Love Thy Neighbour

by Victoria Gordon

  ‘1 shouldn’t need this for a day or two,’ he said with a wry smile at her discomfiture. ‘Will that be long enough for you?’

  ‘I would expect so,’ she lied, afraid to admit that she hadn’t the faintest idea how long it might take her to sink the posts that would hold the fencing panels in place. She felt stupid, now, about even attempting the construction herself. She had seen plenty of kennels built, had even helped in such projects to a minor degree, but it had been financial pressures, not experience, that had forced her into this particular project.

  Dare Fraser shrugged. ‘Well, you want to be surer than that before you order the concrete,’ he said, again with that horrid, wry smile.

  Fiona blanched. ‘What concrete?’ she asked. ‘I’d just planned to fence in a decent run, for now, and worry about concreting later.’ A subtle way of saying she couldn’t afford to concrete the floors of the runs; her budget was blowing out of all logic as it was. ‘None of my dogs is a digger, so it should be all right. And besides, I want to keep a section of the centre in grass, especially around that tree.’

  She had mentally planned the run to encircle an enormous cotoneaster at the edge of the back garden. This large spreading shrub with its winter berries would give the dogs year-round shade during the hot part of the day, yet could be pruned to allow morning and evening sun to penetrate.

  Fraser smiled again, this time a self-satisfied, almost smug grin.

  ‘1 don’t fancy your chances of getting away with it,’ he said. ‘Ever since this new state dog act went through, the council’s been getting more and more sticky about what constitutes proper kennels.’

  Then he shrugged, as if to say it wasn’t really all that important, and added casually, ‘You might get lucky and get your kennel licence without an inspection, provided there aren’t any objections, of course.’

  A shiver of warning shot through her, so vivid that Fiona imagined even Fraser could see it. The kennel licence! She had totally forgotten about that, despite having thoroughly boned up on the new dog act when it came out.

  It was a horribly complicated piece of legislation, the upshot of which was that any person keeping more than two dogs must have a kennel licence, and that licence depended upon specifics governing the type of kennel facility, the closeness of neighbours, and a variety of other things.

  One of which was the objections of any neighbour closer than two hundred metres! And, since Fraser had mentioned it, there was every reason to believe he might intend using the act against her.

  Then logic took over. The two-hundred-metre clause might well take the issue beyond her own boundaries and on to his, as well as that of her other neighbour, but neither property’s buildings or homestead were anywhere near within that distance. Surely she could have no problems with the council on that score!

  But on the subject of just exactly how kennels must be constructed ... well, she’d have to look into that. But not until Fraser was gone. She didn’t dare give him the satisfaction of realising how much his apparently casual comments had shaken her, because his mention of the dog act had spurred other clauses to mind, especially those involving any farmer’s right to shoot any stray dog on his property, regardless of whether it might be harassing stock.

  Almost as if he had read her mind, Fraser was allowing his gaze to run along the boundary fences that separated their two properties.

  ‘I might get somebody down to check out that boundary fence, too,’ he mused, almost as if he were talking to himself. ‘Unless you’re sure your dogs aren’t jumpers, either?’

  ‘They aren’t,’ she replied, her voice peevish as she perceived the potential threats involved in this discussion. ‘Not that it would matter, since they’re thoroughly bomb-proof where stock is concerned. I could take any of them through the middle of your lambing paddocks — off lead — and never have to worry a bit.’

  Fraser’s smile now was grim. ‘It wouldn’t be then that I’d worry about them,’ he said, voice Soft now, but deadly. ‘It’s when you’re not with them that I’m concerned about.’

  ‘When I’m not with them, they’re at home where they belong,’ Fiona replied stoutly, forcing herself to meet his stern gaze. Essentially, that was the absolute truth, but she knew only too well that, with dogs, there was always the exception, always the accident that resulted in a gate being left open, always at least the chance that a dog could get loose, could chase stock, could...

  A mental picture flashed up of an acquaintance who lived on a farm near Broadmarsh with two big German shorthaired pointers. Walking the dogs on her own property one Sunday, the woman hadn’t been overly concerned when one went missing for a bit, until the dog had returned ten minutes later with blood all over its muzzle and she had found herself having to face an irate neighbour with a slaughtered goat.

  That little incident, Fiona recalled, had meant reparation of a hundred dollars — for a scrubber of a goat that probably hadn’t been worth five dollars. But the money had saved the dog’s life, until it had done it again several months later and had to be put down for the sake of peace in the neighbourhood.

  Even her own Molly, in the final week of pregnancy, had been known to go walkabout, instinctively seeking to lay up a good food store to carry her through the early days of whelping. But she’d never touched stock!

  Fiona sighed, hardly aware at that instant of Fraser’s presence. She would have to see to concreting at least the edges of her runs, would have to find the money somewhere.

  She shivered inwardly again, unwilling to face the power this man now had over her. Let one dog cross that boundary, sheep-chasing or not, and he could shoot it with the full authority of the law. Let her not build her new runs to the exact specifics of the dog act, and he could intervene to force her, could object to her ever getting a kennel licence.

  Just for an instant, the enormity of the situation came near to defeating her. Her shoulders slumped and she stared at the expensive kennel fencing panels, the weekend’s work ahead of her, and felt like chucking it all in.

  Let him have the property if he wanted it, because he’d probably end up getting it anyway.

  But only for an instant. Then defiance set in, along with an anger at the unfairness of it all.

  ‘I’m keeping you from your appointment,’ she reminded him, hoping against hope that he’d take the hint and just go

  She had all this work ahead of her, all these Fraser-induced worries now to sort out, and the horrid man just stayed there, his gaze roving over her property with a too proprietary eye.

  ‘I’m already late; a bit later can’t matter,’ he said with supreme indifference. It was the type of indifference that suggested the man’s knowledge of his own situation, the knowledge that if he were late whomever was waiting for him would wait, would have to wait.

  Supreme indifference, Fiona thought, and supreme arrogance with it. Couldn’t he take the hint, couldn’t be see that he wasn’t wanted here, despite his earlier help?

  Now he was looking at the large, spreading shrub, then over at the stack of fencing panels, clearly calculating something in his mind.

  ‘Good idea to incorporate the tree,’ he mused, ‘although you may regret it during the berry season when the place is swarming with mountain parrots. Still ...’ And without a word of further consultation he was striding off to roughly pace out boundaries for the new kennel block.

  Fiona could only watch; he clearly wasn’t going to consult her. So she watched ... and fumed.

  ‘What are you going to use for the shelter?’ he asked suddenly. ‘Separate dog houses or...?’

  ‘I haven’t got that far yet,’ she lied. In truth, she’d thought it out quite carefully. An acquaintance had evolved a splendid set-up using a children’s playhouse made from treated pine planking. For Fiona’s situation it had great possibilities, being high enough for her to move around inside, easy to clean, and not all that expensive in the long term. For the moment, such a structure would be perfect, though she�
��d have to have two separate facilities if she decided to get back into breeding.

  ‘Two runs, then, or just one?’ Dare Fraser hadn’t noticed the lie, or wasn’t interested. He was planning this all in his mind, doing her planning, Fiona thought half angrily.

  ‘How about three?’ she replied sarcastically. ‘There are three dogs, after all.’

  This time, he noticed. One dark eyebrow lifted in steely acknowledgement of her foul temper, but he merely quirked his lip in what might have been a smile.

  ‘Three damned small runs if these are all the panels you can afford,’ he replied finally, eyes turning as he counted the panels once again. ‘Two, I think, with a common run around the cotoneaster.’

  And, taking the heavy fencing bar from her suddenly nerveless fingers, he began using the sharp end to trace a plan for the project on the ground around the shrub, speaking — either to her or to himself — as he did so.

  Fiona could only listen, fascinated despite her frustration at the way he was taking over.

  ‘The prevailing wind’s here,’ he said, pointing the huge bar as if it weighed nothing, ‘so you’ll want your shelter block at this end, facing that way. Easier to bring in the power and water there, too, when you’re ready. And if we manipulate the shape ... this way ... you’11 end up with a good, sheltered sun-trap for winter.’

  It was incredible. Where she had envisaged square or rectangular shapes, given the consistent sizes of the fencing panels, Fraser had plotted a far more useful system that took into account every advantage of the site.

  ‘But that’s brilliant!’ she cried, frustration forgotten as she saw the excellence of his plan. ‘It’s absolutely perfect; there’s even a place I can expand with a puppy run when it’s time. But how did you figure it out so easily?’

  Fraser’s grin, genuine now as he shared her pleasure, was none the less modest. ‘Not real difficult,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m an architect, though I don’t work at it full time.’

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ she smiled. ‘I can’t thank you enough, honestly,’

  Then she paused, caught by some glimmer behind those dark eyes, suddenly made cautious by the memory that this man wanted her land, the knowledge that despite his help today he was still very much a potential threat.

  But as quickly as she noticed it, the look was gone. And so, a moment later, was Fraser. He handed her the heavy fencing bar, quietly said, ‘See how you get on,’ then stepped into his truck and drove off without even a wave.

  His was a strange, almost contradictory attitude, Fiona thought several times during an afternoon of the hardest physical work she’d ever done in her young life.

  He should, she thought, resent her being here. He did! And yet, he’d not only helped her, but had actually lied for her. She couldn’t figure that out, and no amount of sparring with the contradiction seemed to help.

  She could understand, however, why he’d grinned so easily when mentioning the rocks. Beneath the shallow topsoil, it seemed, the property was little more than a gigantic gravel pit!

  Fraser had only been gone ten minutes when she’d discovered the hard work that lay ahead of her. The rented post-hole digger — as he had known, she muttered ruefully to herself — was worse than useless in the stony soil. Every single post hole she dug had to be dug inch by inch, using the heavy fencing bar to break up the stony soil, to pry loose the endless layers of loose rock and shale that lay beneath the soil.

  There wasn’t even room to use a shovel — not that she had one. By teatime her fingers were gouged and cut and filthy, her nails broken and the knees worn out of her jeans from kneeling on the stony ground.

  And her temper? Fiona had used up every curse she knew and was finding an incredible ability to think up new ones with every piece of jagged stone she dragged from the growing line of post holes.

  Her acknowledgement of Fraser’s planning brilliance was undiminished, but to it had been added a quite illogical anger when she had — after laboriously digging the first hole — decided it might be sensible to measure his rough plan before she went any further.

  And finding that his calculations and measurements — done by eye alone — were never more than one inch out somehow only served to make her temperament worse instead of better.

  Especially, she realised, since without his guidance she’d have made an unholy botch-up of the entire project, would indeed still be planning and measuring, instead of having half the posts already in place.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Fraser, I think,’ she sighed, stretching and arching her back to try and relieve a growing ache that would be worse, far worse, by tomorrow.

  The dogs were no help at all. When they weren’t getting in her way, trying to establish this peculiar activity as some new kind of game, they were asleep under the cotoneaster bush, rousing only to the loudest of her curses.

  By dark, she could hardly stand, her back hurt so much. And her hands, Fiona reckoned, had been permanently curled into claws from the effort of wielding the heavy fencing bar. She managed to summon just enough energy to feed the dogs, throw herself under the briefest of showers, and stagger into bed, exhausted.

  The Sunday was sheer torture, and Dare Fraser’s arrival just before lunchtime did nothing to help!

  Fiona, struggling to straighten, to get up from her knees as the dogs went mad and rushed the gate, kicking half her hard-won gravel back into the current post hole as they passed, only just managed to stand as Dare Fraser stepped from his truck and approached her.

  His eyes flashed over her exhausted body, noting the kneeless jeans — she wasn’t going to ruin two pairs — the smudges of dirt, the now thoroughly blistered hands with their ruined nails, the carelessly bound hair.

  And the look in her eyes, which was enough to diminish his grin considerably. Though not entirely. As Fiona steadied herself with the hated fencing bar, knowing she was swaying slightly and too exhausted to care, he cast a knowing eye around the site.

  I don’t need this, she thought as he stalked around the perimeter, inspecting each individual post, seeming to check on her measurements, on whether each post was perfectly upright, exactly the right depth. Only then did his eyes return to Fiona herself, and now the smile was gone.

  ‘You’re a glutton for punishment, I’ll give you that,’ he said in that too soft voice.

  Fiona wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not. And didn’t care. She didn’t need him here, didn’t want him here. This was her land, her project. And he’d interfered enough. Probably an unfair attitude on her part, but just now she didn’t care. All she wanted to do was get finished, to have this torment over with.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked brusquely, knowing she must sound rude, was rude, but not caring.

  Fraser’s eyes narrowed slightly, but his voice showed none of the offence he should have felt.

  ‘Just thought I’d see how you were getting on,’ he said quietly. And gestured to his truck, piled high with fencing wire. ‘I’m on my way to remake that boundary fence,’ he added, pointing towards the fence-line that separated their two properties. ,

  ‘And just stopped to gloat, I suppose,’ Fiona snarled, knowing she was being unreasonable, unable to stop herself. Throughout the day she’d found herself wondering about this man, trying to justify his change — apparent change — of attitude.

  She couldn’t. It was as simple as that. The deep-seated resentments left over from her marriage, from the betrayals involved with it, had boiled up from somewhere to leave her incapable of accepting his interest, his help, without deep suspicion. He must have an ulterior motive, and in her present condition she was in no shape to evaluate anything, much less protect herself against it.

  Dare Fraser was silent for a moment, his eyes gone cold as he felt her rudeness. His stare was chilling, devoid of any emotion. Fiona had seen that kind of stare before, in the blank, beer-bottle eyes of a kelpie just before it had attacked her. Now, irrationally, she steeled herself for a similar attack, but
in vain.

  ‘If you say so,’ he replied finally, and before she could reply he had turned on his heel and was moving swiftly towards his utility vehicle, only the rigidness of his bearing giving evidence of the anger she knew must be there.

  She started to say something, to explain, to apologise ... but it was too late. She sagged against the rigid strength of the fencing bar, dogs at her feet, as he quickly reversed the vehicle and was gone.

  Fiona felt a fool, having realised instantly just how rude and silly she’d been. There was no satisfaction in it, and less in the fact that throughout the afternoon, every time she looked up from her labours, she could see the tall, rangy figure of her neighbour in the distance.

  He finished his fencing work before she did, although not by much, and worse, he did it without once acknowledging her presence, without once appearing to notice when her dogs barked at his distant figure.

  When she straightened up for the final time, just before four o’clock, he was gone, leaving in his wake a run of new, shiny netting fence along one entire side of her property. It was a smaller mesh that had been there before, would be proof against any dog not prepared to try and jump it, which her Labradors would not.

  It would contain her dogs, but it couldn’t contain the growing sense of guilt that she felt, knowing she had been unconscionably rude, unacceptably thankless. The feeling ate at her until she gave in.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Fiona paused at the gate into Dare Fraser’s property, just for an instant wondering if she really ought to do this. In the bed of her station-wagon, the borrowed fencing bar lay, inanimately accusing, the superficial excuse for her task.

  She straightened her shoulders, wincing at the pain caused by the movement.

  ‘I’ve got to do it, and the sooner the better,’ she told herself.

  She was considerably changed from two hours earlier, having spent a luxurious time bathing, washing her hair and scrubbing away the ground-in evidence of her weekend’s labour.