A Choice of Fate

by Jezz de Silva

  What had started as another battle in their ongoing war for control spiralled out of control. She found herself using a beautiful old horse as both a shield and support as she floundered under his scrutiny. Sucking in a breath, she tightened her grip on the brush to prevent her fingers from trembling and resumed grooming Delores as casually as her twitching muscles allowed. “Teaching a city girl how to ride and take care of a horse, showing a visitor around his backyard, escorting a young woman to a genuine Aussie pub for some dinner and dancing. Why, what services did you have in mind?”

  And there she went again. She just couldn’t help herself. It was like the guy was her personal brand of crack. And it wasn’t like she was spoiled for choice when it came to potential escorts. She must’ve spent the day politely shooing away every eligible bachelor within a hundred-mile radius and heard the résumés of a half dozen more from their matchmaking mothers, sisters, and aunts. All the men overflowed with the same hardworking honesty that seemed to connect everything in the Outback, and none had made her chest tighten or her belly flip-flop like the cowboy rolling his eyes like she’d just broken his spirit.

  “Dinner…and dancing?”

  The pleading look he shot her over Delores’s freshly brushed back and his agonized sigh had her feeling guilty for adding the night out on the town to her list. But she’d been losing the war and was dying to experience the cultural adventure that was Baroona’s infamous Grand Hotel.

  She pursed her lips and shrugged. “If you’re too tired, I could ask Mick to take me. After all, he was the first of the dozen or so hunks to ask me out.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Olivia hung on as the Land Cruiser shook, rattled, and rolled toward the social epicenter of town and the unofficial start of the Outback. Google had the Outback starting from Baroona’s century-old sandstone post office, yet even a Yank like her knew that in the desert mail was a luxury and a watering hole was essential.

  A shower and fresh clothes had turned her driver from a dirty zombie into a squeaky-clean stockman. But the life that had returned to him probably had more to do with the culinary spoils of her doctoring. Grandma Anderson’s lamb casserole donation for the matchmaking session the old girl had disguised as an arthritis complaint had vanished, along with Esmay Jackson’s freshly baked sourdough, and Anne Kelly’s triple chocolate fudge cake, which had more than covered the checkups for her three adorable stockkids.

  A wash, clean clothes, and full belly had also worked wonders for her. However, the libido-calming effects of her ice-cold shower after their stable sparring match had ebbed away during dinner and evaporated the instant he’d held the ute’s passenger door open for her. The chaotic meal after their Skype call with Naya and a much healthier-looking Ethan had diluted his power, yet with only a foot of warm evening air separating them in the ute’s cab, the sensations she was becoming addicted to tingled over her skin and worked their way into her twitching muscles.

  She and her boobs both breathed sighs of relief as the ute bounced onto the relatively smooth road leading to Baroona. She released her death grip on the bracket bolted to the cabin’s frame and chuckled. The locals called it a “Jesus Handle,” and after her first excursion off road, she knew exactly why.

  A fresh pang of guilt hit her as she studied the man slouched in the driver’s seat out of the corner of her eye. “I don’t give a shit how old-school you were brought up to be, you’re exhausted and I’m driving home.”

  The predatory glare from the last time she’d brought up the subject returned. “Is that right?”

  “Doctor’s orders.” She deepened her scowl before escaping that damned smile by focusing on the dusty taillights of one of Wingarra’s two Toyota troop carriers. As the four-wheel drive’s name suggested, the cross between a people mover and a truck could’ve easily transported her, Jarrah, Jeddah, Maddie, and Kira into town if it hadn’t been for Jarrah’s scheming. Especially considering Abi and Ryder were enjoying some rare alone time back home.

  Abi’s face had lit up at the prospect of a night out after being stuck in Wingarra’s bush classroom wrangling the mustering crew’s kids. But even her sister’s legendary stubbornness couldn’t hide the toll a full day’s teaching had taken on her recovering body. The physical and mental strain had been even worse considering Abi was flying solo since Naya wouldn’t return to help with the kids for at least another day or two depending on Ethan’s latest checkup. Olivia had tried convincing her sister to rest by regurgitating the long list of promises Abi had made to her oncologist and physical therapist before leaving L.A. In the end, Ryder had stepped in and defused Abi with a look that promised a whole different type of relaxation.

  Jarrah must have ditched the pheromone-soaked aftershave that had imprinted on her brain when he’d gotten rid of his three-piece suit. But the clean fresh scent of soap, denim, leather, cotton, and something innately him carried on the evening breeze drifting through the cab was even more potent. With each breath she sneaked into her lungs, she felt the steel-reinforced concrete foundations of her self-control crumbling.

  She tugged on the collar of the button down that had suddenly grown too tight around her throat and pretended to gaze out at the moonlight bathing the town’s outskirts in its silvery glow. She’d wasted way too much time and nervous energy choosing the simple cotton shirt, jeans, and borrowed work boots combo she’d finally settled on. She’d even been confident of passing as a local right up until she’d seen the Harpers. After looking her up and down as if she were a heifer in a sale yard, Jarrah had frowned at the hat he’d plonked on her head three days ago before tossing it away and dragging her out the door.

  The Harpers wore the same clothes as she did: cotton button downs, T-shirts, jeans, and boots, yet there was an understated ruggedness about them that just couldn’t be faked. Maybe it was the heat and dust worked into their skin, or the hard and capable bodies forged by the endless work. Hell, it could’ve even been the Akubras that never seemed far from their heads. One thing was certain, however: there was no way in hell anyone was mistaking her for a local next to them.

  She straightened and turned to Jarrah, who’d been way too quiet for her liking. “Considering how much you paid for that damned piece of man jewelry, I’m amazed you didn’t drive the Aston.”

  An excess of nervous energy had her lashing out with the first thing that popped into her overloaded brain. She wasn’t even surprised he hadn’t taken the Vanquish. From the instant he’d slipped into his cowboy disguise, the only way you’d know he wasn’t a true-blue stockman was the cell phone he glared at and punched replies into when he thought no one was looking.

  He shrugged and tipped back his Akubra with a single finger. “Doesn’t go with my hat.”

  No, his tattered Akubra had no business being anywhere near the hand-crafted unicorn leather in his super car. Yet she knew clashing fashion hadn’t been the reason he’d taken the ute. It was almost like he didn’t want to be reminded of the life waiting for him back on the coast. And not for the first time since meeting him, she wondered where the lawyer ended, the stockman began, and where the real Jarrah Harper lived.

  “I better warn you, the Grand’s…” His grin faltered as if he was searching for the right word. “Unique.”

  She couldn’t decide what worried her more: the stories Abi had shared about Baroona’s only pub or the devious smile curving his lips. “Relax, I’ve survived my fair share of bars.”

  It wasn’t a complete lie. But like his rusty mustering skills, her once legendary partying had taken a backseat to her career, and it’d been a long time since she’d survived anything remotely dangerous near a bar or dance floor.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  He must have choreographed the whole scene, because no sooner had she turned away from his know-it-all smile than a cluster of lights emerged from the darkness like something from Close Encounters. With each bump and rattle from the Toyota along Baroona’s deserted main street, the lig
hts grew brighter and the warm breeze carried the ever-loudening beat from an all-too-familiar rock anthem.

  Years of listening to Abi’s playlist thudded through her as AC/DC obliterated the desert silence. How often had she heard “Thunderstruck”? How many times had Abi dragged her away from studying to scream along? She should’ve hated the damned song, yet her head automatically started nodding, her feet began tapping, and the chorus whispered through her curving lips.

  The Land Cruiser slowed to a crawl, and she turned to find Jarrah shaking his head and chuckling.

  “What?”

  He stilled and stared at her while AC/DC filled the cabin. “And here I was thinking you couldn’t get any more amazing.”

  She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. What the hell could she say after something like that? Thank you? If his words hadn’t been brain stalling enough the way he watched her tightened her throat until breathing became almost impossible. By the time she’d regained control of her faculties, he’d pulled back onto the road and returned his focus to the wide, empty street.

  “Thunderstruck” faded into the night before another male voice, even rougher than AC/DC’s front man, screeched about a working-class man as life emerged out of the darkness ahead. Vehicles of all shapes, sizes, and states of disrepair choked Main Street’s curbs as people flowed along the sidewalks toward a two-story sandstone building that looked almost as ancient and out of place as the Wishing Tree.

  Baroona’s Grand Hotel stood proud in the heart of town like a classy drag queen at a church social. She’d caught a glimpse of the old dame when she’d first passed through town. But under the blinding afternoon sun, the Grand’s facade, faded crimson roof, and intricate wrought-iron balcony and veranda had looked as quaint as the rest of the deserted picture-postcard town. Bathed in moonlight and lit up like an elegant Christmas tree, the hotel overflowed with so much energy and life it practically exploded.

  Traffic slowed to a crawl as another song thundered into the night and the troop carrier with the girls pulled into a grocery-store car park that must have served as overflow parking for the hotel on hoedown nights. Jarrah drummed out the beat on the steering wheel with his thumbs while waiting for the troop carrier to lumber up the driveway before tooting the horn and casually driving past the Grand’s crowded entrance.

  “Need to make a stop first. Can’t have you walking in there looking like that.”

  She couldn’t decide what pissed her off more: the dismissive wave of his hand or that he had her checking out her outfit like an insecure schoolgirl. Before she’d figured it out, he pulled to the curb in front of a double-fronted stop sporting a general store sign that could’ve come straight from the set of a spaghetti western and silenced the ute.

  He was still grinning as he jogged around to the passenger side and opened her door. Her scowl only seemed to amuse him more as he gestured to the darkened store. She answered his raised eyebrow by folding her arms across her chest and deepening her glare. Without the slightest hesitation, he unclipped her seat belt and wrestled her out of the cabin.

  If he hadn’t been so gentle and laughing so hard, she would’ve hurt him more. She’d landed an elbow to his solar plexus and stomped his foot before making the fatal mistake of meeting his gaze. Hands that had been shoving him away stilled on his chest, and the tension clamping her jaw tight eased as a pathetic whimper escaped. He fell silent, and his grin faded as his grip around her shoulders and waist faltered. For an insane instant, she feared he’d let her go.

  Instead of setting her free, he pulled her closer and dropped his forehead to hers. “Jesus Christ, you Williams girls are stubborn.”

  His chocolatey breath washed over her as she tilted back her head and eased into his embrace. “Because you Harper boys are smart-asses.”

  She peered at him as everything she shouldn’t do collided with everything she wanted. Hours could’ve dragged by for all she knew before he muttered a curse and slowly eased away. With a grimace that had her smiling despite the chill left by his absence, he dropped his chin to his chest and gestured to the store’s front door.

  “But it’s closed.” Her whispered words stuttered out of her mouth as if she’d forgotten how to speak.

  He casually fished a shiny silver key out of his pocket and wiggled his eyebrows. “Mrs. Mackay owes me a favor.”

  She wondered how many of Baroona’s residents owed him favors. Despite the constant teasing he endured from the mustering crew about his fancy car, hoity-toity job, and rusty horsemanship, he was treated with a subtle reverence that went further than simple friendship. It was almost like everyone looked up to him in that laid-back, completely insulting, Aussie sort of way. She’d overheard more than a few whispered thank-yous and witnessed many a hug or handshake that’d stretched beyond simple hellos when he’d greeted people. She’d put it down to that contagious charm that had well and truly infected every part of her, but it was different, somehow deeper, and somehow made him even more alluring.

  The tinkling bell over the door snapped her out of her ponderings as he flicked on the lights and held it open for her.

  She held her ground and glanced down at her outfit before hitching her hands onto her hips. “What the hell’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

  His eyes crawled over her body before lingering on her uncovered head. If his scrutiny hadn’t felt so damned good, she would’ve cursed for leaving herself open.

  He sighed and extended his hand. “Trust me.”

  There was only one person she trusted less than him and that was herself. True to form, the instant she slid her hand into his, her body trailed behind him into the back of the store like the last twenty-eight years of personal growth she’d survived meant nothing.

  If Baroona’s general store could’ve bottled the scent hanging in the air, she’d have bought a case of the stuff and bathed in it. Leather, wood, steel, dust: it smelled like the man guiding her toward a wall covered with enough cowboy hats to block out the sun.

  Her throat tightened as he paused in front of the display and gestured to the rows and rows of hats. “Can’t have you looking like a tourist on your first night out.”

  She edged forward and brushed her fingers over the felt crowns and leather hatbands. Deep, shallow, wide, narrow, black, gray, sand, and every color in between: there were so many styles and color combinations she didn’t know where to start. She closed her mouth and turned to find him cradling a sandstone-colored hat with an intricately braided leather band encircling the crown’s base.

  “I had Loren put this one aside in case you couldn’t decide.” He shrugged and looked almost nervous as he carefully ran his fingers around the brim. “It’s an Akubra Cattleman. It’s their most popular model. A lot of women prefer something more stylish, but I figured you’d want something authentic.” He nibbled his bottom lip before clearing his throat. “You don’t need to settle for this one. You can choose anything you like, or any color.” He shrugged. “I think the sand matches your skin and eyes better than the dark ones. Then again, the darker ones would be easier to keep clean—”

  “Are you going to shut up and let me try it on?”

  He reared back as if she’d slapped him. She was too busy smiling to feel any remorse at turning the playboy into a bumbling mess, because he just looked too damned adorable.

  Instead of taking it from him, she ducked beneath his arms and left him no other choice than to crown her. He was still leveling the brim when she straightened and pecked his cheek. “It’s perfect.”

  His arms froze around her as she floated ever so slowly over his still lips and kissed his other cheek. “Thank you.”

  “D-don’t mention it.”

  His words became hers as she hovered over his lips with her body coiled so tight she feared she’d snap in half.

  Turn around. Kiss him. Back away. Tackle him. Run. Rip off his clothes. One after the other the voices inside her head screamed to be heard over her racing heart.

&n
bsp; …

  We better get going? We better get going? What the fuck had he been thinking? Even as Jarrah trudged toward the Grand Hotel behind Olivia, he still couldn’t believe the words had dribbled out his stupid freaking mouth. The only place they should’ve been going was back to his feed shed to rip off their clothes and finish the game they’d started three days ago. But, oh no, they had to get back to his family.

  The more he thought about what he’d just done, the more insane it became. Instead of tilting back that brand-new hat and kissing the nervous smile right off her face, he’d surrendered to the nagging doubt gnawing away at him and hustled her out of the general store and into the ute like a celibate monk.

  Even now, with the Grand’s speakers pumping INXS’s “New Sensation” into the night and her jeans-clad butt torturing him with every single step, the one part of his brain still clinging to life continued warning him. She’s leaving in four weeks. She’s going to be part of your family forever. There’s only one way this ends. The problem was something else had joined the chaos in his head. Something he’d never felt before. Something he had absolutely no idea what to do about. And something that scared the shit out of him.

  The hundred-year-old pub that had served as gathering place, church, shelter, and courthouse for generations was about as classy as a bogan in a pair of thongs drinking a stubby, yet it was as grand as Baroona was ever likely to get. He and his family had spent so many nights propping up the bar or stomping the beer-soaked dance floor he was intimately familiar with every square inch of the place. Despite the frustration tying him up in knots, the weathered, half-lit sign hanging above the bar welcoming them to “The Start of the Outback” centered him in a way he was too preoccupied to understand. Maybe it was the familiar faces smiling back or the memories washing over him.