A Bush Christmas (3 page)

Stirling stopped in mid-step and watched her pirouette. There was that slight little quirk to the edge of his pursed lips again. She could see it out of the corner of her eye as she finally brought her body to a halt. Panting with exertion she said, ‘Right-o, cowboy. What're you waiting for? Bring them on.' And she could have sworn there was a slight thawing in his eyes, a tiny, wincy pinch of respect, before he strode towards the mob huddled at the back of the yards. But then again, maybe it was just a trick of the glinting sunlight that was now breaking through the fog.

She managed really well, letting the ones he wanted past her into their pen, sending the ones he didn't back, ducking and dodging cattle, drafting them just like he said. That was until Stirling brought up the last mob. Somehow he lost his rod thing as the final tight knot of steers came towards her. Among them were the real flighty ones, those who had eluded Stirling's efforts to bring them up any earlier.

And now Stirling was yelling at her, ‘The red one in the middle.
The red one in the MIDDLE
!' There were five steers coming towards her, and they were all red.

And she had been going so well!

‘Which one?' called Jaime, trying to see if one was redder than the others, but they were all bunched up and coming at her like a stampede. Holy hell, this lot were
really
big! If she leapt for the fence they'd all get through, and she'd be in big trouble with Stirling. Better to let them go round again. Blocking the gate, she let them all thunder past and head back from where they'd come.

‘What the hell was that all about?' panted Stirling as he pulled up beside her, out of breath from trying to keep the steers running forward.

‘You said the red one in the middle. They were
all
red.'

‘No they weren't. The one in the middle was the reddest. She only had a bit of white around her hindquarters.'

‘Well, I'm
so
sorry. I couldn't see that from the
front
.' For freak's sake, what did he think she had at her disposal, a reversing camera?

‘Let's try again,' was all he said before striding off.

‘Hey, what happened to your tattoo?' she called. She'd noticed the patch behind his left ear was surprisingly empty of ink.

‘My what?' He spun round, hesitated and then walked back, towering above her as he came up to her side.

God, he was big. ‘Your tattoo that was, like, you know, here.' Frowning, she flapped her hand towards the side of his face. ‘It was there yesterday.'

Stirling's big paw automatically went up to slap at his head like he was swatting a fly. ‘I don't have a tattoo. My sister and mother would kill me.'

Big Marble Man Stirling was worried about what the women in his life thought of him?

‘You had this spinning thing happening right here.' She tapped the spot behind his left ear where she could have sworn he had a tatt. The warmth of his skin tingled through her fingertips. She snatched them back and shoved her hands into her coat pockets. She needed to stop touching him, which was hard because Jaime was a touchy-feely kind of person. But all this tingling and zinging was
waayyy
too disconcerting. She glared at Stirling, peeved with herself and, in some perverse way, with him too.

‘You had a tattoo. I'm sure of it.' Her tone rang with conviction and some distaste.

Stirling's head was now down and he ran a finger over his chin, deep in thought. She found herself wondering what it would feel like to trace that dimple with her thumb. It was really cute the way it dipped in and out, accentuating his square chin. It must be murder to shave …

She was still daydreaming when the big bush coat on the man started to shake. Followed by a deep gurgle that sounded like the exhaust on his beloved V-Max. (She still reckoned it looked like Dave's Harley.)

The gurgle went on and on until she suddenly realised the man was laughing. What the hell? Marble Man could
laugh
?

‘What? What have I said this time?' She couldn't help sounding a little sulky. The man had finally cracked and she didn't know why or what she'd done.

He must have seen her cross look, because he valiantly tried to sober up. And failed. ‘Oh hell, if you could've seen your face. First there were pushbikes, then horses and Harleys. Now it's a bit of permanent ink. You don't like tattoos either, do you?'

Jaime folded her arms. ‘No. You got a problem with that?'

‘Me, no.' He shook his head, still laughing. ‘Valerie, your employer, might have though. She collects tatts like teaspoons. One for every place in the world she's been. Inked across her shoulders.'

Jaime didn't want to ask how he knew what was on Valerie's shoulders.

‘It's just as well we'll never meet then, isn't it? I won't have to pretend to like them.'

‘Oh, you'd do that, would you?' The man sobered slightly. ‘That's funny, Princess. I kind of got the impression you just came out and said what you thought.'

Jaime couldn't help letting a slight smile escape at that one. Her father had said the same thing. And there was that princess word again.

‘So, did you or did you not have a tattoo yesterday?'

‘Well, that depends on your definition of a tatt. My niece, Eliza, stamped me all over with Santa for Christmas. One possibly landed there. I told her my actual face was out of bounds.' Stirling pulled up a sleeve of his cotton work shirt. ‘See, here's the remains of my arm job.'

Jaime peered at the offered limb. Amid scattered russet hairs it was strongly muscled and tanned to the elbow, where his shirtsleeve usually rested. She thought it all looked rather delicious until her eyes spotted the decorations. Plastered along the forearm were dozens of faded Santas, skipping, running, waving and singing. In some of the stamps, Father Christmas's big sack sat beside him, spilling out presents.

‘That's taking Christmas a bit far, isn't it?' she said as she turned and went to move away. ‘You want to finish with these cattle?' Jaime knew she sounded cranky and terse, but couldn't do anything about it. Others could do Christmas however they liked, just as long as they left her out of it. She strode back to her station at the gate.

Stirling McEvoy stayed right where she left him, a bemused expression on his face. He slowly rolled his sleeve back down and with another quick enquiring glance in her direction, he moved to bring up the last mob.

Grimly, she waited for the cattle to come at her again. It didn't escape her notice that they too were a festive red.
Sheesh!

The days quickly started to bleed into one another. One minute it was Saturday and then Wednesday arrived.

After familiarising herself with the inside of the homestead, Jaime had spent the rest of her time exploring the vast garden. Overgrown and shabby in a nice kind of way, the garden was a veritable treasure trove. You never knew what was going to meet you around the next corner. It reminded her of a garden she had once seen with her dad at an Open Garden Day in Melbourne.

At that thought, Jaime had paused and been filled with melancholy memories. Her father had loved pottering amongst his roses and dahlias. He'd taught her to garden and she couldn't smell the scent of the soil and not think of him. He'd always worked with his cloth hat perched on the side of his head, never quite covering his rather large nose, which would end up burnt and peeling. Her mother couldn't understand his need to be outdoors.

But Jaime understood. And that's why she and her dad had gone hiking, cycling – and fishing. That's what they'd done last Christmas Day. Together they'd landed a good catch of rainbow trout and devoured them for tea. He was dead of a heart attack by lunchtime Boxing Day.

Finding a small kitchen garden, overgrown but obviously still in use by the myriad of herbs flourishing amongst the weeds, Jaime had started cleaning it up. She would return to the house most afternoons when it got too hot, then spend the rest of the day surfing the internet trying to find a new job. Being ten days until Christmas, there wasn't much around. Another reason she needed to boycott the festive season this year. It wasn't being kind to her, so why should she return the favour?

She hadn't sighted Stirling McEvoy in days, aside from a flash of cobalt or emerald-green shirt as he whizzed past the main house on a four-wheeled farm motorbike. On a carry-rack behind the stockman perched his dog, tongue hanging out, insects and dust whistling past the mutt's ears. She'd figured out from the raucous bellows that floated up from the flats on a few clear mornings that the Kelpie was named Buster. It suited both master and dog. Tough, taciturn, straightforward. No fuss.

Which wasn't how you'd describe Ryan, who rang on Wednesday morning.

‘Gidday, JJ!' Ryan sounded delighted.

Jaime, on the other hand, was annoyed. ‘Who told you about JJ?'

‘No one,' came the reply. ‘The luggage tag here on your case says Jaime J. Hanrahan so I figured your nickname was JJ. Pretty clever, huh?'

‘Very clever, Ryan. Except for one pertinent point. I hate JJ. I'd rather you didn't use it. It's
so
US of A.'

‘Nothing wrong with a bit of yanky culture,' stated the general store owner, sounding slightly peeved. ‘Why, we probably wouldn't have Santa Claus without the Americans. Or roast turkey and mince pies.'

Jaime didn't want to talk about Christmas so she wasn't going to point out that the tradition of St Nicholas originally came from Europe.

‘You've got my suitcase then, Ryan?'

‘Yep, sure have,' he replied, affecting an American drawl. ‘Arrived on the lorry this mawnin'.'

Jaime couldn't help but grin. ‘Ryan, mate, I suggest you stick to being an Aussie. You might find it a bit easier to pick up that Swedish backpacker you've got arriving. They lurve ocker Aussie bushmen.'

‘Well, funny you should say that. I was kind of hoping
you
might like a date with me.'

‘A date?' Jaime didn't know what to say. Ryan was nice but he wasn't her type.

‘Let's talk about it when you come to pick up your case,' said Ryan. ‘I've gotta go. I've a customer beckoning me for my good looks and charm. See, I'm fighting them off.'

Before the phone went clunk in Jaime's ear she heard him call out, ‘Morning, Irene. You'll be wanting your Christmas decorations …'

Jaime winced. There'd be no Christmas decorations going up around here, that was for sure.

 

Ten minutes later she was in Valerie's compact Suzuki Stockman Ute and barrelling down the long drive. Her case was beckoning her as if it were a truckload of creamy Cadbury's milk chocolate. She couldn't wait. Her cut-offs had already been through the wash four times and she was running out of tops. The bore water up here was playing havoc with her white T-shirts, turning them a mottled, dirty cream.

Not to mention she was dying to try out her new Colorado boots. They'd look pretty snazzy stomping around the bush. Although it wasn't as if she was out to
impress
anyone …

Stirling McEvoy's handsome face floated into her mind. She shut that thought down real quick. Why on earth would any sane girl want to go there anyway? Obviously Miss Fancy-pants Tiffany did a good job on the bloke.

Even though Jaime could flirt with Melbourne's sultriest best, she wasn't a player. Hadn't even had a boyfriend this last twelve months. Sure, she'd gone on a date here and there, but somehow things had always gone downhill between entrée
and dessert. She just couldn't focus on being vibrant and interested in a man and that's what men wanted: you to focus on them.

She'd eventually just stopped going out. Stayed home and had DVD nights with Thai or Indian takeaway to keep her company. She was right at home with Reece Witherspoon, Cate Blanchett and Renée Zellweger. They were there to entertain
her
and she didn't have to lift a finger.

Speaking of which, maybe she should see if Ryan had DVDs for hire at the store. She missed her movie nights and there wasn't much else to do in this backwater.

Soon the general store appeared over the hill. Clustered around it were a couple of houses, a fire station and a small hall come church-like building. There wasn't much disturbing the late morning ambience of the place. A ute was pulled up beside an old-fashioned red petrol pump. A newer cluster of fuel bowsers were placed closer to the road but they had no takers.

She could see Ryan out on the verandah throwing his arms around like he was giving directions. Judging by the bush surrounding Burdekin's Gap on all sides, maps and directions would be a necessity if you planned on going too far.

She rolled the Suzuki into the drive of the shop and parked up near the door. Got out and sauntered inside, where she now found Ryan serving up a plate of rissoles and chips to the ute owner. The general store owner sure was a versatile kind of bloke. Not like Stirling McEvoy. He was so entrenched in his taciturn ways he appeared to be an immovable object.

Not fair, Hanrahan. You barely know the man!
She ignored the voice of reason reverberating through her head. She'd seen enough.

‘Morning, JJ … Oops, I mean Jaime,' said Ryan grinning.

The shop door opened and then banged shut behind her. Jaime ignored the natural impulse to check out whoever had come in, in favour of glaring at Ryan.

The shop owner had his hands in the air. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry … Just couldn't resist it. And you look real cute when you're angry.'

‘So it's JJ, hey, Princess?'

Jaime spun in shock. Standing behind her was none other than her nemesis. Marble Man kitted out in black leather. Skintight black leather. Her eyes drifted over his torso, following the line of his body, down, down and …

‘How can I help you, Stirling?' said Ryan with a frown. ‘I only saw you yesterday.'

‘I'm here to pick up my parcel. Thought I'd bring the bike down for a blast. Perfect weather for it this morning.'

‘Perfect. Yes, just perfect,' muttered Jaime, and she wasn't looking at the sunny day outside. Her eyes were taking in Stirling's black leather pants, which were moulded to his legs like a second skin. With her eyes she traced the trail of tight muscle all the way up to his groin. She wondered what it would be like to smooth her fingers over–

‘Ahem,' Ryan cleared his throat.

She looked up and found both men staring at her. Crap. Caught out big time. Thinking quickly she placed a hand on the counter for balance. ‘I was just thinking how much I love your sturdy boots, Stirling.' She lifted her iridescent painted toes out of her shoes. ‘Do you think they'd make them in my size? They'd cause a new craze amongst my friends.'

There, that ought to fix it. She really had to learn to be more circumspect when she checked out the man.

She waited for a reply but both men were transfixed by her shining purple toenails, with their glinting faux diamonds sparkling in the sun.

Jaime followed their gaze, wiggled her toes in the bright light. Come to think of it, they did look rather nice. The manicurist, God love her, had taken pity on Jaime's unemployed state and given her the works, seeing as it was her last appointment for quite some time.

Beside her Marble Man sighed and dragged his eyes from her feet, a rigid expression on his face. ‘I don't think they do. In fact, I'm sure they don't.'

What was he talking about? Oh, the shoes. She took another glance at the boots in question. Big and bulky in black leather with chunky silver buckles. Then glimpsed her own dainty footwear sitting discarded on the floor with their barely-there chic styling. What was she saying? Crap, this was getting out of hand and all she'd been doing was thinking about Stirling's–

Ryan grabbed her arm, cleared his throat again. ‘I was just wondering if you'd like to come with me to the movies?' The words came out in a rush.

She was silent. She'd been hoping he was joking about the date.

Ryan took her silence to mean she was considering it. He pressed on, ‘It's tonight, the last show before Christmas. I could pick you up at five and then we'd have time for tea at the pub first.'

Tea? At the pub? How quaint. (She guessed tea was actually dinner.)

The man looked so eager with his big puppy-dog eyes and floppy fringe, Jaime opened her mouth to say–

‘Nope. Sorry, Ryan.' Stirling McEvoy stepped forward to pick up the parcel the store owner had for him on the counter. ‘It'll have to be another time. She's coming with me.'

‘I am?' said Jaime, swinging around to face him. Man, she kept forgetting how solid this bloke's chest was.

‘Yep.' And Marble Man's brow was so intent on closing in on the rest of his face, his flinty blue eyes had all but disappeared. She really wished he wouldn't do that. It looked, well, so
threatening
.

‘And what's more,' he went on, ‘she won't be having tea at the pub.'

‘I won't?'

‘Nope. You're having tea with me.'

‘What? Why?'

Now Stirling looked exasperated. ‘So we can get cracking on shooting rabbits.'

Shooting? Whoa, no way! She'd never shot a gun in her life. Well, except for the starting pistol at Little Athletics and somehow, looking at the bullets locked under the counter in front of her, that wouldn't cut it. Not here in Burdekin's Gap.

Ryan was glancing from one to the other, obviously trying to follow the sub-text that
wasn't
being said. Jaime could have told him there was none. It was just Marble Man doing his major league autocratic thing again.

‘What's on at the pictures?' she asked Ryan, turning her back on Stirling.

Ryan's face brightened up at the question. ‘Oh, it's
Christmas with the Kranks
followed by
National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation
. They like to show the old classics. It'll be awesome.'

Crap. Jaime felt her heart sink to her toes. Christmas again. The bloody festive season wouldn't leave her alone.

‘Oh, what a shame, I've seen both …'

‘You could see them again?' interrupted Ryan.

‘… at least ten times,' she finished.

Marble Man's hand clamped down hard on her shoulder. ‘Guess that means we'll be out hunting for the Easter Bunny instead.'

She shrugged his hand off. ‘We'll see about that.' The thought of shooting
anything
turned her stomach. ‘Ryan, I'll just grab my case and be going. Thanks for letting me know it had arrived.'

Ryan dashed around the counter in an attempt to grab at the leopardskin case sitting by the door. He was beaten to it by a man in rippling black leather.

‘I'll carry it out for you,' stated Stirling as he tucked his parcel under one arm and grappled the bag with the other. ‘After all, the contents and I are rather intimate friends.'

Ryan stopped dead, turned and looked at Jaime.

She could feel a blush rising up her neck and decided, in this case, retreat was the best form of defence. Stiffening her back, head held high, she walked out the door behind Stirling, waving goodbye to the still frozen Ryan.

Flying across the gravel, she hurried to catch up with the man carting her case and his own package towards the Suzuki ute.

‘Why did you have to say that?' she shot at him once they were standing on opposite sides of the ute tray. Stirling was using a ratchet strap to tie down the bag and his smallish box. The carton had CHRISTMAS LIGHTS – FRAGILE emblazoned across it.

‘Say what?'

‘Insinuate to Ryan that, well, you know …'

‘No,' Stirling stopped what he was doing, ‘I don't know.' He stared at her, like he was goading her to make a fool of herself.

Well, she wasn't going to.

‘What did I insinuate?' he prompted.

‘Never mind.' Jaime went to get into the ute, flinging one last sentence over her shoulder. ‘And I'm
not
shooting the Easter Bunny.'

‘Fair enough.' Stirling flipped the loose end of the strap into the tray back and then leant down to the driver's side window. ‘But you could come and hold the spotlight so
I
don't.'