by Cathryn Hein
‘Hey, beautiful.’
‘Hey, yourself.’ Her gaze drifted teasingly over his body. In those thigh-fitting jeans and that sexy blue jumper she could stare at him forever. She could do anything with him forever.
Patrick lifted an eyebrow. ‘Enjoying yourself? I can start stripping if you want a closer inspection.’
‘Tempting, but maybe later.’ She slanted him another look as she continued wiping. He practically radiated smugness. Definitely up to something, but these days that was normal. It was as if Patrick still felt the need to make things up to her when he had no need. Tash had forgiven him completely the morning he came to the hospital. ‘Want to share what you’re hiding?’
‘Not yet.’ He crossed to kiss her, keeping whatever he held behind his back. From the rustle, it was a plastic bag of some sort. There was a clinky rattle too, perhaps from ice. Interesting. ‘You taste like chocolate.’
‘Mmm, and you taste like beer.’
He pressed his forehead to hers. ‘Just one at the club. Clip reckons I still owe him another two hundred for using him as an excuse. How’s your ankle?’
‘Itchy.’
A wicked sparkle came to his eye. ‘I know a way to take your mind off it.’
Tash glanced ruefully at her cake, then at the timer. Still thirty-five minutes to go. ‘After?’
‘After, before. Anytime, babe.’
She smiled and rinsed out the sponge and set it on the sink, determined not to give in and try to snatch his present from his hand, even though the urge itched more than the skin beneath her horrid cast. Patrick watched, clearly enjoying her anticipation.
‘How was Warrnambool?’ she asked.
After much nagging on Patrick’s part, he’d finally convinced his dad to at least consider a new pasture drill. Now they were doing the rounds of the machinery distributors to check out the various models. Tash suspected it was more an excuse to go on a road trip together. Patrick’s easygoing company was in demand these days, and not just from his dad. The footy crew, the mates that had drifted away after Maddy’s accident, they all wanted a piece of him, and no wonder. He was a different man. A gorgeous, happy man.
‘Good. Managed to do a bit of shopping while I was there.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘Yeah. Happened to stumble across a fish market.’ He held up the bag, his face split in a grin. ‘Fresh mussels. You can kiss me thanks now.’
Tash squealed and clapped her hands in glee. ‘Let me see, let me see!’ She snatched at the bag but Patrick jerked it out of reach and leaned towards her, comically puckering his lips.
‘Kiss first.’
She obliged, draping her arms around his neck and pressing hard against him in the way she knew tangled his brain. ‘Can I have my mussels now?’
‘I think the question should be: Can you take me to bed now?’
‘Bed? No, no. Mussels.’ She grappled the arm holding the bag. ‘Gimme!’
He shook his head, expression wry. ‘Sometimes, beautiful, I think you love food more than me.’
Tash tapped a finger against her bottom lip, considering. ‘No, although I admit it’d be a close-run thing if you brought me black truffles.’
With a martyred sigh, Patrick handed over his present and settled onto a stool while Tash inspected her goodies.
‘They look lovely. Thank you.’
‘Worth it to see you smile.’
Their stares lingered, a dozen emotions throbbing between them. Attraction, understanding, gratitude, security, passion and so much more. The weeks since Tash’s accident had been full of moments like these, and each time he filled her a little bit more with his love. Some days she felt in danger of overflowing with it. Tash knew Patrick felt the same because he kept telling her.
He broke the moment with a smile and indicated the seafood. ‘What are you going to make with them?’
Tash blinked, still slightly breathless from the intensity of what they shared, then frowned. ‘Some sort of chowder perhaps? Or maybe Normandy-style, with leeks, cider and cream? Not sure. I’ll have to think about it.’ She emptied the mussels into a colander and began picking at their beards.
The flat was soon cosy with their banter and news from the day. Tash adored the homeliness of these times, when the flat was warm and thick with their contentment. Though Patrick hadn’t officially moved in, they hadn’t spent a night apart since she’d been discharged from hospital. A part of her was disappointed there’d been no further mention of marriage and their long-term future together, but the rest of her was glad he was letting their relationship take its course. Patrick wasn’t going anywhere and neither was Tash. They had all the time in the world for the official stuff. What mattered was that they were together.
Together and perfect.
With mobility limited thanks to her ankle, Tash had been staying close to home, working on her cookbook and the website shop with Thom. Though she didn’t have any products for sale yet, the shop design was at least complete. Things were definitely moving ahead, in more ways than one.
Earlier that day, Thom had given up his lunch hour for a chat about a few minor tweaks, but their conversation had drifted quickly onto his slowly flowering romance with Ceci.
In the dramatic days after Patrick’s Melbourne stopover, Thom had revealed his true feelings in a passionate venting of emotion that had ended up with Ceci calling him every kind of fool before kissing him speechless. As for the rest Tash could only guess, and while it was early days, Thom had never sounded happier and even Ceci sounded optimistic that the relationship might last.
Tash couldn’t have been more thrilled for her friends. Their long friendship meant they had more of a head start than most people. Both were also well aware of the other’s faults, but admired and loved the positives too much to let them interfere. Ceci remained wary of what might happen if it didn’t work out but Tash was proud of her for taking the chance. She knew as well as Ceci how much courage it took to set your feelings free. Passion was important, but it was the emotional connection of a relationship that made it endure.
When the cake was done and inverted on a rack to cool, and the mussels stowed in the fridge, Tash hobbled over to Patrick and let him hoist her onto his lap. Cradled in his strong arms, she rested her head against his shoulder.
‘You’re being very quiet,’ he said after a while. ‘What’s up?’
‘Promise you won’t get mad?’
‘Uh oh. I know that tone.’ He bent to look at her face and grimaced. ‘Shit, you didn’t?’
Tash bit her lip and tried to look apologetic. Patrick had made no secret of his anger at Thom but these were her friends, and she wanted to invite them to stay. Besides, she wasn’t going to give them up over a silly misunderstanding and jealousy. ‘I did.’
‘When?’
‘Weekend after next.’
Patrick’s was silent for a while, then he sighed. ‘Can I punch him? Just once. A little tap to make me feel better.’
Knowing he wasn’t serious, Tash poked his ribs. ‘No, you can’t.’
‘But I want to.’
She laughed at his cute fake sulk. ‘Too bad. Anyway, you said yourself it was your fault, not Thom’s.’
‘Yeah, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t deserve a thump for putting ideas into your head.’
Tash sobered. ‘They were my ideas, you know that.’
If she’d had more confidence in herself Tash would never have believed for a second that Patrick or Ceci could have betrayed her. She never would have made that humiliating video—now thankfully deleted—or spent an afternoon indulging in a pity party on the far side of the swamp when she knew damn well bad weather was coming. And she sure wouldn’t have broken her rotten ankle and had to put up with the torment of plaster. Fortunately, it was due for removal the next day and she’d be able to hobble around with a strap instead.
Tash cuddled further into Patrick’s arms. Sometimes she wanted to be so close she wished she could burrow ben
eath his skin. ‘I should have believed in you.’ She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘I should have believed in myself.’
‘Hey,’ he said, kissing her hair. ‘It’s okay. Main thing is you do now.’
‘I do.’ Tash toyed with the zip at the neck of his jumper. ‘So you’re not mad about Ceci and Thom coming?’
‘I could never be mad at you, beautiful girl. I love you.’
‘Show me?’
‘Always,’ he said, easing her around to kiss her properly. ‘Always.’
Epilogue
Tash wrung her hands and tried to breathe. She’d been on camera hundreds of times, more, but that was always within the safety of her own production. This television studio—with its big bright lights and multiple cameras, stars moving about and important-sounding people directing every movement—was foreign and scary.
Patrick draped a strong arm around her shoulders and gently kissed her temple, careful not to mess her hair or make-up. ‘Don’t be nervous. You’re the star here.’
‘I don’t know about that.’
‘I do.’ When she continued to fidget, Patrick sighed. ‘Babe, think about it. You have more fans than they do and unlike their crappy TV show, your channel is worldwide. They need you. You’re talented and gorgeous and a ratings killer.’
She glanced up and felt herself settle a fraction at the love and faith in his gaze. Patrick was right about the fans—she did have more than the morning show, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t do without the extra exposure. After eighteen months of passion and dedication, and a few skirmishes with her publisher, Tash’s cookbook was hitting the shelves that day. Pre-orders had been huge, sending the book into reprint even before release, but Tash wanted more. She wanted to blitz the charts. For herself, for her family, and the future she and Patrick had recently made official after a ridiculously romantic moonlight proposal that Coco somehow managed to gatecrash, complete with slobbery tennis ball.
But most of all for her darling nan, who’d given her this passion and shepherded Tash down this path all those years ago.
The producer called her over. It was time.
Heart thumping madly, she looked at Patrick. ‘I love you.’
‘Love you, beautiful.’ He grinned, so handsome, so perfect, so hers. ‘Don’t break a leg. It’s a pain in the arse and the cast itches like crazy.’
And with his joke Tash’s nerves fell away.
She laughed and blew him a kiss, and with a farewell wave followed the producer onto the set, where, for the next twelve minutes, she proceeded to charm everyone from the host to the producer to the make-up artist she’d befriended and who’d snuck in to watch her segment, but most of all the show’s not insignificant audience.
By the time an ecstatic Tash ran off set to launch herself into a pride-filled Patrick’s bear-hug, her website and social media accounts had gone mad, and her publicist was fending off enquiries from magazines, radio and rival television stations who all wanted a piece of this cheerful, girl-next-door sweetheart with the tempting recipes and generous philosophy on food and life.
The Urban Ranger was staying country. And like Patrick and Tash’s love, it was awesome.
Acknowledgements
Oh, this book! I can’t express what a joy it was to write. Patrick and Tash were wonderful characters, as were the rest of the cast, and the western Victorian borderlands setting is one dear to my heart. I hope you enjoyed The Country Girl as much as I did.
Books are rarely created in vacuums and I have people to thank for The Country Girl reaching your hands. My sincere and warm thanks go to Clare Forster of Curtis Brown Australia, and the excellent team at Harlequin Australia, including Rachael Donovan and Annabel Blay. I would like to give extra special acknowledgement to Di Blacklock, who did another brilliant job on edits and is a delight to work with. The Country Girl is the fifth book we’ve worked on together and I hope there will be many more to come.
Thanks to my writing buddies, including Rachael Johns, DB Tait, Anna Campbell and Annie West, along with many others, who are always on hand to offer support, advice and encouragement, and provide opinions on things like whether comparing a heroine’s boobs to a dairy cow’s udder is acceptable or not, and keep me from going bonkers.
Most of all to Jim. My rock and personal romance hero.
If you loved The Country Girl, here is a delicious taste of Cathryn Hein’s most recent bestseller, Wayward Heart
They’ve found strength in each other … but can they find love?
Available now!
CHAPTER
1
It was spring but outside the wind was vicious at Admella Beach. It bit and cut, carved lines in the dunes, and created seaweed, sponge and cuttlebone tumbleweeds. Jasmine Thomas’s timber house groaned against the onslaught, while the fire in the lounge danced and cast strange shadows. A she-devil’s fire.
An appropriate fire.
Jas fingered the note again, the second poison-pen missive she’d received this past month. Her eyes scanned the text one last time, then she screwed the note into a ball and threw it onto the flames. They fed, nibbles at first, then flared bright and devouring until the note was no more.
She hugged her arms to her chest and watched the coals glow. It had to be a local. The notes were hand-delivered, and by someone familiar with her routine. The weather was fickle in the south, the front door of her ageing weatherboard cottage unprotected. If the letters had been left early in the day there was too much risk of them getting blown away or soaked with rain. Both notes had been dry, not a hint of dampness, tucked under Jasmine’s welcoming doormat but poking out far enough to be unmissable.
How ironic that after almost four years of heartbreak and self-reproach, of secrecy and furtiveness, of Mike’s toxic version of love, the moment she’d freed herself someone had discovered her secret. And taken it upon their outraged selves to act upon it.
Jas supposed it could be worse. She could wake to slashed tyres, arrive home to broken windows. Have people cross the street to avoid her. But there’d been none of that. The tiny fishing village of Port Andrews had carried on as normal. Locals called hello. Elaine at the fish and chip shop still grinned and gossiped. Fishermen and beachcombers waved when Jasmine cantered her darling grey show horse Ox along Admella Beach, the sweeping bay beyond her back doorstep. Work at the building society in Levenham—a 26-kilometre commute north—bumbled along, the staff the same as usual, customers unchanged. Her secret had seemed safe.
She should have known such a thing could never be safe.
Jas sighed and kneeled to poke at the fire, readying it for another log. Sleep would be hard to come by tonight. Again. She thought life would become easier with the burden of their affair lifted, but she still ached for Mike. He was an arsehole but in the times when she wasn’t hating herself he’d made her feel amazing. Amazing, alive and truly loved.
No doubt his wife Tania had once felt the same. Perhaps she still did. Jas hoped so. Destroying her own heart was one thing, destroying an innocent woman’s—a woman with a family—was something else.
Jas rose and wandered into the kitchen. Though it was almost dark, the window pulled like a magnet, latching on to something inside her. Uncertainty about what lay outside. Fear that someone could be secretly watching. She loathed that feeling. This was her home. She’d worked hard for it. No one had the right to make her feel wrong inside its walls. Yet with two letters they had.
Jas looked anyway. The last of the sun was dissolving in a puddle of apricot and indigo. Her crushed limestone drive, now grey with wear and wind erosion, snaked faintly towards the road. The gate stood open, jammed into place with grass that had long tangled and clumped itself around the rails. After the first letter she’d considered closing the gate but dismissed the idea as ridiculous paranoia. Now the urge to sprint out into the howling dusk and force it shut was huge.
She folded her arms again as her throat began to thicken and ache, and tears prickled. It took
several minutes to breathe the tears away. Jasmine’s nature had always been positive and fun. She had bounced through life as springy as the dark curls that surrounded her face. Misery had never been her way. She certainly wasn’t going to give in to it now, no matter how much her heart bled, or how sorry for herself she felt.
And she sure as hell wouldn’t give in to some vicious poison-pen sneak.
Jas straightened her shoulders, flipped the bird at the window and the world outside, and without a backward glance, set about preparing dinner.
She was on the couch in front of the telly, half dozing off a belly full of pasta, when the knock came. At first she thought it was another of the house’s ceaseless creaks and bangs. The wind was still up, a frigid southerly gusting at near gale strength. Jas had long acclimatised herself to the noise. In the winter when storms raked the coast, the timbers protested like arthritic old women, groaning and moaning and startling her with an occasional shudder. The sea, only a dune away, added a background roar.
The knock came again: a sharp, urgent rap that shot a bullet of fear down her spine and made her sit upright.
Jasmine’s two-bedroom house was situated half a kilometre from the edge of Port Andrews, set back off the road on a narrow five-acre block. It was small, perhaps unappealing to some, but Jas was single and it suited her needs, and she had come to appreciate its cosy intimacy. But not now. Now her beloved house seemed too isolated, the walls too weak. The outside too close.
Swallowing, nerves ratcheted up, Jas crept towards the window edge and lifted a tiny sliver of curtain. A dark figure stood near the front doormat. A man with his hands dug into his pockets and his shoulders hunched against the cold. No car stood in the drive but she wasn’t surprised. Mike knew better than to leave his distinctive vehicle in view. He had more to lose from discovery than she did, after all.
Jas let the curtain fall back and rested her hand against the ache in her chest, contemplating whether to answer or not. A week ago he’d turned up drunk and crying, promising a world he would never give. Terrified at the thought of him driving, she’d let him stay. It had been a mistake, one she’d vowed never to make again.