Taming The Brooding Cattleman

by Marion Lennox

  ‘I’ve also been caring for my sister.’

  Why had he said that? It had sounded like an explosion. It was an explosion.

  She’d heard it for what it was. Her slight, teasing expression faded.

  ‘She’s dead,’ she said, and it wasn’t a question.

  ‘She died,’ he said, tight and hard. ‘Black depression and its consequences. I couldn’t care enough.’

  ‘I’m sure you did,’ she said softly. ‘I can imagine just how much you cared, and I’m so sorry.’

  She looked up toward the house. Three mares were standing on the hillside looking down at them. Their coats glistening in the midday sun. They looked perfectly groomed, perfectly cared for, perfect.

  Sophie’s death seemed a raised sword over their heads. He shouldn’t have told her.

  She shouldn’t have instinctively understood, but he knew that she did.

  ‘You learned to look after horses in your childhood?’ she asked him, and he heard the slight softening in her tone, which, he thought, was all she was offering in the way of sympathy. He didn’t even want that. Why had he told her? ‘Here?’

  ‘Here,’ he snapped. He’d told her too much.

  ‘Your grandfather taught you?’

  ‘I watched him,’ he said, and he knew by her expression that she’d heard the difference.

  ‘And after his death you let the manager run the place until your sister died.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, practically grinding his teeth. How did this woman know?

  ‘So now, you’ve had time to get the horses up to scratch, but not the house,’ she said briskly, and he needed to sound brisk, too. She was simply taking in information and moving on. Not getting emotional.

  How rare was that in a woman? How rare was that in anyone?

  ‘The house doesn’t matter,’ he told her.

  ‘It does if it has tree roots in the sewer,’ she said darkly. ‘It does if I’m staying. I need new curtains for my bedroom. The plumbers nearly had a ringside seat this morning.’

  He smiled. Emotion was done with. She was back to being bolshie again. Assertive.

  Cute.

  ‘I’ll find you curtains,’ he promised.

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘You want to get this wood done?’

  For answer he leaned across and flicked off one of her gloves.

  She tugged away but she couldn’t tug fast enough. He took her hand and tugged open her fingers, exposing her palm.

  Three blisters. Broken. Raw.

  He knew it. She was a kid from Manhattan who’d just finished vet school. She played tough but she lied.

  ‘Enough,’ he said. ‘Alex, enough.’

  ‘I want this job.’ It was a whisper, and suddenly emotion was out there, front and centre. ‘You can’t know how much I want this job.’

  ‘Then toughen up,’ he said, staring down at the raw, exposed skin. ‘And you don’t do that by hurling yourself into work like a bull at the gate. You do it by starting gradually and working up. By the end of six months you’ll be hurling wood like the best of them. For now, take yourself back to the house, clean your hands up and rest.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Just do it.’

  She looked up at him.

  Mistake.

  She was too close. Too near. Her eyes were darkly shadowed—jet lag must be coming into play, as well as last night’s drama. She looked too pale, too small. Her hand was in his.

  She was looking at him like she was caught. Which was how he felt. Caught.

  He did not want...

  A rustle in the bushes caught his attention. Actually, anything would have caught his attention. He was desperate for his attention to be caught.

  He dropped her hand and swivelled.

  Oliver.

  He knew this kid, the son of the previous manager. He was Brian’s oldest, eleven years old. He was undersized for his age, freckled, his spiky, strawberry-red hair unbrushed and uncared for, too skinny, a bit bedraggled and as shy as the most nervous of his young horses.

  He’d been his father’s shadow when Jack first returned to the farm. His dad disappeared and so had Oliver, but for the past few weeks he’d seen him back here, on and off. He was a shadow in the undergrowth, silently watching him.

  The last time he’d seen him, he’d managed to corner him and send him home. Kindly but firmly. He didn’t want a kid around horses three times as big as he was. Jack couldn’t be everywhere. To have the kid wandering the farm was dangerous.

  He’d dropped in on Brenda—Brian’s abandoned wife—and told her to keep an eye on her son. Told her to keep him away from the farm, away from the horses.

  She’d told him the kid wasn’t hers. He was the product of one of Brian’s earlier relationships. She was stuck with him, caring for him as best she could, but with two small girls of her own she couldn’t be expected to watch him all the time.

  He’d been dismayed, but there was nothing he could do. ‘Just keep him off my property,’ he’d said. But regardless, the kid was in the bushes, watching them. He knew he shouldn’t be here. As Jack saw him, he backed and looked like he’d run.

  ‘Hey,’ Alex said, before he could say a word. ‘You’re the kid who showed me where to come yesterday. Thank you. Would you like a sandwich?’

  That was pretty much the opposite of what Jack had planned to say. He opened his mouth to tell him to leave, but Alex had already bounced up. ‘Beef or jam,’ she said. ‘Nothing fancy. Jam’s good.’

  The kid was out of the bushes like he’d been grabbed and pulled. He had a sandwich in his hand, in his mouth, before Jack could say a word.

  Alex grinned. ‘I do like a guy who appreciates home cooking,’ she said. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Oliver.’ Through sandwich.

  ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Oliver.’ She glanced to Jack. ‘Is this a friend of yours?’

  How to explain the connection? Son of an ex-manager who’d run off with another woman and a whole lot of money that rightfully belonged to the farm. Not possible.

  ‘Oliver’s mum owns the next-door property,’ he said tightly.

  That wasn’t exactly true either. He owned the next-door property. Brenda was staying there free.

  If he could kick Brenda out he might be able to fill it with a decent farm worker, but Brian had robbed Brenda, too. He didn’t have the heart to evict her.

  But he did not want this kid here. This kid whose neediness made him think of another child... Sophie’s eyes, looking at him through Oliver.

  ‘Your mum’ll be worried,’ he said to Oliver. Curtly.

  ‘Brenda knows where I am.’

  ‘She knows I don’t like you here.’

  ‘But I can help,’ Oliver said, and grabbed another sandwich. ‘With the horses. I want to.’

  And once again, Alex beat him in responding. ‘Maybe you can,’ she said, watching him attack his sandwich like he hadn’t eaten for days. ‘We had a foal last night. You want to see? I’m about to take her mum out for a gentle walk in the home paddock. Would you like to help before you go home?’

  ‘Yes,’ Oliver said, but with a nervous look at Jack.

  ‘Let’s go, then,’ Alex said. She glanced at Jack. ‘I assume you have no objection if I take her out? It’s what the vet recommends.’

  ‘Oliver should be in school.’

  ‘Saturday,’ Oliver said, as if he was dumb.

  Which pretty much
summed up how he was feeling. Dumb. Or out of control.

  He owned this stud. He did not want this woman here. He did not want this kid here.

  ‘He’ll be gone in a couple of hours,’ Alex said, as if she could read his mind. ‘You’re stuck with me, though. Come on, Oliver, let’s get our work done.’

  ‘Your hands...’ he said.

  ‘I’ll clean them first,’ she said. ‘Oliver can help me.’

  ‘I’d rather help Jack,’ Oliver said, and Jack thought that was exactly what the trouble was. Brenda was a mess; it was all she could do to cope with her four- and two-year-old. She was brusquely kind to Oliver but Oliver needed more.

  There was no way Jack could go down that road. He helped Brenda financially. He let her stay in the house and that was an end to it.

  ‘Help Alex if you like,’ he growled. ‘Do what you like as long as you let me be.’

  Women... Children... He wanted nothing to do with either of them.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  SHE led Sancha out of the stalls. The gangly foal wobbled gamely behind her mother, with Oliver beaming by her side like a proud uncle. They walked at a snail’s pace.

  If Alex had her druthers she’d have kept Sancha confined for the next four weeks. The pressure on her stitches was enormous, but if the foal was to develop, she had to figure what grass was, what running was. Alex’s job was to keep Sancha safe while the foal learned to be a foal.

  Out in the paddock, Sancha raised her gorgeous velvety nose to the sun, as if she intended to soak up every ray.

  ‘Will you let her go?’ Oliver breathed.

  ‘No. She has stitches across her tummy. She’s not allowed to stretch them.’ She hesitated, seeing the little boy’s yearning face. She remembered, years ago, her father taking her to a friend’s ranch. She’d been about the same age as Oliver. Her dad’s friend had let her muck out the stables, and had taught her to groom.

  Just touching horses...being with them...

  She knew that longing, and she was seeing it now.

  ‘Would you like to hold her?’ she asked. ‘You need to keep her very still.’

  ‘Yes,’ Oliver breathed, and took the bridle and held it like he was holding diamonds. ‘He doesn’t let me,’ he said.

  ‘He?’

  ‘Jack. Dad used to let me help but now he’s gone and Jack says I shouldn’t come here any more.’ He said it in the same tones as if announcing the end of the world. ‘Brenda says it’s no wonder. She says Dad robbed us blind and he robbed Jack, too. She says it’s amazing he still lets us live here, and to leave him alone. But I used to ride Cracker. He’s old and he’s great but Jack’s put him in the back paddock, and I really, really miss him.’

  He sniffed, and Alex felt like sniffing, too. And she thought, What had this kid done to make Jack prevent him from being with the horse he so obviously loved?

  ‘Can I have another sandwich before I go home?’ the little boy asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, thinking she might just be heading for conflict here.

  One needy kid.

  Jack was her boss. She needed to be deferential.

  Deferential wasn’t in her nature. One sandwich? Jack was going to have to do better than that.

  * * *

  Jet lag was insidious. One minute she was wide awake, the next she was dead on her feet. Oliver left and she headed for bed. She woke and the sun was slipping behind the mountains. A weird bird was cackling in the gums outside her bedroom window. The breeze was making the faded drapes flutter, and she lay in bed and thought of the winter she’d left in Manhattan and she decided this could work.

  Then she thought of Jack Connor and thought maybe not.

  And not because he was arrogant. There was something about him....

  Actually, there was a lot about him. She’d gone through vet school with testosterone-driven guys. Her college had organised her work experience on some decent ranches and she’d met some pretty hot men.

  They hadn’t pushed her buttons like Jack Connor did. She lay and sleepily thought of him, and her buttons were definitely pushed.

  It was jet lag, she told herself. Lack of sleep and changing time zones would make any woman susceptible to the hunk that Jack Connor was.

  He was arrogant. He was a chauvinist.

  And he didn’t let Oliver help with the horses.

  On that idea she thrust back the covers. Hold the thought, she told herself. Arrogant, chauvinist and unkind. If she could hold on to that for six months, then she could do this job.

  Please...

  She headed for the kitchen. He was cooking. Sausages.

  Again. Terrific.

  Be grateful he’s cooking anything, she told herself. With this guy, it was a wonder he hadn’t handed her an apron and a dishcloth the moment she walked in the door.

  But sausages...

  ‘I had chicken for a casserole,’ he said before she could open her mouth. ‘It seems to have disappeared. As does an entire piece of cold roast beef, the apple pie I bought yesterday and half our weekly fruit rations. That was some bedtime snack.’

  ‘I gave it to Oliver,’ she said, and watched him still.

  ‘What gives you the right—’

  ‘Take it out of my wages.’ She tilted her chin and met his glare head-on.

  ‘Don’t encourage him.’

  ‘He seems to be starving.’

  ‘He’s not starving. His mother’s on the pension. I give her free rent. There’s enough for food.’

  ‘He’s still starving.’

  ‘He’s not my business.’ It was like an explosion, and she stilled.

  She held his gaze and her heart hardened. Not my business. A starving kid.

  ‘I’ll check,’ he said at last, sounding goaded. ‘I’ll talk to Brenda.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘This concerns you why?’

  ‘Because he would have sold his soul for a jam sandwich,’ she said evenly. ‘But even then... Do you know what he said when I packed the food for him? He said, “I can’t take it home if Jack’ll be hungry.” He’s been watching you. He thinks you’re great.’

  She watched his face freeze. Watched something working behind that grim facade. ‘I don’t want it,’ he said. ‘I’ve given them free rent. What else do I have to do?’

  ‘Care?’

  ‘I don’t care,’ he said explosively. ‘If you want to stay on this farm, you need to get used to that. I keep myself to myself, and I expect you to do the same.’

  ‘For six months?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I won’t let a kid go hungry.’

  He raked his hair. ‘Neither will I. Thank you for giving him the chicken.’

  ‘There’s no need to be sarcastic.’

  ‘Believe it or not, I wasn’t,’ he said wearily, and went back to his sausages. ‘I was thinking it’s better that you help him than me. If anyone needs to.’

  ‘Anyone does.’

  ‘Right, then,’ he snapped. ‘Two sausages?’

  She looked at the sausages. She thought of the delicate meal she’d had the night before. She felt her tummy rumble.

  She’d had a very long day. She’d have an even bigger one tomorrow, she thought. Hard physical work. Horses. Figuring what was happening to Oliver.

  Figuring how to make Jack Connor care.

  ‘Three,’ she said, and plopped down to watch her chauvinistic, arrogant, overbearing boss cook her dinner.

  * * *

  He tried to focus on cooking. Sausages needed only so much focusing.

  Behind him, Alex was watching. He could feel tension rising. She was here for six months?

  She’d have to learn t
he ground rules. He might have got himself an employee but he would not allow her to mess with his life. He was a loner and he intended to stay that way.

  She was messing with his head.

  As was Oliver. He thought back to the kid, eating Alex’s sandwiches like he hadn’t been fed for a week, and he felt ill. He didn’t care, but...

  ‘I’ll go over in the morning,’ he said, and Alex beamed.

  ‘Can I come, too?’

  ‘Sancha needs watching. As do the pregnant mares.’

  ‘None of the mares in the home paddock look near to dropping, and it’ll take us how long to visit Oliver?’

  Us. The word hung.

  ‘I have work for you,’ he said roughly.

  ‘I’m having a sickie tomorrow,’ she said. ‘On full pay.’ She held up her blistered palm. ‘Work injury. The boss is responsible. I read up on Aussie work laws before I came. They cover me nicely.’

  ‘You’re planning to sue already?’

  ‘Nope,’ she said, happily tackling her sausages. ‘Just go with you to see Oliver. He’s a great kid. And I’ve been thinking... You could pay him to exercise Sancha for the next month. Just a little bit, but enough to help with food. He could take her for a gentle walk around the yard while the colt frolics. It’ll save you a lot of time and he’d love it.’

  ‘That’s why I’m employing you.’

  ‘You can employ me better working with the horses,’ she retorted. ‘Or even working on this house. Your veranda rail’s about to collapse. Your window frames are rotten. If you get me some decent timber I’ll rebuild.’

  ‘You?’

  She raised one eyebrow. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Um, maybe personal observations about my boss are out of line, but you do seem to have a time warp problem with the sexes. You seem okay with the cooking side, but the rest... If you’d employed a guy and he’d offered to fix your veranda, would you have an issue?’

  ‘You’re twenty-five years old and you come from Manhattan,’ he said. ‘You expect me to believe you can build?’

  ‘I can strip most car engines, too,’ she said, mock modestly. ‘And I also drink beer. My daddy taught me right. Speaking of which...’ She held up her glass of water with dislike.