by JC Grey
He let the door slam and young Lewis came off his seat with a jump, his tanned face ruddy with embarrassment.
‘Sorry, boss,’ he stammered.
‘Yeah, boss.’ Pete Woodall echoed, coming lazily to his feet. ‘Just catching up with the latest about the young’un here and his girlie.’
‘Pete!’ Lewis’s agonised whisper succeeded only in turning his face redder. ‘She’s not . . . I haven’t . . .’
‘But you’d like to, eh?’ The older man dug the younger in the ribs with his elbow as he slapped his hat on his head.
‘You haven’t got time to stand around gossiping like a goddamned mothers’ group,’ Mac told them, his voice edged with steel. ‘Not unless you want your pay docked by half an hour.’
That cleared the room pretty quick, with Pete the last to saunter to the door, his crooked-legged cowboy’s gait telling of long hours in the saddle. Mac was going to have to deal with him, but not today. Not when it was so fucking hot, and when he hadn’t lined up a replacement.
‘Waiting for something, Pete?’ He kept his voice even, though he was itching to plant a boot in the man’s backside. He was a hard worker when he chose. But mostly he didn’t, and before you knew it, Lewis would be following his example. Mac had seen it all before.
Pete smirked. He nodded towards the table where the newspaper lay open. ‘Might want to take a gander at that, boss. Seeing as how she’s your neighbour an’ all.’
Mac frowned, and glanced at the local rag. A studio portrait of Blaze Gillespie’s beautiful face took up half the spread, but it was the headline next to the photo that caught his eye:
The Film that Movie Star Blaze Doesn’t Want You to See
‘Might take meself over to Sweet Springs tonight.’ The cowboy adjusted himself in his tight jeans, a none-too-subtle indication of his intentions. ‘Show the slut you don’t need a gang bang if you got a Queenslander between your legs.’
‘Okay, you’re finished,’ Mac said in a low voice. ‘Get your stuff together and come up to the house in fifteen minutes. I’ll have your severance pay ready.’
‘Can’t do that, boss.’ Pete smirked again. ‘The others can’t handle the herd by theirselves, seein’ as we’re short an’ all until we get the full crew on. And anyway, you gotta give me an official warning first, and notice.’
‘Actually, I don’t,’ Mac pointed out. ‘You’re casual, and you’ve had one verbal warning already, which you weren’t entitled to. But you’ll have an additional week’s pay to stay away from Rosmerta . . . and Sweet Springs.’
The greedy look on Pete’s face fell away, replaced by the first stirrings of panic. ‘Now look, you can’t tell me where I can go!’
‘No, I can’t. So I take it you don’t want the extra week’s pay?’
‘I didn’t say that, but what’s that bitch —’
‘Take it or leave it.’ Mac turned to walk away.
‘I’ll take it,’ he shot. ‘Plenty other women.’
Mac yanked the door open but Pete’s sly voice stopped him as he went to walk through it. ‘Give her one for me, eh, boss?’
Clenching his fists, Mac resisted the urge to turn and punch the smirk up Woodall’s nostrils.
‘Fifteen minutes, Pete.’ He let the door close behind him.
Anger at the headline and Pete’s attitude radiated from him, and he had to make a deliberate attempt to control his fury as he walked over to where the other men were saddling up.
‘You head on over,’ he told Lewis, Smithy and Fred. ‘Pete won’t be joining you, but I’ll be along in about half an hour.’
The hands kept their heads down and didn’t ask any questions, so Mac figured he was still looking fucking furious. Still, if it meant they focused on their work instead of lurid headlines it was probably a good thing.
Turning, he went to where Amos was fixing up some loose timbers in the stable. The old man was in his sixties, and Mac was trying to lighten his workload without making him feel less valued.
‘Pete’s leaving this afternoon. Isn’t coming back,’ he told Amos.
The man swivelled around on the ladder where he was hammering a nail into a board, a cigarette clasped loosely between his lips as usual. After a brief pause, he stuck the hammer in his tool belt and removed the smoke.
‘Bout time, boss. Woodall’s no good, and he’d only rub off on the others.’
‘I’ll see about a replacement soon as I get a chance.’
‘Want me up at the paddock this arvo?’
‘Uh, nup. You carry on. Those timbers have needed fixing a while. I’ll help the boys out.’
‘Righto, boss. Listen, ya might want to sound out Harry Blenheim’s boy. Hear he’s keen to step up into a foreman’s job.’
‘You’re the foreman here, Amos.’
‘Want to work me to death, boss?’
‘No.’ Mac considered the wiry man, who’d worked the property before Mac had bought it and knew every inch of land, every blade of tough grass. This was obviously his way of saying that Mac didn’t need to pussyfoot around.
‘Time to slow down a bit. Let a younger man do the hard yards.’ Amos tapped the ash from his cigarette.
‘Well, we sure need someone to keep the place fixed up, otherwise it’d be falling down around our ears. Property manager, how does that sound?’ Mac asked.
‘Right fine, boss.’
‘Comes with perks. Two extra days off a month.’
‘Where do I sign?’ Amos grinned, showing a big gap where two teeth were missing.
‘Handshake’ll do it,’ Mac said, watching Amos climb down the ladder, and grind his cigarette beneath his booted heel.
They shook, and then Mac strode back to the house. He heard cursing as he passed the bunkhouse. Evidently, now that reality was setting in for Woodall, the guy wasn’t too happy about his circumstances. Tough.
By the time he’d printed out a pay slip for his ex-employee and counted out cash from the small safe in his office, Pete was cooling his heels on the steps, his look surly. He grabbed the envelope, counted the money, and stuck it in his back pocket. Slinging his pack over his shoulder, he spat close enough to Mac’s boots to make it clear it was a deliberate insult.
‘You’ll regret this, boss.’
Mac looked him squarely in the eye. ‘You know, Pete, I really don’t think I will.’
Right now, Mac thought, he should be nursing a cool beer on his own shady deck. Instead, he was riding out to Sweet Springs to check on his neighbour who, according to 362 922 articles uploaded to the world wide web, had not only fucked four crew members on the set of her forthcoming movie, Bad & Co., in the one night, she had been filmed doing it. In fact, the X-rated home movie was freely downloadable for anyone with the software and inclination to watch it.
Mac had the software but lacked the inclination and definitely hadn’t had the time before he’d gone out to join his men for the afternoon’s work. He’d quickly Googled ‘Blaze’, just to get the gist of the story in case the newspaper headline had got it all wrong. But the web was filled with stories with similar lurid descriptions. Fortunately, the hands had kept their heads down and their mouths shut this afternoon, presumably not wishing to incur the boss’s wrath and follow Pete out the door.
In any case, fencing wasn’t something that could be tackled without all minds on the job. As it was, Mac’s wrists and forearms sported several scratches where the wire had caught him above the heavy leather gloves that protected his hands, a physical sign that his focus hadn’t been all it should.
More than once, his gaze had drifted towards Sweet Springs as it occurred to him that Pete would most likely have spent the afternoon at some country pub getting shit-faced. And as he knew first-hand, the guy was an ugly drunk. He’d be after revenge. There wasn’t much he could do to exact vengeance on Mac. The guy didn’t have the balls. But Blaze was another matter, and she was an obvious target for someone who thought Mac had something going with her.
As soo
n as the men trooped in for the day, Mac had made some brief excuse, set his heels to True’s flanks and made the fifteen-minute ride to Sweet Springs in twelve. Her ute was in the drive, so she must be home. He reined True in, ran up the steps and thumped his fist on the ill-fitting front door, which immediately swung open.
‘Blaze,’ he shouted. He hesitated only a second and then went straight in. He went down the hall and stuck his head in the kitchen. ‘Ms Gillespie? Blaze? Are you all right? Where the hell are you?’ Hearing a sound from the study, he retraced his steps and pushed open the door just as a grey blur launched itself at his chest.
‘Shit!’ He staggered back as a snarling dog bounced off him and into the door jamb, its teeth bared.
‘Paddy! Down, boy. Down!’ Blaze grabbed the dog by its collar, dragging it away as it snapped and snarled. It was a tug of war, but finally the dog was in the hallway, and the door shut where it proceeded to bark its head off and scratch at the door.
‘Jesus! He could have taken my head off!’ It was shock more than anything that had Mac resorting to anger.
‘Maybe I should have let him,’ Blaze retorted. She was dressed in denim shorts that made her legs look about ten metres long, and a sleeveless top in orange and red. Her burnished mass of hair was gathered to hang loosely down her back. Unpainted and unposed, she looked like the wild younger sister of the poised sophisticate pouting in the newspaper photo, and about a thousand times sexier. All the blood steamed south from Mac’s head to his cock as he stared at that full-lipped mouth.
He cleared his throat. ‘So you’re all right, then?’
She leaned back a little against the desk. An expensive notebook computer hummed behind her, next to it a pad with squiggles he couldn’t read upside down, and a folded newspaper.
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ Something flashed in her eyes, and her slender shoulders went back, her chin up. ‘Oh, I see.’ She tapped the newspaper with an unpainted fingernail. ‘You thought I might be tying a rope to the rafters after reading the headlines? Well, sorry to disappoint you, cowboy. Sticks and stones, and all that.’
He took a step closer, noticed that the bruising near her temple had disappeared but her gold eyes were a little red, as if she’d been crying. Interesting. He reckoned Blaze Gillespie would kill herself before she’d admit to crying.
‘Actually, it was something else. I thought . . . well, it doesn’t matter. I’ve got to get back.’ He really needed a beer.
‘Wait, I’ll make sure Paddy . . . God!’ She grabbed his left hand, staring at the scratches. ‘Did Paddy do this? Oh God, I’m sorry. He was just being protective. When you barged in here, he thought you were going to attack.’
Her cool slender fingers touched one of the little cuts made by the fencing wire, and then another. Mac’s mouth went dry. His balls began to throb. She picked up his other hand, and then looked at him.
‘No, no. It wasn’t . . .’ He struggled to get the words out. That sea breeze scent she wore combined with essence of Blaze to curl sensuously around him.
She dropped his hand as he pulled away. ‘Whatever. They need to be cleaned. Come on.’ She opened the door and murmured softly to the dog, which had calmed down. Mac let him sniff his boots, and held out a hand. The dog sniffed some more and then backed off, taking himself out the open front door.
Blaze led the way into the kitchen and over to the old porcelain sink. ‘Wash your hands. The soap is anti-bacterial.’
While he did as she said, she pulled out the salve and took a clean, dry tea towel from a drawer. When he’d finished, she inspected his hands, nodded and patted them dry.
He cleared his throat. ‘The cuts are from fencing wire. We were repairing sections of fence today,’ he said.
Blaze nodded, her head bent over his hand as she dabbed the antiseptic salve on the little cuts. She was too close to him, aware of the movement of his powerful chest as he spoke in that low, rumbling tone. His breath stirred little wisps of her hair that curled in the humid air. He smelled of man and horse and leather.
‘That should do it.’ She still held his hand. ‘That’s the second time I’ve done that since I’ve been here. Paddy had an injured paw.’
‘You named him after your grandfather,’ Mac said.
Shrugging, she moved back and thought he let out a deep breath. ‘It seemed . . . I don’t know. It was the first name I thought of.’ She returned the salve to the cupboard. ‘He must have another name, though. One day he just turned up on my porch, but he must belong to someone. Do you recognise him?’
Mac shook his head. ‘A lot of people have blue heelers around here. I’ll mention it around. Thanks.’ He held up his hands. ‘I should go.’ He didn’t budge.
Blaze closed the cupboard door and turned around. She felt ragged and on the edge, perhaps not surprisingly after crying half the morning, having read the insinuations of the newspaper article. And now this big, brooding hulk of a man was putting her even more off-balance.
In an effort to act normally, she smiled. ‘Actually, you might be able to help me. I need a recommendation: a builder or carpenter to help me remodel this place; someone sensitive to its age and style. Unfortunately, my reputation precedes me, and all I get are slammed doors – well, phones actually. But you get my drift.’
‘I’ll think about it.’ He turned to go. ‘What’s your number?’ He dragged a sleek phone from his pocket and tapped in the mobile and landline numbers she gave him before she thought to refuse.
Blaze followed him out to the porch, watching as he walked down the steps to where a silver-grey horse stood. He mounted with the ease of a man who’d been doing it all his life, plucked his hat from the saddle and put it on.
‘So if it wasn’t the headlines that brought you out here, what did?’ Blaze asked before he could leave.
Mac’s slashing black brows collided above his nose. ‘One of my guys, a jerk named Pete Woodall, was mouthing off. I fired him and thought he might have headed over here looking for trouble.’ He glanced at the watch on his broad wrist, and Blaze looked away. His powerful hair-sprinkled forearms below the rolled-up sleeves of his blue shirt made her insides shiver, and she needed to keep her mind on the important stuff. ‘He still might,’ Mac continued. ‘And he’s likely to have had a skinful. If he does show up, call me.’ He handed her a card from his wallet.
‘I can handle drunks,’ she shouted after him as he turned his horse towards the road.
‘Call me.’
Blaze didn’t have to deal with any drunks that night, but it did occur to her that, even with Paddy’s committed defence, she was pretty exposed out here. If there was a threat, even if she could get to the phone, it would take an absolute minimum of fifteen minutes for anyone to arrive from Rosmerta – and the best part of an hour from town. Country Queensland tended to be quite peaceable, but sleazebags might think she was fair game after the newspaper article.
With that in mind and Paddy trotting at her heels after breakfast the next morning, she went hunting for Gramps’ old rifle in the hope that if she found it, it would be in better condition than the car. Much to her parents’ annoyance, Gramps had actually taught her how to shoot when she’d been about twelve, and she’d been an okay shot. Her social-climbing parents hadn’t thought shooting an appropriate skill for a pre-teen girl, but Gramps had been tickled pink.
Putting on the dog. That’s what he’d always said when his daughter-in-law, Blaze’s mother, Diana, had insisted her name be pronounced Dee-arna. Usually, his complaint had been grumbled below his breath, accompanied by a roll of the eyes if Diana wasn’t looking.
Blaze hadn’t understood at the time, but neither Gram nor Gramps had approved of their salesman son, Elliot, or his marriage to Diana. Both had had big ideas but little interest in living within their means. Nothing had been too good for Elliot, whether they could afford it or not, and Blaze had been his little princess. Ultimately, though, their illusory world of success had cost them their entire remaining famil
y – first Gram and Gramps, sidelined for being too comfortably provincial, and then Blaze, when she rebelled against being forced to fit a mould of their making.
Shaking off the oppressive thoughts of days long gone, Blaze stood in the corner of the barn that had served as Gramps’ shed. Objects hung from hooks of every shape and size: hammers, power tools, a saw, a shovel. No gun. She supposed she could always bash any creeps over the head with a hammer or shovel, but she’d prefer not to get that close. The work bench held dozens of tiny drawers, filled with nails and screws, bolts and coils of wire. She even found a stack of bullets, but the drawers were too small for the rifle itself. It definitely wasn’t in the house, so Gramps must have got rid of it. Unless . . . Blaze swivelled around. The only other thing in the barn was the car. She popped the boot and bingo!
The chamber was empty, but she wasn’t planning to actually shoot anyone. Hadn’t she read somewhere that often victims trying to defend themselves with a gun had their guns seized by their attacker, who would then use it against them? No, she only wanted it as a deterrent. Remembering her grandfather’s instructions, she checked the action, which seemed smooth enough even after this time, and took it back to the house, where she hid it in the study between the door and filing cabinet.
Macauley Black might want to think twice about bursting into her house next time, even though the front door was so pathetic it almost invited breaking and entering. To give him his due, he had seemed genuinely concerned about that Pete guy, and it was a definite point in his favour that he hadn’t asked her whether what the newspaper had written was true. Of course that could be just because he’d assumed it was, or most likely, he didn’t care one way or another.
The article had been mortifying, a sensationalist exposé woven around Rick Beatty’s malicious month-old claims and a shadowy, jerky amateur movie of a woman’s body writhing as she was pleasured by a series of men. Blaze loathed having no control over what people said or thought about her, and it made her sick to her stomach to wonder what people like Stella and the girl at the market, Marianne, were thinking of her now. If this was the price of fame, maybe it was too high.
