Breaking Free (Thoroughbred Legacy #10)

by Loreth Anne White

  His eyes flickered. He inhaled deeply, nodded to Heidi. The girl looked mortified. She got up, went to stand at her dad’s side, glaring at Patrick.

  “Patrick’s my brother,” Megan told Heidi. “And ordinarily he’s quite human.” She glowered at him.

  “We need to talk, Megan. When I get back from town.”

  “Sure,” she snapped.

  He stalked off.

  Palms damp, she turned to father and daughter. Dylan’s eyes were hard, his posture combative, and Megan inhaled a shaky breath. “I really am sorry. Heidi shouldn’t have seen that. It’s…it’s this homicide. It’s getting to all of us. Come, I’ll walk you to your car.”

  Heidi took her dad’s hand and they walked in uneasy silence to Dylan’s vehicle, Megan’s stomach twisting.

  She burned to tell Dylan about D’Angelo’s injunction, knowing at the same time that Dylan would just hit back harder, at his own expense. And Heidi’s.

  Moreover, if D’Angelo found out she’d tipped Dylan off, she had zero doubt he would follow through on his threat to allege that Louisa’s arresting officer was having an affair with Megan while on the job.

  “How’s Anthem doing, Heidi?” he said softly as he opened the door of his ute for her, Muttley wiggling inside.

  “Really well, Dad. Megan’s been walking her three times a day.”

  He looked over Heidi’s head, caught Megan’s eyes.

  “And we called Brookfield today.”

  He stilled. “You did what?”

  “Megan spoke to someone she knows at the alumni association and she got my name on the bursary list. Isn’t that so cool? I just have to send them a portfolio, my marks and an essay saying why I want to go. And you wouldn’t have to pay a cent if I got in, because—”

  “Get in the car, Heidi.”

  “Dad!”

  “Just do it.”

  Heidi pulled her mouth into a tight, angry pout and climbed in. He slammed the door shut behind her and stepped right up to Megan. “What the hell are you doing now?” he growled close to her ear, his neck muscles tight, everything about him hard and hot and simmering.

  She was edgy herself after the confrontation with D’Angelo, her clash with Patrick, and the sexual frisson between the two of them was literally crackling because of it all.

  “Heidi was upset, Dylan,” Megan said quietly. “She hadn’t heard from her mother. You haven’t spoken to her yet, and I just tried to help, okay? Brookfield is a damn sight closer than London.”

  “I hope those bags of yours stay packed, Stafford, because now you’ve really overstepped your mark. I want you to stay away from my kid. I told you, I don’t want her going to a private school, and I don’t want her going to Sydney. So quit messing with her head.”

  “What is your damn phobia with the city?” she said very quietly, her body humming so close to his. “Is it because you couldn’t make your marriage work there? Do you think the big city is going to steal everything from you again? Stop thinking about yourself for a moment—”

  “Damn you.” His mouth was so near.

  “Well, am I wrong?”

  Silence pulsed. His eyes tunneled into hers. His breathing became light.

  She lowered her voice further, the whole world fading around them. “If you think you’ll lose your daughter to the city, you’re sorely mistaken, detective. You’re going to lose her if you keep this up, if you keep trying to lock her away from the world. Like my father did with me.”

  He raised his finger, almost touching her chin where the bruise was still dark, so close she could feel the warmth of his breath against her lips. “Just…stay away from my kid.” His voice was a hoarse whisper.

  “I’m the best damn thing that’s happened to your daughter in a while, Dylan, and you know it. What are you really so afraid of?”

  His eyes lanced hers. “You,” he said, very quietly.

  Then he spun, stalked back to his car, slammed the door, and drove off in a smoking barrel of dust.

  Megan watched them go down the drive, her jaw clenched, her whole body shaking.

  She could not believe how she’d fallen hook line and sinker for that little family in the car barreling down the driveway. Ugly mutt and all.

  Damn the stubborn hunk of granite.

  Stupid fool. Couldn’t he see how his love and protective instincts were quashing the very things he cared about?

  She stomped off, the wind beginning to snatch at her hair. The afternoon was getting stormy, banks of bruised purple cloud rolling in, the wind beginning to bend brown grasses in the fields.

  Perhaps some time in the ring with Breaking Free would center her.

  Dressed in bush boots, ragged jeans and borrowed old bush hat, Megan made her way down to the stables where the sound of chainsaws and weed whackers grated against her already frazzled nerves.

  “What’s with this racket!” She had to yell over the noise to make herself heard as she entered the stables.

  The groom waved to the landscaping crew near the door to shut down their machines. “G’day, Ms. Stafford,” he said, pushing his hat back on his head, his face sheened with perspiration.

  “Where’s Breaking Free?” she asked, looking over at his empty stall.

  “We set him out for a bit of a run in the lower eastern pasture, ma’am, while we do the fireproofing up here. We’re taking out dead trees near the buildings and cutting down dry grass. There’s a serious low pressure cell building north of here, and the estate manager is worried this wind will shift. If that storm breaks and heads this way, it could set off more lightning, more bushfires. If the wind switches and the fires join with the Koongorra fires and jump the river—” He shook his head. “We’re done for, then.”

  “Which one is the eastern pasture?”

  He pointed. Megan shaded her eyes, squinting into the sun and dry wind. It was miles away.

  “Would you like someone to bring him in for you?”

  “No. I can do it myself, thanks,” she said, striding into the tack area and unhooking Breaking Free’s halter, along with a lead rope. She needed to burn off some frustration.

  “There’s some outbuildings down there with tack and all, and a bathroom and bunk area,” the groom offered, sensing her irritation. “Miss Fairchild has the boxes from her study being stored down there while they’re doing the renos, so it’s been opened up for a while.”

  She nodded as she made her way out and began the hike over the dry, rutted fields. The mention of Louisa’s boxes reminded her that her aunt had been busy redecorating and packing for her U.K. trip before Dylan Hastings arrived to arrest her out of the blue.

  It drove home to Megan how swiftly life could change, how fleeting the good times could be.

  Carpe diem, she thought. Or as Granny Betty always said, Don’t save the good things for last, Megs. Life’s too short for that.

  Granny Betty had been talking about lamingtons at the time. But Megan was thinking about Dylan.

  She reached the pasture fence hot and bothered and climbed over, snagging her jeans on a rusted nail. She halted atop the fence, wobbling as she struggled to pull the fabric free. It tore loose suddenly, and she overbalanced, tumbling down hard to the ground, grating the skin from her elbow as she went. Megan cursed, ignoring the sharp bite of pain as she got to her feet, heart thumping, the hot wind further ruffling her sense of unease.

  Then she sighted the gleaming black stallion.

  Breaking Free stood like a marble statue near a stand of river red gums, his tail and mane blowing gently in the dry wind.

  She caught her breath for an instant.

  He was stunning, truly free in spirit. Standing there like that, he epitomized what Megan loved about this wild, broad, sun-baked country of hers. And what she’d missed in the city.

  Breathing in deeply, halter and rope in hand, she began to walk toward the stand of massive red gums.

  The stallion watched her approach with glinting black eyes. Then just as she got
within a few yards, he tossed his head, neighed and cantered a distance away. He stopped and waited mischievously for her again, coat glimmering in the sun, tail twitching.

  Megan swiped the back of her wrist over her forehead. She called out to Breaking Free, clicking her tongue and talking gently as she closed in on him again, but as soon as she got within a few feet of the stallion, he did the same thing, galloping off playfully and coming to a stop about a hundred yards away, challenging her to come after him yet again.

  Megan cursed, swatted at the omnipresent flies.

  She moved slower this time, but the damn process repeated itself twice over.

  Sweat trickled between her breasts, and she was breathing hard. She took off her hat, folded it in half, tucked it firmly into the back of her jeans. She meant business now.

  She turned away from the stallion and stood stock still. This seemed to interest Breaking Free. Megan could sense him coming closer and closer until she heard the soft crunch of dry grass roots under his hooves right behind her. But as she turned to face him, he kicked back and trotted away, tail held high and defiant.

  Damn him!

  She was perspiring now, the afternoon starting to wear towards evening, the sun angling low and yellow, but be damned if she was giving up.

  She moved fast this time, not watching her feet over the uneven dry ground. But in her haste, she stubbed the toe of her boot on a rock, dislodging it.

  A snake, glistening wet-black with a deep crimson underbelly, well over a meter long, slithered from between the dislodged stones and raised its head. Its neck region flattened, and the round beady black eyes were trained dead on her.

  Megan froze.

  Sweat prickled over her brow and down between her breasts. This one was poisonous, deadly so, and it felt threatened. Her throat turned dust-dry, and she cursed the wind that teased movement into her hair.

  She stood as motionless as she could, minutes stretching to eternity, her T-shirt going wet with sweat. And then the snake suddenly slithered off into the desiccated stubs of grass.

  Megan exhaled shakily, pushing damp tendrils back from her face. She glanced up, saw Breaking Free watching her curiously from a distance.

  And she gave up.

  She was too shaken to go after him now.

  She shouldn’t have even tried.

  She’d been unfocused, edgy, doing all the wrong things, driven to distraction by Dylan.

  She cursed him.

  She hadn’t realized quite until this very moment how deeply he’d affected her life. How unsettled she was with her own Sydney existence.

  And now Breaking Free had won. Louisa, too, in some ways.

  Defeat slumped Megan’s shoulders, and emotion burned in her eyes as she walked slowly back over the field towards the outbuildings, hoping to find some water there. Evening shadows fingered across the valley, the wind chilling her sweat-dampened back.

  She creaked open the large double barn doors, shafts of gold sunlight revealing dancing dust motes.

  Her eyes adjusted to the light as she entered.

  The scent was of straw, sand, old leather, but it was clean. Several new horse blankets were folded on a rough bench in the corner, and beside it boxes from Louisa’s study were stacked against the wall. Placing the halter and lead rope atop several bales of hay, Megan removed the hat tucked into the back of her jeans and made her way slowly over to the boxes. But an eerie sense of being watched suddenly chased ripples over her skin.

  She stilled.

  There was someone else in this barn.

  Not daring to breathe, she slanted her eyes to the old mirror on the far wall and froze as she caught the reflection of a man behind her.

  Silhouetted by the dusky evening light, he stood in the doorway, silent, just watching.

  Fear shot sharp and fast into her throat. Reaching for the halter, the closest weapon at hand, Megan slowly turned to face him.

  “Hey,” he said quietly.

  “Dylan?” Her heart stalled, then kicked back to a fast patter.

  His face was shadowed, unreadable. He wore old jeans, cotton shirt, boots—no sign of the uniform, no gun belt. No sign of the law-enforcement officer. He looked more the rough renegade.

  “You…startled me.” Her voice came out a hoarse whisper.

  He seemed odd, strangely quiet, predatory, as he entered the barn, his trademark stride bringing him within inches of her until she could scent his aftershave, his warmth, the freshly laundered smell of his shirt. Megan tried to swallow against the tightness in her throat, fighting an instinctive urge to back into the hay bales.

  “Wh-what are you doing here?” she whispered, her stomach tingling as he came close, cornering her between the hay bales and boxes.

  “Your groom told me I could find you down here.” His voice was low, thick, hungry. “What you did was wrong, Megan, but how I handled it was worse. I wanted—needed—to say sorry.”

  She tried to swallow again, her heart thumping against her ribs. “I…was just trying to help, Dylan. Heidi was all beat up about her mother—”

  “I don’t want that kind of help.”

  She moistened her lips. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how I got so involved. I…just didn’t want to see you two end up like me and my dad.”

  He watched her mouth, his mood shifting, darkening, thickening. A gust of warm air outside stirred up a swirling dervish of dust beyond the barn doors, and Megan could taste the fine dirt in the air. Dylan placed his hand on her shoulder, sliding it slowly, softly down the length of her arm, trailing a wake of quivering nerves, and her breathing became ragged.

  “Why did you run from me last night, Megan?” he said, his voice rough.

  “You know why,” she whispered.

  He encircled her wrist, drawing her close. A small muscle began to pulse at the base of his jaw.

  “You packed your bags. Where were you going?”

  She moistened her lips again, unable to think. “I…back to Sydney,” she whispered hoarsely.

  “But you didn’t leave.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  He studied her in silence. Then he feathered the side of her face with his fingertips, tracing the line of her jaw as his eyes probed hers, the question in his touch implicit. “You’re something special, you know that, Megan Stafford?” he whispered, his lids lowering as his fingers reached her lips and he touched them.

  She could taste the salt on his skin.

  Her body began to hum, her belly turning hot, molten. She could barely breathe.

  She opened her mouth slightly, allowing the tip of her tongue to connect with roughened fingertips, feeling dizzy and hot as all logic deserted her.

  “And I don’t know what the devil to do about it, because I want you. All of you.”

  Her vision clouded, and he brought his mouth down hard on hers.

  Tingling heat crashed through her, her legs turning to water as his mouth crushed hers, his hand cupping her buttocks, yanking her body against his. She could feel his erection through his jeans, pressed hard against her pelvis, and heat shafted low in her belly, making her ache to open to him.

  Her tongue met his, slick, hungry, as he shimmied her T-shirt up her torso, yanking it over her head, letting it fall to their feet. He groaned as he felt her skin under his palms, found her breasts, her nipples hard. He unclasped her bra at the front as she kissed him back.

  Her breasts swelled free of the lace, his hands cupping them, rough thumbs rasping her nipples. The sensation excited her. She fumbled wildly with the buttons of his shirt, yanking it open, grappling with the buckle of his belt as he backed her up hard against the hay bales. Louisa’s boxes crashed down around them, contents spilling across the floor.

  But they were oblivious to anything but their urgent, desperate need for each other. They moved fast, furiously, the heat, dust, the fear of discovery heightening every nerve ending in Megan.

  Breathing hard, mouth against his, she opened his zipper and felt
him swell hot and hard into her hand.

  Chapter Twelve

  Megan encircled his erection with her hand, massaging him with rhythmic movements as her tongue tangled with his, as her breasts pressed against his chest, his hair deliciously rough against tender nipples.

  He loosened her jeans, pulling her panties aside, and slid a finger up into her.

  Megan felt her eyes roll back into her head as she sank her weight down on to his finger, feeling him deep inside, stimulating her, his barely controlled restraint exhilarating.