The Australians' Brides: The Runaway and the Cattleman

“That means you’re going to bring the subject up again, right?” He moved farther away, picked up the panful of eggs. Every nuance of his body language screamed at her to keep her distance.

“I’m remembering how this started, you see. Because you understood about my writer’s block. We have common ground, Callan. You were the one to work that out first. If we can help each other, I don’t want to let this go.”

“Don’t—just don’t—talk about helping me.”

“Okay.” She took a breath. “Boy, that bacon smells good!”

They ate, sitting on adjacent rocks, and every bite tasted fabulous after the early morning climb and all the fresh air.

Well, she’s still here, Callan thought, dragging in a long, hot mouthful of smoky coffee.

Which put her in the same category as Birgit. The blonde at the races would have been long gone by now. Jacinda would go the sex-therapist route, take his admission of sexual inadequacy as a personal challenge. He hadn’t told Birgit that his failure with her wasn’t his first, so she’d used phrases like getting you back in the mood and scary the first time, with someone new.

He felt defensive. Didn’t want to hear any of those kinds of lines from Jacinda, the way he hadn’t wanted to read the pamphlets on bereavement from the hospital. He would prefer that they spent the remaining two and a half weeks of her visit in total, monklike silence. From beneath the concealing brim of his hat, he watched her, waiting for her to pounce. It took him a while to understand that she wasn’t planning to.

She ate with a mixture of fastidiousness and greed that no one could have faked. It wasn’t intended to seduce, but, Lord, he found it sexy! Something deep in his body began to stir again. Putting egg, bacon and tomato inside a sandwich of two bits of toast, she opened her mouth wide and bit down on it hard and slow, closing her eyes. The liquid egg yolk burst, leaked from her lips and ran down her chin, and she opened her eyes and laughed.

Running her index finger up to push the yolk back into her mouth, she said, “I wish this could be breakfast every day. Salt? Cholesterol? Who cares! The sun evaporates that stuff, right?” She swallowed, grinned, and then apologized for talking with her mouth full.

A small, irritating black bush fly buzzed around her face and she waved it away, her hand soft. Callan remembered how her fingers had felt on his body just now, pushing for his response. He took another gulp of coffee, to disguise the fact that his breathing wasn’t quite steady.

A fantasy flashed into his mind, as complete as an edited piece of film. He would spread out a blanket on the sand—never mind that he hadn’t brought one with him—and he’d fall asleep. Jacinda would seduce him without waking him. He would believe the whole thing to be a dream. She’d take off his clothes with whisper-soft movements. He would feel her breath, the brush of her hair on his skin.

The sun would climb and the air would heat up. Her naked body would almost burn him as she slid over him, wrapping him in her long limbs. He’d thrust into her, hard as a rock, engulfed by her silky heat and, because it was a dream, he wouldn’t think any of those panicky, mood-destroying thoughts for a second and they’d surge over the crest of the wave together. Success, before the concept of failure had even entered his head.

Failure.

The stirring, swelling, expectant feeling sank away like water down a plug hole.

Callan, just finish your breakfast.

“Do we have time to swim?” Jacinda asked, as he drained the last mouthful of coffee.

“It would be pretty cold,” he said, dampening the idea down the way his body had just dampened down its own need. “The sun isn’t on the water, yet.”

“The water’s cold even with the sun on it. I don’t mind. I think a swim would be good.”

For both of us, the words implied.

Therapy.

Or a cure.

Yeah, and she was probably right. The outback version of a cold shower. Not that he needed one right at this moment, but maybe she did. He knew she wanted him, and he’d left her hanging.

“We’d better put the fire out, first,” he said.

She remembered the way they’d done it last week and shoveled on scoops of creek sand with the billycan, smothering the dying coals. “Is that enough?”

“It’s fine. You’d have to be unlucky to start a bushfire in these conditions, even if you left it in flames.”

“But you like to play it safe.”

“A few minutes of work versus hundred-and-fifty-year-old creek bed trees? You bet!”

They packed up the egg carton, the jar of coffee and the rest of the breakfast things, and then she started rummaging in her day pack for her swimming costume. Callan had another fantasy. She’d forgotten it back at the house. She’d have to swim naked. They’d both—

“Why are things always in the last place you look?” she said, dragging the two pieces of animal-print fabric from the side pocket.

“Because once you’ve found them, you stop looking,” he told her.

She stared at him, blank faced, and then she laughed. “Cattleman’s logic?”

“There’s an impressive intellect at work under this hat, I’m telling you.”

She laughed again, and he felt better. No more fantasies invaded his brain. His muscles weren’t knotted quite so tightly. The empty, angry feeling had gone. First and foremost, they were friends. He had to remind himself of that, hang on to it, trust it.

Trust her.

And not look at her while she changed.

She helped by disappearing behind the pale trunk of a huge tree overhanging the creek and he took off his shorts, boots and shirt while she was out of sight, to reveal the dark gray swim trunks he’d put on this morning just in case.

Wearing her neat, figure-hugging costume, having left her clothes in a tidy pile beside her day pack, Jacinda screamed all the way along the sand, like a jet coming down a runway. “If I take this fast, I won’t notice the temperature,” she yelled, then disappeared in a flurry of splashed-up water. Twisting, she launched onto her back with her arms spread out, still yelling. “Hey, are you coming, Callan? It’s freezing!”

“After that sales pitch …” He launched toward her and ended up deeper, wetter and probably colder, competitive the way he’d been with Nicky as a child. Couldn’t let any female get too far ahead of him, but appreciated the ones who gave him a good run for his money.

Like Liz.

He felt a twist of regret and loss and impatience. Why had he thought about Liz now? Why did he have to make everything so hard for himself? Liz would have been the last person to approve of the way he tied himself in knots.

Go for it, Callan.

He could almost hear Liz’s voice, saying the words.

But go for what?

“Are we jumping and yelling and bunyipping today?” Jac asked.

“What, we’re not cold enough already? We need to get colder?”

“We need to keep moving. The rocks up on the ledge are starting to get into the sun. They’ll warm us up. I didn’t yell loud enough, the first time. I want to do it again.”

“Race you to the ledge,” he said, and won.

Just.

“You let me get that close to a win.” She was breathing hard, making her chest rise and fall in the water. He wanted to look down, ogle her breasts. He was tense and prickly and awkward and aware, and knew she felt pretty much the same. “You were going easy on me. Weren’t you?”

“You’ll never know, will you?”

She flicked water in his face, and then they both climbed onto the ledge.

The way they’d done last Saturday, they ran and jumped and yelled, swam and climbed and ran to jump again. “Why is this so good?” Jac said. The highest parts of the rock ledge were in full sun, now, and the smooth granite warmed rapidly. They sat on it, stretching their legs out and making wet imprints that shrank to a vanishing point as the moisture dried. “This should go in a self-help book.”

“You ever think of writing one of those?” Callan suggested. “They sell pretty well, don’t they?”

“Never, no matter how well they sell. I don’t think I have enough answers for myself, let alone for anyone else!”

“I can’t imagine self-help books give people real answers. I’ve looked at some. They always make it sound too easy. And if they do give answers … What about your novel? Doesn’t a novel need answers?”

“Yes, but they’re messy ones. Nice and human and flawed. Not definitive.”

“But basically, with a novel, you control the universe. You can make it all work out just the way you want. That must be pretty nice.”

“Not always. I mean, it is nice, but you can’t always do it. You’d be surprised. Characters sometimes refuse to behave.”

“Make them.”

“You can’t. They have minds of their own. If they don’t, then they’re made of cardboard and readers can tell. I mean, I’ve never finished my novel so I don’t know why I’m sounding like such an authority on the strength of thirty thousand words. All I know is, there have definitely been times when my characters didn’t behave, and the right thing seemed to be to let them take control.”

“When you talk about your writing, when you’re really involved in it, your face changes.” He’d noticed it before, but the change was more marked, today.

“Does it?” She pressed her hands to her cheeks, embarrassed, laughing a little. “Hope the wind doesn’t shift direction, then.”

“No, it’s a good kind of change. Your eyes get a spark in them. You smile more. You move more. Are you working on your novel, in Lockie’s notebook?”

“No.” She shook her head vigorously. “No, I’m not.” She paused. “At least …”

“So you are?”

“Oh … no … I had a couple of thoughts about my main character, that’s all. I’m sure it doesn’t mean anything. I haven’t written a word.”

“Are you going to try? You should. You shouldn’t give up on something like that. You shouldn’t let it defeat you.”

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