Misplaced Hands: 4 (Foreign Affairs)

by Couper, Lexxie

  Ronald charged him again. Keith smashed his fist into his nose, his jaw.

  The stockman fell, ass first, to the ground.

  And Keith bore down on him, fist pulled back.

  Only to have his arm snatched mid-swing by Marc, the sound of his palm smacking against Keith’s wrist like a crack of thunder. “You’re gonna kill him, Blue.”

  Keith’s lip curled. His stare drilled into Ronald, now cowering on the floor at his feet. “That’s the idea.”

  Harper let out a whimper, shaking her head. “He’s not worth it, Keith.” She stepped toward them, willing Keith to look at her. “He’s not worth going to jail over.”

  The muscles in Keith’s jaw bunched. “He was going to—”

  “But he didn’t,” Harper interjected.

  “Don’t do it, Blue.” Marc struggled with his friend. Harper could see the tension in his muscles as he fought to keep Keith’s arm motionless. “Harper’s right. He’s not worth it.”

  Keith shook his head. And then, his glare locked on Ronald, he opened his fist and stepped backward. “Turn yourself into Hunter, McNamara,” he said, his voice low. “Now. Or I’ll finish what I started.”

  “Fucking have her then,” Ronnie snarled from the floor, throwing a glare of sheer contempt in Harper’s direction. He leaned forward and spat a glob of blood at her feet. “Bet she’s a dud root anyways.”

  Marc cursed, strong arms grabbing Keith as he tried to lunge forward. “Get out of here, McNamara. Before I let go of Blue and he beats you to—”

  Ronnie scrambled off his knees and bolted. Past Keith, past Marc, snatching his hat from the table as he ran out of the cottage.

  Harper’s heart restarted. Smashing fast in her throat. She let out a choked breath, slumping against the back of the sofa, her hands clinging to the cushioned edge, her burning stare locked on her feet. “That…that wasn’t fun.”

  Marc was at her side in two steps, smoothing his palms up her arms. “You okay, love?”

  She flinched, twisting away from his gentle touch. Her stomach rolled, sick with a terror she thought she’d left behind years ago.

  It’s okay, baby. You’re my special girl. My special—

  “I’m fine,” she muttered, turning her head away as she wrapped her arms around her body. “I just need to be alone.”

  “Alone?” Keith’s agitation was clear in the sharp word.

  She flinched, hugging herself tighter. “Please.”

  Oh God, Andrew. She wanted to call Andrew.

  Her heart twisted, guilt and torment a physical pain she thought she’d put behind her.

  “Harper,” Marc murmured, his hands smoothing up her arms again. “Big Mac’s gone. You’re o—”

  “Don’t say the word okay!” she snapped, jerking her head to glare at him. Tears stung the backs of her eyes, hot acid that stripped away her dignity.

  She’d never let her stepfather see her cry. She never cried in front of anyone but Andrew. Ever.

  She wasn’t crying now.

  Except she was. Hot tears slipped over her cheeks like burning trails of shame.

  It’s okay, baby. You’re my special girl. My special sweet thing. This is just for me, okay? Just for me. No one else is allowed. It’s a special thing all daddies do. It’s okay, baby. Just let me touch—

  Sickening hate and shame flooded her. She swallowed the bile threatening to choke off her throat.

  “Harper,” Keith’s voice was steady. “Tell us what’s going on. What did McNamara do to you?”

  She shook her head, refusing to look at him.

  Never tell. Too shameful. Too scared. Never tell.

  “Harper, I need to know.” The tips of Keith’s boots moved into her line of sight and she squeezed her eyes shut, driving her nails into her arms. “If he…” His voice cracked and he paused. “I’ll kill him. I promise, I’ll fucking rip the bastard apart and Marc won’t stop—”

  Harper shook her head. “He didn’t touch me,” she said, her belly churning. The words were sour on her tongue. “He just…”

  She couldn’t say any more. It was too shameful.

  All daddies do it. Just let me touch you there. See? That didn’t hurt—

  “Please go away,” she whispered, unable to look at either of them. “I need you to go away. Both of you.”

  Neither man said a word.

  Blood roared in her ears. Her head felt tight, as if something were clamping it. Trying to crush it. She blinked, the tears on her cheeks a bitter reminder of how pathetic she was.

  “Go away,” she ground out, scraping her nails over her flesh. “I want to be alone.”

  She heard a drawn-out breath. She didn’t know whose it was.

  “C’mon, mate.” Marc’s mutter barely reached her ears. “We need to respect Harper’s wishes.”

  Harper didn’t need to open her eyes to know Keith wasn’t moving. Of the two cowboys, Keith was the most stubborn. The most determined.

  “Harper?” He spoke her name in a soft question.

  She didn’t answer. Didn’t open her eyes. Didn’t lift her head.

  That’s didn’t hurt, did it? That’s ’cause you’re my special girl. Now I’m going to do it again, but I want you to touch—

  Shame sliced through her. Hot. Mortifying.

  She caught her bottom lip with her teeth, biting hard into the flesh. Pain to numb the pain.

  “Please,” she finally croaked, her mouth dry, her throat thick. “Just go. Please.”

  The sound of boot heels on the cottage’s wooden floor told her Keith and Marc had left. She raised her head, blinking away the tears blurring her vision to stare at the closed door.

  The doorjamb next to the lock was splintered, no doubt where Keith had kicked it open. She frowned, wondering if she could still lock it.

  Swallowing the dust coating her mouth, she pushed herself away from the sofa and crossed the floor. A tremble was beginning to take her, deep within her core. She could feel it in her belly, her soul.

  Refusing to let her hands shake, she flicked the little toggle that would engage the lock.

  A dull click filled the room like a gunshot.

  She fixed her stare on the knob, her heart slamming in her throat, and wrapped her fingers around the old brass knob.

  She turned it to the right and pulled.

  The door didn’t budge.

  She was alone.

  All alone.

  Chapter Seven

  “What the fuck do we do?” Marc stared at Amy’s cottage, his heart a sledgehammer in his chest. “We can’t leave her.”

  “I don’t think we have a choice at the moment, mate.”

  He glared at Keith, angry. Furious, in fact. Not an emotion he normally experienced. “So we’re heading off? What if Big Mac comes back?”

  Keith shook his head, the sinking sun casting his face in dark shadows. “He won’t.”

  Marc narrowed his eyes. “Do you think…” His fists balled. “Would McNamara really have…” He couldn’t bring himself to say what he was thinking. The idea was sickening. Ronnie McNamara was a tosser, but he wasn’t a rapist.

  Was he?

  Keith let out a choppy sigh. “I dunno, mate. Hughsie mentioned yesterday he’s been hitting the grog hard these last few days and he’s pissed off about Hazel putting him in his place on Saturday. I suspect he was hoping to have a shot at Harper himself before we came along and messed up his plans. That would explain him telling her we were gay.”

  A scowl twisted Marc’s lip. “Harper and Big Mac? She’s got better taste than that.”

  “She’s also scared out of her fucking mind right now.” Keith’s jaw bunched. “And that doesn’t sit well with me.”

  Marc scrubbed his hands over his face. “Hell, you almost killed a guy in front of her with your bare hands. She’s bound to be scared. You reckon she needs some space from us?” A dull chill settled in his stomach at the thought. “She said Big Mac didn’t touch her. You reckon this, what
we’ve been doing, is all…too much too soon?”

  Another ragged breath left Keith. He swiped his hat from his head, worrying his hair with his other hand. “I dunno,” he muttered.

  Marc let out a low growl. “I’m going after Big Mac before he gets to Hunter. Make the bastard tell us what he did.”

  Keith returned his hat to his head, disgust and rage simmering in his eyes. “As much as I want to deal with McNamara my way, we need to play this straight. We need to make sure he’s gone to Hunter and that the cops are notified.”

  Marc frowned. “Y’know the cops are going to question you too, mate. Probably even arrest you. It’s not the first time you’ve dealt with a fuckwit before.”

  Keith’s way of dealing with men who sexually harassed women he cared for was very simple and bloody. The last time Keith “dealt” with someone, that someone—a dickhead in Cobar who tried to follow Amy into the loo at the rodeo—ended up in the hospital with a broken jaw, fractured cheekbone and shattered nose. It hadn’t helped the wanker’s cause that he was the same man who’d been sending Amy drunken text photos of his crotch. Nor that he was the same idiot who’d declared loudly and to anyone caring to listen that Keith’s retired cop father was corrupt after Keith beat him for the Cobar rodeo title.

  Keith had “dealt” with that bastard swiftly, spent the night in lockup after his father’s replacement reluctantly arrested him, and then he’d had to endure Dylan and Hunter’s wrath the next day.

  Marc didn’t doubt Big Mac deserved everything Keith gave him, but the last thing he wanted to see was his mate in the cop shop, charged with assault. The problem was, neither Marc nor Keith knew what Big Mac had done, and Harper wasn’t talking. If they both beat the shit out of Ronnie for just being a tosser, even one who’d planned to do something utterly repugnant and vile, they’d be in trouble.

  Not only with the cops in Cobar, but with the Sullivans. Most likely they’d both be sacked. On the spot.

  Hissing out a harsh breath, Marc slumped against the nose of Keith’s ute and shook his head. “I know you’re right, mate,” he said, studying the cottage. “But I don’t like it.”

  “You don’t have to.” Keith’s answer was a flat growl. “I don’t either, but it’s the way it’s going to be. Until we talk to Hunter and let him know Big Mac’s being a dick, potentially a dangerous one, let him know what happened and what we think would have happened, we’ve got to keep our emotions in check. Got it?”

  Marc scowled. “Got it.”

  “Good. Go check the door first.”

  Marc levered himself upright. “What for?”

  Keith’s expression grew bleak. “I need to know it’s locked.”

  With a nod, Marc jogged the ten or so meters between the ute and the front porch, his chest tight. Climbing the two stairs, he winced at the protesting creak of wooden floorboards beneath his feet. With slow movements, he reached out and wrapped one hand around the doorknob, giving it a gentle turn to the right.

  Locked.

  Harper had locked it after they’d left.

  His old home, locked against the world…and him.

  A shard of sharp pain shot through his chest. He’d spent his childhood in the cottage. Had never felt safer than when he was within its familiar walls. It had never been locked when he was growing up, and when Amy had moved in she’d never felt the need to lock it either. Locks weren’t needed on Farpoint Creek.

  Until tonight, it seemed.

  The sound of movement on the other side of the door jerked his hand from the knob. “It’s just me, love,” he said, raising his voice enough for Harper to hear him through the old wood. “I’m not coming in. Just wanted to check the door still worked.”

  A long moment of silence followed. Silence except for the thumping of his heart in his ears. And then Harper’s soft voice answered, “It does. Thank you.”

  He stood motionless, aching for her to open the door. To ask them to make it better. To tell them what had happened.

  She didn’t.

  What felt like a lifetime passed before he turned away from the door and walked back to Keith.

  “Did she say anything?”

  Marc shook his head.

  Keith’s jaw bunched. “Okay, let’s go.”

  Long, tense minutes later, neither uttering a word, Keith pulled the ute to a halt outside the main homestead.

  For a split second, the potent urge to tell Keith to drive away, to convince him they should take care of Ronald themselves, surged through Marc. He opened his mouth, his pulse racing. And closed it again at the thought of Keith in jail.

  Keith would not stop at a few punches. The fear in Harper’s eyes, the terror in her body when they’d stormed into her home, would haunt him. Marc had no doubt. Hell, Marc couldn’t shake it himself. If Keith and Marc caught up with Big Mac, the man would end up in the hospital, if not a coffin. Simple as that.

  With a sharp sigh, he squeezed Keith’s shoulder. “C’mon, Blue. Let’s do the smart thing, even if it bloody well feels like the wrong thing.”

  With a muttered curse, Keith swung open his door and climbed from the ute.

  Marc’s gut dropped when Hazel answered their knock.

  “Mr. Thompson.” She smiled at him, her softly seamed face warm and friendly despite the fact it was past six o’clock in the evening and she was being disturbed by two of her employees. “Mr. Munroe. What do I owe the pleasure of this visit? Is there something wrong? Is young Mr. Hill okay?” A frown pulled at her forehead, making Marc’s gut sink further. He hated distressing Hazel Sullivan. She was the closest thing to a grandmother he had, even if she was his boss. How would she handle being told about Big Mac and Harper?

  “Everything’s all right, Mrs. Sullivan.” Keith’s relaxed answer made Marc stiffen. He hid his surprised expression by readjusting his hat. “Just needed a quick word with Hunter if that’s okay? Wondering if Big Mac’s been to see him ’bout…’bout the south mob’s drenching tomorrow? We weren’t sure the Bayticol was in date and we wanted to check if there was another batch somewhere in the main shed. Just in case.”

  Steady light-blue eyes held firm on Keith’s face. Marc shifted his feet, glad he wasn’t under such intense scrutiny. Hazel Sullivan may be sixty-four years old, but her mind was still as sharp as a tack.

  “The drench is in date, Keith. You were driving the ute when we both went into Cobar last month to collect it, remember?”

  Keith swiped his hat from his head, giving her a chagrined smile. Marc noticed for the first time he’d cleaned the blood from his knuckles at some point. “Shit, that’s right. Sorry. Is Hunter about? Has Ronald come to see him? I know it’s late but—”

  “I haven’t seen Mr. McNamara all day and Hunter and Annie have gone into Cobar for the night. Dinner with the mayor.” Hazel pulled a face. “I don’t think either were fussed about going, but they’ve been putting if off for so long I think the poor man’s sense of pride couldn’t take another rescheduling. I told them to check in to the Town and Country Motor Inn, stay the night. Dylan and Monet are due back in a week and I suspect Hunter’s getting an itch between his shoulders. I caught him surfing a website today called ‘World’s Best Honeymoon Locations’.” Her eyes sparkled, and Marc was overcome with relief that Keith had kept from her their reason for calling so late.

  He didn’t want to destroy Hazel’s joy at the idea of another family wedding with the possibility one of her hands was being a dick.

  Shooting Keith a sideways glance, he knew his best mate was thinking the same thing.

  What the hell did they do next? Big Mac hadn’t come to the main house, which meant he could be anywhere now.

  Marc’s heart thumped hard and fast in his throat.

  Anywhere.

  He was about to say his farewells for the evening when Hazel’s eyes narrowed. “How is Ms. Shaw this evening? I thought you two boys were taking her into Cobar tonight?”

  “She’s got a killer headache,” Keith answered,
his expression regretful. “We were heading ’round to see her when we finished up here.”

  “Poor lass.” Hazel waved her hand at them both. “Hurry on then. Shoo. Tell her she is more than welcome to spend the night here in the main house if she wants.”

  “Will do, ma’am,” Marc nodded, already retreating.

  “Are you sure you haven’t seen Big Mac tonight, Hazel? There hasn’t been a knock at the door?”

  Marc stiffened at Keith’s question.

  Hazel shook her head. “No, no knock. I must admit, I think Mr. McNamara is trying to stay clear of Hunter, going by the way Hunter was muttering about him under his breath this afternoon.”

  Marc’s pulse thumped. He watched Keith tip his hat to their boss before saying goodnight.

  “Remember to tell Ms. Shaw to let me know if she needs anything,” Hazel called as they crossed back to the ute.

  Gut knotting, Marc yanked open the passenger side and dropped into his seat. “Fuck,” he whispered, keeping the unease from his face until Hazel closed the homestead door.

  “All right then.” Keith slid into the driver’s seat and reached for the key in the ignition. “So we do it this way. Drop me off at Harper’s and go see if you can find McNamara around the traps. See if he’s taken off in his truck or the communal ute. See if any of the other blokes know where he is. I’ll camp out under that old ghost gum opposite the cottage and keep an eye on it, just to be sure he isn’t a complete fuckwit and goes back there.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Marc buckled his seat belt. “And if I do find him?”

  Keith’s expression turned deadly as he started the ute. “Don’t let him go.”

  * * * * *

  Being outside at night in the Outback had always been a special time for Keith. The sky was hypnotic, its never-ending black expanse the backdrop to a spectacular display of the heavens. Stars no city folk ever saw with the naked eye twinkled above, as if sharing the secret of their beauty with but a few. A privileged few who knew life away from the hustle of the big smoke was so much more enriching.

  Keith had spent many nights on Farpoint Creek lying on his back, gazing up at the stars, picking out the Southern Cross, the Saucepan, the celestial shadow known as the Emu. Wondering how those denied the stars by the ubiquitous lights of the city could ever find peace at night.