Rocking Horse Hill

by Cathryn Hein

  The afternoon dragged. Em tuned the radio to the football but the broadcast was for the local league and there were few district score updates. With so much to sort around the farm, Em had little time for the house anyway, ducking in only for drinks and loo breaks.

  No matter how many times she told herself it was just dinner, the skip of her heart told her time spent with Josh could never be ‘just’ anything. Her nerves grew, upsetting Lod who shied and misbehaved as she trotted him around the perimeter of Rocking Horse Hill.

  The chooks weren’t much better when she came to lock them up, squabbling around the coop like puffed-up prison rioters, and refusing to settle. Chelsea zoomed for escape only to be foiled by Muffy, on point guard at the gate, and sent throttling in the opposite direction, her low-set bum waggling furiously.

  After throwing hay to Kicki and Cutie, and filling Lod’s manger with a half-bucket of mixed feed, the fading light forced Em back to the house. Inside, the combustion fire had pushed the worst of the cold into the corners. In an hour, it’d be toasty and comforting, perfect for a Saturday night in. She paused at the windows, intending to draw the curtains to help preserve heat, but the sight of Rocking Horse Hill stopped her. Earlier the sunset had painted the crest in orange; now moonlight cast it in silver and shadow, the stone edges luminous and magical. She left the curtains open, smiling and hugging herself as she padded in her socks to the bathroom.

  Josh had mentioned going back. And there was no better time and place in the past than Rocking Horse Hill.

  He arrived a few minutes past six-thirty, rapping on the front door and sending Muffy into a paroxysm of gruff barks. Em ordered her to shush and headed down the old passageway, flicking on light switches as she went, expectation bubbling inside, although expectation of what she had no idea.

  She swung the heavy timber door open. Josh stood on the verandah in the dark, his body hunched against the arctic wind.

  He grinned in relief as light flooded his face. ‘Thank God. For a while I thought I had the wrong house.’

  ‘Sorry, I should have told you to come round the back. No one ever uses this door.’ She stood aside. ‘Come in.’

  Josh paused in front of her in the hallway, once again crossing the invisible border of her personal space, and for a breathy moment she though he was going to kiss her. Instead, he raised his hands. A wine bottle was gripped in each, one red, one white. Em quirked an eyebrow and pushed the door closed.

  He laughed and shook his head. ‘Don’t read anything into it. I didn’t know what we were eating or what you’d prefer.’

  ‘So, did you win?’

  ‘Lost by two points. Boys were a bit unhappy with the um­piring.’ Josh shrugged. ‘We had our chances, just didn’t take them. I kicked a goal, though.’

  ‘Hero, huh?’

  ‘I wish. I played on some old bloke who hammered me.’ Josh looked down as Muffy sniffed suspiciously around the cuff of his jeans. ‘Hello.’

  ‘This is my dog, Miss Muffet. Otherwise known as the phantom hairball horror.’

  Josh crouched down, placed the bottles on the hall runner, and held out his fingers for Muffy to scent before stroking the dog’s head. The afternoon outdoors had left her coat in knots and untidy spikes but Em hadn’t had time to spruce her up. Josh didn’t seem to mind, cooing nonsense to her as he petted. Finished, he rose and, noticing Em’s expression, smiled. ‘I miss having a dog. Bianca took ours.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Em, not knowing what else to say.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. She loved the dog as much as I did.’ His eyes took on a momentary downcast edge. ‘Probably more.’

  Em’s mind filled with questions but she kept them to herself. Instead, she pointed down the hall. ‘Come through.’

  Bottles in hand, he followed, and she sensed him peering into darkened rooms behind her, no doubt as curious about her life as she was about his. At the entrance to the living area, he halted, frowning slightly as he scanned the room. ‘This has changed.’

  Em went to disagree and then realised that it had changed. Josh would have known the house when it was still her mother’s domain. Adrienne favoured modern minimalism, with careful colour and fabric coordination, and no clutter. While most of the dark timber furniture from that time remained, beeswaxed to a comforting shine, the room now had an entirely different feel. Tartan wool rugs and colourful, mismatched cushions covered the impractical cream leather lounge. Row after row of books packed the built-in bookcases, fiction and non-fiction muddled together, polychrome spines forming a patchwork of colour. The remaining shelves were clustered with photo frames of various sizes and styles – the faces of all the people Em loved smiled out across the room. Other surfaces supported knickknacks, family heirlooms and other relics from Rocking Horse Hill’s grand history, resurrected from storage and placed proudly on display. The effect was country, warm and literary, like a cosy library, and redolent with savoury cooking scents. Classical music crept softly from the stereo, adding to the bookish comfort.

  ‘I could never keep it the way Mum had it,’ said Em. ‘Too much work.’

  ‘And this isn’t? Must take some dusting. I like it better, though. This has warmth.’ Nodding to himself as he did, Josh gazed around again, before returning his focus to Em and smiling. ‘Definitely more you.’

  The comment flushed Em with pleasure.

  He rested the wine on the dining table and headed for the windows, Muffy padding alongside. Em watched him, admiring his body from behind as she appraised his clothes and tried to assess how much effort he’d gone to.

  He looked handsome, wonderfully so, and fit despite football fatigue. Neat camel jeans showed off his long legs. A classically cut charcoal blazer highlighted the width of his shoulders, a dark grey lambswool half-zip jumper hugging his chest beneath.

  She’d opted for a similar look: jeans, short black leather boots, and a silky burgundy shirt with the sleeves folded up. Torn between looking good and kitchen practicality, Em had copied Friday night’s form and knotted her hair into a loose bun, a style that exposed her neck and throat but reduced the risk of Josh discovering a hair in his food. Her make-up was subtle, enough to smooth her skin, give her hazel eyes a smoky sultriness and her lips a hint of gloss. The end result was casual but quietly sexy.

  Josh regarded her over his shoulder. ‘You must love having this to yourself.’

  ‘I do.’

  He turned back and scanned the crater’s outline against the night sky. She watched him, full of pride and pleasure, and struck by a sense of rightness, of something that should have been: Josh by the window, Muffy on her haunches nearby, Rocking Horse Hill filling the hollows of their lives.

  Rich aromas drifted from the kitchen, reminding Em of her dinner preparations. She checked that the baking risotto had enough liquid and that the pumpkin was caramelising nicely, and closed the oven again.

  When she straightened, Josh was leaning against the bar. ‘Smells good.’

  ‘Roast pumpkin, sage and pancetta risotto, courtesy of Jamie. Except I’m cheating and baking it instead.’

  ‘Friend of yours?’

  She laughed. ‘Famous TV chef.’

  ‘You know me, I just like eating food.’ He contemplated her for a moment. ‘You like cooking. I remember that. It’s what you used to talk about with Mum. That and gardening.’

  ‘Your mum was a great cook.’

  ‘Still is.’

  ‘I didn’t mean —’

  ‘I know you didn’t. Now,’ he said, indicating the bottles, ‘a drink?’

  Josh took his blazer off and settled at the bench with a glass of red wine as Em whisked vinaigrette ingredients together in a bowl. The rocket salad waited in the fridge, along with dessert. In keeping with the easy menu, earlier prepared ramekins of uncooked moelleux au chocolat lined the bottom shelf, with four spares to take to Jasmine’s tomorrow as a treat. Twenty minutes in the oven, and she and Josh would enjoy gooey-centred chocolate puddings, a dessert d
isproportionately impressive to the effort it took to create.

  The dining table was also kept simple, with a pair of plain white linen placemats arranged at right angles and set with Em’s everyday cutlery, wine and water glasses. Only the silver napkin rings and heirloom linen napkins were special, satisfying Em’s need for at least a little sense of occasion.

  Keeping to safe topics, she chatted about the shop, show riding, Jas and Teagan, the upcoming season and how they’d all made a pact to volunteer for the show committee next year.

  ‘Sounds like you keep yourself busy,’ said Josh.

  ‘I do, I guess.’ Em stared across the room at the big windows. Rocking Horse Hill had disappeared against the reflection of light. ‘I wish winter wasn’t so long, though.’

  ‘We all wish that.’

  At the ring of the timer, she opened the oven door.

  ‘Let me,’ said Josh, sliding off his stool.

  ‘I’m fine.’ But Josh had already pushed up his sleeves and taken the mitts from her. She stood aside and let him work, aware of the way the sinews and muscles of his forearms moved under his skin. The way the light covering of hair held golden tints and seemed to shimmer in the kitchen glow.

  He put the dishes on trivets and passed her back the mitts.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ she asked, removing the casserole lid.

  ‘At the smell of that I am.’

  She stirred the risotto and tasted it before sprinkling in more salt. ‘I hope it’s up to scratch.’

  ‘It will be.’

  She tipped in the small chunks of caramelised pumpkin, her stomach fluttering at his compliment and the certainty with which he’d said it.

  ‘Why don’t you sit at the table?’ she said. ‘I won’t be a minute.’

  He took the long side seat, leaving Em the place at the head of the table. Trent had always automatically sat at the head of the table, as if this was his house instead of hers. At the time she hadn’t really noticed or been bothered, but the difference in Josh’s attitude struck her strongly, and deepened feelings for him that were already too unruly.

  She used her favourite wide-brimmed dishes, the cheffy ones she’d bought on impulse off the Internet one night after seeing them on a cooking show. The risotto, with its autumnal colours, creamy rice grains and indulgent swirl of rich mascarpone, was shown off to perfection.

  Josh inhaled appreciatively, before taking the salad servers and heaping two serves onto his side plate. Except for the occasional murmur from Josh, they ate with little conversation. Several times, Em caught herself staring at his mouth, his half-smile as he ate, as if each forkful gave him some exquisite secret pleasure.

  ‘That,’ he said, placing his cutlery carefully into his clean bowl, ‘was amazing.’

  ‘It’s a good recipe.’

  She reached for his plate but he pressed his hand over hers. The flush that had been rising in her cheeks flared higher.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ he said.

  ‘Who’s the guest here?’

  ‘Doesn’t mean I can’t help.’

  ‘You’re fine, Josh. Just sit. I’ll sort it out.’

  She cleared the table, catching his eye often, wondering what he was thinking. They’d started their re-acquaintance badly – her snapping at him in the shop, walking out on him in the pub, avoiding him at Camrick. And now here he was in her house, enjoying her cooking and watching her with an expression that seemed to promise more than she was sure she was ready for.

  Em’s body felt light from the wine as she settled back at the table. Outside, the wind rocketed through the trees and under the eaves, tugging at the house. But she and Josh remained cocooned, secure in comfort and intimacy.

  He held up his glass and, when Em lifted hers, leaned forward to clink the edges together. His eyes caressed hers, raising Em’s heartbeat.

  ‘To old friends.’

  She tilted her head, overtaken with recklessness. ‘Friends?’

  ‘Lovers, then.’

  She drew her glass away, her eyes locked on his. The CD stopped, leaving a tension-rippled quiet.

  ‘Tonight’s not going how I expected,’ he said.

  ‘What did you expect?’

  He placed his glass down and looked into the wine for a moment. ‘I thought it’d be harder. I thought you’d want talk about Bianca. Ask what went wrong. Check I haven’t turned into some hate-filled divorcee.’

  ‘It’s not your nature to hate, Josh.’

  ‘I could have changed.’

  ‘Not like that.’ She frowned. ‘Did you want to talk about her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You can, if you want.’

  ‘Do you want to talk about Trent?’

  ‘No.’

  He shrugged as if that explained it all.

  She rose to change the CD and check on the puddings, grateful for the chance to collect herself. He was right. The night wasn’t going as either of them expected. It was moving too fast, tension rising in the fudge-scented air. This was meant to be a reconciliation of sorts, yet Em felt restless with desire and she wished she’d waited longer before putting the moelleux in the oven. Her hunger lay elsewhere, in the hankering need to push Josh’s chair away from the table, settle astride his sexy hips and kiss him furiously until he lifted her up and carried her down the hall to her bed.

  Except there’d be no sex tonight. She wasn’t that kind of woman, and these feelings were only the residue of something sweet but lost. If they were to have something again it wouldn’t be the same. Thirteen years ago they had no cares, only the selfishness of their desire and the rawness of their need. This time, it would be friendship and mutual respect that led them into a relationship, not base lust.

  Assuming respect was still possible after what she’d done.

  Dessert was as big a hit with Josh as the main course. He settled back to regard her with a lazy, satisfied smile. ‘If you set out to impress me, I’m impressed.’

  Em’s desire soared hill-high. She smothered it with domesticity. Figuring that he wouldn’t be easily fobbed off, she allowed him to help with the dishes, and was glad she did. The practical chore took the edge off, and let them talk about developments in the town and local gossip. By the time the last dish was stowed and the benches were wiped, they were back to easy friendship.

  Josh glanced at his watch. ‘I suppose I should get home. It’s been a big day.’

  ‘You sure you don’t want coffee?’

  ‘Thanks, but no.’ Josh wandered towards the sliding door, carry­ing his jacket, Muffy trailing behind. At the glass he stopped and gave the dog a stern look. ‘You look after your mistress now.’ To Em’s astonishment, Muffy pressed her shoulder into Josh’s leg, a sign of affection Em had always considered exclusively hers. Josh ruffled Muffy’s ears before turning to Em. ‘Thanks for tonight. It was great.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  They stared at one another. The CD finished. Wind threaded through the roof and brushed against the house.

  ‘So.’

  ‘So.’

  The temperature rose.

  He leaned forward to kiss her cheek but the kiss lingered. The tiny hairs on her skin stirred against his breath. She could feel his swallow of hesitancy, then his long exhale as he made his decision. Another kiss: soft, fluttery. Heat swept her body, scattering it with delicious prickles.

  Em closed her eyes against the pull of yearning. ‘Josh. . .’

  His lips crept in a series of butterfly touches towards her mouth, leaving little puckers of ecstasy in their wake, the chasing skim of his stubble shooting thrills down her back. ‘I know.’

  ‘It’s too soon.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Then. . .’

  And suddenly she didn’t care. It was simply him, back where she needed him.

  He dropped his jacket and cupped her face, scanning her expression. His eyes hooded when he recognised her desire, then his mouth was on hers and her mind turned frantic with the need for
more.

  Only when Muffy tried to follow them into the bedroom, wide-eyed with curiosity, did Em speak again, ordering the dog back to her box. Head lowered and hunch-shouldered, Muffy skulked back down the hall, the scratch of her claws like sulky tickings-off until they finally faded to quiet.

  Leaving Em and Josh alone and breathless in the night.

  Eight

  The bed rocked, rousing Josh from his half-doze. He reached out a hand, fingers catching a patch of silky skin before it slid away.

  ‘Come back,’ he said, leaning across to slip his arm around Em’s waist. Cold seeped in under the sheets where they’d rumpled down as she’d twisted out.

  She smiled and brushed his fringe from his face. ‘I have to let Muffy out. She’s desperate.’

  As she spoke another forlorn whimper broke the silence. Josh sat up as Em snatched a thick jumper from the leather armchair tucked against the wall, and tugged it over her head. Muffy sat miserably in the doorway, her front paws moving up and down as though on hot asphalt, haunches tucked beneath her and her fluffy tail between her legs. He threw her an amused look only for it to stall as Em bent over to retrieve her jeans from the floor.

  Her bum curved in two pale globes, wide at the hips before tapering upwards to her slim waist. Long, slender legs gave the impression of athleticism, the muscle tone strong enough for definition without affecting her soft feminine lines. For an intoxicating moment, his mind was caught by the gap between her upper thighs, the way the flesh almost, but not quite, met. Josh’s groin stirred with the thought of what lay above that point.

  ‘Don’t be long,’ he said.

  Em’s eyes were lit with amusement. ‘Long enough to let my poor dog out, and the chooks and Chelsea.’

  ‘And then?’

  She knelt on the bed, her loose hair swinging as she leaned close. ‘You can warm me up again.’ And with a light kiss she was gone, a relieved Muffy scampering in her wake.