by Cathryn Hein
He broke into long strides and with each step, as the paddock fell away and exposed the rest of the picture, his brain finally registered what he was seeing. Anger and fear began to boil. Tash wasn’t floating in space, she was mounted—no, not mounted—sprawled backwards over Khan with her hands rested on her belly like the horse was some sort of furry brown banana lounge. Her pink top clashed spectacularly with a pair of brief, lime green shorts. Tanned bare legs ending in thick socks and boots dangled over the horse’s shoulders. Khan was grazing contentedly, like Tash was nothing more than a settled bird or fly.
Neither sported any equestrian gear—not a halter, not a bridle, nothing. But what really kicked Patrick’s gut was Tash’s helmetless head.
The urge to bellow and sprint was huge but he’d been around Maddy’s horses long enough to know that’d be a dumb move. Instead he walked as fast as he dared, shoved his way through a wire fence and kept going.
At the second fence he stopped, heart hammering. Tash remained with her face turned to the sky, smiling.
‘I thought you had bowls,’ she said without moving.
What? Then it clicked. He wasn’t Baz. Oh no, Patrick was someone far less indulgent.
‘Get down. Right now.’
Her eyes flared open and she jerked upright. The sudden movement brought Khan’s head up and lurched Patrick’s stomach with it.
‘Patrick.’ She looked shifty and guilty, as she bloody well should.
‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Thinking.’
‘About what? Crashing your head into the ground like Maddy?’
‘Dairy cows, if you must know.’
‘Well, you’ve finished. Get down.’
She folded her arms. ‘No.’
Patrick closed his eyes for a moment as a volcano began to rumble inside him. ‘Jesus Christ, Tash.’ His words hissed through his teeth. ‘Get fucking down.’
‘No.’
The rumblings worsened. Patrick crushed his hands into fists.
Tash continued to regard him steadily. ‘I appreciate you have issues with Khan but that does not give you the right to bully me.’ She jabbed a finger. ‘Not now. Not ever.’
‘He’s dangerous!’
‘Yes,’ said Tash, leaning forward to ruffle Khan’s mane and blow kisses. ‘Very dangerous, aren’t you, sweetheart?’ She threw Patrick another look. ‘I’m not Maddy, Patrick.’
‘No. You don’t have her talent.’ The ice in her gaze would have frozen another man, but not Patrick. He was too furious and full of roiling fear. ‘And you’re not wearing a fucking helmet. Get off.’
‘You know what? Screw you.’
To Patrick’s horror she made a clucking noise at Khan. Immediately, the horse began to walk away from the fence.
‘No!’
Ignoring him, she pressed her heels into Khan’s flanks and clucked some more.
As the horse broke dutifully into a trot he yelled again, but Tash, defiant, continued to urge Khan on. Patrick vaulted the fence to follow, his vision misted with red. She had no helmet. No reins. No saddle. Nothing. One misstep from Khan, one slip out of balance from Tash, and her head would plummet to the ground, just like Maddy’s.
The risk of startling Khan meant he couldn’t chase, couldn’t roar. All he could do was watch in despair.
‘Don’t, Tash. Please.’
He must have struck the right note because somehow she managed to ease Khan back to a walk and steer him around until they were face to face. Patrick dragged a sweaty hand through his hair, chest heaving and eyes smarting. He blinked hard, afraid she’d see the insanity that had unravelled inside him.
Slowly, she slid off the horse. The defiance was gone, replaced with sympathy. Patting Khan on the neck, she closed the gap between them, her gaze curious and examining. Patrick forced stoicism, not wanting her to see his weakness.
He wracked his brains to think of something that would make him seem less of fool than he already was, but came up with nothing. He didn’t think he had the voice for it anyway. Not the way his throat had closed over.
Fortunately, she saved him the effort, smiling and patting his arm the way his mum did when she felt sorry for him but knew there was nothing to be done.
‘Come and have a cuppa.’
Chapter 10
Patrick followed Tash through the long crunchy grass of the paddocks to Basil’s old flat, feeling as low as a cowed dog. Although that didn’t seem fair. She was the one riding Khan without a helmet. All he’d done was act like any sensible person would and order her to get off.
Perhaps a little more roughly than he intended, but still.
Patrick let her walk ahead and tried not to look too closely at the shortness of her shorts or the way her T-shirt fitted around her waist. She was so different to Maddy. Maddy was long, slim, athletic and stunning. Tash was soft and curvy, and attractive enough. Not beautiful, but sweetly pretty, although more than capable of turning that into siren sexy if that newspaper photo was anything to go by.
They paused at the door of the flat to lever off their boots, and Tash eased the sliding glass door open. Patrick followed her in, hands shoved in his pockets as he took in the room. The lounge area was colourful and crowded, the kitchen neat, sleek and modern. Light shone off the clean benchtops and silvery appliances, and lit the surface of a large stainless steel trolley-bench on which a dozen tiny cheesecake-looking things in patty pans were cooling on a rack. The rest of the flat was crammed with gear—cameras and tripods and computers. Electrical cables snaked across the floor and connected with a heavy-duty power board attached to a socket in the side wall.
‘You’ve been baking,’ he said, then felt like an idiot for stating the obvious.
Tash leaned her bum against the oven and folded her arms. ‘Mini ricotta cheesecakes. You can have one with your cuppa, if you want.’
Patrick found himself wanting. The morning’s drama had left him tired and in need of comfort, and the smell of food was triggering his hunger.
She indicated the far side of the bench, where three stools stood neatly tucked. ‘Take a seat. Tea or coffee?’
‘Coffee, if that’s okay.’
A complicated, chrome espresso machine sat at the far end of the built-in bench, an industrial-sized grinder beside it. After taking a bag of beans from the fridge, Tash began mucking around with knobs and other things. ‘Espresso, long black, cappuccino, latte?’
‘Long black.’
‘That’s right. You always had it that way, with sugar. Maddy always liked hers milky but without.’
Patrick blinked. He’d forgotten that. That breathless, tight feeling returned to his chest. What else had he forgotten?
The noisy grinder made it hard to talk and she said nothing further until his coffee was ready, sliding the mug over with a small smile. The aroma of good beans was heady and Patrick’s coffee had that special layer of golden froth you only found in coffee shops. She pushed a sugar bowl and spoon his way, then a plate with a perfect cheesecake in the centre.
She waved at him. ‘Eat, drink.’
‘Aren’t you having any?’
‘I’ve already had too much caffeine today, and as for cakes.’ She shook her head ruefully and patted her belly. ‘Last thing I need is more of those.’
It was on the tip of Patrick’s tongue to say she looked fine to him but he’d already said enough stupid things for one morning. Tash had lowered her head and was rubbing one arm, and suddenly Patrick was struck by the notion that she might be feeling as awkward as he was. They’d grown up together, been friends for years, but distance and adulthood had eroded their connection. Patrick didn’t know this new Tash, the confident, purposeful one who made the front page of the paper and had hundreds of thousands of online fans.
‘For what it’s worth I feel bad about Khan,’ she said.
‘Why?’
She glanced up and looked away again. ‘Because.’
Patrick stopped peeling the paper away from his cake and put it down. ‘They told you, didn’t they? About me. What I was going to do.’
She nodded.
He rubbed his palm over his mouth, swamped by guilt again. ‘I didn’t—’ He dropped his hand and released a long, weary breath. There he went again, claiming something that wasn’t true. ‘It was a mistake. Bad day.’
‘We all have those.’
He doubted it. Tash possessed the glowing happiness and good health of a person whose life was pretty damn contented. Hiding his envy, Patrick concentrated on sticking the fork into his cake. There were black things dotted through the filling. He eyed the piece on the end of his fork, then catching Tash’s dry expression, he shoved it in his mouth. His eyes widened as his mouth flooded with sensation and flavour. Patrick frowned at the cake. What were those things?
‘Currants soaked in sherry,’ said Tash, reading his mind. ‘The ricotta’s homemade. Well, it’s not true ricotta, but close enough.’
‘You made ricotta?’ Patrick didn’t know much about baking and even less about ricotta, but making your own cheese sounded complicated. His mum sometimes made an Italian spinach and ricotta pasta bake and always bought the ingredients.
‘It’s not hard. Milk, vinegar, salt. Muslin and a drainer, and away you go. It’s not perfect but it does the job. It’s also why I was thinking about a dairy cow. For the whole-milk supply.’ She smiled. ‘I suspect twice-daily milking is one of those things that sounds more fun that it is.’
An image of Tash as a milkmaid flashed across Patrick’s mind, startling him. He took a hasty sip of coffee to cover up. As with the cake, the flavour was like nothing he’d ever tasted. His brows knitted as he tried to figure out what was so different. The pod machine at home made a pretty good brew but this was something else.
‘Great coffee,’ he said.
‘My own blend. A place in Melbourne roasts it for me to my specification.’
Patrick blinked as his brain took another shift. Tash’s career hadn’t seemed real before—a bit silly and frivolous, even with the money she was apparently raking in—but he was beginning to see that Tash knew more about food than he realised. Perhaps her fans followed her for more than the sexy kitchen poses.
Rattled, he focused on the cheesecake and was annoyed to find he couldn’t eke it out beyond a few mouthfuls. He laid down his fork. ‘That was good.’
‘You can have another if you want,’ said Tash, reaching for his plate. ‘Or there’s shortbread. Some asparagus tart in the fridge, if you want something savoury.’
They all sounded tempting but Patrick wasn’t here to eat. This was meant to be a mission, not a taste test. ‘Thanks, but I’ll give it a miss.’
‘You sure?’ For a moment Tash looked pained. ‘Honestly, there’s plenty and I hate seeing food go to waste. How about I pack some things up for you to take home?’ Not waiting for an answer, she bent to dig in a cupboard, her brief shorts giving Patrick an eyeful of golden thighs and shapely bum.
His temper reignited. What the hell was he doing gawping at Tash Ranger’s arse? His coffee sloshed as he snatched it up, splashing his hand. He slurped it off quickly, hoping Tash hadn’t noticed, and feigned inspection of her camera equipment. Not that he understood any of it, but it was safer than watching her bend over.
The main camera was mounted on a tall tripod, its lens lined up with the steel bench and stove behind. A smaller camera was clamped via sprung jaws to the end of a side bench. Near it, bobbly legs splayed like a dead octopus, was a flexible tripod with a new-model phone attached.
‘You have a lot of gear.’
‘More now I’ve moved.’ Tash pointed at the largest camera. ‘That one’s new, from a sponsor. I’m still learning all its features but it has a remote control, which is cool, and a wide lens. The waterproof one is for mounting near the stove to take action shots and cutting in different angles. My phone gets used for everything.’
Patrick peered at the screen of the main camera but it was black. As he went to look away it flashed into life. Tash must have activated it via remote. He watched her on the screen as she lined a large plastic container with cheesecakes, tucked a bag of shortbread into a corner and set another bag of some sort of biscuit alongside it. Finished raiding the pantry, Tash opened the fridge door to reveal shelves crammed with more food.
‘Are you planning on opening a restaurant or something?’
She slid out a plate holding half a dozen small pies. ‘It’s a by-product of having a cooking show.’ Without asking, she folded the pies into piece of lunch wrap and added them to the container. Screwing her nose up, Tash contemplated the fridge door then opened it and rummaged once more inside.
‘I think that’s enough,’ said Patrick, amused.
She held up a clear plastic box. ‘Chocolate-coated honeycomb. Your dad will enjoy that.’
‘Tash.’
‘I have to get rid of it somewhere.’ She added the container to the pile. ‘It was easy in Melbourne. I had people practically queuing up for stuff. Here …’ She shook her head. ‘No one needs food. They’re all well fed already.’
She added another box of something and layered the lot into a large blue plastic bag. A bag, he noticed, that carried the logo of a local saddlery store.
Which brought Patrick thumping back to earth and the reason he was at Castlereagh in the first place.
‘Finished?’ he asked.
‘For now.’
‘Good. Because you and I have things to discuss. You’re not to ride Khan.’
Immediately Tash’s arms folded across her chest. Patrick tried not to notice how the movement pushed her breasts up. He needed to get a grip. This was Tash and, more importantly, she had Khan and, worse, had been riding him. Without a frigging helmet. Just because Patrick hadn’t had sex in … His face compressed into a scowl. What did it matter how long? Sex wasn’t everything.
He missed it though. A lot.
The thought resurrected his temper. ‘Don’t look at me like that. You know what that animal is capable of and, let’s face it, you were never in the same league as Maddy when it came to riding, and look what happened to her.’
‘Maddy was galloping helmetless over makeshift jumps in thick scrub when Khan fell. All I plan on doing is pottering around Castlereagh. They are hardly the same circumstances. Besides,’ she said, her chin lifting, ‘you can’t stop me.’
‘I can and I will.’
Unafraid, she came to stand in front of him and looked up. The top of Tash’s head just reached the line of his shoulders and gave him a bird’s-eye view of her cleavage, along with the urge to bury his face between those soft, swollen mounds. An urge that only heightened his anger.
Tash’s smirk was as provocative as her voice. ‘I’d like to see you try.’
He bent closer and was assaulted by a combination of horse, sugar, and something else. Something womanly. His brain flared a warning not to move any nearer but he wasn’t about to back down. He returned her crocodile smile with a wolfish one. ‘Watch me.’
He marched to the screen door and slid it open, only to hesitate with the realisation that he’d left the bag of food on the work bench. Too bad. She was probably only using it to buy him off. Patrick wasn’t that gullible.
He set his gaze hard, more sure of himself now there was distance between them. ‘Don’t defy me, Tash. Not on this.’
Tash simply blinked her lashes and smiled with saccharine archness. ‘As I think I mentioned before, screw you, Patrick.’ Picking up the bag, she crossed the room and forced it into his hand. ‘Enjoy your meal. I’ll see you around.’
With a wink she turned on her heel and disappeared into the bedroom, but not before bending over and paddling the cheeks of her curvy bum with both hands in a brazen gesture of ‘you can kiss my arse’.
Chapter 11
‘Honestly, Pa. The nerve of him.’
Tash was in the vegetable garden, digging over a wet bed. Much-ne
eded rain had fallen overnight, plunging the temperature and finally granting relief from the onslaught of dry heat. With the change, the dull crumbly soil of the beds had taken on a dark, fertile glossiness, promising future abundance. Smoke was fragrant in the air from the backyard incinerator. For once the day hadn’t been declared a total fire ban and Pa was making the most of it by burning the wilted remains of the diseased plants, weeds unsuitable for composting, and other offcuts.
Pa was sitting on a stump, Coco lazing at his feet with her soggy tennis ball, sharpening a pair of secateurs with a whetstone as he tended the fire and supervised Tash. Later, when the soil was raked and ready, they would sow radishes.
‘Don’t be too hard on the lad, he’s had a tough time.’
Tash rolled her eyes. People had been saying that about Patrick for the last two years. Yes, Maddy’s accident was a terrible tragedy and Tash felt horribly sorry for him, but that didn’t give him the right to come barging onto Castlereagh to abuse her. It had been two days since his visit but still her anger festered. Lack of riding talent? Pfft.
As for his warning not to defy him, she’d demonstrated exactly what she thought of that.
The day before, as the sky turned ashy and sullen with the incoming weather, Tash had snuck out for another thinking session on Khan. With the turbulent wind lifting a hundred different scents into the air and the atmosphere charged with the coming change, the horse had been restless. It had given her a moment’s pause but she bounced aboard anyway. The gentlemanly manners Maddy had drilled into Khan remained strong and, despite Patrick’s scorn, Tash trusted in her own ability, a tad rusty though it might be. She might not have had Maddy’s talent but her balance had always been excellent.
And she would not let Patrick ruin this small joy for her. She would not.
Instead of spending half an hour in deep thought, dreaming up ways to keep her audience entertained and growing, Tash’s mind remained as unsettled as the wind, constantly attuned to her surrounds for the flat chug of an approaching diesel engine. After fifteen minutes she’d given up, patted Khan and slid off. She’d stalked back to the flat in an almighty temper, throwing silent curses towards Wiruna.