A few more blokes arrived after that, and then a couple of groups of girls who obviously thought this was a fun way to get away from the city and have a bit of a laugh. Imogen tried not to be disheartened, reasoning that there’d be at least some genuine women in the pool – Michelle didn’t seem like the type to come all this way for nothing. Charlie and Cal offered around complimentary glasses of champagne, while Gibson and Guy (looking adorable in matching Majestic t-shirts) wandered through the mob with plates of Pauli’s mouth-watering hors d’oeuvres. As Imogen welcomed a pair of identical twins, she caught Gibson’s eye, but he looked away quickly, making her heart cramp.
She was glad he was here and very grateful for his support – he’d promised to keep an eye on Charlie so she could focus on the actual event – but she hated the wall he’d put up between them. She didn’t blame him, but she hated it. And considering he’d never officially been a part of her life, she missed him so damn much.
‘Excuse me?’ One of the sisters cleared her throat. ‘You were saying we need to register?’
‘Oh, yes, sorry. Come this way.’ Imogen swallowed and led the newcomers over to Jenna.
By seven o’clock, all the participants were registered. The mingling in full swing, Imogen found herself with a few moments to take in the scene before the first round of speed dating began. She joined Jenna again.
‘I think it’s going well.’
‘Understatement of the century.’ Jenna grinned back. ‘There’s sparks going off left, right and centre.’ She scribbled something down on one of the sticky label badges and then held it up: HANDS OFF, I’M TAKEN. ‘I’m going to put this on Guy, just in case. Back in a moment.’
Imogen glanced down at the last few empty labels. Her fingers itched to pick up a pen and scrawl the same words on a badge for Gibson, but she forced the urge aside and glanced around the pub at the diverse crowd. The men wore variations of smart jeans and dress shirts, but the women could have opened their own fashion shop. Some wore cocktail dresses and others opted for more casual, but casual that had taken hours to perfect. She only hoped they’d packed appropriate clothes for their trip to Roseglen. She could just imagine Gibson rolling his eyes if they rocked up in skirts and heels.
Pushing that thought aside, she crossed to the bar and grabbed herself a glass of water in readiness for the official part of the night. Gibson and Guy arrived back with empty platters. She nabbed Guy – hoping he didn’t notice the tension between her and Gibson – and asked him to put the next lot of nibbles on the tables in the dining room. These tables were already set up in rows to cater for the quick movement from partner to partner during the speed dating session. Gibson and Guy on their way, she went over to the band and signalled for them to stop after the current song. Then she took a deep breath, sent up a silent prayer for a successful weekend, and climbed up onto the podium.
As she stood in front of the microphone, the music faded, causing all chattering heads to look up. She smiled at the faces looking back at her and took the mic.
‘Good evening, folks. Welcome everyone. Especially to our fabulous ladies who made the long hike from Perth. And I believe we even have a couple of girls from Sydney, who have come all the way for Man Drought. Well, don’t worry, ladies, there’s no shortage of men in in Gibson’s Find.’
The room exploded into whoops, cheers and wolf-whistles. She waited a moment for the excitement to die down.
‘When I moved here a couple of months ago, I’d heard there were more men than women, but I didn’t really believe it until I started getting to know the locals. Men are in the majority in Gibson’s Find and it didn’t take long for me to realise they are all fabulous men. My friend Jenna,’ Imogen paused to indicate Jenna to the side of her, ‘thought it would be wrong of us not to share all this testosterone with our fellow females. So, we came up with the idea for this weekend, and we hope you all have a lot of fun, and maybe start some amazing friendships.
‘Tonight, we’ll begin with some speed dating. Each of your name badges has a number, which corresponds to a seat on the tables. Ladies, you’ll get three minutes talking to each man and then we’ll ring the closing bell and you’ll be asked to move on to the next guy. Easy, right?’
Imogen smiled at the audience. ‘But before we get started, I’d like to explain the schedule for the rest of the weekend and introduce a few key people. Tomorrow morning, we’ll be heading out to Roseglen, a local farm, owned and operated by Gibson Black.’ She looked to the bar, her eyes meeting briefly with Gibson’s before he lifted his hand and saluted the crowd.
‘And …’ For a second she was lost for words, still lost in Gibson’s gaze. Dammit. She took a much-needed breath. ‘There we’ll be trying our hands at all sorts of farming experiences and enjoying a delicious lunch, packed by my staff: Pauli, Cal and Karen.’ The girls waved from their position alongside Gibson at the bar.
‘If you have any questions at any time, come and see me or Jenna. And have a fantastic weekend! Okay. I think that’s about it for now. Grab a drink and let the speed dating begin!’
Participants rushed off eagerly to find their numbers at the tables.
As the night went on, speed dating continued between the meals. Imogen forgot about her own problems and got caught up in the romance buzzing around her. It hadn’t escaped her that Warren and Michelle had bypassed the last round, instead choosing a private table in the corner of the pub to continue their conversation. And the local policeman had the twins hanging off his every word, although he couldn’t seem to decide which sister he liked best. She laughed to herself. Even if only one long-term association came from this weekend, her project would have been a success.
At the sound of cars heading up his drive, Gibson took a deep breath and headed down the steps of the shearing shed where he’d been checking everything was set up and ready to go. Hell was on its way!
Outside, Jack and Jill patrolled the pens, confused that they only had a few sheep to keep track of, but excited nonetheless. He glanced up at the partially cloudy sky and then at the long line of utes making their way towards him – most he recognised, a couple he didn’t – and made out the dusty outline of the local community bus following behind.
Within a few minutes, blokes leapt out of the utes, and the bus – driven by Tom – pulled up in the clearing between the sheds and the homestead. Gibson watched along with the male participants as the women spilled out of the bus. Some were sensibly dressed in shorts, t-shirts and boots. Others favoured the highly inappropriate farm attire – stiletto heels, short skirts, tight tops and dangly earrings – preferred by his ex-wife. He’d have bet money on which girls were serious about this weekend and which ones just wanted to have fun, but that wasn’t his concern. His job was to help make Imogen’s project a success. He may not have been able to offer what she needed, what she wanted, but he could at least do this.
The only thing he couldn’t control was the weather. He looked up at the rapidly darkening clouds and hoped the wind would blow them away.
When he looked back, Imogen was stepping out from behind the crowd of excited ladies. The breath left his lungs before he could hold it back. Surely the sight of her shouldn’t have had quite such a visceral affect on him after all this time, but if anything, it was getting stronger. He was a goner and he couldn’t do any damn thing about it.
Inwardly, cursing the futility of his feelings, he stepped forward to greet her. ‘Morning.’
She smiled, blowing her fringe off her face in that way only she did. ‘Everything ready?’
‘Yes.’ He nodded as Guy and Tom came to stand beside them.
Tom, an ex-shearer who now drove the community bus and did other odd jobs around town, would teach the women who were game how to rid a sheep of its coat. Guy would be giving riding lessons on the quad bike, and Gibson would be on hand to show anyone who was interested how to fix and erect fences. He didn’t expect to be swamped with volunteers but that didn’t bother him.
&nbs
p; ‘Okay, good.’ Imogen looked up at the clouds, worry evident in her face. ‘Do you think the weather’s going to be a problem?’
The men followed her gaze to the sky. If anything, the clouds had grown more sinister. ‘Relax,’ Gibson said, before either of the other two could voice their thoughts. ‘We’ll do the farming activities first. Worst-case scenario, we can eat lunch in the safety of the shed until this passes over, and then hike to the old homestead this afternoon. It’ll be fine, promise.’
‘Okay.’ She didn’t sound convinced. ‘Let’s do this, then.’
Stepping forward, Imogen stuck two fingers into her mouth and whistled in a way that both impressed and surprised him. All heads swivelled in her direction, eyes wide as they waited for instruction. ‘First, I want to thank Gibson Black for welcoming us all to his beautiful property, Roseglen.’ She gestured to him and Gibson nodded to the crowd, trying not to think about how great his name sounded when she said it.
‘Today,’ Imogen continued, ‘Gibson, with the help of Tom and Guy, will be running three farming stations. Each of you will select an activity from a hat. We’ll stop for a break in about half an hour and rotate stations until lunchtime, when we’ve got a real treat in store. Gibson has kindly offered to give us a tour of the original Roseglen homestead, built by his great-grandparents in the late 1800s. It’s a short walk from here, but I promise you, it’s worth the exertion. If you think life on the land is hard in the twenty-first century, you’ll be amazed at what the early settlers had to cope with.’
Even as Imogen spoke, the wind picked up and the air grew cooler around them. Several of the women, already on a first-name basis with the men, leaned in close to make the most of body heat. Gibson noticed Imogen’s gaze flicking to the sky while she relayed the activity options. He too started to fret. The forecast this morning had been mostly fine with possible showers, but it wouldn’t be the first time they’d been wrong.
Pushing the thought aside, he welcomed his group of participants. He rolled his eyes as Wazza approached. ‘Don’t tell me I have to teach you how to fix a fence. That’ll be like trying to teach one of the dogs to knit socks.’
‘Humph.’ Wazza gave Gibson the finger. ‘Don’t listen to the Gibster, ladies, I’ll be teaching him a few things.’
‘This I’d like to see.’ Gibson waved his hand at the tools lying on the ground in front of them. ‘Don’t let me hold you back.’
Wazza’s chest puffed up and his shoulders snapped back as he swaggered forward and picked up a fence strainer. ‘Watch and learn, ladies. Who’s up first?’
Gibson folded his arms, leaned back against the fence and watched as Wazza took over, obviously trying to impress the short brunette. She seemed to be the only woman interested, and frankly, he couldn’t blame them.
‘It’s bloody freezing out here,’ whined a blonde after a couple of minutes. She had so much product in her hair the wind hadn’t moved it an inch.
‘Tell me about it,’ added another, rubbing perfectly manicured fingers up and down bare arms. Troy, a guy Gibson played footy with, stepped forward and offered his shirt. Another bloke Gibson recognised from the neighbouring shire quickly did the same.
Brownie points. The shirt-receivers batted their eyelashes in thanks at the now-bare-chested blokes. As he glanced towards the shed, hoping Tom was having better luck entertaining the ladies with his shearing talents, a large drop of rain plopped onto Gibson’s nose. The blonde with the fortified hair must have felt one too because she squealed, yanked Troy’s shirt up over her head like a hoodie and started running towards the shed. Within seconds, rain began falling from the sky as if God had emptied his swimming pool. Big drops soaked into dusty red ground that hadn’t seen a downpour in months.
Squeals of excitement mingled with cries of disgust as the others abandoned all pretences of fencing, chasing the blonde towards the sheering shed. Gibson took one look at the tools, wiped water from his forehead and launched into a run himself. It wasn’t that the rain bothered him so much as that he wanted to be there for Imogen when these wussy women barrelled into the shed. They pushed and shoved ahead of him through the open doorway and then shook their heads, trying to rid their hair of the rain like a pack of wild dogs.
Gibson located Imogen across the other side of the shed, where Tom was in the middle of a shearing demo. As her gaze landed on the chaos spilling in the door, she started towards him.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked.
‘Rain.’ He gestured behind him and she peered past. ‘Lots of it.’
‘Dammit.’ She scowled and ran both hands through her hair. ‘This wasn’t forecast.’
‘Relax,’ he instructed, fighting the urge to squeeze her hand in a show of support. ‘We’ll have lunch early in here and hope it passes quickly. I’ll heat up the urn and we’ll give everyone a warm Milo to settle them. This weekend’s about romance, right?’
She nodded and he swore he saw a lump travel up the column of her throat. He felt one in his too.
‘Trust me, there’s nothing more romantic than keeping warm and sheltered out of the rain. Where’s the lunch?’
‘Still in eskies on the back of Guy’s ute.’
‘I’ll take care of it.’ He was already scanning the crowd for Guy as she thanked him.
Imogen bit into one of Pauli’s gourmet chicken, avocado and sundried tomato wraps and sent a silent prayer of thanks skywards for Gibson. He’d not only kept her calm when the storm threatened to rain on her parade, but he’d made everything perfect for the complaining city girls as well. She only hoped that when this weekend was over, they could get back to some kind of friendship.
With the help of Guy and Tom, he’d trudged back and forth through the rain and puddles, fetching food, blankets to huddle under and, best of all, a massive stereo to really set the mood.
You could barely hear the wind howling and the rain teeming on the tin roof of the shearing shed over the country tunes blasting from the stereo and the tap of dancing feet against the floorboards. Spunky farmers spun the female participants round the shed in some sort of country disco ritual. Imogen couldn’t help but smile. When the girls had run screaming into the shed only half an hour ago, she’d sworn any chance of a successful weekend was over, but now …
‘Care to dance?’
One of the male participants – a guy who frequented the pub – jolted her from her reverie. She’d made the decision not to interact in anything but a professional manner with anyone, but he’d caught her off-guard. Before she knew it, his hand clasped hers and he pulled her off the ground, oblivious to the wrap in her other hand. As the man waltzed her onto the makeshift dance floor, she dumped her food on a trestle table and tried to smile, not wanting to embarrass him by turning him down in front of his peers.
She rocked uncomfortably to the music, glad that the current song was upbeat and she didn’t have to get up close and personal. Counting down the minutes till she could politely escape, she glanced sideways and saw Gibson standing by the door – his eyes trained on her, his lips decidedly scowling. Her stomach dropped. She hoped he’d seen the man approach her and that he didn’t think she could so easily switch her affections.
How far from the truth that was.
All around her, everyone looked to be having the time of their lives. Jenna, twirling underneath Guy’s arm, swung past and winked at Imogen. She tried to smile back. Gibson’s dogs, Jack and Jill, weaved in and out between the dancers, desperate to get in on the action too. But Imogen just couldn’t feel it.
Then, as if solely to torture her, the music that had been loud and boppy seconds before turned soft and undeniably romantic. As each man snatched for his favoured woman, Imogen looked into her partner’s eyes and cringed. Oblivious, he offered a cheesy grin, slipped his arms around her waist and crushed her against him.
The feel of his tall, hard body pressed up against hers sickened her. Her insides revolted and she racked her brain for a way to extract herself. She wr
iggled a little, then just as she was about to make her escape, thunder boomed overhead and the lights and music died.
‘Aww!’ Groans and moans echoed throughout the shed. Her partner dropped his hands to his side, blinking as if to decipher what had happened. She didn’t stick around long enough for him to find out.
Gibson was already outside, surveying the scene. She jumped down the steps from the shed, joining him on the ground. Despite the rain they’d already had, the menacing black clouds hadn’t lifted at all. All around them, heavy drops pelted down, turning the thick, muddy puddles on the normally dusty ground into lakes. Imogen thought briefly of Gibson’s offer that they could use his swimming pool – this had not been what either of them had had in mind.
‘Shit,’ Gibson said as a bolt of lightning illuminated the sky over Lookout hill. Thunder cracked seconds later. He turned to her. ‘You’ve got to get everyone back into town. I can’t remember the last time we had a storm like this. Leave the shed as is. I’ll clean up later, but right now, you’ve gotta move people and I have to move sheep.’
Imogen watched as Gibson started running towards his house. She wanted to call him back – to tell him she hadn’t wanted to dance with that man – but now wasn’t the time. She rubbed her arms – freezing – but knowing from the anxiousness in his voice that this was serious and she didn’t have time to waste.
‘Tom,’ she shouted, as she turned back into the shed, ‘we’ve gotta go.’
His faithful dogs at his heels, Gibson reached his ute, yanked open the door and ushered Jack and Jill in ahead of him. He slammed the door, tugged the gears into reverse and took off towards a low paddock that had been known to flood in times of heavy rain – and where half his sheep just happened to be grazing.
Despite not wanting Imogen’s weekend to be a flop, in a way he couldn’t help being happy for the opportunity to escape.
Most of his mates had now no doubt abandoned the Man Drought project and were probably heading towards their farms, anxious to save their own stock.
Man Drought Page 31