‘But … what is it?’
‘Oh, sorry.’ Matt put his palm on the small of her back, barely touching, as he guided her beneath the arbour. ‘A cat run for Scritches. I’ve put fine mesh around the bottom so even the baby browns shouldn’t be able to get in. I figured if I put a bench in here, you can sit and read your books and Scritch will still get the fresh air he’s after. Otherwise, you might have a problem with him trying to escape, now he’s had a taste of freedom.’ He held his hands away from his narrow hips, a question. ‘But I can pull it down if you like. It was only an idea.’
She shook her head. ‘No! Don’t pull it down. It’s … amazing. But why?’
He lifted one shoulder. ‘Didn’t want him getting bitten again.’
‘You do this for all your clients?’
‘Only those I need to impress because they also happen to be my boss.’
‘Thought you didn’t really want this job?’
‘Hmm. You may have me there. Okay, I did it because I’m kind of smitten.’ His eyes were still bloodshot from fatigue but pierced her nonetheless before flickering toward the house. ‘Scritches is a totally awesome cat.’
The cool air seared her nostrils. ‘Seems he manages to cultivate himself some pretty special fans.’ Her gaze roamed the enclosure, examining it more closely. Matt had installed ledges at various heights in the corners, and a small hammock was slung across one end.
Though she didn’t look at him, she was aware that he rubbed at his chin, watching her every move. ‘I can’t—’ Her tongue gummed to the roof of her mouth. Why? No need for nerves, Matt wasn’t the sort to look for repayment for his favours. She tried again. ‘I can’t believe someone would do something this nice—no, I can’t believe someone would even think of doing something this nice for me. I haven’t … I really don’t know what to say. Except thank you.’ Gratitude came easily enough but, without practice, expressing it was another matter altogether.
‘It was nothing.’ He dismissed what must have been hours of labour while she slept. ‘I just—’ He turned slightly away, as if something in the farmyard needed checking. ‘I just don’t want to ever again see you as sad as you were the other day.’
‘You should’ve taken the opportunity to sleep in.’
Only inches separated them as he turned to her. ‘I’m having trouble sleeping.’
She froze. His gaze was both penetrating and intimate, and she couldn’t respond. How did she express what she wasn’t entirely certain she felt? All she knew for sure was that she was damaged, and there was something about Matt that called to her. Something … wounded. And maybe that was because she wanted to be a rescuer, not the rescued.
‘Thank you.’ She stood on tiptoe and brushed his lips with her own, then quickly stepped back, gesturing down the yard. ‘I need to get to the chooks before they batter the door down.’
Matt matched his stride to her flustered steps, careful not to touch her.
What the hell had she done? He’d rebuffed her the other evening, and now she’d pretty much thrown herself at him. Thank you. That’s all she’d needed to say. Say the words and leave it there. Shit.
She stumbled but, hands firmly wedged in his pockets, his face carved in stone, Matt didn’t notice.
Or chose not to.
They worked through the coops in silence, feeding and cleaning, though Matt did the bulk of the work.
‘Right, then.’ He stacked the tools in the barrow of manure. ‘I’ll dump this, then finish the cat run and get out of your way.’
‘Thanks.’ She should have chosen another word. They both knew where that had led last time.
She headed indoors, taking out her frustration on her bread dough. She would plait this loaf, make it into a glazed wreath.
God, she was such an idiot. A kiss? Why the hell a kiss?
Her fingers slowed on the dough, pinching and twisting instead of plaiting as she closed her eyes.
She knew why she’d kissed him.
She liked him. Maybe more than liked, though how the hell would she know? But, despite the subtext she imagined into their conversations, the feeling was clearly one-sided, and she had just made their employer–employee relationship untenable.
A light tap at the back door jerked her head up. ‘It’s open.’
Matt appeared in the doorway, looking pretty much anywhere but at her.
She pressed her knuckles into the dough. ‘Oh, I thought you were Tracey.’
‘Ah.’ The chin rub. ‘She came by. I asked if she’d mind calling back a little later, and she said for you to catch up at her place before your meeting.’
Kneading automatically, she watched him warily.
‘We need to talk,’ he said finally.
Was she supposed to fire him, or would he give notice? It would have been better if Tracey had been there to ease the situation. ‘Yep.’
‘I was thinking, seeing as it’s too wet to harvest for a few days, I’ll pick up that goat. Did you want to drop by mine and have a go at milking first?’
Her fingers stilled. ‘You’re sure I’m never going to be able to milk Baby?’
His lips twitched. ‘I’m certain you won’t get the result you want.’
‘Guess I’m trapped, then. When were you thinking?’
His gaze met hers and suddenly she was soaring, lost in the arctic blue expanse.
Matt moved closer. ‘How’s Sunday morning? Looks like I can get a bit of quiet then.’
She nodded, flour covering the back of the chair she clutched.
‘Right, then.’ His eyes still hadn’t left hers, and she was falling, the swooping sensation stealing her stomach.
‘Flour.’ His thumb brushed a smudge from her cheek.
His breath cooled her flushed skin.
Then he kissed her.
Not like she’d done. He took longer. The press of his firm lips against her cheek was more deliberate, more conscious. Yet the gesture wasn’t inappropriate, or demanding, or anything it shouldn’t be. Even though maybe she wanted it to be.
Then he gave a businesslike nod and left.
It wasn’t like she’d never kissed a man. Hell, she even gave Rafe a peck on the cheek when they closed up for Christmas. But kissing Matt was … different. And the fact that he’d kissed her? She had no idea what that meant—if it meant anything. But, for the first time in her life, she wanted it to mean something.
She pulled up at the front of Tracey’s house, tapping her horn then shaking her hands, trying to force her fingers to relax.
‘So.’ Tracey launched her appliquéd bag onto the rear seat and slid in, adjusting her flowing purple-shaded blouse around the seatbelt. ‘I came by this morning.’
‘Uh huh.’
‘Matt sent me away.’
‘I, uh, I heard.’ She gave the almost-empty road far more attention than it required. The best thing about Settlers Bridge was that it was so small, it took only minutes to get anywhere. The football clubrooms were about two country-sized blocks from the main street; if she could briefly sidetrack Tracey, interrogation time would run out. ‘Do you think many people will turn up to the meeting?’
‘Bugger the meeting. I’m talking about far more interesting things.’ Tracey screwed sideways in her seat. ‘Like the fact that I had to give the two of you privacy.’
‘We had, uh, farm stuff to discuss?’ It should have been a statement, but it came out sounding like a question. A lame one.
She turned into the carpark and pulled into the nearest space, despite it being forty degrees; who needed the shade from the jacarandas, anyway? She scrambled from the car before Tracey could get fully into her interrogation.
‘Here, love, you carry this.’ Tracey passed her a container.
‘We had to bring more lamingtons today?’
‘No. But if we surprisingly happen to win, the others can taste what they need to live up to.’ There was certainly no false modesty with Tracey.
‘You should’ve let me know. I
’d have helped,’ Roni said, praying for the conversation to stay on cake.
‘I figured you weren’t up to baking this week.’ Tracey lowered her voice as they entered the hall. ‘Mind, I still want to know just what you were up to.’
The meeting followed the same form as the others, but after a couple of hours, the activities halted for the president to announce the contest winner. Amid a sharp crack of applause, Tracey wriggled a finger at her. ‘Come on, love. Lucky we happened to have a big bake-up, isn’t it? We’ve probably enough lamingtons to go around.’
‘Coincidentally. Just like last year. And most years before that.’ Christine pulled the edges of her thin cardigan closed, her lips pressed tight like a steel trap.
‘It’s always nice to share,’ Tracey replied brightly.
‘I’m surprised you won without Marian’s patronage.’
‘Proves Tracey’s skill rather indisputably, doesn’t it?’ Taylor said. Roni had sagged with relief as she’d noticed her enter the hall. ‘And I guess pairing her with Roni makes them unbeatable. Maybe we should enter as a team next year, Christine?’
‘I’d rather have some chance of winning, thank you very much.’ Christine stalked off, her expression sour enough to turn milk.
Taylor grinned. ‘How are we, ladies? This tub of deliciousness doesn’t look like you’ve been taking it easy, per doctor’s orders.’
Tracey’s gauzy sleeve wafted across the cakes. ‘I assure you I’ve been taking it easy. Veronica, though, you might need to have a word with.’
‘You did this, Roni?’ Taylor gestured at the container. ‘Impressive, but it means we can no longer be friends. I preferred you when your chickens were as well fed as mine.’
‘That’s not what I said,’ Tracey chortled. ‘She’s been otherwise occupied. Bring that other tray round when you’re ready, love.’
If her face were any warmer she would melt the chocolate off the sponges. Roni shook her head as Taylor lifted her eyebrows. ‘Don’t ask. She’s got some weird thing going on in her head. I’d better take these cakes round.’
Christine sat almost nose-to-nose with a woman at the embroidery table. As the woman turned, her profile highlighted by a lamp, Roni recognised her. Fiona.
Well, time to build bridges, and all that stuff Marian espoused. ‘Hi, ladies. Would either of you care for one of Tracey’s lamingtons?’
Christine selected carefully, holding the lamington at eye level as though her judgment was required. ‘Tracey’s? I recall you entered as a team.’ She picked off a fleck of coconut, examining it minutely.
Roni lowered the container, a buffer between them. ‘We did. But Tracey happened to make this lot.’
‘Not so certain of your prowess, then?’ Christine said.
Fiona’s glossed lips curled, although there was neither humour nor empathy in the expression. ‘Don’t be mean, Christine. Poor Veronica is only trying to fit in.’
‘She has no reason to be uncertain.’ A whiff of Avon heralded Tracey. ‘Her lamingtons are first-rate. Like the rest of her baking, as Matt will no doubt attest.’
Fiona’s nostrils flared, but she ignored Tracey. ‘Of course, it’s rather insensitive, forcing your way in where you don’t belong. Especially right now.’
Roni stared at her, nonplussed. ‘I was under the impression competition was encouraged.’
‘Depends what you’re competing for. Certain things belong to those who’ve put in the long-term effort.’
Tracey fluffed herself up like a bantam hen. ‘No point going off like a frog in a sock, Fiona. You’ve had a fair shot.’
As Roni beat a hasty retreat, Taylor gave whispered encouragement. ‘Run! You don’t want to be in the middle of that if they kick off.’
Roni shook her head bemusedly. ‘What’s the deal? I thought small towns were supposed to be all love-thy-neighbour.’
‘Sometimes there’s too much of the loving stuff, and loyalties get tested.’ Taylor gave a heavy sigh, frowning back toward the three other women. ‘There’s a lot of messy back-story. Best you just steer clear of Fiona.’
Roni snorted. ‘Gladly.’
Taylor angled her toward an empty table. Apparently, it was too hot for the knitting group. ‘Have you seen Matt since the other night? I’m a bit worried about him.’
‘Worried? Why?’
‘Oh, nothing to concern you. History.’ She waved a vague hand.
‘He came by today. Said it was too wet to harvest, so he built a cat run for Scritches.’ And he kissed her. But she’d kissed him first, so did it even count?
‘He did? Excellent.’ Taylor looked far too pleased, considering she had barely met Scritches.
Roni tutted with sudden frustration. ‘What is it about Matt that no one’s saying? I thought I was the one with secrets, but I swear everyone in this town speaks in half sentences. I’m beginning to think I’m going nuts.’
The doctor glanced around the room, making sure they couldn’t be overheard. ‘Has he mentioned his brother?’
‘The one who died?’
‘Committed suicide. Yesterday was the second anniversary of his death. When Simon died, it kind of turned Matt’s world upside down. He took on a lot of extra responsibilities.’
‘The farm. He told me.’
‘That. And other stuff. Anyway, I was worried how he would handle the anniversary.’
Roni sat quickly, resisting the temptation to touch her fingertips to where his lips had pressed to her cheek. As though she’d not relived the moment a hundred times. ‘He seemed … distracted on Wednesday. But fine today.’
Rather more than fine, actually.
Chapter Thirty-two
What did one wear to milk a cow? Certainly nothing she owned, Roni decided as she surveyed the small mound of clothes on the bed. Scritches burrowed beneath them, purring happily.
Why did it even matter what she wore? Matt had seen her in trackies, in manure-covered jeans, even in her pyjamas. Now, a peck on the cheek and she suddenly cared how she looked?
She snatched up a pair of jeans—they just happened to be her best ones, eight-buck Levi’s from the op shop—and added a tank and a button-through shirt over the top and ponytailed her hair. Then decided that, though impractical, loose hair looked better, particularly as it seemed to have picked up some natural sunstreaks, highlighting the soft, walnut-brown shades.
With a groan, she scrapped the whole look and dropped a soft floral dress over her head. The wide skirt flared from a narrow waist and the sweetheart neckline left a lot of her chest exposed. She quickly spiralled her wavy hair around her fingers and arranged a section over each shoulder.
Twenty minutes later, as she pulled into a yard similar in design to her own, though the stone sheds were fewer and less grand, she felt vaguely sick. Lucky she’d skipped breakfast, cleaning her teeth twice instead.
She chewed at her thumbnail, staring at the house. Should she make the move, kiss his cheek? A businesslike greeting, obviously. But if they saw each other more than once a week, wouldn’t kissing each time be over the top?
She startled as her car door opened.
‘Hey there. I was in the barn wait—’
Waiting? Had Matt been about to say waiting?
Clearly not, as he stood back, hiking a thumb toward a shed. ‘This way. Daisy’s in the stall.’
‘Daisy? Not exactly original.’ Clean-shaven, Matt wasn’t wearing his hat, nor the sunglasses. She caught a whiff of fresh hay and a faint trace of aftershave.
‘Not in the least,’ he agreed. ‘But not my choice.’
‘Your mum’s?’
‘Mum’s what?’
‘Choice.’
‘Oh. No, Mum doesn’t have anything to do with the farm.’
‘I assumed she lived here.’
‘She moved into town after Dad died. There’s something of a community of farm widows in Settlers Bridge. You probably run into most of them in the CWA. Not Mum’s kind of thing, though.’ He shoved op
en a wooden door and stood aside. As she brushed past him, his fingertips trailed across her forearm. ‘You look amazing, by the way.’ Before she could respond—not that she knew how—Matt gestured toward a cow in a stall. ‘Seeing as you’re about to get intimate, guess I’d better introduce you.’
She pressed her back to the stone wall. ‘She’s kind of huge. Is it safe?’
He grinned. ‘Bigger than Baby, but she’s a sweetheart. Roni, meet Daisy. Daisy, Roni.’
She shuffled forward to tentatively pat the rust-brown side of the cow, flinching as the beast swung her head and blew sweet breath and a string of drool in her direction.
‘Sorry about that.’ Matt wiped the silver saliva from her arm, then snatched his hand back. ‘She’s like Scritches: dribbles when she’s in love. Okay, wash your hands. I brought warm water down for you. I know what you city softies are like.’ He pointed to an old-school enamel bowl filled with suds.
‘You reckon I’m soft?’ She displayed her palms. She’d spent a good part of Saturday fixing the irrigation around the fruit trees and had the cuts and calluses to prove it.
Instead of laughing, Matt caught her hand, his thumb stroking across an undamaged portion. ‘Ouch. Aren’t you supposed to be taking it easy? No, you’re definitely not soft.’ He turned back to the cow, raising a cloud of dust as he thwacked her side. ‘At least, only in a good way.’
If her heart thumped any faster she would pass out. She focused intently on washing her hands, then held them up like a surgeon ready to operate.
Matt grinned and dunked his own hands. ‘Okay, so this is how we do it.’ With the toe of his boot, he dragged a three-legged stool up to Daisy’s side, then plopped a bucket under her. ‘A quick wash for her ladyship and we’re off.’
‘Don’t you have machines to do this stuff?’ She cringed as he rinsed the cow’s udder.
‘Not for one cow. I only ended up with Daisy because Marian fancied producing her own milk, but it got too hard for her toward the end. If you can handle Daisy, you can always have her back, instead of a goat.’
‘And I repeat, she’s huge.’
Matt’s voice muffled as he leaned into Daisy’s side, but she was pretty sure he was laughing. ‘Okay, all you need to do is grip at the top of the teat, then slide your fingers down in one smooth, firm movement.’ White liquid jetted into the bucket as he spoke, Daisy contentedly chomping at the hay in her manger. ‘Ready to give it a try?’
The Farm at Peppertree Crossing Page 28