by Holly Ford
She looked up to find Ash watching her with an odd expression on his face. ‘You want me to take you back to the homestead?’ he asked gently.
Cally frowned, considering, then sighed. ‘Aren’t I supposed to get back on?’
The next morning, over a basket of washing, Cally considered her swollen middle finger. As war wounds went, it wasn’t much to show.
‘What’s wrong with your hand?’ Ash demanded, from the laundry doorway.
‘Nothing.’ Cally shook her head.
He glared at her. ‘Let me see.’
Wow — he could look just like his father. She let him take her wrist, his hand travelling over hers as he turned her palm to the light.
‘Your finger’s sprained.’
Yes. She knew that.
Very gently, Ash ran his thumb and forefinger down the distorted line of the joints. ‘We should tape that,’ he said, a note she hadn’t heard before in his voice.
Or had she? Cally thought back to the previous day. Minus the mud and the shock, she was left with the memory of his arms around her, his hands moving over her shoulder blades, the feel of his shirt — of his chest — against her cheek … He’d started to say something. Why, why, why had she interrupted? Cally willed herself to look up at him now.
‘Cally? You in there?’
Her eyes flew up at the sound of Carr’s voice.
‘I’m heading up—’ Carr recoiled in the doorway as if he’d run into some kind of invisible field of resistance. He held Cally’s gaze. ‘Everything okay?’ he asked, a slight furrow in his forehead.
‘Cally’s sprained a finger.’ Ash extended her hand in evidence.
Carr didn’t look at it. ‘There’s tape in the drawer,’ he said evenly.
Letting go of Cally’s hand, Ash moved off. She heard a drawer open behind her.
‘I’m heading up to the Rockburn block,’ Carr began again. ‘I won’t be back for lunch.’ He nodded to Cally. ‘Just wanted to let you know.’
She nodded back. Carr walked off, and Cally heard the porch door shut. Silently, she let out her breath.
‘Come on.’ Ash walked past her with a roll of Elastoplast. ‘Come through to the kitchen, there’s more room in there.’
Cally started to pick up the laundry basket.
‘Here, I’ll take that.’ Ash scooped it out of her hands.
‘Sit down,’ he ordered in the kitchen, dumping the laundry basket on the table and rattling around in the drawers for a pair of scissors.
Cally did as she was told.
Ash pulled out the chair beside her. Commandeering her hand again, he wound the tape around her middle and ring fingers. Watching him work, Cally began to feel more and more stupid. She’d been kidding herself — again. He was being nice, that was all. He wasn’t interested in her. Ash was just … a nice guy.
He was also, she reminded herself, her boss. Or her boss’s son, anyway. Which was arguably worse. God, was he even single? For all she knew, he was engaged to some high country heiress with a castle of her own.
‘That should do it,’ he decided. Putting her hand down on the table, he cut off the end of the tape.
‘Thanks.’ Cally got up and, for lack of anything better to do, began to fold the laundry.
There was a silence.
‘Will you be here,’ she asked, striving for a casual tone, ‘for lunch?’ She risked a quick look at him.
Ash seemed reminded of something. ‘No,’ he said, getting up. ‘I’ve got to shift the rams.’
He paused. ‘I think that’s one for the bin.’
Cally glanced down at the checked shirt she was folding. There were holes under both arms, and one sleeve had ripped almost completely away.
‘You don’t want it?’ she asked, smoothing the old fabric out a bit more.
‘Just chuck it away.’
‘Would you like me to pack you some lunch?’
‘No thanks. I’m all packed up.’
Ash lingered in the doorway.
‘See you tonight,’ she said.
‘Yeah.’ He turned away.
Cally listened to him pull on his boots in the porch. There was a rustle of oilskin and the slide of a pack. The door opened and closed. Outside, on the third attempt, the ute’s motor chugged into life and the old truck rattled away.
She looked at his torn shirt laid out on the table. Picking it up, she walked to the rubbish bin and opened the lid. For a moment she stood looking down at the mess of coffee grounds, teabags and chop bones. She couldn’t bear to throw it in there. It still had some life in it, surely. On impulse, she pressed it to her face. The old brushed cotton was warm and very soft. The feel of it took her straight back to yesterday, when Ash had been under it — or, rather, one just like it.
Cally carried the shirt back to the table and folded it. Unable to think what to do with it next, she added it to the pile of her own clothes and finished folding the rest of the laundry.
Carr must have been down to pick up the mail; there was a rural supplies catalogue on the table along with the usual junk. She picked it up. It was the closest thing she’d seen to a shop in nearly three weeks. Not that she had ever been much of a shopper, but still … Cally flicked past pages of things she was only just beginning to be able to guess the purposes of, to the clothing at the back. Some of the stuff actually looked pretty good. And it wasn’t that expensive.
She took the laundry upstairs, distributing Ash’s and Carr’s to their rooms. In her own bedroom, she dug out her phone and checked her bank account. Wow. Seriously? When you had absolutely nothing to spend them on, wages really mounted up.
Back in the kitchen, she stoked up the range with the last logs of wood and went out, crunching across the frost that had lain in the shadows of the house for several days now, to fetch another load.
That night, walking into her bedroom, Cally shivered in spite of the heater in the room. According to Carr, the temperature was supposed to get down to minus ten before morning. Her coldest night at Glencairn so far. She shivered again. At the foot of her bed, she discovered Doug asleep on top of her neatly folded laundry.
‘Hey.’ Turfing him off the pile, she brushed at the cat hair plastered over the T-shirt that passed for her nightie. ‘I needed that.’
God, he’d got bits of spider’s web and — ugh, who knew what — all over it too. ‘Been mouse-hunting, have we?’ she asked him, picking up the T-shirt between thumb and forefinger and depositing it on floor.
Well, she certainly didn’t fancy sleeping naked tonight. What else could she wear? Flicking through the pile, her eyes fell on Ash’s shirt.
She hurried out of her clothes, slipped it on, and rolled up the sleeves. Perfect. Okay, it was a little draughty around the torn shoulder, but the rest of it still felt a whole lot warmer than her tatty old T-shirt. Wrapping the shirt closer to her, Cally climbed under the covers and closed her eyes.
On Friday afternoon, Lizzie’s Land Rover pulled up outside the homestead at the usual hour. In Carr’s absence, Cally headed out to greet her, glancing up at the shadowed snow on the hills as she did so. The sun had long since left the valley, and the air was heavy with cold. As Lizzie got out, Cally looked enviously at her long wool coat.
‘Can I give you a hand to carry something in?’ she asked.
‘Here.’ Lizzie reached into the cab to pull a large package from the passenger seat. ‘I picked up the mail on my way in,’ she said, handing it to Cally. ‘That one looks exciting.’
They both glanced up as the sound of a helicopter began to grow in the sky.
‘Carr’s been out dropping some hunters off,’ Cally explained.
Together they stood and watched it crest the ridge, navigation lights glowing.
‘I just love the sound of a helicopter,’ Lizzie said softly, ‘don’t you?’
Well, it was certainly loud. But with Carr having flown two Mountain Rescue call-outs and an Indian film crew last week, Cally was starting to get used to it. When Car
r had first pulled a helicopter out of his shed, she’d had to pick her jaw up off the floor. No wonder he didn’t care what car he drove. As glamorous modes of transport went, a helicopter beat a Bentley hands down.
She stole a look at Lizzie, who, eyes shining, was still watching the chopper descend. Clasping her package to her chest, Cally rubbed her arms briskly.
‘Come on,’ Lizzie beamed, tearing herself out of her reverie as the helicopter dropped behind the trees, ‘you shouldn’t be standing around out here. It’s freezing.’
In the kitchen, having shed her coat and her bag, Lizzie held her hands to the warmth of the range and surveyed Cally’s dinner preparations.
‘Can I help?’
God, yes please. ‘If you’re sure you want to,’ Cally said carefully.
‘Just tell me what to do.’
‘Could you do that thing with the kale again?’
‘Sure.’ Lizzie pushed up her sleeves.
Cally frowned at the recipe she’d pulled off the internet. ‘How do I caramelise onions? Do I add sugar to them?’
‘No.’ Lizzie peered over her shoulder. ‘That’s not what they mean. Here, I’ll show you.’ She paused, scanning through the recipe, then looked at the pot Cally had out on the stove. ‘We might start with a different pan.’
‘How are Ella and Luke?’ Cally asked a few minutes later, looking up from stirring the onions in the almost impossibly heavy brute of a pan Lizzie had insisted she use.
‘Oh, all right, I think.’ Lizzie stared at the mountain of kale. She looked a little troubled.
Cally bit her lip. She was only trying to be polite — she hadn’t meant to pry.
‘Long-term relationships,’ Lizzie sighed, with a little shake of her head. ‘You know what they’re like.’
‘Not really.’ Oh crap. Had she said that out loud?
‘You’ve never been in one?’
She shook her head. Lizzie looked surprised, though Cally couldn’t imagine why. She had enough trouble getting a guy to go out with her once.
‘So’ — Lizzie raised her eyebrows conspiratorially — ‘what’s the longest relationship you’ve ever had, then?’
‘With a guy?’
‘Yes.’ Lizzie’s smile broadened. ‘With a guy.’
Cally racked her brain. She had plenty of friends who were guys. And she’d had flings, sure, but not many that had lasted more than a month. The chemistry had always been wrong, one way or another. She was never attracted to the guys who were attracted to her, that was her problem. And as for the guys she did like, they had a tendency to run for the hills after two or three dates. Her mother said it was because she intimidated them, but Cally wasn’t so sure. The only boy she’d really liked who she’d actually gotten to know …
‘There was a guy in high school,’ she said, dubiously. ‘Taine Solomon. We hung out for about three years.’
‘What was he like?’
‘He played number ten.’ Cally sighed wistfully.
‘A rugby player?’
‘Captain of the First XV.’
Lizzie looked impressed. ‘You dated the captain of the First XV?’
She blushed. ‘Mostly I did his homework.’
Lizzie pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, looking as if she was trying not to laugh. ‘That was it?’
No, sometimes when she’d gone to watch him play he’d let her hold his coat as well. ‘We talked a lot.’ Watching Lizzie’s face, Cally was starting to laugh herself. ‘We went to the movies once.’
‘That’s a date,’ Lizzie affirmed.
‘Not by ourselves. With other people.’
The kitchen door opened. Carr, still wearing his flight overalls, swept in.
‘Hey,’ he smiled, his eyes locked on Lizzie’s.
‘Hey, you,’ Lizzie replied.
Cally concentrated on stirring the contents of her sauté pan as they kissed. Just as well: her onions were starting to look a bit crispy.
‘Lizzie, I can manage in here,’ she suggested tactfully, still not looking, ‘if you want to go and unpack.’
To her own surprise, it turned out to be true. With Carr and Lizzie gone, she worked her way through the recipe, got the stew into the oven, peeled the potatoes, finished preparing the kale, and had time, at last, to go upstairs and investigate the contents of her parcel.
She was impressed by how quickly it had arrived. Ripping off the plastic, she looked down at a three-pack of checked shirts of her very own. Hopefully these ones wouldn’t come halfway down her thighs. Then, with some sense of occasion, Cally removed the tissue paper from the most expensive item of clothing she’d ever bought, and unfolded her new oilskin.
Chapter EIGHT
Luke killed the Aston’s motor and sighed. Ahead, through the windscreen, the Glencairn homestead lay bathed in the sun of a flawless winter’s day.
‘I can’t believe you’re making me do this again.’ He shook his head. ‘If you run off and leave me this time, I swear—’
‘I won’t leave you.’ Ella slid her hand over his thigh. ‘I promise. It would be mean to make Mum stay home at the vineyard just for us. And anyway, it’s only one night. Then we’ve got a whole eight days to ourselves.’
‘A whole eight days,’ he repeated, drily. ‘Remind me who I have to thank for that again?’
‘Her name’s Natascha.’ Damian’s last shoot had led — rather abruptly — to a week in Tahiti with its subject. Not that Ella was complaining. It might not be Tahiti, but a week off at Luke’s place in Christchurch sounded pretty close to heaven to her. She might even get to unpack.
‘Come on.’ With another sigh, Luke opened the door. ‘Let’s get this over with, then.’
‘Just be nice.’
‘Aren’t I always?’
Ella rolled her eyes. Climbing out of the car, she stretched, taking in the perfect view of the snow-covered hills, which, no longer cropped by the Aston’s windscreen, rolled away as far as she could see. Luke strolled around to stand beside her, his hand coming to rest in the small of her back. He paused as a figure rounded the corner of the house.
‘Is that — Cally?’
She followed his gaze. Crikey. Was it? Well, of course it was, who else would it be, but … that was quite a transformation. In gumboots and skinny jeans, a checked shirt rolled up to her elbows and a basket of vegetables over one arm, Cally looked as though she belonged at Glencairn in a way Ella suspected she herself could never achieve if she stayed a hundred years.
‘Is she …’ Luke pushed his sunglasses up. ‘Taller?’
There was something different about her … Ella watched as Cally walked towards them, shoulders back, chin up, her loose hair catching the sunlight. ‘She’s put some weight on.’
‘It suits her.’
It did. She practically shone with good health. And those were some very pretty highlights she had going on in her hair — thanks to the sun, presumably, since there was a shortage of top-notch colourists at Glencairn.
‘Hello.’ Cally stopped in front of them. She smiled shyly at Ella, avoiding Luke’s eyes completely, and seeming suddenly much more like the girl they had met a month before. ‘Lizzie and Carr are inside.’
‘Hi.’ Catching Cally’s eyes at last, Luke gave her the sort of smile guaranteed to boost a girl’s ego. ‘Good to see you.’
Ella gave his arm a small squeeze of approval. She had a feeling Cally’s ego usually stayed pretty low to the ground. Behind her back, out of Cally’s sight, Luke pulled Ella’s ponytail.
‘I’ll get the bags,’ he said. ‘Anything you don’t want me to bring in?’
She raised her eyebrows at him. ‘My camera bag,’ she said, enjoying the look of surprise on his face, ‘can stay in the car.’
In the lull before dinner, Ella studied her laptop screen with a frown.
‘What does LSD stand for?’
Across the kitchen table, Ash glanced up from Luke’s newspaper with a look of surprise.
Ella gave a
little shake of her head. ‘In a four-wheel-drive, I mean.’
‘Oh — limited slip diff.’
Ella’s frown deepened. ‘Do I want one of those?’
‘It won’t hurt.’ He paused. ‘Are you buying a car?’
‘Trying to.’
‘What are you looking for?’
She sighed. ‘What I really want is an old Land Cruiser — a classic seventies one, you know?’
Ash nodded.
‘But there don’t seem to be many of them about.’ Not whole and roadworthy, anyway.
‘They can be pretty hard to come by,’ he agreed.
‘There’s a new listing for one in Cromwell.’ Turning the laptop, Ella pushed it across the table to him.
Ash looked at the screen, flicking through the photographs. ‘Body’s not too rough. It’s probably been around the clock a couple of times.’
‘Around the clock?’
‘It’s done more miles than the meter can show.’
Oh, right. ‘You think I should take a look at it?’
He shrugged. ‘Well, the more you look at, the better idea you’ll get of what you’re buying.’
‘It would help,’ she admitted, ‘if I knew what I was looking at.’ It would also help if some of the listers weren’t so sleazy.
‘I could always take a look at a few with you,’ he offered tentatively. ‘If you think that would help — I mean, I’m no expert, but—’
‘Would you?’ Ella beamed at him. ‘Really? That would be fantastic!’ If he wasn’t an expert, he was pretty damn close. Besides which, she felt pretty sure that the sight of a guy Ash’s size would wipe the leer off the face of the next creep she met with a pornographic number-plate frame and a sweaty desire to show her the size of his tyres.
‘When does the auction for this one close?’ Ash scrolled down. ‘You want to go see it tomorrow, before you head off?’
