by Cathryn Hein
‘I’m fine,’ she said, not meeting his gaze, before deliberately turning her back on him.
‘Right.’ He didn’t need another hint. He nodded to Chloe and Andrew. ‘Nice to meet you both.’
He pushed out into the night and stood for a moment on the footpath. Muffled laughter and chatter wafted with his plumed breath on the gelid air. He looked over his shoulder at the pub door, frowning as he went back over their brief encounter, trying to figure out what he’d said or done to create that look in her eyes. Though he examined every word and action, no explanation came. He doubted he’d ever find one.
With a last glance at the pub, he shoved his hands in his pockets, hunched his shoulders against the cold, and crossed the road to his car, wondering what sort of fool stood in the freezing night wasting brainpower on what Brooke Kingston might be thinking.
Better to stick with women like Chloe. She might be a bit over the top, but at least understanding came easy.
Six
‘Bloody hell, Brooke,’ said Chloe, looking at her aghast. ‘Do you think you could have been any ruder?’
But Brooke wasn’t thinking about her manners. Her mind rattled with the word Lachlan had thrown out so casually. Home. She stared at her beer glass. It should be a nice word, a comforting word. Instead, it had sliced through her. Kingston Downs was her home, not Lachlan’s, yet he made it sound like he’d already claimed ownership.
‘Earth to Brooke.’ Chloe tapped the table in front of her with a sparkly pink acrylic fingernail. ‘Yoo-hoo.’
With Chloe’s call, she thumped back to reality. She groaned and held her hands to her shame-flamed face, peeping through her fingers at her friend. ‘Oh, God, I was rude, wasn’t I?’
‘Very,’ said Chloe, ‘and that’s not like the Brooke we know and love.’
‘I know, I’m sorry. But I can’t help it. I just want him off Kingston Downs.’
Chloe grinned, exposing her very white but gapped front teeth – a flaw she was desperate to correct but couldn’t afford to. ‘God knows why. That man’s a walking sex machine. Good-looking, built like the proverbial, and that arse!’ She released a long, theatrical sigh. ‘I could spend hours perving at it.’
Brooke felt Andrew’s gaze. She hadn’t told either of her friends what Lachlan was like, other than reporting that he seemed reasonably competent and owned a Jack Russell. But Andrew knew her well enough to know that Lachlan was smack in her man-zone. Her previous boyfriends had all been similar types – tall, well muscled, and attractive in an unpolished, ruggedly rural way, although with his size and thick-lashed hazel eyes, Lachlan Cambridge inhabited a different league.
‘Doesn’t matter what he looks like,’ she said. ‘I just wish he’d leave.’
‘I know, I know. It’s all horribly unfair and he shouldn’t be at Kingston Downs.’ Chloe leaned across to squeeze her fingers. ‘But we’re talking total hornbag here. And I mean total. Maybe you could keep him just a little while? For me?’
Brooke cast a glance at Andrew, who smiled and shook his head. As though tuned in to their conversation, the pub’s ancient jukebox began belting out the Hoodoo Gurus’ ‘Miss Freelove ’69’. Brooke bit her lip to stop herself laughing and thought, as she had countless times in the past, how blessed she was to have friends like Chloe and Andrew. They had their hiccups, sure, but she wouldn’t trade them for anything. Chloe was funny, vibrant, and possessed a heart as big as Australia – a heart some believed she shared around too freely. Brooke occasionally squirmed at Chloe’s promiscuous nature, but she understood it came from a combination of Chloe’s innate generosity and her endless hunt for Mr Right. Brooke’s great wish was for her friend to find a man who shared the same good humour and love of life that Chloe had, and settle down. Once, she’d even teasingly suggested Andrew, but Chloe had given her such a strange look she’d never mentioned it again.
As for Andrew, they were getting over their troubles. Slowly.
‘Okay,’ said Chloe, releasing Brooke’s hand and eyeing them, ‘who’s up for a bet?’
‘No one bets against a certainty, Chloe,’ said Andrew.
She looked at Brooke, who raised her palms. Like Andrew, Brooke knew exactly what Chloe wanted to bet on – how quickly she could hook up with Lachlan. ‘Not a chance.’
Chloe leaned back, pouting. ‘Oh, come on. He might be one of those religious types, or have a girlfriend already. Who knows? He might even be gay.’
‘Not the way he was looking at your cleavage,’ Andrew countered.
‘Yeah, he did seem a bit impressed.’ She eyed Andrew, the corner of her mouth twitching. ‘Six weeks or I shave my head.’
‘Six weeks? Not with your track record.’
‘All right, then. A month.’ She tilted her head, blue eyes playful. ‘Come on, what are the odds of a bloke like him not having a girlfriend?’
Andrew pursed his lips, considering. ‘And if I lose?’
Chloe reached out to ruffle his perfect hair. ‘You lose yours, Samson.’
Brooke hid a smile. One thing Andrew did care about was his appearance. Having his head shaved would hammer a deep dent in his vanity. ‘Go on,’ she urged when he continued to hesitate. ‘Take a chance.’
He sighed and ran a hand through his sleek cut. ‘I’m going to regret this.’
‘You might, but you and I both know the thrill of the gamble’s worth it.’ Chloe held out her hand. ‘Shake.’
‘What are you going to produce as proof?’
‘His jocks.’
Brooke screwed her nose up.
Chloe rolled her eyes. ‘Well, what else am I going to use? The only other thing is the … you know, the …’ She made a moue of distaste. ‘You know!’
‘Urgh,’ said Brooke, cottoning on. ‘No way! That’s just too gross.’
‘So, we’re happy with jocks then?’
Casting Brooke a ‘what the hell am I doing?’ look, Andrew reached out and shook. ‘A month, Chloe. And I hope like hell he turns out to be gay.’
Early the following morning, once Brooke had fed Sod and led Poddy and Venus to their paddock, she braced herself and walked to the cottage. Though the air was winter-morning arctic and a wind chill plunged the temperature even lower, sunrays saturated the sheltered verandah, creating an oasis of warmth. Two pairs of oversized boots – one long rubber, one short leather, both clean – stood neat sentry next to the doormat. Alongside, Lachlan had placed a raised aluminium-framed dog’s bed, its mesh base topped with a thick sheepskin and an old bundled-up quilt.
As she reached the top verandah step the quilt twitched, then a little black nose followed by little black eyes tunnelled free from the fabric. Billy’s mouth parted in a welcoming doggy smile, his tail raising the quilt as it thumped. Wriggling out of his cocoon, he jumped down to sniff her ankles before flopping onto his back in the hope of a belly rub. Grinning, she obliged, calling him a silly Billy when his leg thumped in crazy ecstasy. Brooke had her horses, but she missed having a dog around the place, and while she would have preferred a collie, Billy was a still a little cutie.
‘He’ll let you do that all day,’ said Lachlan from behind the screen door, startling her. She hadn’t realised the main door was open. The screen’s springs creaked as he stepped out, a slice of Vegemite-smeared toast in his hand. ‘Loves it.’
‘My collie used to, too.’ She ruffled Billy’s head and straightened, casting a look over Lachlan. After the previous night’s rudeness she’d expected hostility but she caught only wariness in his sunlit hazel eyes.
He nodded to the door. ‘Did you want to come in for a cuppa?’
‘No,’ she answered quickly, then winced at how rude that must have sounded. Again. Discourtesy was becoming a habit in his presence and that was so unlike her it made her squirm inside with contrition. She forced a smile. ‘Thanks. I’m fine.’
‘Okay.’ He took a bite of toast and chewed, his gaze on hers, a small frown knitting his brow. ‘Is there —’
‘A
bout last —’
‘Sorry.’ He waved the toast at her. ‘You first.’
Brooke bit her lip, fingers creeping to her wrist and pressing. ‘Last night. In the pub. I was very rude. I’m sorry.’
He said nothing for a moment, eyeing her in that quiet way he had, as if he were weighing her words and his response very carefully. Billy sat on his haunches, head swivelling between them. Finally, Lachlan shrugged. ‘I guess you didn’t expect to see me there.’
‘No.’ She released her wrist, relieved to have her apology out of the way. Lachlan took another bite of his toast, still watching her. She turned her attention to the lawn, where a magpie was hunting in the fresh-cut grass. Being winter, the buffalo produced little growth and she’d let it go, but Lachlan had trimmed the edges and mown stripes into the lawn, the neat sward marred only by a few holes where he’d dug out weeds. She nodded toward it. ‘You’re more conscientious than me.’
‘I thought it needed a bit of a tidy.’ He sucked in a breath. ‘Sorry. That sounded like a criticism.’
‘Probably deserved. It was a bit messy.’ She threw him a smile to show she hadn’t taken offence and slapped her palms against her thighs. ‘Right. I’d better leave you to it. If there’s anything you need, just yell.’ As she turned to leave, Billy let out a sharp yap. Laughing, she crouched down to give him a goodbye scratch. ‘And you, my little silly Billy, are welcome to a belly rub anytime.’
‘There is something.’
She had to twist her neck right back to see his face. God, the man was tall. Today, instead of his usual jeans, he wore twill navy work pants with a matching shirt tucked in at the waist. Though not tight, the material showed off the contours of his thighs and the leanness of his hips. He wore his shirtsleeves loosely rolled, exposing muscled forearms with gold-tipped dark hairs. His chin was clean-shaven, his short hair slightly damp. As she breathed in she caught an enticing waft of citrus and scrubbed healthy male.
‘When you have time, maybe you could show me around. Give me a bit of a history of what you’ve done here.’
She looked back at Billy, now flopped on his back with his legs wide apart, expecting another belly scratch. Yes, she did know Kingston Downs backwards. Yes, she had offered her assistance. But why should she help him? Surely it was in her best interests to see him fail as a manager.
‘Brooke?’
She focused on Billy, for some reason unable to look at Lachlan. Last night, after the pub, she’d promised herself she’d treat him with courtesy. As Angus said, it wasn’t Lachlan’s fault that he was at Kingston Downs. He’d been employed to do a job and if he was anything like the man she suspected him to be, he wanted to do it well. But helping him felt like giving in.
He crouched down next to her. ‘I know you resent me being here, and I don’t blame you, but it won’t be forever. It’s obvious you’ve worked hard on this place and when the time comes for me to move on, I’d like to hand it back knowing I haven’t undone everything you’ve achieved.’
She continued to stare at Billy, embarrassed by the flare of heat in her cheeks and acutely aware of Lachlan’s proximity, his size, his smell, and, most of all, his understanding. ‘You’re making it very hard for me to hate you. You know that, don’t you?’
He ducked his head and smiled. ‘Maybe that’s my cunning plan.’
She bit her lip, trying not to smile in return, feeling guilty that she’d even considered trying to undermine him. He didn’t deserve that.
‘I’m free now, if you like.’
‘Good,’ he said, standing. ‘I’ll just grab my jumper and boots.’
While he sorted himself, she wandered through the garden, Billy trailing behind, reflecting on his comment about this not being forever, wondering what plans he had. Whatever they were, they hadn’t stopped him making himself at home. He’d already started pruning the peach tree in the small mixed-fruit orchard that ran along the side of the house, another chore Brooke had let slide. Cuttings lay in neat piles ready for burning, and although only half the job was done, already the tree was beginning to form the optimum vase shape.
‘You look like you know what you’re doing,’ she said, hearing footsteps behind her.
He’d donned a dark-brown polar-fleece jumper with Central West Constructions embroidered on the chest in yellow and the neck zippered up against the cold. A faded baseball cap covered his brown hair, and she recognised its blue and gold stripes and the crest of Sydney University Football Club. The combination of brown, blue and gold brought out strange, almost tortoiseshell hues in his eyes.
‘Mum taught me. She keeps a small orchard at Delamere.’
‘Delamere?’
‘My parents’ property.’
She waited for him to elaborate but he didn’t. Instead, he whistled for Billy. The terrier’s head bobbed up from the long grass of the adjacent paddock, then lowered again as he scrambled back toward them. Ears and muzzle covered in dewdrops, he sat panting at Lachlan’s side.
Smiling, he shook his head at the dog before regarding her. ‘Shall we start?’
Enjoying the morning quiet, they sauntered toward the machinery shed and the bay where Lachlan now parked his Hilux. The mist that had hovered over the river when Brooke led Poddy and Venus out had lifted with the sun and breeze, and the landscape felt aglow with promise. In the distance, the craggy sandstone hills of the Wollemi National Park ascended majestically, their timeworn contours cupping the southern edges of the upper Valley.
‘I figured we’d walk,’ said Lachlan when she paused near his ute. He looked up at the sky and the rising sun. ‘It’s a nice day and it’s not as if we have thousands of acres to cover.’
‘If you like. Besides, it’s not like I have much else to do.’ She grimaced, wishing she could tie her tongue in a knot. ‘Sorry. Not your fault.’
‘We seem to be doing that a lot today. Apologising, I mean.’
‘The awkwardness of strangers. Although, out of the two of us, I’d have to say I own the most errant mouth.’
She led him down the lane to the paddocks, and unlatched the first gate on the right. Like many others on Kingston Downs, the paddock was small, less than two and a half hectares, and surrounded by dark timber and coated-wire fencing. Kaleidoscopic dewdrops hung sparkling from the wires, and snail trails glittered on the posts. At the far end, at Kingston Downs’ boundary, a row of muted green gums pitched long shadows.
Casting a critical eye over the ground cover, she walked to the centre and halted. Though grass ran up to her ankles and patches of white clover still thrived, compared to its neighbours the pasture appeared tired. Around the many manure patches, the grass grew coarse and stemmy, and weeds shot up thick leaves and flower heads. Other areas were cropped to ground level, the plants weak and sour-looking from overgrazing and shallow-rootedness.
‘This is RL1,’ she said.
‘Right lane one,’ Lachlan replied, nodding. He smiled a little when she regarded him with a disbelieving expression. ‘It’s how I would have named them.’
‘Right.’ But she wasn’t sure whether to believe him or not. Angus could have told him her naming system. She’d check later to make sure, yet she doubted he’d lied. He didn’t seem the type to play games – too contained and considered.
She dragged a foot through a clump of rye-grass. ‘As you can see, it needs renovation. I’d planned to do it in the autumn but with the —’ She looked quickly away from his sympathetic gaze, continuing as though nothing had happened while her fists clenched at her weakness. ‘Horses are rough on pasture. They’re fussy eaters and won’t graze around dung or eat anything that’s too old or rank. And they’ll completely defoliate the species they find the most palatable, which makes it hard to not only maintain good cover and weed control, but can also affect the nutritional balance of the pasture and in turn the horses’ wellbeing.’
She walked a short distance away and squatted, pointing at a patch of green with newly sprouted dandelion seedlings. ‘Se
e here? This is probably all that remains of the Golkonda Italian rye-grass I oversowed as a trial last year. Horses love the Italian types, especially the tetraploids, which have bigger cells and less fibre and are easier to digest.’
He crouched opposite her, his expression loaded with interest. ‘It’s an annual, though, isn’t it?’
‘More short-term. You can get a couple of years out of it if you manage it properly.’
‘What about perennial rye-grass? Don’t the horses like that?’
‘They’ll eat it no problem in the growing season, but if you put an Italian alongside a perennial they’ll eat the Italian down to the ground and leave the perennial. So it makes pasture selection a balancing act. Nothing beats an Italian for winter productivity but without perennials you’re oversowing every year.’ She bit her lip and stared towards the river. ‘Anyway, it’s all a bit moot now. With so few horses there’s more feed than they could ever eat. I’d be better off turning most of the place over to lucerne. It’s where the money is and it’d at least get my rotten brother off my back.’
Suddenly, she realised what she was saying. She looked back at him. ‘Sorry, I forgot. Not my problem any more.’
He gave her another of those assessing looks before straightening up. He shoved his hands in his pockets and scanned the paddock for a moment, before regarding her once more. ‘Tell me about your renovation process.’
Brooke might be acting boorish but she wasn’t thick. The change of subject signalled clearly what he thought of her pettiness. Heat crawled over her cheeks. She reached out for Billy, on rodent high alert near her knee, ears pricked, nose in the dirt, paws together and body quivering.
She bit her lip in shame at her behaviour. ‘You must think I’m such a cow.’
‘No. I just think you’re hurting.’
‘And taking it out on you.’
He smiled when she looked up. ‘Don’t worry. I’m big enough to handle it.’