Christmas at Waratah Bay

by Marion Lennox

  Bing, who was currently watching the sack with caution from the truck tray, was one of those strays. Bing was the best dog he’d ever had. Tip, Harold’s fox terrier, had arrived via the same route, and back at the house he had four assorted cats . . .

  Enough. He’d drawn a line in the sand. He had Harold’s dogs to care for as well, and the last few times he’d found strays he’d hardened his heart and taken them straight to the local animal shelter.

  But Sarah was tugging away from his hold, staring at the sack in horror. “What . . . ”

  “Let me,” he said. Sometimes what he found was savage, a wild possum someone had caught, or a feral cat. The cruelty of tossing away something tied in a bag was unbelievable and yet . . .

  “It’s . . .something’s alive.” She pulled away, but he grabbed her.

  “No.”

  “But . . . ”

  “Let me.” He stooped and cautiously lifted a corner of the sack. There was no wild hissing. Instead, there was a whimper, a tiny yelp of pain.

  A pup. Hell, a pup.

  He grabbed the knife from his belt—as a farmer he went nowhere without his blade—and sliced the bag wide. And inside . . .

  It was the ugliest puppy he’d ever seen. It was six to eight weeks old, certainly no older, and it looked like a cross between a cattle dog, a bull dog . . .and maybe a Pomeranian? It had the bluish coat of a heeler, the squashed nose and face of a bulldog and a tuft of white hair that ran the length of its back. It had pointy white Pomeranian ears. It had great bulldog eyes that were brown, wide, and currently filled with terror and pain.

  It was a weird, crazy, mutant dog, a dog no one in their right mind would ever want—and Sarah hauled it out of the sack, lifted it against her heart and burst into tears.

  *

  “No.”

  It was the first thing he could think of to say, but it was important. Enough. He’d learned the hard way. Lete emotion in and you’re screwed. How many times had his siblings brought the same request to him. “Please, Max, can we keep him?” There’d barely been enough money to keep all of them fed. His rule—with the exception of Bing and the odd kitten who’d gotten under his skin—was to make sure the creature had food and water and take it to the shelter fast.

  Move on.

  “No, what?” Sarah whispered.

  “I’m not keeping him.” Okay, that sounded harsh, but if she knew how many times he’d had this conversation with himself . . .Every damned stray seemed to know Max Ramsey was a soft touch.

  “He’s hurt. His leg’s hurt.”

  “Let me see.” And that was a mistake. Don’t look too close. Food, water, shelter. He could get it to the shelter in half an hour. An hour’s interruption in his day, then move on with the rest of his life.

  Except Sarah was looking at the pup with tear-filled eyes and something inside him was twisting.

  No. No and no and no. This woman was heading back to New York. If she thought she was dumping him with another stray . . .

  “He can come back to New York with me,” she said and he blinked.

  “What?”

  “You heard.” But she was hardly speaking to him. All her attention was on Mutant-Dog. She crouched in the dust and hugged and he was forced to squat and look.

  That was a mistake, too. She was too close. She was too . . .

  Dog. Concentrate on the dog.

  “You know you can’t,” he said, gently now, in the tone he used for all his half-siblings and step-siblings when something was out of their reach. Which, with parents like theirs, was pretty much all the time. “This little guy needs owners who’ll love him, and he needs them straight away. Even if you can get him through US quarantine, do you want him to spend his life locked in an apartment in Manhattan?”

  It was his most reasonable voice. It was his most reasonable argument. She should back off, hand him the puppy, swipe those tears away and move on.

  She didn’t. She rose, hugged the puppy tighter and flashed him a look of fire.

  “You know that won’t happen. Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve—who goes looking for a puppy on Christmas Eve? Someone who looks for a last ditch gift, an afterthought? Then after Christmas, who wants a puppy? That’s when dogs get dumped, when everyone goes on holidays. This little guy will be put down and you know it. Anyway, he’s mine. Didn’t you hear the guy in the car? “Merry Christmas, guys. It’s all &%$# yours.”

  “Sarah, you can’t keep him.”

  “Butt out,” she said, fiercely. “If you won’t let me keep him at your place for the next couple of days, then I’ll keep him at Harold’s.”

  “You know Harold would love to come to the big house.”

  “Don’t you blackmail me.” She glowered. “You’re right, he would, and I need to be there to look after him so if you stay being a toe-rag then I’ll keep the puppy at Harold’s and go over and check on him every couple of hours.”

  “It’s almost a mile!”

  “I need to run. I always run. It’s how I survive.” She closed her eyes and the look he saw was suddenly raw, intense pain. And then, the look was gone. She opened her eyes and met his gaze, and he could see the thing was settled. No argument. The puppy had a home.

  “He’s called Gerome,” she said.

  “Gerome . . . ”

  “A lady who loved in an apartment near us . . .years and years ago . . .had a garden gnome that looked just like this little guy on her balcony. Mrs. Amess loved him; she used to buff him with furniture polish every morning. She was so old . . . She used to say she’d leave me Gerome in her will but then . . . Well, I never knew what happened to Gerome until now. I imagined he’d be landfill somewhere. But look, Santa’s brought me Gerome for Christmas.”

  “Sarah . . . ” There were so many reasons . . .

  “I can do this,” she said, fiercely again. “You know what? I can even afford a dog sitter if I need to. Isn’t it amazing what money can do? It’s brought me here. I have Harold for Christmas and now I’ll have Gerome for ever after. That’s my family. Moving on, Max Ramsey . . . Can Gerome and I stay at your place or do I need to take Gerome home?”

  And there was that word again. Home. And strangely, it was said with such longing . . .

  “Of course you can bring him to the homestead.”

  “Excellent,” she said and her anger and determination switched again to one of those high beam smiles. The smile that lit her face and everything within a twenty-yard radius. “Let’s get moving, then. We have a puppy to feed and a Christmas tree to set up, and then I believe I may need to do some cooking. Let’s move it, Mr. Ramsey. Christmas, here we come.”

  Chapter Four

  ‡

  Sarah crooned to the pup all the way back to the house. If she’d been one of his siblings that would have been the end of her for the evening, Max thought. She’d retire to her room with her pup. But Sarah had plans. Gerome was simply incorporated.

  Back at the house, she left him to haul in the tree and hit the internet looking at puppy care. Fifteen minutes later she came to the sitting room to find him. She now had a bulge under her t-shirt—a Gerome-shaped bulge.

  Max had got the tree upright. He was feeling okay about it, but as he looked at Sarah, he forgot about the tree. She looked . . . astonishing. International beauty, complete with mud-stains, pine sap and puppy bulge.

  “The internet says keep him warm,” she said, as he gazed at the bulge. The bulge was wriggling. Sarah cradled the bulge with one hand but looked worried. “I don’t trust it. The internet says the best way is by pouch so I’ve rigged up a scarf. I think he’s secure, but if he’s not . . . Will you check?’

  She was asking him to pull up her t-shirt? “Um . . . no.” Not wise on so many levels.

  “I don’t bite.”

  “I’m not pulling up your t-shirt.”

  She frowned. “You must be the only male in the known universe who won’t,” she told him. “If you knew how many men want to undress me . . . ” Her face
clouded still more, but then she caught herself. “Sorry. It’s not appropriate to whine to you. I’m not an international model here, thanks be, and thank you for not wanting to undress me. But, please check my knot. I’m not exactly a champion knot tier.”

  And she turned her back to him and tugged up her t-shirt herself.

  She’d made a sling, with two corners of the shawl going over her shoulders, the other two around her waist. He had no choice. He checked. It was a pretty poor knot.

  “Tie it again,” she said cheerfully. “I’ve got him safe. Go for it.”

  He untied her knot. The scarf was twisted. He needed to untwist it across her bare shoulder and then tug the four ends together.

  As a farmer he used knots every day of his working life. There was no reason for this to be any different.

  Her skin was silk smooth. The straps of her bra were wisps of white lace. Every time his hands came into contact with her skin he . . .

  No. Don’t even think about it, he told himself as he tied a very sensible knot that would hold a puppy ten times the size of Gerome.

  But he was starting to see why this woman was a model. He was starting to see why she had trouble . . .

  And for the first time he thought: she trusts me. This is one extraordinarily beautiful woman, and yet she’d tossed her hold-all into his car and come to stay.

  “Has anyone told you that you should be more careful?” he demanded as she shrugged her t-shirt down and that glorious expanse of creamy skin was lost to view.

  “What of?”

  “Me, for instance. If you say every man in the known universe wants to undress you . . . ”

  “I suspect I’m exaggerating,” she admitted. “It’s just . . .sometimes it feels like it. But, of course I trust you. You’re Harold’s Max, and according to Harold you’re the most dependable man on the planet. Did you know he’s been trying to get me out here ever since you moved in? He’s matchmaking.”

  “He’s what?”

  “Well, not now,” Sarah admitted. “But he did think it was a good idea early on. I split up with a very unsatisfactory boyfriend just as I finished nursing, and Harold wrote that he had just the cure living next door.” She hesitated again. “I guess I shouldn’t have mentioned it, but he may. He’s a bit . . . one eyed about you.”

  “So, he’d like one of his daughters . . . ”

  “Who knows what he’d like?” she said, a little too fast. “He’s so unwell now it can’t matter, and you don’t need to worry. I’m contracted to be in New York again by New Year, so unless this is a whirlwind courtship you’re safe. Meanwhile, Puppy. Tree. Christmas.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” There didn’t seem anything else to say.

  “I do like a man with a bit of deference,” she said and she smiled, and there was that grin again. “Maybe Harold has a point. But there’s no time, we’re late, we’re late, like the White Rabbit. Christmas is coming. Decorations, stat!”

  She had him fascinated. Okay, she had him more than fascinated. She was like a wound up toy, full of energy, ready to go.

  “You’ve fed Gerome?” he asked and was extraordinarily pleased when his voice sounded almost normal.

  “Of course I have. The poor baby was starving. I’ve checked the internet and found what’s safe for him to eat, though to be honest I reckon if I’d offered him a horse he would have eaten it. Your fridge produced the goods—thank you very much—and now he’s gone to sleep.’

  “Do you need a basket?’

  “He stays with me. You’ve made my pouch awesome.” She was moving on from puppy-worrying and was walking round the massive Christmas tree. “Wow,” she breathed. “It never looked this big in the paddock.”

  It hadn’t. He should have measured. This sitting room was opulent, built in a time when landowners built their homesteads on a scale to impress, but even in this high vaulted room, the tree almost touched the ceiling.

  “We need a truly awesome angel.”

  “As you say, there’s stuff in the attic. Sarah, I need to check the cattle.”

  “Of course. Go.”

  “I’ll help when I get back.”

  “There’s no need. Gerome and I make a cool decorating team. I have some things in my car. I’ll bring them in and then, if you don’t mind me delving in your attic, I’ll find the rest. You go do what you have to do, Max Ramsey, and leave Christmas decorating to me. And, what comes next. Can I use your kitchen?”

  “Of course, but . . . ”

  “There’s no but about it,” she said soundly. “From where I’m standing Christmas is looking as big as this Christmas tree, and I’m loving it. For now, though, I’m fine by myself. Max, scoot. You of all people know that alone is fine. But actually, I don’t need to be alone. Christmas this year is all about Harold, and all about Gerome—and all about you. It’s practically an enormous Christmas and it’s just what I want.”

  *

  Practically an enormous Christmas? She had no idea what she was talking about. He headed off down the paddocks with the dogs, and he thought . . .

  Actually, he was thinking of Sarah and creamy skin and a smile that lit the room.

  He’d better think of something else.

  Like the truly enormous Christmases of times past.

  They still had them, some of his siblings. Three of them were married now, and a couple had kids. He had invitations to Christmas whenever he wanted, but having fought for years to provide a semblance of celebration, Christmas had lost its gloss. Now, he loved the feeling that no one was dependent on him. No one would turn to him with disappointed faces when once again Santa had failed to deliver. He was responsible for no one.

  He’d share this Christmas, grudgingly, with Sarah and with Harold, but out here with his cattle he could concede that he’d be glad when Christmas was over.

  He’d be glad to be on his own again.

  *

  She decorated the tree while Gerome slept. The big house was whisper quiet. The dogs had gone with Max. There was no wind, no sounds, except for a couple of plovers calling to each other in the paddocks outside. If she was back in Manhattan right now she’d be listening to music, using earphones to block out the street noise. But there was no need for earphones here and she didn’t want to listen to music. This place felt right.

  This place felt like home.

  She’d fought so hard to get back. Max was accusatory—why hadn’t she been here sooner?—but, in truth getting here had been impossible. And now, her contract still hung over her head. She had to be back in the States by New Year.

  Leaving Harold.

  If only . . . If only . . .

  Regrets, regrets, regrets. She found she was blinking back tears and gave her face an angry swipe. Gerome stirred against her and she sank back on her knees and cuddled him.

  It was going to be hard—really hard—to keep this little guy, she conceded, but some things were worth fighting for.

  Like giving Harold this last Christmas.

  Like giving Max a Christmas he’d remember as well?

  He didn’t want one.

  “Well, he’s having one,” she said, fiercely, and Gerome stirred some more. She hitched up her t-shirt and looked at the little guy. He gazed back, his huge eyes full of . . . what? Fear? Hope?

  “That’s pretty much how I’m feeling,” she told him. “You and me, both. I reckon what we need to do now is cook. How are you at mince pies?”

  He snuffled a little, wriggled down in his pouch again and relaxed. His eyes closed in blissful sleep. He was fed. He was warm. He was safe.

  “You agree? Excellent. Mince pies it is.”

  Except cooking was hardly her forte, she conceded as she headed to the kitchen. In fact, being honest, she sucked at cooking.

  Still, mince pies should be fine. She’d bought frozen slabs of pre-rolled pastry and gourmet mince. She’d bought trays and cutters. She’d found an awesome website that gave instructions for the most basic of cooks—their hint was to sti
r a little lemon juice, a few fresh sultanas and a good dollop of brandy into the bought mince and it’d taste homemade.

  Even she could do that.

  She checked Max’s oven and found it had satisfactory knobs with temperature dials. What a relief. Harold’s fire stove had looked incredibly threatening.

  She set up her laptop, re-read the directions, found flour in the pantry, put everything she needed on the bench.

  Right. Sarah Carlton, nurse turned supermodel, was about to transform again—this time into a cook.

  “Mince pies here we come,” she said in satisfaction. “Christmas, ready or not.”

  *

  One of his cows was in trouble—again. The lower dam was muddy on the far side and a fat cow had stayed too long on a soft spot and sunk. She was lowing mournfully as he reached the dam. He swore.

  “That’s the third time. Gloria, once more and you’re mince meat, I swear.”

  She gave him a look that said she knew she was in calf and she was a great breeding cow, and she was in no danger at all.

  “Dimwit,” he told her as he hauled the spade from the back of the truck and started digging. “Don’t push your luck.” And he glowered.

  Normally, digging Gloria out of bogs was something he didn’t mind. It was hard physical labor, but it was quietly satisfying.

  But tonight . . . logic aside, the longer he stayed out the more he really wanted to be back at the house.

  Why?

  Because a Christmas tree was going up without him.

  Because Sarah was cuddling a puppy.

  Because . . .

  *

  She was making bulk mince pies and they were excellent. “There’s nothing to this cooking caper,” she told Gerome as the second tray came out of the oven, looking exactly like the picture on the website. “I think I’m a natural.” The house was filled with the house with the smell of Christmas—pine tree and freshly baked mince pies. Immensely satisfying. “Yes, it’s overkill,” she said as she surveyed her second tray. “But it feels right.”

  And then, she paused. A vehicle was coming along the long track to the house and it wasn’t Max’s truck. It sounded old and hiccuppy, a car on its last legs?