by Julie Mac
She turned her head slightly to the right and chinked open one eye. Then she sat upright in astonishment.
She shook her head in disbelief, blinked twice and pushed her sunglasses up into her hair. He was there, on the beach, walking barefoot towards her across the brown sugar sand, his six-foot-plus frame clad in swim shorts and a T-shirt, his dark hair hidden beneath a battered akubra.
He walked right up to her, still whistling his tuneless ditty, then he squatted on his haunches beside her, flashed her a dopey grin and intoned—in his best imitation of Kiwi bloke-ism—‘Yeah, gidday.’
Laughter bubbled up within her and spilled over, curling around her in an effervescent tide. While she laughed, he unfurled the towel he’d been carrying and stretched himself out on the sand beside her, his upper body supported upright by his elbows.
‘Glad you find my little song so amusing, ma’am,’ he drawled, tipping the brim of the disreputable-looking outback hat further down his forehead, and slanting his blue eyes towards her. It was obvious to Kate he hadn’t shaved since yesterday, and the black day-old beard did nothing to detract from the devilish image he now projected.
She erupted into a fresh paroxysm of giggles while he watched her in mock wonder, then she suddenly sobered.
‘You’re in Sydney! You can’t be here.’
‘Ah. But I am. Unless I’m a mirage, and hot as it is today, I don’t think that’s a likely explanation.’
As he spoke, he shifted into sitting position and peeled off his shirt. She saw the satiny ripple of smooth olive skin and muscle and turned her eyes away in self-defence.
‘Why?’ she asked in a voice so quiet she wondered if he would hear.
‘It seemed like a good idea at the time.’
She waited for further explanation, and when it was not forthcoming, she turned to look at him. He’d lain himself out flat and pulled his hat right over his face.
‘Why?’ she asked again, louder this time.
‘Like I said, it seemed like a good idea.’ He pulled the hat from his face and looked at her. ‘I just got here a while ago. I talked to Bob and May, told them I would bunk down in the lean-to up at the top of the airstrip, where the topdressing pilots used to stay. They wouldn’t hear of it. Gave me a key and said I had to use the big house. Said you were down here at the log cabin.’ He placed the hat over his face again, silent now.
She studied the hat for several seconds, and then she allowed her eyes to travel down his body to where one hand lay relaxed against his chest. The long, strong fingers flicked at a sandfly, which had landed among the black hairs on his chest, then they were still. He wasn’t overly hairy, and that pleased her. His shoulders were smooth and the muscles of his upper arms beautifully sculpted. She watched the rhythmic rise and fall of the wide chest. As she watched, she heard his breathing deepen and, with surprise, she realised he’d fallen asleep.
She lowered herself back down into a horizontal position and reached for her novel. Two pages later, she realised she hadn’t a clue what she’d just read and she abandoned the book. She lay very still—but unrelaxed. She was aware of every breath she took, in, out, in, out, and the little nerve ends in her skin were making her screamingly aware of the proximity of his near-naked body to her own.
If I rolled to my right, my whole body would be touching his, chest to chest, thigh to thigh, our legs tangled together, she thought. She closed her eyes and tried to divert her mind by thinking about business, but her tried-and-true tactic failed to work.
Images of the man beside her possessed her thoughts in brilliant technicolour. She could see the little trail of fine hairs that traversed the flat planes of his stomach and disappeared under the waistband of his shorts—and surprisingly, they were a soft golden contrast to his dark chest hairs. She took a shuddery breath as she remembered the taut pull of his shorts across his thighs, and the long, muscular length of his legs.
Oh hell, this is crazy, she told herself as she eased up onto one elbow, carefully, so she wouldn’t wake him. If closing her eyes provoked such dangerous images, she’d just darn well keep them open. She looked out to sea: a yacht was passing the bay, its huge spinnaker a brilliant butterfly of colour on the horizon. She followed it with her eyes until it passed from sight, then she watched a cheeky seagull as it primed its courage and strutted closer and closer to she and Sam, hoping for a tasty titbit of food. When it was about to poke its head into the beach bag at her side, she moved her hand and it flew away.
Sam made a little moaning noise in his sleep. It was an innocent and endearing sound, and she found her eyes resting on his body. It was, she decided, a particularly well made body, which rendered her five-foot-six-inch frame tiny in comparison. She glanced down at her own body and felt a warm flush heat her cheeks.
Her bikini wasn’t exactly minuscule, but it did show rather a lot of skin; she mostly wore it only up here at the beach, when she was on her own. In company, she usually opted for a more modest one-piece.
She reached into her bag and pulled out a T-shirt. Many men, she reflected, would have grabbed the opportunity to ogle her unashamedly but, to his credit, when Sam had arrived his eyes had remained firmly on her face. He’d played the clown, watched her laugh, and then he’d lain down and closed his eyes. He tried to save me from embarrassment.
She didn’t remember falling asleep, but she must have, because when she opened her eyes their dappled umbrella of shade had lengthened down the beach.
‘Time for a swim, Kate?’ She turned and saw he was standing beside her, his face shaded by the wide brim of the akubra. Tiny beads of moisture stood on his chest and she guessed he’d been walking along the beach while she slept.
She clamped down on the flash of pure panic streaking through her brain at the thought of their bodies locked together in the sensuous embrace of the sea, and said lightly, ‘Oh absolutely. I’m ready when you are.’
He stretched down a hand to help her up, then let go immediately she was standing.
‘There are rips just in front of us, and over there.’ He pointed at dark green water further along the beach. ‘I think we’d be best swimming in this area to the left.’
She nodded, her hands on her hips. ‘It’s a beautiful beach, but in a summer like this, when the wind’s blowing mostly from the east, we get lots of rips and holes. It can be quite dangerous. I love swimming, but if I was here on my own today, I wouldn’t be doing much more than paddling in the edges.’
He touched the brim of his outback hat again. ‘Don’t worry ma’am,’ he said in a silly drawl. ‘You’re looking at a gen-u-ine, one hundred per cent, fully trained surf lifeguard. You’ll be safe with me.’
He flashed white teeth in a smarmy grin, and she laughed again. Sam the clown was a persona she rather liked. She suspected he was deliberately blunting the tension in their relationship—and if that was the case, she had no objections.
He dropped his hat on his towel and jogged down the beach. Discarding her sunglasses and T-shirt, and grabbing a hair tie from her bag, Kate followed. He had already dived under the first wave by the time she had accustomed her ankles to the cool shock of the Pacific Ocean and pulled her hair into a high ponytail. She saw him stand up, water streaming down his back.
‘Come on,’ he called. ‘It’s lovely and warm once you’re in.’
He turned to dive under another oncoming wave and she pushed out towards him. The waves surged relentlessly, and she marvelled at the beauty and power of the ocean. She felt the pull of the undertow against her legs, and knew that by the time they’d finished their swim, the ocean would have shunted them fifty or more metres along the beach. When the water was almost chest height, she sprang in a graceful arc and dived under the next wave. She felt it surge over her, and when she emerged, he was beside her, raking dark, wet hair back from his face. Water dripped from his eyebrows and ran in rivulets through the dark stubble of his beard.
‘Do you like to bodysurf?’ Out here, he had to raise his voic
e to make it heard above the steady roar of the waves.
She shook her head. ‘I’ve never tried,’ she admitted. ‘Not properly anyway. Mostly I’ve used a boogie board.’
‘Come on then, kid. You haven’t lived until you’ve bodysurfed.’ He turned out towards the ocean.
‘See that wave building a bit further out?’ She nodded, not sure which wave he was referring to: she could see row after row of waves building in relentless blue-green rolls, and in front of them were four or five foaming breakers, spray flying from their crests.
‘We’ll get out there and catch a wave just as it’s breaking. I’ll tell you when to go, then you just launch yourself forward, head down and arms in front of you. You do a couple of swimming strokes, then you let the wave do the rest. Okay?’
‘Okay.’ She nodded in agreement and followed as he pushed his way out through the breakers. She was exhilarated by the restless beat of the ocean against her skin, and she marvelled at the lacy patterns of foam the waves made as they broke around her. Sometimes she jumped over the breaking waves; sometimes she dived under them. Soon, she realised she could only just touch the bottom. She looked up to see a huge wave bearing down on them, and experienced a moment of panic. Sam yelled, ‘Duck!’ and grabbed her hand just as the wave crashed into them. She felt his hand, strong around hers as she was tossed and buffeted, and when she came up, she was relieved to see a patch of flat water ahead of them.
‘We’ll wait here for the next set of waves,’ said Sam. ‘They’re not far off—see that one building?’
She could indeed see the wave building, like a fat roll of carpet under the glassy deep green of the ocean. She followed his lead, and allowed herself to float, glad of his closeness as the approaching wall of water bore down on them.
‘Ready?’ he called.
She nodded dumbly, watching in fascinated terror as the green wall rapidly built and built until it towered a metre and a half above them, and she could see its crest sharpening, then dissolving in a creaming, foaming, crashing curl further along the beach.
‘Now,’ yelled Sam in the split second before the curling wave reached Kate. She launched herself forward and screamed in pure joy as the wave caught her, and carried her, light as a feather, on a speeding roller-coaster ride towards the shore. She bounced and skimmed along the surface, and when the wave eventually petered out, she dragged herself upright in knee-deep water, laughing and panting.
She turned to see his dark head speeding on a wave behind her, and he pulled up a few metres away. He stood, shook his head to clear the water, pushed his hair back and grinned.
‘That was fantastic, Sam,’ she called. ‘Can we do it again?’
He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Come on, then, Kate McPherson. Looks as though you’ve got some lost time to make up.’
Again and again, they half-swam, half-pushed through the breaking waves to catch a ride. Once they stopped at chest height and Kate pointed to a school of flashing, tiny, silver fish, suspended in the translucent turquoise wall of water in front of them.
Forty-five minutes later, Kate’s limbs were tired, and she was starting to feel cold. But when Sam suggested they go in, she flashed him a hopeful smile and said, ‘Just one more, Sam, please? Just one more really good ride, then we can call it quits.’ She knew she sounded like a ten-year-old, but she didn’t care.
He agreed to her request—as she suspected he would.
The undertow seemed stronger and she was having difficulty pushing her way out through the waves. For every three steps she took out towards the sea, she seemed to be pushed two steps back towards the shore. Sam was several metres ahead of her, and she’d almost decided to flag away the idea of catching a big wave and instead ride a smaller, more sedate wave to shore, when he turned and saw her predicament. He came back towards her and took her hand, pulling her with him. They ducked under one wave, and she bobbed up, only to find another breaking wave almost on top of her. She ducked again and came up spluttering, the salt water burning the back of her throat.
He pulled her against him and held her until the next wave had passed, then he said: ‘This is far enough. You’re tired, Kate. We’ll go in on the next wave.’
They launched themselves on the wave simultaneously, and Kate quickly recognised it as a ‘dumper’, a particularly nasty breed of wave. True to form, it picked her up like a rag doll, tossing her feet right over her head before sweeping her along sideways in a mad dash to shore.
Her stomach bounced against the sand as the wave dumped for one last time, then she was bumping and swirling against a warm, solid object which wrapped strong arms around her and held her until the wave deposited them in a heap in the shallows.
A following wave washed over Kate’s head and she struggled to stand up, fighting against the powerful inshore undertow that clutched at her calves, threatening to pull her over. Arms like steel bands pulled her upright and crushed her to him. She felt the friction of his salt and sand-rimmed chest against the softness of her naked skin, and heard him exhale a long breath.
‘You gave me a fright,’ he muttered, and let her go. In a smooth motion he turned, bent and began splashing water against his thighs and chest to wash away the sand.
She understood. She could have been hurt; he felt responsible. Of course he wasn’t responsible; she was an adult, she took responsibility for her own actions. But it felt good, very good, to have someone caring for her, looking out for her. She smiled, as she too began washing off encrusted sand.
‘That was so much fun, Sam,’ she enthused. ‘Even the dumping on the beach part.’
‘Yeah?’ She was relieved to see his smile. As they walked up the beach to their towels, she chatted animatedly about the freak wave, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to agree to meet him for a cold drink at her grandparents’ house after she’d showered.
***
When she pulled into the yard at the big house, he was saddling a dark brown horse with a black mane and tail and an incredibly swayed back. It stamped its feet and turned its head as if to nip him when he hauled upwards to tighten the girth around the ample belly. She heard him growl and push its head away. The young grey she’d seen the day Trojan died was tethered beside the bay horse, already saddled.
She switched off the ignition in the ute and sat at the wheel, shaking her head from side to side as Sam walked over to her.
‘Oh no, I couldn’t, Sam,’ she said, answering his question before it was asked.
‘You can,’ he said quietly. ‘We’ll have a quick drink, then we’ll go for a sedate walk on the horses. You’ll really enjoy it. I know you will. Besides, my young one needs to be exercised.’
Kate shook her head again. ‘You don’t understand, Sam. I couldn’t. Not … not after what I did to Trojan.’
He leaned on the ute window and looked from her to the horses and back again. She saw a sheen of moisture on his forehead; any exertion in this weather was hot work.
‘You can, and it’ll be good for you, precisely because of what happened to Trojan. The old girl will look after you beautifully—and anyway, it’s better if I have her along to keep the young fella calm.’
‘But I just saw her try to bite you,’ Kate protested feebly.
He laughed. ‘No excuse, sweetheart, I’m sorry. That was just a pretend nip, a game most horses play when you’re pulling the girth tight. Old Annie wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
Kate gave in gracefully, and thirty minutes later she was decked out in one of Sam’s safety helmets and a spare pair of sneakers from her bag in the ute. She was glad she’d dressed in jeans. Kate patted Annie’s neck, decided she liked her big, brown eyes, and then grasped the saddle and leaned into her side when Sam offered to give her a leg up.
With ease, he hoisted her into the saddle, and instructed her to walk around the yard. He stopped her after the first circuit and checked the girth and the length of the stirrups. Kate moved her thigh back in the saddle, painfully aware of
the closeness of his hands. And he, she thought, was careful not to touch her.
Soon, they were climbing the hill behind the homestead, the horses following the rough track hewn by thousands of sheep hooves over the years. Sam was in front on the young grey, and Kate’s mount followed without her needing to do anything more than sit in the saddle and relax. At Sam’s instruction, she rode on a loose rein, so loose she hardly held it at all, and soon she realised he was right: Annie felt warm and steady and alive under her, and Kate knew this was the start of the process to heal the guilt and grief of Trojan’s death.
She talked to Annie and told her how beautiful she was, and Sam turned in the saddle and explained that the ageing bay mare was a retired station hack and seasoned pony club campaigner. Her owner had lent her to Sam as a paddock mate for Blue, his young grey.
They rode along a ridge, then through a grove of puriri trees, and Sam asked Kate if she’d like to try a trot. Very soon she’d fallen into the easy rhythm of Annie’s steady paces, and she was remembering techniques learned during a spell of riding lessons in her early teens.
She even managed a short, fast, canter up a steep slope, and as the wind brushed her face she felt deliciously unburdened and free. They followed a fence line until it met with another, which crossed it at right angles. Kate could see a herd of fat, white-faced Hereford cows and calves grazing in the next paddock, and was amused when a group of half-grown calves cavorted towards them, tossing their heads with curiosity. Annie seemed not to have noticed, but Kate was alarmed when Blue suddenly stopped in front of her and began backing up. His eyes were huge, and his nostrils flared as he snorted in fear.
Kate gasped in fright when Blue lifted his front feet off the ground in a half-rear and then leapt sideways and tried to wheel around in the direction they had come from. She relaxed fractionally when she saw Sam was unfazed. He pulled Blue around in a tight circle, making him face the cattle again.