by Holly Ford
‘That’s okay.’
‘Dinner’s not for an hour or two,’ Lizzie offered into the silence that ensued. ‘Just come down whenever you’re ready.’
Cally gave her a serious look. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
Lizzie took herself off downstairs. As she went, she heard a brief mumble of voices behind her before Ash’s footsteps crossed the hall and his door closed. Right then: dinner. For starters, she’d better get the salmon out of the Land Rover.
‘Anything I can do to help?’ asked Carr, in a voice that didn’t hold out much hope, as she walked back into the kitchen.
‘Yes, actually. There’s a whole lot of stuff in my car. Could you bring it in?’ Lizzie surveyed the bench, formulating a plan. Potatoes first. Then toast the pistachios, and make a start on the grape salad. ‘I won’t be able to make it over next weekend,’ she remembered she had to tell Carr, as he put the chilly box of salmon down beside her.
There was a pause. ‘Why not?’ He sounded startled.
‘Ella’s coming up.’
‘Bring her here. She can meet Ash.’
‘Well, yes … that would be lovely,’ Lizzie hedged, ‘but the thing is’ — she checked his face — ‘she’s bringing Luke, you see.’
Carr sighed heavily. ‘Yeah, well. I guess he can come, too. What the hell. Why not?’
‘Are you sure?’
‘He’s growing on me.’ He sighed again. ‘There’s probably an injectable I can get for that.’
‘Try a glass of wine instead,’ Lizzie said. ‘And be nice.’ As he moved off, she bent her head to hide her small surge of glee. Carr was finally starting to warm to her daughter’s boyfriend! It had only taken a year.
Behind her, the kitchen door opened with a tentative creak.
‘Hi.’ Cally stood in the doorway.
Well, that hadn’t taken long. But then, Lizzie supposed, Cally hadn’t had much to unpack.
‘Hello.’
Making it out of the doorway, Cally approached the bench, pushing up her sleeves to reveal a pair of thin but surprisingly wiry forearms. ‘What would you like me to do?’ Her brow furrowed. ‘Do first, I mean.’
‘Not a thing,’ Lizzie said. ‘Just sit down and relax. You’re a guest tonight.’
Carr emerged from the pantry, a bottle of wine in his hand. ‘You don’t start until Monday,’ he told her, fossicking out four glasses from the hutch dresser’s top shelf. ‘This weekend is just to get your eye in.’
Chapter THREE
Upstairs in the bathroom, Cally took off what little of her makeup had survived the long day, paying less attention to her face in the mirror than to the strange room around her. For two guys living alone, it was pretty spic and span. Swiping toner over her nose, she peered into the refurbished clawfoot tub to see no more than a reasonable week’s worth of fluff and dust, and the one dead fly looked fresh from the window. She nodded approvingly to herself. Maybe she wouldn’t have to spend her first month spring-cleaning the place after all.
Dinner had got her a bit worried, though. She could cook — or, at least, she’d thought she could — but if the Fergussons were used to eating the sort of food that Lizzie had served up tonight, she was going to have to lift her game. Cally still wasn’t a hundred per cent sure what some of the things she’d eaten had actually been, but they’d looked like they ought to be photographed, and they’d tasted divine. Her own slip-slap-slop approach to throwing pasta into bowls might have to change.
Cally flipped open the lid of the pedal bin to reveal a nest of disposable razors and dental floss. Cotton wool in hand, she stared at it curiously. She’d never actually lived with a man before. This could be quite an education.
Tentatively, she opened the door of the bathroom cabinet. On the top shelf were more razors, shaving gel and a cluttered testament to manly oral hygiene. The bottom shelf was empty, and looked recently wiped. For her? Cally laid her toothbrush and toothpaste there. Unsure she wanted Ash to know exactly what she rubbed into her face every day, she stuffed the rest of her things into her toilet bag and took them back to her room.
This was not the sort of house, she thought, having crossed the wide, dimly lit hall and pushed the creaking door shut behind her, that you’d want to live in if you spooked easily. Luckily, she didn’t. The oceans of shadow in the big, high-ceilinged room felt friendly enough to her. She wasn’t scared of the dark. Which was just as well, since — she twitched the edge of the curtain aside and looked out at the utter blackness beyond the glass — there was plenty of it going.
Cally padded across the dark green carpet to the fireplace with its narrow grate full of dusty cones. It looked like it might actually work; she wondered if, come winter, she’d be allowed to light it. At the moment, there was barely a chill in the air, thanks, she presumed, to the rather incongruous oil-column heater ticking away beside a snarl of electrical cable it seemed to share with the burgundy-shaded standard lamp in the corner. Apart from those items, and the bed, her new room contained an armchair, a pair of nightstands, an ottoman, a drop-front bureau with stool, a dresser, and a wardrobe of Narnian dimensions into which her few clothes had obligingly disappeared. On the mantelpiece, between two china shepherdesses clutching their charges to rosepink skirts, a few tatty paperbacks had been stacked. Cally picked one up. Oh — what was that language? Something Scandinavian, maybe? Vampire novel, werewolf novel, werewolf and vampire novel … hmm. With another glance at the shadows, she decided she might work up to those.
Extracting a battered Lonely Planet New Zealand from the pile, Cally carried it back to the bed, undressed, and pulled the long grey T-shirt she slept in over her head. Without thinking, she checked her phone. Unsurprisingly, she had no messages, cellphone coverage not having miraculously manifested itself at Glencairn while she had been down at dinner. Cally stared at the screen. Beyond the reach of Glencairn’s wi-fi, it wasn’t much more than an expensive alarm clock now.
God. It occurred to her that she was twenty-six years old and the only things of any value she owned were a smartphone and a pair of heavy-duty gumboots. Setting them side by side on the duvet, Cally surveyed her assets. Well, no one could say her investment portfolio wasn’t portable, but it didn’t do much to offset her student loan.
Turning her back on the bed, she began setting out her toiletries on the Fergussons’ antique dresser.
So, then: phone, boots, six-year-old laptop … what would be next in the table of her gross worth? Her moisturiser, probably. Which — dammit — she’d left in the bathroom. Not wanting to litter the house with her stuff on day one, Cally hurried back across the hall.
‘Oh! Sorry!’ She froze, the handle of the open bathroom door in her hand.
Stripped to the waist, his face covered in shaving foam, Ash met her eyes in the mirror above the sink. ‘That’s okay.’ Cally watched, fascinated, as he finished drawing the razor down his cheek, revealing a stripe of golden skin. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘I — I forgot something,’ Cally explained. She glanced around the bathroom, trying not to let her eyes dwell on Ash’s upper body; not an easy task, given how much space it was taking up. She blushed. So much hard, naked muscle in one room seemed like it ought to defy some law of physics.
‘There was something on the sink,’ he said helpfully. ‘I put it in the cupboard.’
Boy, those were some scars he had on his shoulder.
‘Oh.’ Cally gave herself a small shake. ‘Well. Sorry. I’ll come back for it later.’ She took a step backwards.
‘Grab it now, if you want.’ Knocking foam from his razor, Ash stood aside slightly, holding his wet hands up over the sink.
‘Oh,’ she repeated. Jesus, she needed to get a grip. But not on that … ‘Right,’ she added, after some thought. ‘Okay. Thanks.’ Conscious of how little fabric there was between her skin and his, she leaned around the curve of his bicep, opened the cabinet door and reached in.
‘Um … I thin
k that’s the toothpaste you’ve got there.’
So it was. ‘Right. Sorry.’ Seizing the correct tube this time, Cally fled.
‘Goodnight,’ Ash said, as she closed the door.
Oh — yeah. ‘Goodnight,’ she called.
Back in the safety of her own room, Cally leaned for a second against the door, looking down at the tube in her hand. For dull, tired skin, prone to blemishes, she read. Well, that was quite an endorsement. Hearing the shower start up across the hall, she tried not to think about Ash slipping out of his jeans.
She put the moisturiser down on the dresser with the rest of her things, turned off the standard lamp, then, on second thought, went back and transferred the moisturiser to a drawer. With a final look around, she climbed into bed and, in search of distraction, opened the Lonely Planet where its pages had been turned down. Five minutes later, an expert on Things To Do in Omarama, she pulled the ceiling cord dangling above her head and, in the total darkness that followed, fell almost instantly asleep.
Cally woke to the sound of flushing. And birds. Getting up, she pushed half a tonne of curtain aside to look out on her very first Glencairn morning. Her windows bristled with hills as pink as a china shepherdess’s skirt, but rather more rugged. The tips of the gum trees around the homestead were just catching the sun; below them, the lawn lay grey and shadowy with dew.
Shivering, she listened. Footsteps passed her door, continuing down the stairs. Well, it seemed like everyone was up. Cally pulled yesterday’s cardigan on over her T-shirt and headed for the shower.
When she made it down to the kitchen, she found Carr at the stove, watching over a pot of coffee.
‘You want one?’ he asked, glancing back at her. He’d thrown on some clothes, but he looked as though he’d just got out of bed and had immediate plans to head back there.
Cally shook her head, not wanting to be a nuisance. ‘I’m okay.’
‘You sure? There’s plenty going.’
Lizzie breezed through the door in a red silk robe, her glossy hair more than usually tousled. ‘I meant to say—’ Seeing Cally, she stopped. ‘Good morning,’ she smiled, surreptitiously pulling the robe a little tighter. ‘Did you sleep all right?’
‘Yes.’ Cally nodded. ‘Very well. Thank you.’
‘Have you had breakfast?’
‘No, really,’ she hedged, ‘I’m fine. I don’t usually eat breakfast.’
Lizzie looked disapproving. Before she could say anything, Ash walked out of the pantry, a piece of toast in each hand.
‘Morning, all,’ he said, making a beeline for the porch door.
‘You heading out?’ Carr asked, his attention leaving Lizzie at last.
‘I’m just off down to the yards to work Windy.’
‘Take Cally with you,’ Carr ordered casually. ‘You can show her around.’
Cally exchanged a look with Ash. Okay. Clearly, three was a crowd.
‘Come on.’ Raising his eyebrows, Ash grinned. ‘I’ll give you the tour. You haven’t lived till you’ve seen our woolshed.’
Out in the porch, he pushed open a door. ‘Do you want to grab a pair of gumboots? What size do you take?’
Oh, bloody hell. She stared at the array of weathered boots on the floor. They had a better selection than PGG Wrightson.
Cally watched from the yard in front of the stables as Ash, having finally cornered his quivering horse, began to walk him down. The stallion’s eyes remained glued to Ash’s approach as he reached his head. Instead of clipping on the rope he had slung around his neck, Ash laid his palm on the horse’s forehead and spoke into his twitching ear, running his other hand over the neck and chest, every movement treacle-slow, as if he could calm the animal by osmosis. And maybe he could — as his hands moved over him, the horse dropped his head, relaxed his ears, and gave Ash a nudge as if to apologise for having been so much trouble.
Ash reached into his jacket pocket. Cally saw him take a bag out and offer something to the horse. As the horse chewed, Ash clipped the rope to his halter and led him back to the yard, the stallion walking serenely at his side.
‘What did you give him?’ she asked, as Ash hitched the rope to the rail beside her.
‘Toast.’
Toast? Cally smiled. ‘What does he have on it?’
‘Marmite,’ answered Ash, with perfect seriousness. ‘He loves the stuff.’
Taking an old towel from the rail, he began to rub the horse down. Cally watched the huge head drop further.
‘Is he called Windy because he’s so fast?’ The stable paddock wasn’t large, but in his attempts to get away from Ash, the horse had shown an impressive turn of speed.
‘He can be pretty quick in the wrong direction, all right,’ Ash agreed. ‘But his full name is “Windscleugh Arabica Macchiato”. He’s an American Quarter Horse. We used to breed them here. Windscleugh was our stud.’
‘So, Windy for short?’
‘It should be “Mac”,’ frowned Ash, ducking under the horse’s neck to start on the other side. ‘But he’s a bit of a nervy guy. Spooks at nothing. Dad’s old shepherd christened him Windy, and I guess it just stuck.’
Cally tried to exude an Ash-like calm as Windy’s muzzle moved along the length of her arm, sniffing exploratively. Concluding his investigation, the horse looked at her. Cautiously, she put out her hand.
‘Touch his neck,’ Ash said softly, ‘not his head.’
She laid her hand gently against the horse’s black-coffee-coloured hide, admiring the lighter, sooty-silver dapple. With his long, enviably highlighted silver-blond mane and tail, Windy looked as though he’d just had a very expensive trip to the hairdresser’s.
‘He likes you,’ Ash said, sounding surprised, as Windy — perhaps reading her thoughts — stretched his neck for a closer look at Cally’s own lacklustre ponytail.
‘I like him.’ Forgetting Ash’s instructions, she stroked the side of Windy’s soft nose as he drew back and snuffed her hands. ‘I’m sure,’ she told him, ‘you’re really a very brave and sensible horse underneath.’
‘Yep. There’s one in there somewhere.’ Ash ran his hands down the horse’s black foreleg and picked up a hoof. ‘We’ve just got to get him out, eh, Windy mate?’
‘What are you looking for?’ Cally asked, as Ash checked the rear hoof.
‘Nothing, really.’ Keeping close to Windy’s hindquarters, Ash moved around to his other side. ‘I’m just getting him used to me. He hasn’t been handled much for a while. Dad backed him last year, but he wants to bring him on slowly.’ Straightening, he grinned. ‘It’s my job to see how much of his training stuck.’
Cally nodded. She had no idea what he was talking about, but it sounded very impressive.
‘Do you ride?’
Cally smiled at the idea of herself on a horse. She had had the full set of My Little Ponies — did that count? ‘No,’ she told him.
‘You don’t like it?’
‘I’ve never tried.’
‘Never?’ Ash sounded shocked. ‘What, not even once?’
Pondering the theoretically possible alternative universe in which a Lizzie-like mother had driven her to riding lessons in their gleaming SUV, Cally shook her head, smile deepening. ‘Not even once.’ For starters, her mother would have had to get off night shift.
There was a silence. Appearing deep in thought, Ash lifted the saddle from the rail and placed it gently on Windy’s back. A brief shudder passed through the horse, but he stood quietly while Ash buckled the girth.
‘You know,’ Ash said, ‘riding can be pretty handy out here.’ He paused. ‘I could teach you, if you like.’ He picked up the bridle he’d hung on the post.
‘Really?’ She stared at him, stunned. ‘You could — I mean, you’d do that?’
‘Sure.’ He shrugged. ‘Why not?’
Turning his full attention back to the horse, Ash spoke briefly and inaudibly into Windy’s ear before feeding him the bit. Smoothly, he slipped the bridle over the horse’s
ears. Windy flattened them, snorted, champed at the metal in his mouth, and then appeared to decide it was all okay. Ash patted his neck.
‘It’s going to be pretty quiet here for the next few months,’ he said, looking over at Cally. ‘I could do with a winter project.’
Well, it would make a change to have a guy like Ash try to teach her something. Usually it was the other way round. Maths, physics, chemistry — all through high school, she’d been an unpaid tutor of all those subjects and more to guys with great smiles who could carry a rugby ball better than a decimal point.
Thoughtfully, she watched Ash secure Windy’s reins to the saddle and clip what looked like a very long lead to the bridle.
‘What’s that?’
‘A lunge rein.’
‘What does it do?’
Ash grinned. ‘It saves a few bones.’
Cally frowned, mystified, as Ash led Windy back into the paddock. After the horse had obediently run — and walked, and jogged — circles around Ash at the end of the rein for fifteen minutes or so, Ash returned Windy to the yard, hitched his halter to the rail, and began to tack him down.
‘You’re not …’ Her brow furrowed further. ‘You’re not getting on?’
‘Not today.’ Ash glanced up at her with a smile. ‘But I think it’s about time you did.’
Half an hour later, Cally found herself on horseback and heading up a dirt track into the hills, her mount securely tethered to Ash’s saddlebow. Behind her, she could still hear Windy, left alone, making noisy protest laps of the paddock. The chaos of dogs that had erupted when Ash opened their runs had settled into an orderly pack alongside, and although the rocky ground she could see passing below her still looked a long way down, Cally was getting over the idea that she was going to fall off for no reason. She did, however, feel more than usually clumsy and — well, burdensome. Watching Ash up ahead, she tightened her stomach, unclenched her shoulders, and tried to imitate the fluid way he occupied the saddle. From the moment he’d swung up there, he’d looked every inch Carr Fergusson’s son.
