by Cathryn Hein
A few minutes later they sat in the Land Cruiser, engine running, Brooke’s hands gripping the wheel. Already her brow was speckled with sweat, her breathing laboured. Doubt pricked at Lachie’s conscience. She was so happy when Sod loaded, so confident. Now, despite his patient encouragement and the rock-steady faith that worked so well with Sod, her fear continued to escalate. No matter how he longed to help her, this was out of his realm.
‘We don’t have to do this, Brooke.’
‘I want to.’ Her mouth held a stubborn line. ‘If Sod can do it, so can I.’
‘Sod’s a dumb animal. You’re a clever human. It’s not going to be as easy.’
She looked at him with an expression on the verge of crumpling. ‘You don’t believe I can do it.’
Hating the despair in her eyes, Lachie shifted in his seat, torn between wanting to reach out for her and keeping his distance. ‘You can do anything you put your mind to, but I don’t want to see you upset because you can’t cure yourself in an instant. This will take time.’
‘But that’s the thing. I don’t have time.’
He stilled. ‘What do you mean?’
She shook her head. ‘I can’t say. It wouldn’t be right.’
He didn’t probe further, respecting her need for privacy, but that didn’t stop him from working her words over. He suspected it was something to do with the night he found her crying into Poddy’s neck. That was a week and a half ago. Last Saturday the Sydney Spring Racing Carnival, which despite its name ran each year from August to September, began in earnest with the San Domenico Stakes day at Royal Randwick. Brooke had dutifully driven down to Sydney, but he could see from her tight expression as she kissed her horses goodbye and headed for her car that the journey was made under sufferance. He imagined this week would be no different.
‘Brooke, if there’s anything I can do …’
‘Thanks. But it’ll be okay.’ She twisted her hands around the wheel. ‘I just need to get sorted.’
And once she was, he’d be out of a job. Goodbye, Kingston Downs. Goodbye, Brooke. Hello, wherever. He stared at the dash, wondering how he ended up in this mess. A month he’d been here. A heartbeat in the scheme of things. Yet the idea of leaving made his breath feel short.
What did it matter? Brooke’s wellbeing had to be what counted.
He pointed to her leg. ‘You feel up to engaging the clutch?’
She swallowed and inhaled shakily before closing her mouth and nodding. Grim-faced, she pressed on the clutch until it reached the floor.
‘That’s great. You’re doing fine. Nothing to worry about.’ Not wanting to push, he let her stay like that for a moment. ‘Are you ready to put your hand on the shift?’
‘I don’t know.’
He recognised the build of panic in her voice and quickly tried to ease it. ‘That’s okay. You don’t have to. You can just sit. The car’s in neutral. We’re not going anywhere. There’s no rush.’
She blinked, spilling a single tear from her left eye. Each point of her knuckles jutted hard and white against her stretched skin. He knew she wouldn’t make it, that this attempt would be no different from the others. Any moment and her distress would get the better of her and he’d despise himself for letting it get that far. Maybe she’d hate him a little bit for letting her.
‘It’s okay. You can stop now.’
Jaw clenched, she gave a rapid shake of her head.
‘Please, Brooke. It’s not working.’
Another tear plummeted down her cheek. As it reached her chin he made a decision. No matter what she wanted, he wasn’t going to sit back and let her fall apart. Before she could stop him or argue, he reached across and turned off the ignition. Then he pushed himself out of the car, strode round to the driver’s side, hauled open the door and dragged her into his arms.
He expected a fight. Instead, she let him hold her to his chest. ‘Don’t do this any more.’
‘I have to.’
‘Then get proper help.’
‘I don’t need proper help. I have you.’
I have you.
He swallowed. Three words and she’d turned what he’d hoped was a stupid crush into something greater, something far, far worse.
He forced himself to let go and hold her at arm’s length. Out of kissing distance. ‘I know you don’t want to hear this, but your family’s right. You need proper help. Even policemen and soldiers, people who have been through unspeakable horrors, understand they can’t treat themselves, that they need a professional to help them cope with the terrible things they’ve experienced. It’s not a sign of weakness.’ He cupped her face, running his thumbs under her eyes to clear her tears, resisting the urge to drop them to her mouth, to stroke away the soft trembling of her lips. ‘You’re special, Brooke, but not unique.’
‘I don’t want to leave here.’
‘So we’ll find you someone local.’
He knew he should drop his hands, step away, break the tension between them, but he was caught, held by a need he wished didn’t exist. A need that had simmered, unacknowledged, half-dormant, from the moment he’d arrived at Kingston Downs. The need that had boiled over the moment he let the last shreds of his love for Tamsyn float free.
Her gaze darted to his mouth and back up. He swallowed, lost in her clear brandy-coloured eyes. Eyes no longer pooling with yearning for his comfort, but for something else, something more. Something he shouldn’t give.
But so desperately wanted to.
Blood pounded past his ears, loud, intense, as though in warning. Everything tightened, from the tiniest muscle in his body to the very air surrounding them, as if the world held its breath, expectant. He couldn’t remember ever wanting to kiss someone so badly.
Her body swayed, weight shifting to the balls of her feet. She placed a hot hand on his chest, eyes hooding as her mouth parted.
His pumping blood became a roar.
With a single, brief caress across her lips, he let his hands slip away and took a heavy step backwards. Regret hung between them, congealing in the stunned silence. He shoved his hands in his pockets. Even if it felt like shit he’d done the right thing.
For both of them.
‘Poor Billy must be wondering what’s going on,’ he said for want of something else to say.
She blinked and gave a little shake of her head, as though she’d been far away and needed to bring herself back to earth. She touched her lips, the place where only a few seconds before his hand had been. Then she focused on him and snatched her fingers away as though afraid she’d touched poison. The gesture made him sag a little bit inside. He should have known he’d overstepped the mark, that he’d misread the signs. After all, he had a pretty solid history of believing in emotions that didn’t exist.
‘Yes. Billy. Of course.’ Folding her arms protectively across her chest, she looked down at her watch before throwing him an awkward smile. ‘And I’d better bring in the horses.’
‘What’s the time?’ He didn’t need to ask. The dropping sun and cooling air told him it was nearing five, but he took his cue from her, acting normal when he felt anything but.
‘Ten to five.’
‘Poddy will be wondering where you are.’
‘I’d best get to it then,’ she said, dropping her arms. Casting him one last look, she turned towards the barn. Three steps later she halted, head twisting over her shoulder. ‘Thanks, Lachlan.’
He nodded, watching as she continued inside for the leads, wishing that, just once, she’d call him Lachie. But even after all they’d been through he was still Lachlan. Friend, perhaps, but still the farm manager. Professional relationship only.
And if he didn’t want to get hurt any more than he already would, he’d better make sure it stayed that way.
Fourteen
Brooke pressed her head against the tack room wall, waiting for the rumble of the tractor to fade. One wave, one sexy morning-bright smile from Lachlan and she’d turned into a crazy, love-sick
mess. Although that was a lie. She’d been a crazy, love-sick, embarrassing mess since Lachlan led Sod into the float three days ago, and it was only getting worse.
She should be angry, not mooning around like a poddy calf. That was her job Lachlan was heading down the lane to complete. So what it if was only small? She was still the one who’d slaved her guts out preparing the new lucerne stand. She should have been the one driving the tractor and seeder, seedbox filled with the pre-pelleted lucerne seed Lachlan had picked up yesterday from Pitcorthie Rural. Seed that she’d preordered. Yet underneath her sweaty, heart-poundy infatuation lurked not anger, but a strange feeling of contentment, as if Lachlan’s presence at Kingston Downs made the world right. That he belonged, like her, to the Valley.
‘Idiot,’ she muttered, pulling away from the wall and gathering up her all-purpose saddle and a cavesson bridle fitted with a simple eggbutt snaffle bit. Brooke didn’t have time for fantasies. Especially hopeless ones like that. She had horses to work.
She carried the tack outside, hooking the saddle over the rail of the nearest yard, in which a very pretty, white-blazed chestnut filly stood regarding her with blinky brown eyes.
‘Ready for a workout, Elly?’ she said, sliding under the rail and approaching the horse with soft coos.
Today was Electra’s second day in work and although kind-natured, the filly retained her quivery ex-racehorse nerves. Brooke had picked her up cheap from a local trainer and promptly turned her out for six months to mature and settle. Realising she needed more distraction from Lachlan than Robert and Sod provided, Brooke had decided to bring Elly into work.
With the horse saddled, bridled and booted, Brooke led her toward the ménage, mind drifting to Lachlan, her skin prickling with heat as she recalled how close she’d come to exposing herself. The moment when she’d almost kissed him.
One more breath and she would have reached up on tiptoe, slid her arms around his neck, pressed her body against his and tilted her mouth for a kiss like a drunk, desperate spinster. What a fine reward that would have been for him after all he’d done. Lachlan had shown her nothing but kindness, and all she seemed capable of was embarrassing him and humiliating herself.
Except …
Brooke halted and touched her lips, remembering the way he’d cupped her face and run his thumbs gently under her eyes, across her mouth. The swirls of green-gold in his beautiful hazel eyes as they’d gazed at her. For a heartbeat she thought …
She dropped her hand. Lachlan had made himself clear from the start. His tenure at Kingston Downs might be temporary, but he needed this job and wasn’t about to do anything to jeopardise it. Brooke remaining here placed him in an awkward position. Of course he would help her as best he could. It was only politic. Besides, Angus had asked him to.
And he’d knocked back Chloe, a woman no man ever said no to, and which could only mean one of two things. Either he genuinely didn’t like Chloe that way, or his heart lay elsewhere. Perhaps with a friend called Tamsyn.
Confused by the sudden halt, Elly nudged Brooke and blinked her lovely eyes, the skin above them furrowing in a way that reminded Brooke of Oddy. Surprised, Brooke kissed the filly smack on her soft muzzle. This was the first time the memory of Oddy brought feelings of love instead of slicing pain. She was getting better.
And though her head said it was thanks to the panacea of time, her heart relayed a different message. Her recovery – if she could call it that – was all thanks to Lachlan.
No wonder she was in love. That man could do anything.
Workout complete, Brooke steered Elly from the ménage, rubbing her mane while praising her for her good behaviour. Though they’d done little more than walk, interspersed with an occasional trot or canter to stave off boredom, the eager-to-please filly had performed impeccably, concentrating hard on Brooke’s aids. She deserved a relaxed hack around Kingston Downs.
They ambled down the lane towards the lucerne stands, reeled like hooked fish. The deep chug of the tractor, which had filled the air for the last hour, was gone, replaced with the quiet sounds of the countryside. As she neared the river and the last lane paddock, Brooke spied Lachlan crouched in the dirt, checking the newly planted seedbed. Her heart gave a little hiccup, her skin buzzing with excitement.
Billy greeted her at the gate with a sharp yap that sent Electra skittering and earned him a sharp rebuke from Lachlan, who stood and dusted his hands before walking towards Brooke. For a big man he moved with an athletic grace Brooke found mesmerising, covering the gap with an easy stride that made the distance appear shorter than it was.
‘Sorry,’ he said, letting Electra sniff his fingers before stroking her nose. ‘Billy forgets his manners sometimes.’
‘That’s okay. She’ll have to learn to put up with worse at shows. Half the battle is trying to keep them calm when there’s so much going on.’ Patting Elly’s neck, Brooke pulled her feet from the stirrups and slid off, looping her arm through the reins and moving to lean against the top fence rail. ‘No problems?’
‘None. Seed depth is good. Just need to get the roller onto it.’
He joined her at the fence, surveying the finely tilled seedbed. Thanks to months of dedicated preparation, the rich soil extended weed-free, crumbly and moist. Soil testing had shown the earth to be at the optimum pH, with high nutrient levels, and Brooke had made sure that the seeds had been lime-coated, treated with fungicide and insecticide, and inoculated with rhizobia – a special strain of soil bacteria that would form nodes on the plant’s roots and fix vital nitrogen from the air. The constant cutting and removal of plant material during haymaking extracted a lot of nitrogen from the property.
‘I’m looking forward to seeing how this variety performs,’ she said, referring to the new-release SARDI-bred strain she’d selected for the paddock. If production reached the level she anticipated, she’d replace the larger, aging Aurora stand with it in a year’s time. ‘It’s done well in trials.’
‘I know a contract seed grower who grew it last year. He seemed pretty impressed.’ He presented Brooke with one of his heart-skippy smiles. ‘Can’t fault the preparation, that’s for sure. You did a great job.’
‘Thanks. Pop always said that if you get the prep right then the rest will follow, and he was right. What varieties do you grow at Delamere?’
The heart-skippy smile collapsed. ‘Old ones.’
‘Like Aurora, you mean?’
‘No. Like Siriver and Hunterfield.’
Brooke stared at him. Siriver and Hunterfield weren’t simply old; in plant-breeding terms they were ancient. The modern, proprietary varieties produced higher yields with better leaf-to-stem ratios and increased disease resistance, and they persisted longer, spreading the cost of stand establishment over a greater period, reducing overall inputs and increasing profit. The seed was more expensive due to its Plant Breeder’s Rights protection – a form of plant copyright – but in most cases the enhanced performance easily outweighed the cost.
‘Yeah,’ he said, reading her disbelief. ‘I know. And it’s not as if Dad’s even growing them for seed. At least there’d be a bit of money in that.’
‘Doesn’t he know about the new varieties?’
‘He knows,’ Lachlan replied grimly. ‘He just chooses to ignore their existence.’
‘But why?’
‘I wish I knew.’ He squinted back towards the paddock. ‘I used to ask him when I was a kid. All he’d say was that if they were good enough for his old man, they were good enough for him. But sometimes I think he’s just too afraid to change because it would mean he’d have to ask for help.’ He looked down and picked at a splinter of timber. ‘He’s barely literate, Brooke.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. It’s his own fault. He could learn if he wanted to but he won’t. If it weren’t for Mum and Nick and me …’ He shook his head. ‘The farm’s stuck in a time warp. Sometimes I hate him for it. Other times I just pity him.’
Bro
oke rested her hand on his back, wishing she could do more to comfort him.
He looked at her, mouth quirked. ‘I don’t know why I told you that. Must be feeling sorry for myself.’
‘Hey,’ she said, nudging him. ‘None of that. Feeling sorry for yourself is my exclusive turf.’
His laugh sent her heart tripping.
‘Which reminds me.’ He reached into his shirt pocket. ‘I meant to give you this earlier.’ He handed her a neatly folded piece of paper and waited until Brooke had unfolded it before going on. ‘She’s a Newcastle-based psychologist who specialises in anxiety and stress disorders. According to her website she does a lot of work with road accident victims. I thought maybe she could help. Only problem is that she’s booked up until mid-October.’
Brooke traced the name with her finger. Dr Elizabeth Dalgleish. The name sounded safe, yet it made her feel hot, scared. Wary. ‘I don’t know …’
‘Call her.’ He caught her eye and smiled. ‘How are you going to get rid of me if you don’t get better?’
That was the problem. Brooke didn’t want to see Lachlan go. Yet if life was ever to return to how she wanted it, that’s exactly what had to happen.
She bit her lip, panicked by the thought of him leaving. Tempted, so tempted, to rip Dr Dalgleish’s name and number to shreds and cast it like confetti to the wind.
Uncertainty at her reaction tugged Lachlan’s smile into a frown. ‘It’s what you want, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. No. I mean —’ She closed her eyes, shaking her head, trying think clearly, but he stood so close she could smell him – that evocative citrus fragrance that came from his clothes or deodorant or something and seeped into her brain, fuddling it. ‘I want to get better, I have to get better, but I know how important being here is for you.’
How important it had become for her.
‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. I’ve lost jobs before. There are others around.’ He smiled and leaned in close. ‘The most important thing is you.’
She stared at him. He wore that expression again, the one that made her wonder, made her heart do that excited dance and set her tongue sticking in her mouth. For a few seconds he held her stare before breaking away to shove his hands in his pockets and look back at the paddock, leaving Brooke overwhelmed and electrified by that intangible something she thought had passed between them.
