The Wild One

by Janet Gover

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then get it done.’ The call ended abruptly.

  Dan hung up the phone then stood looking at it for a few moments. Lawson had given Dan an order. He should obey. He would – but not today.

  He headed outside. On the way, he retrieved an axe from his tool shed. He walked around to a section of scrub that was beginning to encroach on his small house. He found the biggest, toughest looking tree in the area. With smooth fluid movements he lifted the axe high over his right shoulder. He held it at the apex of the swing for a heartbeat, and then swung it with all the force he could muster. The iron blade cut deep into the Melaleuca trunk with a satisfying thud. Small chips of wood flew and shards of bark fell to the ground at his feet. Dan pulled the axe free and swung again. And again, cutting deeper and deeper into the trunk. Finally, the tree began to give up the battle. At the slow creaking of the tearing timber, he stood back to watch the tree crash to the ground.

  With a grunt of satisfaction, Dan pulled his shirt over his head and used it to wipe the sweat from his face and arms. He didn’t bother putting it back on. Then he picked up the axe again. He attacked the next tree with the same intensity as the first.

  The noise of it crashing to the ground wasn’t enough to drown out his thoughts.

  Dan stood for a few moments, taking long slow breaths, his chest heaving slightly with the exertion. He took a long draught from the water bottle he always kept to hand, then picked up his axe and moved on to the next tree. Cutting timber in this heat was hard work, but it was good honest work. And the sweat pouring from his body was clean sweat, triggered by physical labour – not by memories.

  The little girl had come back to him last night. And the night before; so real he could almost feel the desert heat again. Every night since he’d received the e-mail ordering him to shoot the brumbies, she had denied him any rest. Ever since he looked through the sights of a rifle again and tightened his finger on the trigger, the little girl had haunted him. Her huge dark eyes accused him of breaking his oath. In the depths of the still night he would hear her screams and wake drenched with sweat. Overcome with guilt and remorse.

  In another remote place, when he wore a different uniform, he had been ordered to use his rifle. He’d been good at it too. Good enough to attract the attention of his superior officers. There were times he’d used his skills as a sniper to protect his comrades. That he was always willing to do. Other times he’d been ordered to target enemy combatants and terror suspects. He’s felt less comfortable with that. Shooting someone in cold blood just did not seem right. But he was a soldier. And that was what soldiers did. And then he had been ordered to shoot a father while he held his child in his hands …

  That had been a step too far for Dan. He’d made a decision – and was still living with the consequences.

  Shooting a wild horse was not the same as shooting a human being. But violence was violence and he had sworn never to take that path again. He had promised a dead girl that he was done. That he would never pick up a rifle again or harm a living creature. Now he was being forced to break that promise. He could refuse and walk away, but there would be consequences to that decision too. Last time, a girl died a terrible, painful death.

  He was damned, whatever course he took.

  With an angry swipe of the back of his hand, he dashed the sweat from his face, shouldered his axe again and moved to the next tree.

  ‘What sort of a park ranger are you?’

  The sharp voice caught him in mid swing. The axe completed its arc and cut into the bark with a decisive thud. Dan pulled it free as he turned to see a beautiful angry woman standing a few feet behind him.

  ‘You shoot brumbies. You cut down trees. Are you sure you’re a park ranger?’

  ‘And you think nothing of sneaking up on a man armed with an axe – or a gun. That sort of behaviour could get you in serious trouble.’

  ‘Was that a threat?’ Quinn demanded.

  ‘No. Just an observation.’

  A tense silence settled between them. Dan waited for Quinn to make the next move. He had all the patience in the world.

  ‘Why are you cutting down trees?’ she finally said. Her voice was a fraction calmer.

  ‘I’m making a firebreak around the ranger station,’ he said slowly, not at all concerned that he might sound smug or superior. ‘It’s the sort of thing park rangers do.’

  He was rewarded with just the hint of a blush on Quinn’s face. Today she wasn’t wearing her photographers’ vest, and this time there was no chance he could mistake her for a man. She filled out a pair of faded jeans and a tank top in an extremely feminine fashion. He must have been pretty out of it yesterday if he hadn’t noticed those long lashes fringing her tawny eyes. Or the way the sun glinted on the short blonde hair that framed her face in a most angelic fashion. He was pretty sure angelic was a word seldom used to describe Quinn. But he kind of liked it.

  ‘I’ve been reading about brumbies,’ she said, obviously deciding to let the small matter of the trees pass. ‘The National Parks department is trying to get them out of all the parks. Because they cause damage.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Dan said. He studied her face and saw that she was genuinely interested. He’d been struggling with this for a while now. Maybe talking it through with someone would help him understand what he had to do and why. ‘It’s not an easy call to make. But most conservationists agree with the department. The brumbies do untold damage to the parks and the native plants and animals.’

  ‘I can see that now,’ Quinn conceded. ‘But why shoot them? You could just move them.’

  They were heading into dangerous territory. Lawson’s warning was fresh in his mind. Dan knew he shouldn’t be talking about this. Especially not to a photographer. She wasn’t press, but he would bet she had contacts in the press. It was more than his job was worth to find himself at the centre of some newspaper crusade to save the horses. Among those orders he’d received was one about not talking to the press. To anyone. If he was going to start disobeying orders again, he might as well start with that one.

  ‘It’s not quite that simple,’ he said.

  ‘Tell me.’ She sounded quietly determined. He liked that too.

  Dan suddenly found himself wanting to talk to her about the horses. It was such a small part of the burden he carried, but it was the only part he would ever be able to share with anyone. And she would understand. No one who took the sort of photographs she did could fail to understand. And just maybe she might have some useful ideas.

  He glanced up at the sun. It wasn’t yet noon, but already the day was blisteringly hot. He suddenly became aware that he was shirtless and sweating. Not that Quinn seemed to be bothered by it. Or even to have noticed it. He reached for his shirt.

  ‘Let’s go inside out of the heat.’

  He could have led her to the ranger station. He should have led her there. This was, after all, about park business. But he didn’t. Instead he took her behind the office to his small house. As he did, he realised that in all the time he’d lived here, he had never had another person inside his home. He’d never let anyone get that close. But Quinn was different. She was already part of his life, although she didn’t know it. She had been a part of his life for a long time.

  At the bottom of the steps leading to the door, he gestured for her to precede him. The front door wasn’t locked. His living room was clean and tidy – one of the military habits he’d never lost. Only one thing was out of place. A book lying open on the coffee table, where he’d been reading it last night.

  ‘Oh!’ Quinn stopped when she recognised the book.

  ‘I was hoping you might sign it for me,’ Dan said.

  ‘I guess that depends,’ Quinn replied.

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On what happens to the brumbies.’

  The book had been a surprise. Quinn sat on the small but comfortable couch leafing through the pages. Every one of the photographs was familia
r to her. She remembered taking each one. She remembered the thrill when she had looked back at the images and seen that extra something that turned a good photograph into something special. That trick of light. The clarity of colour. And the occasional bit of luck, like when a bird flew into frame at just the right second.

  ‘How do you have your coffee?’ Dan called from the kitchen.

  ‘Black,’ she replied, turning another page in the book.

  Quinn wasn’t particularly vain, but there were times when she looked at her photos and felt a thrill of pride that she had added some small portion of beauty to the world.

  And speaking of beauty …

  ‘Here you go. Coffee. Black.’ Dan placed the steaming mug on the table in front of her.

  He’d obviously taken a few moments to wash while he made their drinks. The sweat stained shirt had been replaced with a clean crisp one. Quinn felt a twinge of regret that he’d bothered with either. Shirtless, sweating and swinging an axe he’d made quite a striking picture. Quinn was a person who appreciated beauty, and Dan Mitchell had a beautiful body. She had noticed a couple of small scars on his back and chest, but that had done nothing to mar his attractiveness. In fact, the small imperfections had simply thrown his other attributes into sharp focus. He was taut and muscular, but not overly so. He moved with strength and grace. His eyes were a fabulous shade of blue. Quinn had never been fond of red hair on men – but on Dan Mitchell it looked right. His hair was a sandy-red, not unlike the sandstone cliffs of the park. It was straight and a little long and fell over his face in a most appealing fashion. If ever she wanted to give up nature photography and start photographing people instead, Dan would be a great subject to start with. It would be a challenge to see if she could properly capture the substance of the man, as well as the stature.

  ‘I wonder why it is that we enjoy hot drinks in a climate like this,’ Dan said with the hint of a smile as he sat down in the armchair opposite her.

  That was a challenge too. She would like to see what he looked like when he really smiled. Or when he laughed out loud with joy. Although something in the lines of his face suggested he didn’t laugh all that often.

  With some reluctance Quinn dragged her thoughts back to her reason for being here.

  ‘The brumbies,’ she said. ‘You can save them.’

  ‘Nothing would please me more,’ he said with transparent honesty. ‘But they can’t stay in the park.’

  ‘I understand that now,’ Quinn said. ‘But some of the other parks have simply moved them. You could do that.’

  ‘Assuming I could catch them, where would I take them?’

  ‘There must be somewhere. This is the outback. There’s plenty of room.’

  ‘It’s not like the east coast,’ Dan said. ‘Back there there’s rich grazing. A few horses don’t count for much. Out here, this close to the desert, every blade of grass is needed for the stock. There isn’t food or water to waste on brumbies.’

  ‘But if you give them to the graziers, they can train them. Free working horses.’

  ‘That’s true – but for the most part, around here, work horses are not in short supply. Motor bikes and helicopters do a lot of the work. Those who need horses usually have more than enough.’

  ‘We could send them east. Find homes for them there.’

  ‘We?’ Dan raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought this was my problem.’

  Quinn gave him a withering look.

  ‘We could,’ Dan continued. ‘If we can catch them. And tame them. I don’t know much about horses, but that sounds like a lot of hard work. We need someone who can handle horses. And we need time. I don’t have a lot of that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The Parks service has given me a deadline. The end of the month.’

  ‘Couldn’t you just … you know … not tell them until we’ve had a chance to organise something.’

  ‘You mean lie?’ He raised one questioning eyebrow.

  Quinn almost said no, but he was right of course, she did mean lie. ‘When you say it like that …’

  ‘If I do that, I’ll lose my job.’

  ‘There are other jobs,’ she said.

  ‘True.’

  To Quinn, it sounded as if he didn’t believe her. As if this was the only job for him. And that couldn’t be right. Surely someone like Dan would be able to work anywhere.

  ‘If I don’t shoot them, someone else will,’ Dan continued. ‘And I won’t allow that to happen. At least I can make it quick and clean.’

  ‘So, you’re that good with a rifle, are you?’ Quinn felt her lip curl a little in disgust at the thought of how many animals must have died for him to become a good shot.

  ‘The army thought so.’

  Quinn felt her cheeks redden again. Of course he was ex-military. She should have recognised it in the way he moved and that incredibly fit and controlled body. It would also explain the scars she had seen on his back. He must have been wounded. She could usually pick a military or ex-military man a mile away. It was something to do with the confidence that almost bordered on arrogance that most of them displayed. But she hadn’t seen that in Dan. He was different. Not soft … Just different. She looked up at him, and for the first time their eyes really met. Somewhere behind those brilliant blue eyes she could sense there was so much more he wanted to say, but couldn’t.

  She took a deep breath. ‘Give me a few days.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘I’m not sure. If I knew, I wouldn’t need a few days.’

  He smiled again. Small lines formed at the corners of his eyes and he suddenly looked younger, as if a tiny fraction of a great weight had been lifted from him. But only for a moment.

  ‘The brumbies are spooked,’ he said. ‘After your efforts yesterday they won’t be back for a couple of days. I couldn’t do anything, even if I wanted to.’

  ‘Three days,’ Quinn countered. ‘Please, promise me you won’t do anything for three days.’

  He hesitated. Quinn held her breath and waited. At last Dan gave a sharp nod.

  ‘All right. Three days from now I have to be back at that gully as the sun goes down. You’ve got until then.’

  Chapter Seven

  22 … 24 … 26 … 28 … Nothing. She had nothing.

  Quinn let her hands fall. One of the plastic knitting needles dropped to the polished wood floor, landing with a subdued clatter. Quinn looked down at the soft pale yellow yarn in her lap and sighed. Knitting was supposed to help her relax. Help her think. But it wasn’t working this time. She had spent two days sitting in this hotel lounge, on the Internet. Researching. She had sent e-mails to organisations and people she had never heard of before, asking for their help or their advice. Some had even replied. But at the end of two days, in real terms, she had exactly nothing.

  Tomorrow Dan Mitchell was going to start shooting the brumbies – unless she could come up with an idea. And preferably one with some small chance of succeeding.

  She picked up her needles and started counting stitches again. If she could just get her brain to think about something else for a while, maybe she’d have some sort of a light bulb moment.

  22 … 24 … 26 …

  ‘Here’s your dinner, Quinn.’

  Biting back her frustration, Quinn tossed the knitting onto one end of the table, as Trish Warren set a plate in front of her. On the plate sat a burger, dripping with tomato sauce, and a huge pile of fries. Quinn took one of the fries and started eating it. When she was frustrated – she ate.

  ‘This is so pretty,’ Trish Warren said, hovering at the end of the table, reaching out to not quite touch the pile of yellow wool. ‘I was never any good at knitting. Tried it, but never got the hang of it. People say it’s restful, but for me it was just the opposite. As soon as I started talking to someone, I’d lose track of what I was doing.’

  And Trish Warren would always be talking to someone, Quinn thought as she devoured another chip. When it came to talking, the woman wa
s unstoppable. And as Quinn was the only person in the lounge at the moment, she was the target.

  ‘Of course, it might have been different if Syd and I had had kids. There are such lovely little things to knit for kids. Like this little thing you are knitting. Who is it for, dear?’

  There it was again. That knife in her heart. Time had not in any way made it any less sharp. Quinn wished Trish Warren would fall down some deep dark hole. Then, chiding herself for her lack of charity, she forced a smile onto her face.

  ‘Not for anyone. I just like to knit. I do find it relaxing. In fact, it’s nearly done. So if you know anyone who might like it.’

  ‘You mean you’ll just give it away?’

  ‘Yes,’ Quinn said.

  ‘Well, that’s generous of you, dear. I do know someone.’

  ‘Trish,’ a voice called from the bar, where there were a few people drinking and chatting. ‘You’ve got some more food orders.’

  ‘Coming!’ she called back. ‘Sorry, dear, I’ve got to go. Enjoy the burger.’

  The older woman walked away,

  Quinn opened her laptop. She could eat and surf at the same time. She took a deep bite of the burger. It was good. Balancing it in one hand, she typed ‘brumby’ into her search engine with the other.

  ‘Hi. Remember me? Jack North.’

  Quinn looked up to see the barman she had meet two nights before smiling uncertainly down at her.

  ‘Of course. I also remember your wife’s cooking. Not that there’s anything wrong with this burger – but is she coming back soon?’

  ‘Ellen works most of the time at the other pub. The Mineside. She just cooks here occasionally.’ Jack hesitated and looked a little embarrassed. It looked a bit strange on a man of his size. ‘Sorry to disturb your meal, but Trish said I had to come out here and ask you about … well … knitting?’

  Quinn finally put two and two together. ‘Of course, you’re expecting a baby.’