In Bed with Her Ex

by Lucy Gordon

  ‘This isn’t James Bond,’ he said. ‘It’s Gothic Horror.’

  Gothic Horror … Her thoughts exactly. He’d always been on the same wavelength. The thought was … unsettling.

  Unsettling but good. As if a part of her was suddenly restored.

  There was a crazy thought.

  ‘If you’ve grown fangs since I last saw you, I’m heading into the night right now,’ she muttered. ‘Kitchen. Go. Now.’

  The dog whimpered and pressed closer against her.

  ‘Leave her with me,’ she said as he hesitated.

  ‘She’s my responsibility.’

  ‘You brought her to me,’ she said. ‘One dog doesn’t add very much to what I take care of.’

  ‘Mardie …’

  ‘Just go.’

  After fifteen years, Blake Maddock had walked back into her life.

  For some stupid reason, her head felt as if it was exploding.

  Blake. A childhood friend. A teenage boyfriend. Nothing more.

  Focus on the dog. Nothing else.

  She headed for the linen closet and the dog stayed with her, its body still just touching her leg. She crouched in the dim light and ran her hands over the sodden coat and the dog whined a little and pressed in closer.

  A female. Full grown. Trembling without pause.

  There was no obvious wound. She didn’t seem tender to touch.

  She needed to get her into the light. Into the kitchen, where she had a bigger store of candles.

  Back to Blake.

  Not quite yet. Her head wasn’t near to accepting the weird way her body had reacted to his presence.

  She gathered towels. She thought about Blake; how she could get him dry. His clothes were soaked. Towels?

  Something more.

  She hesitated, told herself she was stupid, fetched a bathrobe.

  The dog stayed with her, sticking close, a feather-touch of contact.

  This dog had done it hard, she thought. The Animal Welfare van had crashed over a week ago. Where had this dog been since then?

  Mardie’s heart wasn’t hard at the best of times. She could feel it stretch right now.

  ‘Yeah, I’m a sucker for dogs,’ she told her. ‘Especially beautiful dogs like you. But there must be some reason you were at the pound in the first place. Were you in for sheep-killing?’

  That was the most common reason a farm dog ended up discarded. A dog got a taste for blood. It was tragic, but once a dog started killing sheep there was little that could be done.

  Most farmers quietly put them down. If they were too attached, though, they’d take them to the pound, hoping some townie would take them on, someone with a contained yard with not a sheep in sight.

  It hardly ever made for a happy ending. A working dog wasn’t meant to be contained. They pined, they made trouble for their new owners, they ended up being put down anyway.

  So … she now had a stray dog, probably a sheep killer, and she had Blake Maddock.

  A girl should have some protection.

  A clap of thunder shook the house so loud the windows rattled.

  She thought of Bounce under her bedclothes. Until the storm ended there was no way Bounce was moving.

  She was on her own—but what else was new?

  Having Blake Maddock in her kitchen was new.

  You’ve faced worse than Blake Maddock, she told herself.

  And … it was Blake. The thought made something inside her shiver, and it wasn’t fear.

  Hormones?

  Nonsense. Hormones were for a teenage romance. Get over it. Be practical.

  It was good advice. She took her armload of towels and her bathrobe, she took her courage in both hands—and went to see if she could follow it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE great thing about a wood-burning stove was that a power outage couldn’t mess with it. Cutting wood was a pain, but Mardie had learned to enjoy it, and the stove more than paid for itself with comfort. In the small hours after a difficult lambing, when she was cold and wet, the fire was a warm, welcoming presence.

  It was the heart of her home.

  Blake was standing before it now. He’d put the kettle on the hob. He’d opened the toasting door so he could see the flames; so he could hold his hands out for warmth. He had his back to her.

  He was so … large.

  She’d known he’d become a doctor. Someone had been to a graduation ceremony in Sydney years back and had seen him.

  She hadn’t heard of him since. And now, here he was, big and handsome and rugged, wearing a dinner suit, a city doctor in city clothes.

  She had a city doctor in her kitchen.

  She had Blake in her kitchen.

  See, there was the anomaly. Blake was from another life. Blake no longer fitted here, yet there was part of him that was … Blake.

  And he didn’t look like a city doctor, she thought as he turned to face her. In truth, he looked more weathered than most farmers. He looked tanned and muscled, and the creases of his eyes were etched deep, as if he constantly faced harsh sun.

  He also looked a bit … gaunt? That’d be the crash, she thought, but then she decided it looked more than that. She sensed deep-seated strain, and he looked too lean for health. He looked as if he might have been ill—or maybe he simply worked too hard.

  City surgeon, making millions? More millions. She knew little about Blake’s parents other than they’d been killed in a light plane crash when he was twelve, but she did know they were wealthy. His great-aunt had money, too.

  Blake obviously had moved on in the same mould.

  ‘I hear you’re a doctor,’ she said cautiously, and he nodded.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘On being a doctor?’

  ‘Of course. You’ve cut your head. How bad is it?’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘Have you hurt anything else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let me check the cut for glass, then. Sit.’

  ‘Still bossy?’

  ‘Always.’

  He sat.

  He used to argue. Always.

  Maybe he was hurt. Maybe he …

  ‘I had six airbags,’ he said. ‘I was almost suffocated but not hurt. This has to be superficial. But I would be grateful if you could check.’

  She checked. She filled a bowl with warm water, she washed his face with care, she used the flashlight to check for glass.

  It was an ugly scratch. There were a couple of metal slivers, embedded. She found tweezers, tugged them out. She put on antiseptic and a plaster.

  Touching him was weird. Touching him felt … shivery.

  Get over it. He was the one who should be shivery, not her.

  Concentrate on need.

  ‘You need to get dry,’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘There’s a bathrobe here that’s wool and warm. Dry yourself and put it on.’ Deep breath. ‘I think you need to stay the night. I’d drive you into town but you’ve already proven it’s not safe to be out. I don’t see that you have a choice. You want to change now, while I towel the dog? Take a couple of candles upstairs. Same bedroom you always had. I keep the spare beds made up. You don’t have a choice.’

  How had that happened?

  One minute he was deciding to turn back to Sydney. The next he was standing in Mardie’s attic, hauling on her dressing gown.

  No. Not hers. It was soft brown cashmere and it was huge. A man’s.

  Her father’s?

  He remembered Mardie’s dad with huge regret. Bill was a big, genial countryman, deeply contented with his wife, his farm, his daughter. As kids, Blake and Mardie had trailed after him like two adoring puppies, helping, messing around, being with him.

  Bill had died of a massive heart attack when Mardie was barely in her teens and he’d felt as gutted as Mardie. He’d felt little emotion when he’d been told his own parents were dead�
�he hadn’t seen them for years—but Bill …

  If this was Bill’s bathrobe …

  He smiled, remembering Bill, remembering this place as it had been.

  Why had he never come back?

  He knew why. Because of Mardie.

  Mardie …

  She’d grown up, of course she had, but she was still the same Mardie. She was short, blue-eyed, freckled and compact. Her honey-blonde curls were still tied into braids. And her eyes …

  He’d always loved how they’d creased into laughter in an instant. Time had now etched those laughter lines to permanent.

  Tonight she was wearing tattered jeans and an old woolly jumper. Bright red socks with a hole in one toe.

  Years of tending sheep, of living on this farm meant she was wind-burned, sun-burned, cute as a button.

  She was a farmer.

  She could have been so much more …

  No. It had been stupid to demand that of her fifteen years ago. It was stupid to think it now.

  So get this over with, he told himself. Don’t let your emotions get tangled up. Get in there, be courteous and thankful, accept her offer of a bed for the night, call for a tow truck first thing in the morning and get out of here. You’ve seen her. That was what you wanted. Now leave.

  Because?

  Because Banksia Bay seemed threatening, and Mardie seemed even more threatening. He didn’t know why, but she was.

  Or maybe he did. Maybe he was old enough to see it.

  Mardie was comfort, fun, loving. She was a refuge, as she’d always been his refuge.

  Mardie was all the things he could never let himself have.

  * * *

  What was keeping him? She towelled the little collie as dry as she could, encouraged her to lie in Bounce’s dog basket, then started making toast.

  The collie whined and headed back to her, once more just touching her knee.

  She made toast and the dog kept contact all the time.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, and offered her a piece of toast.

  The dog didn’t take it. As if she didn’t see it was being held out.

  She moved it a little closer.

  The dog sniffed, sniffed again—and then delicately took it from Mardie’s hand.

  What the …?

  She’d been working by candlelight. She flicked the flashlight back on and looked. She really looked. And in the better light …

  No.

  She plumped down on the kitchen chair and drew the dog to her.

  ‘Oh, sweetheart. Oh, no.’

  Blake walked back into the kitchen and stopped short.

  The dog’s head was resting on Mardie’s knee. Tears were sliding unchecked down her face.

  ‘Mardie …’

  She looked up at him, and all the tragedy of the world was in her face.

  ‘She’s blind,’ she whispered. ‘She was tipped out of that van a week ago and she’s blind. How’s she ever survived?’

  Blind.

  Things fell into place.

  The dog standing motionless in the road, not registering his oncoming car.

  The dog touching him, staying by his side, following him here by touch.

  The dog moving to Mardie, whose clothes would smell of farmyard, of the familiar, then not leaving her. Just touching.

  ‘How do you know?’ he asked, but already he knew it for truth.

  ‘Look at her eyes.’ She flicked on the flashlight.

  He looked.

  The dog’s eyes were opaque, unfocused, unseeing. Cataracts covered both the eyes entirely.

  She’d be seeing vague shapes, light and dark through thick white fog, he thought. Nothing more.

  ‘It’ll be why she was in the pound,’ Mardie whispered. He’d walked back into the kitchen absurdly self-conscious of wearing a great woollen bathrobe but Mardie was oblivious to anything but the dog. ‘She’s only young. I’m guessing four at the most. And she’s smart and so polite. She’s skin and bone. She must be starving, yet she took the toast like a lady. Oh, sweetheart.’

  She sniffed and sniffed again. She ran her fingers through her hair, a gesture he remembered, Mardie under stress. She’d obviously forgotten, though, that she’d tied her hair into braids. Her fingers caught one of the bands and her hair fell loose, a cascade of honey curls.

  One braid in. The other free. Tear-stained, messy, freckled … She didn’t care. She was totally oblivious.

  Something kicked him, hard, deep inside. Something that hadn’t kicked him for a long time.

  ‘Let me see,’ he said, more roughly than he intended. He knelt on the floor, cupping the dog’s jaw in his hand, looking at her eyes.

  The dog let him do as he willed. She was totally trusting, or maybe she’d gone past trust. Maybe she was at the point of: Kill me now, nothing can get worse than this.

  Definitely cataracts.

  If it was the same as humans … Cataracts sometimes came with age. Sometimes they were caused by illness or injury. These, though …

  ‘Sometimes they’re genetic,’ he said, thinking out loud. ‘She seems a young, otherwise healthy dog.’

  The dog let her head lie on his palm and sighed.

  Mardie sniffed again.

  ‘Years ago, one of my neighbours’ old Labradors, Blacky, got cataracts,’ she muttered. ‘Roger said the cost of having them removed was too huge to consider. Blacky was a pet, though, old, fat and lazy at the best of times. He was content to live out the rest of his life in front of Roger’s fire. But for a young working dog … If she can’t work she’ll be miserable, and useless to whoever owns her.’

  She fingered the plastic collar.

  The flashlight was still on. They read the collar together, Blake absurdly aware of honey-blonde curls tumbling to her shoulder only six inches away. Absurdly aware of a ragged sweater.

  Mardie …

  ‘She has a name.’ Mardie seemed unaware of his distraction and Blake looked where she was looking. There was a number written in black on the collar, followed by rough script.

  Bessie. Owner: Charlie Hunter.

  ‘It’s worse and worse,’ Mardie said, and her face said it was.

  ‘Charlie Hunter?’

  ‘You must remember Charlie. He’s a farmer up on the ridge. A nice old guy, keeps to himself, almost ninety. He used to be the best dog-trainer in the district. Brilliant. When he won All Australian Champion I made him …’

  But then she faltered. Bit back what she’d been about to say.

  ‘I guess … I guess whether I know him or not doesn’t matter. But he had a stroke eight weeks ago and he’s had to go into care. I’m guessing this is his dog.’ She took a deep breath, and when she continued her voice cracked with emotion. ‘So this is Bessie. He kept her even though she was blind, and when he could no longer keep her he put her in the pound. I wouldn’t have thought … It would have been kinder to put her down.’

  And she rose and walked out of the room.

  Bessie sniffed his hand and he patted her, stroking her silky coat. The kettle whistled on the stove.

  The roof was leaking in the corner, into a bucket. A steady trickle. The bucket was almost full.

  He took a candle and checked the living room, the matching corner. Another bucket.

  The way they were filling, it’d be a twenty-minute roster to empty them, all night.

  He made tea and then Mardie was back, with another collie by her side. Bigger. Younger. Having to be towed.

  ‘Bounce,’ she said sternly, hauling him into the room whether he liked it or not. ‘Get over the thunder. You’re needed. Meet Bessie.’

  Bounce was clearly cowed by the storm. Another low rumble filled the night. His ears flattened and he whimpered.

  Bessie whimpered back.

  Bounce’s ears forgot about flattening. Another dog, in his kitchen? This clearly took precedence over thunder. He launched himself forward, stopping abruptly two inches from Bessie’s nose. He sniffed.

  Bessie s
niffed back.

  The procedure was repeated from different viewpoints.

  Bounce gave his tail a cautious wag.

  ‘Basket,’ Mardie said.

  At the side of the woodstove was an ancient dog basket. There’d been dogs in that basket ever since Blake could remember. There were never less than three. He’d been vaguely surprised not to see dogs in there tonight.

  The family was down to one dog?

  ‘Basket,’ Mardie said again. Bounce gave her a Must I? look but turned and headed where he was meant to go.

  Bessie went too, just touching.

  Bounce turned in two circles, sighed, flopped.

  Bessie flopped, too. Closed her eyes. Was asleep in an instant.

  Bounce stared up at Mardie, doubtful as to this new order.

  ‘Stay,’ Mardie said gently, and Bounce sighed again, but he wriggled until his body was curved around Bessie’s. He settled.

  ‘That’s great,’ Blake said, feeling immeasurably cheered. ‘Another dog … they have ways of figuring they can trust.’

  ‘They’ll both relax,’ Mardie said. ‘Bounce wasn’t finding me the least bit reassuring against the gods of thunder but an older one who’s not scared is just what he needs.’

  ‘And tomorrow?’

  ‘Tomorrow I’ll call Henrietta, who runs the pound,’ she said bleakly, sitting back down at the table. Hauling her mug of tea close and holding it, as if needing the comfort of its warmth. ‘But one step at a time. Would you like toast before bed?’

  She was suddenly businesslike. Brisk. Putting emotion aside.

  There were still tracks of tears on her cheeks.

  He found her absurdly … or not absurdly …

  ‘I don’t need anything to eat,’ he said, a bit too abruptly. ‘I’ve just had a reunion dinner.’

  ‘So you have. You’re sure your head’s okay?’

  ‘It’s fine. Thank you.’ She was seated right by him. So close … Instinctively he reached out to touch her hand. It was a gesture of gratitude, nothing more.

  She flinched.

  It was as much as he could do not to flinch in return.

  ‘I’m staying up to eat toast,’ she said, carefully focusing on her mug of tea and not him. ‘Sleep well. There’s a bit to face in the morning, so get some rest.’

  ‘Mardie?’