A Bush Christmas (2 page)

‘What about my case?' Jaime regarded the panniers on the V-Max with despair. There was no way she was going to fit a
tote
bag of clothes in those things, let alone a large suitcase.

‘Just grab a few clothes, then send the rest up on the truck.' Marble Man had turned the bike off again while she dithered. He now seemed furious. His words were forced through clenched teeth and he kept glancing towards the huge mountains she could see towering over the town. They didn't appear much tamer than the man so keen to get in amongst them.

She swallowed and snatched at her case, which had been sitting on the footpath. (She had figured there wasn't much chance of it being stolen in this dozy little joint.)

‘I simply must have my hair dryer. And a spare bikini,' she said as she flung the bulging case down on the ground and crouched to unzip it. The lid sprang open with gusto, flinging bras and knickers across the street. Floral lace and black satin decorated the path like delicate street art.

Oh God. What must the man be thinking of her now? She scrabbled to stuff everything back inside the suitcase, all the while aware of a piercing glare on her back.

‘You might want this one?'

She spun on her heels. Marble Man held her favourite red G-sting up with a pointer finger. His face was still exuding animosity, but she thought she could detect a tiny little quirk to the edge of his pursed lips.

This was going from very bad to downright mortifying.

She mustered all the dignity she could, got up and tried to grab the scrap of satin from his grasp. He snatched it away a quick as a red-bellied black snake. She wondered if his bite was as deadly.

‘Say please.'

What? Oh, for crap's sake. The man wanted to
play
now?

‘Just give me the G-string, Stirling,' she said, very proud her voice came out just like she'd wanted it, cool and calm with a hint of insolence. No panic, no stress, not even a squeak.

His dark eyebrows quirked in surprise at her use of his name. For some reason that gave her a frisson of pleasure. Ha! Nothing like a bit of girl power. And, after all, what did he expect? A simpering little city chick to fall at his feet? She'd show him she wasn't a woman or
doll
to be ordered around.

She held out her hand imperiously. Beckoned for the lingerie with a fluttering of her outstretched fingers.

‘I said, say please. Don't they teach manners in the big bad city of Melbourne?' he said.

She sucked in a breath, threw back her shoulders and tried to stand tall, which was a bit hard in flat shoes. ‘I'll have you know I went to one of the finest private schools, best university and, yes, my parents did teach me manners, unlike yours. Now give me my G-string.'

He still didn't hand it over.

Jaime clenched her teeth, rolled her eyes and then purred, ‘Plea
ssseeee
…' Anything to get the damn thing out of his big paws and back in the case where it belonged.

He flung the dainty scrap in her direction, cast another look at the black ominous clouds shifting and swirling overhead, and said, ‘You better choose your stuff quick. Leave the rest with Blue. We've got to go
now
unless you want to get wet.'

His eyes narrowed in on her clinging top and then just as quickly shifted away. She'd swear he coloured a little, but couldn't be sure as just then he pulled a helmet over his head.

Hmmm … interesting. Maybe Mr Stirling wasn't made of marble after all.

 

She sat on the speeding motorbike, curled in behind the man's back. His broad, hard, very male back. And she was grateful for its bulk and warmth because it had got cold quickly. Very chilly, in fact. She could have sworn she'd seen a drop or two of rain on her helmet visor until the wind whipped it away. The big black machine under her throbbed with power as it bowled along, eating up the tar and the kilometres as they climbed the hills out of Lake Grace.

Six weeks ago, while sitting with her friends, sipping an espresso in Lygon Street, this was the last place she'd have imagined she'd be. Of course, that was before the big R, when she had fitted in with her girlfriends as they all sat tapping on their smartphones and iPads, discussing the latest in apps.

Her new pre-paid mobile didn't even work in this Godforsaken place.

But somehow, just at this moment, none of that seemed to matter because despite the cold, she had the crisp and clean wind blowing against her face (she'd risked pulling up her visor), and the most incredible mountain range splayed out on both sides of the road. A river, with adjacent green and gold flats abutting its banks,
snaked its way across the valley floor way down below them. The green-blue mountains above were shrouded in curtains of grey fluffy cotton balls of cloud.

As they flew along, she felt she could reach out and touch the gum trees, the rocks, the hills and the bush speeding past. She hadn't felt this free and so close to nature in a long time. She tried to think
how
long and was shocked to realise the last time was when her father had taken her fishing on Christmas Day.

The day before he died. She choked back a sob.

The man in front of her must have felt something as he tapped her on the leg she had tucked in behind his and signalled with his hand:
Are you okay?

No, she wasn't okay. She would never be okay with her father's death. But somehow she just had to push through it.

She signalled back, hoping he got the message.
Yeah, sure
.

And it was about then that the bike started to weave and sweep around the corners that led up through the mountain range towards Burdekin's Gap. Stirling leant into the turns and rode the machine with a dexterity even she, a novice, could appreciate. She found herself pushed hard up against the man, her limbs instinctively reacting to the deft weave of the bike, her body moving as one with his. The only thing holding her on the bike was the clutch of her thighs against his and the clasp of her hands around his waist. It was an awesome feeling. She closed her eyes and just went with the flow of man and bike.

 

All too soon it was over. The motorbike was slowing down in front of a cute-looking general store with its bull-nosed verandah and twin colonial windows facing the road. The shop's outside lights were glowing a welcome in the early evening air.

Stirling pulled the bike up in front of the place just as the heavens opened, sending down the heaviest rain Jaime had ever been in. It was coming in sheets and she wondered why the heck the man in front of her wasn't getting off the bike.

He started slapping her leg just as a voice came from under the shelter of the verandah. ‘You'll have to get off the bike first, love, so he can keep it balanced!'

Shit. Of course. Silly her. She stood up and bailed off the bike before doing a runner to the shelter of the verandah, pulling off her helmet as she went. Stirling unclipped one of his bike's panniers and threw it across to the bloke who'd come up to stand beside her. The unknown man thankfully caught it rather than dropping it into the rapidly forming puddles at her feet. Stirling ‘whoever' then gave a little nod, revved the V-Max and rode off.

Like, far out. What was it with this place?

‘Guess that means you're staying here?' said the bloke beside her.

Jaime turned to see a wicked pair of blue eyes, peering out from a floppy fringe of blonde hair, regarding her with interest. Aha. Now this sort of man she could handle. She flicked her locks back across the Pro Hart overalls, refusing to think of the helmet hairdo she must be sporting, fluttered her lashes and made an effort to look wide-eyed. ‘And you would be?'

‘I'm Ryan Morley.'

‘So
you're
Ryan!'

‘I knew my reputation was good, but I didn't think it was
that
good. Tell me, what did you hear? I like to know if my talents are slipping.' The man's eyes twinkled as they stared at her. He looked to be about her age and Jaime watched as his expression of kindness turned to male interest. She inwardly smiled. Obviously the helmet hadn't done any serious damage. But then she realised he was looking lower.
The overalls had come undone in the tearing wind and her nipples were on high beam through her now damp shirt. She hastily grabbed at the copious material to cover herself, thanking the heavens for Bluey's wife's curves.

She put out a hand for the pannier. ‘Lovely to meet you, Ryan, but I can take that now, thanks. Is there any way I can get to Polly's Plains House tonight?'

The man went to throw a hand in the direction of the disappearing motorbike, but then seemed to think better of it. ‘Well, I'm just about to close up the store. I could give you a lift?'

Jaime took another glance at him. The clean-cut, American college-boy look didn't quite suit this backwater. But he didn't seem like an axe murderer either, and where the hell else was she going to sleep tonight? Although, the way Ryan Morley was drinking her in she resolved not to take the overalls off until she was well and truly inside Polly's Plains House. Wherever the hell that was.

The note sat on the old wooden kitchen table. She didn't see it at first, intent as she was on getting rid of Ryan before he moved past the kitchen. He had turned out to be a nice, harmless sort of man who was apparently waiting for a new backpacker to rock up and help him over Christmas in the store. Though judging by the few houses she had seen in Burdekin's Gap tonight, she couldn't imagine Ryan requiring another hand over the festive season. Perhaps he needed some Swedish backpacker to warm his frypan
and
bed?

This joint was so remote you would have to be a special kind of woman to live here. The drive to Polly's Plains House in the dark had been positively
spooky
. Huge old oak trees, mirror images of each other, limbs spread like double-jointed fingers, lined a long gravel drive that wound its way around a hill. Then there was the house itself, made of an ironstone brick, looming upwards into the shadowy night. The only bit of welcoming cheer was a swathe of white and purple agapanthus caught in the headlights of Ryan's car.

They'd finally found the back door, after Jaime had mistakenly gone round to the front.

‘What are you doing?' Ryan had asked as she'd mounted the imposing front steps, which swept upwards towards a magnificent Federation style door emblazoned with stained glass inserts.

‘I'm going to knock on the door.'

‘Why? You're the only one here. Well, the only one at the big house, anyway.'

Of course she was. How stupid of her. Otherwise the owner wouldn't have wanted her here in such a desperate hurry. The previously arranged house-sitter had
reneged at the last minute and apparently the owner's neurotic cat hated to be left alone. Another thing Jaime wasn't too fond of – cats. She was a dog person through and through.

‘I wonder how I get in then.'

Ryan laughed. A contagious chuckle that immediately had her giggling too. She snatched another look at the ‘college boy'. He really was rather sweet.

‘C'mon, city-slicker, you need to understand how we do things up here in the bush. You go in the
back
door, never the front. In fact the front door's probably been glued up with layers of paint for so long the flies have even forgotten about it.' And with that, Ryan grabbed her hand and towed her around the long verandah, over a rose garden, through a vegie patch in dire need of attention, past a long-forgotten well and up to a back door. He pushed the wire screen open with one hand and flourished a make-believe hat with the other. ‘After you, mademoiselle.'

Jaime grinned. Yep, he sure was a sweetie.

Not like the stockman who'd left the piece of paper for her. He obviously thought she was a bloke.

She shooed a reluctant Ryan out the door, thanking him for his trouble before turning to reread the message.

And that's why she hated her name. Why couldn't her parents have given her a pretty one like Sarah, Kate or Emily? Instead, she'd been saddled with a boy's name with a wanky spelling. So not only did she have to deal with Mr Jamie Hanrahan
all
the time, she had to sound the damn thing out as well. Add Josephina – a nod to some long-lost great-aunt – and you had JJ. And she
hated
JJ. It sounded so American.

She read the note again, actually taking in the words this time.

Butter? Bacon? Yum! Imagine the looks on the faces of the girls at Wheetles & Brute. All that fat and cholesterol. They would faint at the sight of the frying pan.

What else did this S McEvoy say? Cattle? Well that'd be a story to tell the girls when she got back home. She'd kind of hoped she might get up close and personal with a cow. In fact her friends had all banded together and bought her just the footwear should she find herself facing this eventuality. Big, chunky hiking boots from Colorado to suit all occasions.

Then she remembered that said footwear was still in her suitcase sitting behind the bar of the Lake Grace Hotel. (The faux leopardskin suitcase was probably having a party with the Kelly boys by now.)

She walked out onto the glassed-in verandah that circumnavigated the big old mansion she was to call home for the next four weeks. She cast her eyes around until she spotted a boot rack over near what appeared to be a second back door. She took in the array of footwear displayed, hanging upside down on their hooks. The only ones that looked close to her size were long red gumboots with artistically drawn black lady beetles crawling over them. They even had a black bow to decorate the top. Perfect. All was not lost.

She found the bedroom and bathroom, then set her phone to wake her at six-fifteen in the morning. That'd give her time to have a shower, do something with her
hair and get out the door ready for her seven o'clock appointment. This cattle yards thing sounded fun.

 

‘You!
What are
you
doing here?' The man appeared incensed. ‘I left you with Ryan. Where's he? And what have you done with Jamie?'

Jaime would have laughed if she hadn't been so shocked herself to see ‘Stirling whoever' standing in the cattle yards the next morning. She even looked around to make sure she was in the right spot. Yes, she'd followed the house track around the back of the sheds and down onto the flat, just like the note said. No, she couldn't see any other sets of yards. In fact she couldn't really see anything thanks to the fog that had swathed the hillside in its whitewash.

‘
Hiiii
,' she called. ‘It's lovely to see you again too. Why didn't you tell me you worked at Polly's Plains?'

In Marble Man ignored her question and responded with one of his own. ‘Have you come to give me a message from Jamie?'

She propped one hand on her hip and posed theatrically. ‘
I'm Jaime
, you goose!'

Marble Man blanched. Actually physically cringed. ‘Oh, you're kidding me,' he said as he lifted his head up towards the sky. ‘
Please,
Valerie, you haven't done this to me.'

Valerie? Who was-? Oh yes; now she remembered. Valerie Lucardy was the woman who owned Polly's Plains. ‘It's not going to help you talking to her up there. From what the manicurist said, she's cruising the Greek Islands on some flash boat.'

‘The manicurist?' Marble Man looked like he couldn't believe his ears. ‘All I ask for is a “handy” type and she sends me a fucking beautician! Well, that explains the hysterics over the hair dryer.'

‘I did
not
have hysterics over my hair dryer.'

The man gave a ‘yeah-right' grunt.

Okay. She might have sounded a tad stressed and stomped her feet a bit, but that could hardly count as hysterics. The curling iron? Well, that was a different matter entirely. She'd
made
that fit in.

‘For your information I am
not
a beautician. I have a double degree in marketing and public relations.'

‘Oh great, that makes it all better. Instead of someone who can help me out around the property, I get a fancy saleswoman with French nails wearing gumboots decorated with beetles. Terrific.'

What was wrong with her gumboots? If Valerie wore them surely she could too. She pulled at the ponytail she'd artfully arranged to the side of her head and contemplated the bloke in front of her. The man was actually looking beyond distressed. His heavy brow was sinking so hard over his eyes she felt like pushing it up, telling him to kick back and have a cup of green tea. ‘Stirling whoever' was going to have a heart attack at this rate.

‘I
can
help you, you know. I'm good at learning stuff. Just ask my da–' She stopped. Gulped. Back tracked. ‘Just ask my boss.' Wherever he was. Probably on a boat in the Greek Islands too with all that money he made from selling his share of Wheetles & Brute. She swallowed again. She would
not
think about her unemployed state and she would show this man. She
could
do this.

She climbed up the stockyard rails and over into the yard proper, stuck out a hand, trying to forget the fact that last night she'd been just about glued to his back in the most intimate way.

‘Let's start all over again, shall we? I'm Jaime Hanrahan. I'm pleased to meet you. What do you want me to do?'

Marble Man just stared at her, totally nonplussed. He was looking at her hand like it was coated in the cat shit she'd found deposited in her slipper this morning. The cat obviously hadn't liked the dried food she'd fed it for dinner.

She left her palm hanging in the air. ‘Well, are we going to do some work here today or what?' she said, trying to jolt him into doing
something
. Anything would do.

She noticed the muscle near the edge of his mouth move, the one that quirked slightly like it had a mind of its own. Despite its rebellion, the rest of his face remained impassive. Then he sighed. A big burst of air that seemed to concede defeat. But the glare that remained in his flinty eyes reminded her it was only the first round.

‘Stirling McEvoy.' His hand came down on hers like it intended to crush it.

She tensed, but surprisingly his handshake was only dry and firm. And warm. And it sent a rush of electricity up her arm.
Zing!

She dropped his hand like it was a burning hot curling wand. Her fingers still tingled from the contact. Damn it. What the hell was that all about?

The confused look in Stirling's gaze reflected her own until he abruptly turned and started walking towards a nearby pen of red and white cattle. ‘We'll start with these Hereford steers. I'll just bring them through.'

Jaime glanced across at the cattle. Then took a better look. They weren't Herefords, surely? Not those huge things over there? Weren't Herefords lovely little docile things with big eyelashes, like the ones on
McLeod's Daughters
?

After he'd herded the big cattle into the larger pen where she was standing, Stirling called to her from across the yard. ‘Open that gate over there near your shoulder. When I point out the steer that I want, let him through as he comes towards you.' He shot her a stern look. ‘And make sure you
only
let through the one that I want.' He then turned to eye off his targets.

Jaime glanced around in panic. Okay, there was the gate he was talking about. Open it and let the beast through. This should be fine. Easy peasy.

She opened the gate as instructed and stood in front of it as a small knot of cattle started coming her way with Stirling behind them. With a piece of black rod-like stuff, he was pointing to the rear end of one of the steers. Watching as they came towards her, she marvelled at their beautiful rich ruby-red coats. But as they got closer and closer, she realised how scary they were. There were no cute eyelashes here, only lolling tongues, big boofy heads and hundreds of kilos of rollicking muscle coming straight at her.

SHIT!

She sprang for the fence, breaking a nail as her hands slipped off the rough timber. She cursed then grabbed at the rails again, hoisting herself up just as the cattle came galloping past, straight through the gateway yawning open in front of them and into the next pen. Jaime watched in horror as a now incensed Stirling McEvoy, who was following the mob, halted at her feet.

‘What in the hell do you think you're doing up there?' His voice was deceptively quiet, which was impressive because the man looked like he was about to blow like a volcano.

‘Um … getting out of the way?'

‘You are supposed to be
in
their way, stopping them from going into that pen.' Stirling used his rod thing to poke home the point. ‘Didn't you listen to anything I said?'

‘You shouldn't poke the air. You'll kill fairies doing that.' Oh God, had she really said that? Jaime snapped her lips shut. Stared down at the newly ragged nail cuticle with studied nonchalance. Tried not to think about what her manicurist would have said, and instead snuck little looks at the man standing below her.

Stirling McEvoy was hunched in his big, brown bushman's coat and looking around as if he wanted to hit something. Silence reigned in the cattle yards while he obviously struggled to control his temper.

Jaime decided it might be time to do something before the man kicked her out of the yards altogether. She jumped down off the fence and walked into the other pen and made appropriate noises like ‘shoo, shoo' in the hopes of scaring the steers back from where they'd come. She sighed with relief when they responded and went trundling back towards their mates now huddled at the far corner of the yard. She returned to Stirling, who was slamming his rod against the fence. Hard. Mmm … Perhaps if she apologised? It couldn't hurt to try.

‘Sorry about that. Let's start again, shall we?'

The man strode off without a backward glance.

Really?
What a bad-tempered brute. After she'd tried to fix things and everything. He should enrol in anger management lessons, go see a life-coach or do yoga, although where he'd find any of that out here she really didn't know.

He was back down the far end of the yard anyway now and bringing up another mob. She had to get it right this time.
Okay, Hanrahan, forget the pretty coats, scary eyes and boofy heads and get your mind on the job.

This time she was ready. With her eyes set on the dancing rod, which Stirling had planted square in the middle of the back of the steer, she was able to let the one he wanted through and send the others back.

‘Yes!' she yelled. ‘I did it. Did you see that? I did it, I did it.' She gave a little dance in her lady beetle boots. This
was
fun!