Tumble Creek

by Louise Forster

  Nice one, Sofe.

  She had to hand it to Brock; his eyes didn’t stray but steadfastly held hers, even though away from the heaters and no blanket, Sofie’s nipples pebbled into hard, rosy nubs, and then she started to shiver.

  Maybe she just wasn’t his type. Shit … what was she going to do with that?

  Brock’s dark, burning gaze slowly travelled down her body. Oops, maybe she was wrong. He hunkered down, retrieved the blanket, came up and tucked it around her shoulders. Quietly, and with controlled authority, he clipped, ‘Get—dressed—Sofe.’

  Mouth pressed together, she snatched her clothes out of his hand, rummaged in her handbag for her keys and slapped them into his waiting palm. He lifted his chin indicating the ladies toilets and strode back towards the hall muttering, ‘Not a fan of you being naked in front of other men.’

  Sofie peeked around the corner to see him disappear. ‘What the …?’

  She could not work him out. Half the time his look screamed hungry for sex, the other half he was angry … actually it was both at the same time. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Okay, she had to get a handle on her emotions before she dived headlong into hysterics. So what if Brock Stewart had shown signs he found her attractive over the past six months, she sure as hell wasn’t going to take the first step. And she’d better get dressed, and fast, because she was damn sure he wouldn’t even blink twice about coming into the ladies to drag her out. She certainly wasn’t going to sit next to him, in his car, naked. Though, if he ever gave her the chance, that might change somewhere down the track.

  ***

  Out in the cold, Brock grabbed Sofie’s hand and dragged her straight to his Ford Ranger. She glared at the beast, its engine running, making a show of how confident he’d been that it wouldn’t take him long to fetch her. Misty clouds of vapour mixed with diesel fumes floated through the parking area and up into the surrounding leafless, twiggy oak trees. She tried to yank her hand out of his; of course that didn’t work. At some stage he’d have to let her go to open his car door, she could easily make a run for her car, then she wouldn’t have to sit next to his ongoing mixed messages. Damn, no keys—not a problem, she could try hot wiring her car. He opened his passenger door, let her hand go, and just as she was about to take off, he scooped her up again. Ignoring Sofie’s squeal of protest, and without a word, he set her down in the passenger seat. Then his actions got more bizarre. Brock grabbed the seatbelt, pulled it across her lap and chest, and snapped it in, as if she were a child not capable of performing this simple routine task.

  ‘Stop that!’ she smacked at his hands. ‘I’ll follow you in my own car.’

  Brock peered over his shoulder at her station wagon. ‘That’s not a car.’ He turned back to face her. ‘That’s an accident waiting to happen.’

  Outraged, Sofie opened her mouth to give him a piece of her mind when he slammed the door shut and locked it. The nerve. Brock rounded the bonnet, unlocked the driver’s side door, and slid his big frame behind the wheel. Then palm open flat on the steering wheel, he swung his car around and headed out of the car park.

  ‘You’d better tell me what’s going on.’

  His masculine hand left the steering wheel and moved across to hold hers where it was resting on her lap, but he didn’t say anything, didn’t have to—his action spoke volumes, only she didn’t know what it meant.

  Apprehension tightened her chest until it squeezed all the breath out of her. ‘You said no one’s hurt,’ she said, her voice strained, ‘but it’s something else, something bad.’

  Brock’s manner scared the crap out of her. Right from the moment he’d walked into the hall, she’d been fighting an ominous sense that something dreadful had happened.

  Brock slowed as he turned the corner into Lavender Lane and Sofie’s worst fears, that this was very bad, were confirmed. Her beautiful, peaceful street had been turned on its head. How bad was this accident that it could attract a crowd of onlookers, and turn her tranquil, pretty street into a circus? She craned her neck, but couldn’t see past cars, vans and trucks. Gawkers were blocking the road. Mouth tight, Brock growled long and hard, sounding very pissed off. Everyone in town respected him, he was their police detective; unfortunately, he could never really let his anger rip. He beeped his horn and people scurried aside. His frown deepened, and muscles ticked above his jaw.

  ‘Brock! Talk to me!’ Sofie demanded. ‘Is Claud—’

  ‘I told you, Claudia’s fine. Last we checked, she was at Veronica’s cooking with Jen.’

  Nodding, Sofie screwed her eyes shut, imagined Claudia cooking up a storm with her aunt and let it settle inside her, easing her fears. She opened her eyes again and her heart seized. Brock couldn’t hide the emotions mapping his face, concern, understanding … anguish?

  ‘There’s no way to soften the blow, I’m sorry, Sofe,’ he told her quietly, and with feeling. ‘A truck ploughed into your yard and …’

  Every muscle in her body braced, she just didn’t know what for, exactly, except it was bad—very bad.

  Up ahead, gathered around the front of her house, was a police car, ambulance and fire engine, all with lights flashing. ‘It’s not just the yard, is it?’ Sofie asked, hoping he’d allay her fears, but he merely shook his head. Dread ripped through her, making her stomach clench and her skin feel cold yet sweaty at the same time. As they approached, onlookers and their vehicles moved out of their way and the scene opened up. ‘Brock?! Why is there a semi in my … my …’

  Leaning in, she gripped the dashboard while Brock edged his car as close as he could to her house.

  The destruction was heartbreaking. Weird noises came out through her constricted throat, she tried to stop them but couldn’t breathe, couldn’t get air into her lungs. The Ranger stopped at the kerb. Brock leaned across the console to unclip her seat belt, and somewhere in her consciousness the strength of his big hands curling around her shoulders filtered through as he forced her to face him.

  He took her hand and gently placed it palm open on his massive chest. ‘Focus on me, Sofe. Slow down your breathing.’

  ‘Okay, no one was hurt—no one was hurt,’ she repeated firmly, adding, ‘I can do this.’ Eyes locked with Brock’s caring, dark-brown ones, she followed the rhythm of his chest.

  ‘Of course you can, you’re Sofie Dove.’ He gave her shoulder a squeeze. ‘Breath out … in again … slowly. That’s it.’

  Staring at his face and chest, listening to his steady voice, Sofie had calmed enough to speak and not fall apart any second. ‘I’m all right now.’ But he didn’t move his hand covering hers on his chest.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yes. I’m fine. I’m afraid to look, but at the same time, I know I can’t avoid it.’ And Sofie hoped to God that she wasn’t wrong, because to fall apart anytime was bad enough, but doing it surrounded by the entire community, and the local photojournalist, would be appalling. That’s not the way she was brought up, her mother insisted on maintaining a strict proper image at all times, but like her sister, that was still a work in progress for Sofie.

  Back straight, she muttered, ‘I’m okay.’

  Brock stroked her arms a few times then let her go. ‘Stay here,’ he said, accompanying the order with a look that meant she should do exactly that. He swung out of his car and quickly moved around to her door; opening it, he held his hand out to help her down. Sofie vaguely noted he was extremely agile for a big man.

  The first thing that hit her was the smell of burning rubber, dust and smoke, kept hanging low in the cold morning air. The stench was something she’d never forget.

  Brock slid an arm around her waist, and protectively held her close to his side. Not only was he big and strong, but he had a tangible, don’t-mess-with-me aura about him. He took her around the back of a fire engine parked at the kerb. Sofie left his grasp and edged around the semi-trailer. Bracing herself for the worst, she peered around the back of it. But nothing could have prepared her for the
destruction. To her sorrow, the roof had collapsed and landed partly on top of the truck, the rest was on her garden and driveway. Her bedroom, the hallway and living room beyond, now exposed to the weather, made Sofie want to rush in and protect what was left. The rest of her cottage teetered on the brink of collapse.

  The visual onslaught was bad enough—Sofie’s imagination did the rest. She stepped back and lost her footing. Brock’s arm around her waist didn’t move, his grip simply tightened around her as she stumbled into him.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked, his clipped tone contradicting his caring, protective stance as he encircled her with his shoulders and torso, blocking everything from her view with his body.

  His sharp, assessing eyes scanned her face. There was no mistake: they were sharp because he cared, and assessing because he needed to know. She nodded, and cleared her throat to test her voice, but could only managed a raspy whisper. ‘There’s nothing left of my house.’ She grabbed hold of his T-shirt and hung on. Her mouth trembled, a sob escaped, and before she completely lost it, she sucked her lips in between her teeth and bit down. Filled with all sorts of questions, Brock’s gaze didn’t waver and, stuck in the moment, neither did hers. Seconds slipped by and something other than his concern passed between them. Needing to calm her thumping heart, she let go of her mouth and gasped.

  ‘Sofe?’ Brock gently prompted.

  His warm gaze dipped to her mouth then slowly came up to meet her eyes—eyes now flooded with tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks.

  ‘You said no one was hurt—’ she swallowed past a lump in her throat, ‘—You’re not hiding something from me are you? Is—is the driver okay?’

  Brow furrowed, Brock answered, ‘He must be, we can’t find him.’

  ‘He walked away from this? He might be wandering around in a daze.’ Nerves stretched to breaking point, she snapped, ‘Has anyone bothered to look?’

  ‘Of course.’ Deep lines appeared between Brock’s eyebrows. ‘This is your house, Sofe. We’re doing everything possible to find the driver and question him about what happened.’

  ‘Thank you. Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound touchy … It’s not your fault.’ She laid her hand on his forearm. ‘I am wondering what would make someone veer off the road like this—you know? Maybe he had a heart attack or something. It’s good he walked away, somewhere.’ Her shoulders sagged, and then shock really set in with all that could have happened, the people who could’ve been seriously hurt, or worse, killed. There was no controlling it, Sofie began to shake.

  Big strong arms wrapped around her. Brock held her tightly to him, she buried her face in his broad chest and sobbed. She wasn’t sure how long she stayed like that and didn’t care. It had been a long time since Sofie had had a man’s muscular arms around her. She silently thanked him; the all-encompassing sense of protection he gave her was something she desperately needed right now. He waited, and slowly, through hitching breaths, Sofie pulled back. Embarrassed her tears had left dark wet patches on his T-shirt, she brought her hand up to brush them away.

  ‘I’ve made a mess of your shirt … Sorry.’

  ‘I’m here for you, Sofe. A few tears on my shirt?’ He shook his head. ‘Nothing to be sorry about.’

  ‘Thank you, I do appreciate it, very much …’ she trailed off.

  ‘Ready for a closer look?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said on a trembling breath. ‘Let’s get it over with.’

  They moved around the back of the semi-trailer and the smell of freshly churned earth hit her nose. The sight of her beautiful garden now demolished made her gasp; automatically her hand went to cover her mouth for fear she would cry out loud. The massive wheels had ploughed right across her restored timber cottage from one side to the other, destroying it.

  ‘Oh God, no! Our home!’ Sofie whispered behind her hands, as she and Brock stood together on her smashed and flattened front picket fence and surveyed the destruction. The much loved wrought-iron gate gone, probably somewhere under the truck.

  She moved to get closer; perhaps she could salvage something. Brock slid an arm around her waist. ‘Stay here. It’s unsafe. The whole front end of your house could collapse.’

  She leaned into him, buried her face in his chest and cried again, mumbling, ‘I know I should be grateful no one was hurt, or worse, and nothing else matters but …’

  Brock stroked her hair and murmured, ‘I know, Sofe, it’ll be okay, Babe.’

  It was brief, said quickly, but she wasn’t mistaken, he’d called her ‘Babe’. She’d never known Brock to speak like this … never. His sweet words and tone moved deep inside her to a warm private place, a place where it would remain safe forever. She curled her arms around his hard, muscled waist and hung on.

  Since helping her make Jennifer’s restaurant and courtyard garden pretty with autumn flowers, hanging baskets and paving, Brock had kept his distance. She’d felt a deep connection with him—his eyes couldn’t lie, could they? But it had been over a year. She’d moved to Tumble Creek after her Sydney house was sold last January. It was now July, well into winter and he hadn’t made any advances, not even come into the restaurant for breakfast or coffee. She told herself that right now, hiding from the carnage, safe in Brock’s arms, she would take all he was willing to give. She breathed in his musky, manly scent, wanting to crawl under his shirt and suck in the strength his warm, muscled body gave her. God, he felt good, really good—comforting.

  The sound of heavy boots and the rustle-squeak of protective fireman’s coat preceded a voice she recognised: Bruce, Tumble Creek’s newest fully-fledged fireman.

  ‘Oops, ’scuse me.’ Bruce ducked his head. ‘Just came to tell ya, the truck’s owner is here. He reported his truck stolen in Parrot Creek. Was listening to the local news and a reporter was talking about the commotion here, and his mate drove him straight over. Also, someone’s coming from Armidale with scaffolding to secure what’s left of your house, Sofie, they’ll make it as safe as they can. They’re bringing a tarp big enough to cover most of your house too.’

  She pulled herself together. ‘Th-thank you so much, Bruce.’

  ‘Is someone questioning the semi’s owner?’ Brock asked.

  ‘Oh, yeah.’ Bruce nodded. ‘Tak’s onto it.’

  ‘Right.’ Sofie could feel some of Brock’s tension ease.

  ‘Sorry this happened to ya, Sofe. Is there anything we need to know, like any chemicals? Something that could leak and cause a fire or explosions?’

  Startled, Sofie shook her head.

  ‘Jesus, Bruce!’ Brock warned. ‘Have a heart.’

  ‘Look, Rock, er, Brock.’ Someone in town said ‘The Rock’ better suited Brock and now he was stuck with it, nothing was going to change that, ever. ‘Some people do have shit stashed in their garage. I have to ask. It’s routine.’ Bruce gave Sofie a swift nod, did an about-face and went back to inform his chief.

  Brock gave her an encouraging squeeze. ‘You seen enough?’

  ‘No, if I can just gather some things, clothes and … whatever,’ she trailed off.

  ‘No way. It’s not safe. Maybe when the scaffolding’s up.’

  After destroying her bedroom, the truck’s cab had come to rest in her living room in front of her new, now cracked, flat-screen TV. Her bedroom closet had been torn apart and her clothes were strewn across the room; the slightest puff of wind had caught and fluttered some items, like the flimsiest garments imaginable, her sweet, pretty underwear that her sister Jennifer had bought for her—of course!—into the garden. As she watched, her favourite pair of scarlet lacy undies, caught on an air current, twirled up and up, then, as if sucked by a vacuum, went straight to the back end of the truck where it caught and hung like a flag. Sofie turned to Brock to see his eyes fixed on the undies that were now making a slow, agonising descent down the back of the truck. Once they were within reach, he lunged and grabbed the lacy delight, and stuffed it in his jeans pocket.

  Crap! Her undies were in his poc
ket—that really was the last straw.

  Before she could ask for them back, a loud crack rent the air. Sofie jumped and clung to Brock, gripping his shirt. A large piece of ceiling plaster dangled by a thread. Mesmerised by the spectacle, Sofie held her breath and waited for the drama to unfold. The plaster ripped, dropping a few inches, then ripped a bit more, and finally fell onto her bedside table, which exploded, bits of it flying everywhere. And with one last thump-clunk the house quietened again.

  Through the cacophony of people moving about with equipment and more people calling out instructions, Sofie caught the sound of a familiar buzzing, and she broke out in a panic-stricken sweat.

  Chapter 2

  No-no-no. Shit. No-o-o-o-o-o-o!

  Sofie’s stomach dropped and humiliation sent fire through her veins; heat rose up her chest and throat so fast, she could hardly breathe.

  Oh dear God! She had to get to the buzzing sound, and quickly, before anyone else did. She scanned the wreckage of her bedroom, searching. She saw the object of her search in plain sight on the bedroom rug.

  Eyes riveted on her target, Sofie jumped with fright when Brock bent over to peer into her face. ‘You okay?’ he asked. ‘I know this looks bad, but it can all be replaced.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Unable to take her eyes off her treasure, Sofie slowly nodded and alarm, the likes of which she’d never known, flowed deep inside her making her skin prickle with sweat. Then the whole damned thing became a nightmare. Brock followed her gaze. She may as well have pointed it out. She swung around hoping to distract him. But head to one side, he was concentrating, listening, then his face softened and his mouth tweaked up at the corners. She turned back to her room and the floor just as the sun caught the diamantes.