate dismounted, so damn fluid and fast she could have shot him. He’d led them away from the river to escape the mosquitos and now he kicked rocks from a patch of sand pockmarked with animal tracks. She pulled her feet from the stirrups. The ground seemed a hell of a way down.

  Gritting her teeth, she swung her right leg back and dropped. The shockwave jarred everything, even her hair.

  “There’s chaff in the packs on those two,” Tate nodded towards the spare mounts.

  “Once we’ve seen to the horses I’ll get a fire started.”

  She saluted him. He didn’t see it, but it made her feel better.

  Charlie Brown’s pack yielded a sweet-smelling dry mix of hay and oats and as she divided the spoils among four nosebags she decided the chaff smelled better than she did.

  “What are we doing for dinner?” Christina said, pulling the saddle from the mare’s back. “If you want me to, I could shoot a rabbit.”

  Tate tugged at Bond’s girth and shook his head. “You’ve been watching too much Crocodile Dundee.”

  Bond huffed as the girth tightened, sighed when it released.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “I know how to—”

  “Look. I know you want to prove you’re a modern day Annie Oakley, Christina, but leave the gun alone, okay? Hunt and gather in the backpacks. There’s no need to play Rambo, I’ll settle for baked beans. You can boil water can’t you?” His voice spat like a rock kicked out by spinning lawnmower blades.

  The saddle in her arms hit the ground. She’d been about to explain that she knew guns, that she’d shot targets for years. Now her mouth snapped closed. Tears stung her eyes and she swiped them angrily with the back of her hand. She rubbed damp marks from Sunshine’s coat with the saddle blanket then laid the blanket over a bush to dry. Tate strung a picket line between two of the sturdier trees, secured the horses to it and with nosebags in place, they began to munch.

  Christina’s hunt through the remaining packs uncovered baked beans swimming in a pouch of cheesy tomato sauce—her stomach rebelled just looking at it—sliced bread, even a small knob of runny yellow butter inside a greasy plastic wrap. Coffee sachets. Teabags.

  Sugar. The flat shelf of rock outcrop began to resemble a bush supermarket. She found cutlery, identical tin mugs and a flat frying pan to add to the pile.

  “I’ll get us some firewood,” Tate said, avoiding her eyes. “There’s a billy clipped to my saddle. You could get some water before it gets any darker. And hey, do me a favour?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t fall in.”

  She spun on her heel. Snatching up the billy she swung it by its metal handle, making it squeak as it bumped her thigh. Hoofprints led to the river and she followed them, slipping in the loose sand, stumbling more than once until her boot sent a rock crashing down a shallow gully and sky-diving off the river bank.

  Its splash brought her up short.

  The river wasn’t wide here—she could have kicked the rock to the other side if she’d tried—but the banks carved deep, hued in marble-cake layers of rich red-brown through which tree roots stroked the earth. No wind marred the water, only birds stirred the trees.

  Some branches dipped low, others skimmed the river’s surface. The highest canopies were painted gold by sun but the river and its banks were shaded, tree trunks yellow-white in the soft light.

  It was like standing before a Heysen painting, only she smelled eucalyptus and ancient earth instead of red wine and blue cheese, and the hum in the air was that of insect wings, not air-conditioning in an art gallery.

  Upriver, on the opposite bank, a grey mother kangaroo let her joey clamber from her pouch. Black-tipped ears flicked back and forth. Its pointed nose twitched. The joey crept a few metres from its mother in that awkward half-crawl, half-hop. At a pocket of grass near the base of a tree it hunched, nibbled; sat to scratch an itch.

  The mother’s attention didn’t waver.

  Christina’s hand floated to her abdomen.

  Horse hair prickled through her jodhpurs and it was as if she could feel every tiny needle. And then she was on her knees, a lump in her throat. The billy landed near her heel and rolled in the sand.

  I want to be a mother.

  A flotilla of ducks torpedoed into the water. Joey leapt for mother. Mother leapt for joey. The joey’s tail chased its hindquarters into her pouch and when it was safely tucked inside, the doe patted her fur with a small grey paw, as if to satisfy herself the contents were all in place.

  The ducks cruised around a bend in the river and ripples were the only sign they’d passed.

  I could have a baby with Tate.

  “Christina?”

  She whipped around, grabbed for the billy but only knocked it further away. When she tried to regain her feet, pins and needles shot through her legs and her knees buckled, pitching her back to the sand. Everything ached. Gooseflesh puckered the skin of her forearms.

  “Coming,” she yelled toward where she’d heard Tate’s voice. It was hard to judge distance in the bush, sound travelled. He didn’t call again.

  How long had she knelt there? Long enough for the kangaroos to vanish, and for her legs to stiffen up. She crawled the last few metres to the riverbank and knelt in the sand, stretching until she could scoop water into the billy. It slopped in her shaking hands.

  By the time she made it back to the clearing, a small dome tent thrust upward from the sand and Tate was on his haunches poking the flames of a thirsty fire. Two saddles stood facing the heat, making rustic backrests. He didn’t look up as she approached although she was certain he heard her. She nestled the billy into a flat spot in the coals beside a pan bubbling with orange beans and held her hands out to the heat.

  “It’s amazing down there. There isn’t a breath of wind,” she said.

  His expression reminded her of a high school English teacher trying to decide whether to believe her excuse for handing in late homework. The dog ate it. Yeah right.

  “What?” she said. “It is beautiful down there.”

  “I believe you.” He gave the fire a vicious poke. Sparks whirled high, winked out.

  Lily Malone

  Clearly, you don’t.

  She found a fleecy padded shirt in her backpack for extra warmth. It swam on her.

  She had to turn up the sleeves to see her fingers.

  “You’re in charge of toast,” Tate said. “Don’t burn it.”

  She skewered a slice of bread on a forked stick and concentrated on not turning either to charcoal. The billy hissed. Tate lifted it clear of the coals and they chased baked beans on buttered slices of campfire toast—perfectly char
red—with a tin mug of steaming tea.

  “It’s powdered milk,” Tate said, eyes on her face as she took that first sip. “It can take some getting used to.”

  “You’re telling me.” She threw the rest of the cup to the sand. The metal handle ripped at her blisters. “Yowza. Even my teeth hurt.”

  “I’m out of practice too.”

  He poured hot water into the baked bean pan, swirled it, scoured spoons and plates with sand, rinsed, propped the plates against a rock to dry and sat back down against the saddle. He raised his left knee over his right and every now and then he tapped his boot with a stick.

  Christina tried to find a piece of her bottom that didn’t ache. For a while they were quiet, staring at the stars. A frog orchestra struck up harmony to the hypnotic crackle of fire and flame.

  “Shasta and Bree don’t have kids?”

  The stick gouged a line in the sand near his boot. “Shasta has a son. Ben. He’s sixteen and lives with his mother in Sydney. Shasta doesn’t see him much. Alicia got sole custody.”

  “And Bree?”

  “She has her dogs. She breeds kelpies. People travel hundreds of miles when Bangor and Belfast have a litter.”

  “Did you ever think maybe she can’t have children?”

  “Maybe. I’ve never asked.”

  Christina wrapped her knees in her arms and let her head fall back. It was a kaleidoscope of stars above, so different to the city’s night-time canvas. Tate could probably navigate his way to Sydney by the stars; she’d always struggled to find the Southern Cross.

  A sideways glanced showed her the play of muscles in his hand and wrist, fingers loose on the stick. Firelight danced on his skin, flecked his hair gold. He’s a great-looking guy. Then she stopped herself. Half-an‐hour after her epiphany and she was scoring Tate for genetics.

  Guess any kid of mine could always use some height.

  “A penny for them,” Tate said, the softest tone he’d used all day.

  Whoa no. They’re x-rated. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  “You can ask.” His tone implied he didn’t have to answer.

  “Why do you feel guilty about Jolie’s death?”