Outback Master

by Lexxie Couper

  To Marc, it was as close to a home base as he could imagine. His mother had been the resident teacher until she’d passed away ten years ago. He’d grown up within its walls. Had spent night after night listening to the dingoes call during mating season. Had danced in the rain in the small yard outside during the wet season, his mum swinging him about as they both laughed, his dad off doing what stockmen do, regardless of the weather.

  When Amy—the daughter of a Farpoint mechanic—became the teacher after four years studying in the big smoke, he’d gravitated to the cottage once again, returning to his childhood home as a guest of his friend. The nights the three of them had spent dancing to Lee Kernaghan under the stars were some of Marc’s favorites.

  And now Amy was in Chicago, attempting to appease her need for adventure, and Harper Shaw was going to be living in the small cottage.

  All in all, it was kinda weird.

  “You reckon an American is going to handle the ankle biters we breed here?” he asked, climbing out of the ute to throw a curious look at Keith.

  His best mate leaned over the side of the tray and retrieved a small suitcase from the back. “Dunno. Though I don’t think Amy would have set up the swap if she didn’t think Harper could handle it. Amy may have a bloody hard case of wanderlust, but she’s more dedicated to those kids than most of the blokes working here are to their job.”

  Marc snorted. That was true. Amy may be a bit flakey every now and again, but he’d pit her work ethic against that of most the hired hands employed on Farpoint. And that was saying something, given that the Sullivan brothers only employed the best. Well, maybe with the exception of Big Mac.

  Another snort left Marc, this one turning into a chuckle as they reached the front door of the cottage.

  “Like the flowers.” Keith nodded at a wattle spray painted with exquisite detail on the bottle-green door next to the slightly rusted, slightly dented knob. “Amy’s latest effort?”

  Marc let his gaze roam over the yellow puffballs depicted on the wood. “Guess so. She said she was making sure Harper knew she was in Australia no matter where she looked.”

  Keith laughed. “Sounds like Amy. You reckon the Yank’s got a hope of forgetting where she is? Can’t imagine a plain green door’s gonna make her think she’s back in the U.S.”

  Marc shook his head as he reached for the beat-up old doorknob. “Nope. But y’know Amy. Any chance to teach something new. Any surface too, apparently.”

  He turned the knob and pushed open the door.

  The interior was bathed in cool shadows, the wide verandah and overhanging trees outside keeping the high Outback sun and heat at bay. The gentle scent of acacia filled Marc’s breath.

  “Looks like she was determined to keep that Australian botanical lesson going inside as well.” Keith slipped past Marc to enter the cottage. “How many bloody bunches of wattle can one woman need?”

  Marc skipped his gaze around the small living area and eat-in kitchen. Keith was correct. There were at least four vases of acacia scattered around the place, although, he noted, each vase contained a variant of the flower. At the base of each one was a little white card, on which he could see Amy’s neat handwriting. He’d bet his left nut if he picked one up and read it, it would be both the common name and scientific name for the particular flowers in the vase.

  Ah, Amy, he thought. God, I love ya.

  “I’m just going to dump this suitcase in the bedroom,” Keith’s voice dragged his focus from the closest vase, “and we can get going. The mob marked for the Cobar sale yards needs to be counted and as far as I know, they’re still in the south paddock.”

  “Great.” Marc followed him toward the cottage’s only bedroom. “Think we can round ’em up by bike? My arse is still aching from the saddle.”

  Keith threw him a smirk. “Is that what it’s aching from?”

  Without slowing down, Marc snared a cushion from the small sofa he was passing and flung it at his friend’s head. “Shut the fuck up, Blue.”

  Keith ducked the cushion, which then promptly slapped against the closed bedroom door with a soft thud. “Told you not to try to beat Hunter last week. He may be more a desk jockey nowadays than a cattleman, but he’s still a bloody good bull-rider.”

  “You didn’t tell me not to do it.” Marc shoved his hands into his back pockets as Keith deposited the American’s suitcase on the foot of Amy’s double bed. “You just told me I’d be…”

  His words faded away, his pulse slamming in his neck, his heart in his throat, as a door in the bedroom swung open. The door leading to the small adjoining bathroom.

  The door in which Harper Shaw now stood frozen, as naked as they come, her hair wrapped in a towel, her lips parted in a stunned O, her stare jerking from Marc to Keith and back to Marc again.

  “Shit!” Keith burst out, his strained voice shattering the silence. “Shit, we’re sorry. Sorry. We thought—” He spun away from her, his face redder than the dirt outside. “We thought you were still with the boss.”

  Marc couldn’t move. He knew he should. He knew he should do exactly what Keith was doing—looking away. It was only polite. But he couldn’t. Harper Shaw’s body held him prisoner.

  Her legs were long and toned, her pubic area trimmed to a narrow rectangle, her stomach flat with that subtle, shallow line running from her navel to just below her ribs that spoke of many sit-ups and ab exercises. Her breasts were full and round, each tipped with a dusky nipple so puckered he imagined they would be hard to the touch.

  Something throbbed deep within him. Something carnal.

  Saliva filled his mouth. His pulse beat faster.

  And then something soft smashed into the side of his head and he blinked, the hypnotic spell of Harper’s nudity destroyed. “For fuck’s sake, Thomo,” Keith muttered, “look away.”

  Marc dropped his stare to his feet, his cheeks on fire. A pillow rested on the toe of his right boot, no doubt the weapon of distraction Keith had hurled at him. “Sorry, miss,” he said, wishing to hell the urge to raise his head and devour Harper with his eyes would just go away.

  “It’s okay,” Harper said, the softest chuckle in her voice.

  The sound of cotton rasping over flesh singed his nerves, and—unable to stop himself, no matter how hard he tried—he peeked up from under the brim of his hat at the naked American standing but a few feet away.

  She was no longer naked, the towel now wrapped about her, clinging to her curves as only a wet towel could. “Really,” she said, her accent making Marc’s head spin.

  Or maybe that was the way she looked.

  Or both.

  “It’s okay.”

  She smiled, and Marc couldn’t help but notice how different she looked without makeup. How lushly pink her lips were, how creamy her skin. Her hair tumbled around her face and bare shoulders in a tangle of damp strands, more than a few brushing at her eyes, which were a shade of blue deeper than either his or Keith’s.

  He lifted his head completely and gave her a wide smile back. If she wasn’t stressed about the whole thing, he wasn’t. Hell if he wasn’t one for going with the flow. It was how he lived his life, after all. “Did you enjoy your tour of the homestead?” he asked, noting how her nipples strained at the pink cotton of the towel.

  Beside him, Keith bit back some kind of mutter. From the corner of Marc’s eye, he saw his mate was still facing the bed.

  Harper dipped her head. “I did.”

  “Did you meet Hunter? Annie?”

  She nodded again, the corners of her mouth curling.

  “She’s from New York,” he went on, wanting her to speak. Her accent was different from Annie’s in some subtle way he couldn’t discern. It was…intriguing. “And you’re from…”

  “Chicago,” Harper supplied.

  Silence stretched for a second, and for some stupid reason Marc’s stomach decided to churn. As though he was…what? Nervous? He flicked a sideward glance at Keith, who seemed to be completely entranc
ed with the handle of Harper’s suitcase.

  “I’ve heard all about you two.” Harper’s voice jerked Marc’s stare away from Keith and he grinned at the American.

  “Really?” He cocked an eyebrow. “From who?”

  “Ronnie.”

  Marc smirked. “Ahh. None of it good, I bet.”

  A faint pink tinged her cheeks. She shifted her feet, her gaze moving between him and Keith. Her teeth caught her bottom lip.

  Marc continued, “Don’t believe everything you hear, Ms. Shaw. We’re not that—”

  “So who’s going to try to kiss me first?”

  “That’ll be me.” Keith’s voice cut through Marc’s shock at Harper’s unexpected question.

  Before Marc could utter a word, Keith spun on his heel, destroyed the distance between the foot of the bed and the American, wrapped one arm around her waist and hauled her against his body.

  He cupped her jaw in his free hand, traced her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb and then, as Harper gazed up at him—an expression close to amazement on her face—lowered his head and claimed her mouth.

  Raw lust detonated in Marc at the sight of his best mate kissing the towel-clad woman. Hot and absolute. He bit back a groan, a surge of liquid steel flooding into his cock. His reaction stunned him. Left him reeling.

  He’d seen Blue kiss more than one woman, but there was something about the sight of him kissing this woman that was so fucking hot to watch.

  What did that mean?

  Harper’s soft whimper sent fresh heat to his dick. Eyes closed, she leaned into Keith’s embrace, and Marc couldn’t miss the roll of her hips. Nestling her sex closer to his best mate’s groin.

  Keith groaned, his hand bunching the towel at the small of her back, his other skimming down the column of her throat, over her bare shoulder, down the curve of her breast trapped beneath pink cotton.

  Marc swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. Holy. Fuck.

  Harper whimpered again, snaking her arms up around Keith’s shoulders, her hands burying in his hair at this nape. It sent his hat tumbling off his head to fall at his feet.

  It also broke the concentrated rapture of the moment. Keith burst out laughing against Harper’s mouth, his chuckles echoed by hers as he stumbled back a step.

  “How was that?” he asked, bending at the waist to scoop his hat from the floor.

  “That was,” Harper cleared her throat, flicking Marc a look, “not at all what I was expecting.”

  “That good, ’eh?” Keith placed his hat back on, a crooked grin on his lips. Lips still glistening from the kiss. He slid his stare to Marc for a heartbeat, and if Marc hadn’t known him so well, he would have missed the expression in his eyes.

  Hunger.

  Marc’s already racing heart beat faster.

  He’d never seen that look in Keith’s eyes after a mere kiss.

  Ever.

  Chapter 3

  “So who is the boss then?” Harper looked up from tidying the small collection of art supplies she’d been using during her first day teaching the Farpoint class, giving Annie Prince a frown. “I’ve heard the cowboys call Mrs. Sullivan ‘boss’, Hunter ‘boss’ and the brother who’s not here—what’s his name…Dylan—‘boss’. Which one is it?”

  Annie laughed. “Don’t call them cowboys. They don’t like that.” She plucked a paintbrush from the long table the students had been sitting at during their craft time and fanned its bristles with her thumb. “Technically I guess it’s Hunter and Dylan.”

  Harper still couldn’t believe she was in Annie Prince’s presence. Talking to her. The daughter of one of America’s richest men. While in Australia.

  “But when it comes to the last word on Farpoint, no one, not even the brothers, are going to argue with Hazel.”

  Harper narrowed her eyes, contemplated what Annie said and then scooped up the postcards and travel pamphlets of the U.S. she’d had the small group of children cutting from. “So Hazel tells Hunter and Dylan what to do and they do it? Is that how it works?”

  “No. Hunter runs the business side of the station, the money side, the paperwork, and Dylan does the sweaty work. He’s in charge of the jackaroos, jillaroos and hired hands. Hazel lords over them as only a mother can. She knows they know how to run Farpoint, but she likes to keep them on their toes. And the hands call her ‘boss’ because she’s their bosses’ boss. Make sense?”

  Harper chuckled. “I think so.”

  Annie replaced the paintbrush and plucked a roll of tape from the table. “I have to say, it’s great to hear another American accent again. I didn’t realize how much I’d miss Monet until she left. How are you settling in? Is everyone being nice to you?”

  “Everyone is amazing.” Harper dropped herself onto the chair opposite Annie. “And the children in the class are so cool. It still messes with my head I’m teaching in a classroom on a ranch.”

  “Station,” Annie corrected.

  “Station,” Harper echoed, smacking her palm to her forehead. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It took me a while to get used to it as well.” Annie turned the tape in her fingers. To Harper, she looked very content. Relaxed. Nothing like the tense woman who used to grace the pages of the celebrity gossip magazines. “The Sullivans are big on family,” she went on. “Farpoint Creek is the only station in Australia—whether cattle or sheep—to keep the practice of a resident teacher alive. Dylan says it’s because their great-grandfather didn’t like the idea of his twin daughters going to a boarding school in Sydney and being seduced away from Farpoint by big-city boys.”

  At the word “seduced”, Harper’s belly fluttered. Since Keith Munroe had kissed her two days ago, she’d spent too many moments fantasizing about being seduced by the gay cowboy and his partner.

  She’d also fantasized about seducing them.

  In those fantasies, instead of wrapping the towel around her body after finding them in her bedroom, she’d dropped it to her feet, smoothed her hands over her hips and made some intelligent, innuendo-heavy comment that made them both fall instantly in lust with her. After Keith kissed her—something that, in real life, was only spurred by his competition with Marc—his hands roamed her body, his worship joined by that of Marc, whose lips journeyed her throat, her breasts.

  Then both cowboys removed their clothes and made love to her over and over again, bringing her to orgasm time and again with their hands and mouths and tongues and—

  “Harper?”

  Harper started, jerking her stare to Annie’s face. “I’m…I’m sorry,” she stammered, her cheeks filling with heat. “I wigged out a little. I think I must still be jetlagged.”

  “I understand. I was exhausted my first few days here. It takes the body clock a while to adjust.” Annie’s smile turned to a smirk. “Plus you spent most of yesterday being pursued by one very persistent stockman, yes?”

  Harper resisted the urge to fidget on her small seat. Ronnie McNamara had collected her from the cottage for breakfast yesterday morning a little after sunrise. She’d still been in her PJs when he’d knocked on the door, a bunch of pretty blue daisy-like flowers in his hand. He’d waited outside while she’d dressed and then driven her to the main homestead, pointing things out as they went. Leaving her at the homestead front door, he’d promised to collect her again for lunch, asking if she’d fancy a picnic. Annie had saved her from answering, the American heiress telling Ronnie that Hazel had already planned lunch.

  But Harper had to give it to the man; he was tenacious. Rather than be dissuaded, he’d suggested a picnic dinner instead. “Nothin’ like eating under the stars in the Outback,” he’d said, offering to come get her from the cottage. “I’ll teach you how to make a bush-oven damper if you like.”

  The picnic under the stars never eventuated. Hazel spent the day showing Harper everything she could around Farpoint, regaling her with utterly delightful tall tales about life on the station. It wasn’t until Harper was halfway through the most delicious
roast beef dinner she’d ever eaten, her mouth full of tender meat smothered in rich brown gravy, that it dawned on her she hadn’t seen Ronnie.

  With a guilty start, she’d mentioned it to those at the table. Annie had winked at Hunter, who’d scowled at his mother when Hazel proclaimed, “As if I’m going to let Ronald McNamara poison you with that gutrot he calls damper. Hell’s bells and buckets of blood, not even Dylan’s dog will eat it!”

  Still, Ronnie had been waiting for Harper when dinner finished, removing his hat and smiling at her when she and Hazel exited the homestead. “I’ll take her back to Miss Wesson’s place, Mrs. Sullivan,” he’d said to Hazel. “I’ve got to check the fence line along the Kangaroo Creek track anyways.”

  “How’s the cow you rescued from the billabong?” Hazel had asked, and Harper had been intrigued to see his face turn flame-red.

  “It’s aw’right,” Ronnie had answered.

  Hazel had narrowed her eyes. “How ’bout you go check on it? Just to be sure. I’ll drive Harper home.”

  With a muttered, “Yes, ma’am,” the cowboy had climbed back into the same pickup in which he’d collected Harper from the airport and driven into the night.

  “Those boys don’t know what they’ve done,” Hazel had muttered with a shake of her head before turning back to Harper. Harper wanted to ask which boys. For some reason, her pulse had started racing.

  For some reason? Harper fidgeted a little on her seat. Huh, maybe it’s because the last two nights you couldn’t stop thinking about Keith Munroe and Marc Thompson.

  “And,” Annie said, the word laced with good-natured humor, “he drove you here this morning, correct?”

  Harper fiddled with the pile of postcards and pamphlets on her lap. “Yes, he did.” She didn’t add how disappointed she’d been to open the door and see Ronnie when she’d been hoping to find Keith and Marc. Annie didn’t need to know she was harboring pornographic fantasies about the two cowboys.