A Girl's Guide to the Outback

by Jessica Kate

  And with some elbow grease, the cans of paint she’d found in the shed, and a small contribution from herself, they’d be able to pull it off at no cost to Jules.

  The growl of the four-wheeler’s engine emanated from the other side of the slight rise she now labored to pedal up, and a moment later the vehicle—and Sam—sailed over the crest like a chariot with its king. The breeze played with Sam’s hair and navy T-shirt as he approached.

  Have mercy. How could a girl keep her head on straight with things like this appearing like a mirage straight from her fourteen-year-old fantasies?

  Sam slowed to a stop beside her and grinned. “Nice wheels. Want a lift? I’ve just gotta lock the cows in, and then I’m going home for second brekkie.”

  Kimberly eyed the back of the bike. A ride would be far preferable than pedaling these rutted tracks for another mile. But it would also mean sitting on the back of the bike with Sam, his muscles, and three years’ worth of a combined crush and dysfunctional relationship.

  She needed to get these silly emotions under control.

  “I’ll be fi—”

  “Don’t be silly. It’s hot enough to fry an egg on your head.” He hopped off the motorbike, plucked the bicycle from her hands, and propped it against the fence. “We’ll grab it on the way back. Hop on.”

  She perched on the bars that crisscrossed over the top of the plastic mudguard and wrapped her fingers around the cold metal rather than Sam’s shirt—or torso. But when he took off with a jump, physics threw her weight backward. Her flailing fingers snagged the bottom of Sam’s shirt as gravity pulled her down, and something firm clamped down on the top of her thigh, anchoring her to the bike.

  But not before her fingers registered the sensation of tearing fabric.

  The bike came to an abrupt halt, Sam’s left hand still holding on to her leg.

  Heat gushed into Kimberly’s neck and face as she righted herself and stared at the eight-inch tear she’d made in the back of his shirt—and the skin beneath it. “I’m so sorry—”

  “Don’t worry about it. I took off too fast. Are you alright?” His dark eyes focused on her with such intensity she couldn’t hold his gaze.

  “I’m fine.” She stared at the hand just above her knee.

  Sam removed it. “Hop on properly and hold on.” He shifted forward so she could sit behind him on the seat.

  Oh yeah. Sitting with her body pressed against his back and wrapping her arms around him would really help this situation.

  “Unless you’d rather sit in front.”

  And have him wrap his arms around her? Good grief. A girl could only have so much self-control.

  Kimberly swung her other leg over so she straddled the bike and slid into place behind Sam. She twisted her hands in what was left of the back of his shirt. “Okay.”

  He reached back, untangled her hands, and pulled them around him.

  At least with her behind him, he couldn’t see the glow that was surely radiating from her cheeks right now.

  Sam set off again, at a marginally gentler pace. “What were you doing out here?”

  “Figuring out a surprise for Jules. I think I can pull it off, with your help.” She raised her voice to compensate for the rushing wind that tickled strands of hair against her neck. Sam seemed to believe the Honda FourTrax was his Ducati Streetfighter.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Fixing the worker’s cottage. Before she gets home. The bathroom just needs a bucketload of bleach, there’s paint in the shed, and Butch says he has a trucker friend who can smuggle a flat-pack kitchen along with his load and drop it off tomorrow.”

  Sam’s fingers slid along her forearm and squeezed, the effect almost as potent on her as an actual hug. “That’s ambitious, but sweet. It deserves a face-lift. Mum and Trent lived there before his accident.” Sam glanced back at her and amended his comment. “My biological dad. He died after a farm accident.”

  “Oh.” She’d never heard Sam mention his biological father before. She’d assumed he and Mrs. Payton had divorced.

  “That must’ve been hard for your mom.”

  Sam nodded. “I was a baby, Jules was a year and a half. We moved back in with my grandparents, and Gran babysat us while Mum worked the farm with Granddad. Then once Mum married Dad, my grandparents lived in the cottage.”

  Kimberly filed the time frames away in her head. “When did your mom and stepdad meet?”

  “When I was four.” Sam slowed the bike’s pace, making it easier to talk. “I don’t remember, but Gran talked about it sometimes. Trent was a decent bloke, but they had Jules and me pretty young. They were both immature, and the relationship wasn’t easy. Then Mum had to deal with grief, farming, and single parenthood—she turned a bit hard and cynical. But Dad brought joy and beauty back into her world.” He cleared his throat. “He was the love of her life.” His voice wavered a little on the last word. Kimberly fought the urge to tighten her arms around him and squeeze the hurt away. She knew what it meant to lose a father you adored. Sam squeezed her hand, like he telepathically understood what she was feeling, and why it was so hard to express it. A rush of warmth flooded her, and she squeezed back.

  He stopped at the open paddock gate, and she leaned back as he dismounted, missing his heat even on this toasty day. But he didn’t walk toward the gate. Instead, he turned and unleashed the full force of his smile on her.

  Oh, that dimple. Her thoughts exploded into a glitter cannon of color and sparkle.

  “I’m in. But I think we can do better than the paint in the shed. Let’s head into town.”

  Mute, Kimberly nodded. She’d say yes to anything when he used that smile on her. The memory of their rodeo kiss sizzled in her synapses.

  Sam turned to fasten the gate, and she blinked to shake off his effect on her.

  You’re going home soon. And he might not be coming back for long—or ever.

  Not if she couldn’t convince the board that Wildfire would be worth keeping open without Sam. She was past the halfway mark on her time in Australia now, and the clock ticked louder every hour. Steph blew up her inbox daily. If she wasn’t successful in luring Sam back, she might as well not come back at all.

  This weekend would give her and Sam some one-on-one time. If she couldn’t make some serious progress in convincing him, then her future was in serious jeopardy.

  * * *

  Jules leaned against Mick’s ute and surveyed the coastal home before her. Behind the dog-proof fence, children squealed as they jumped into the inground pool.

  Thwack. The distinctive sound of a tennis ball meeting a cricket bat. Probably the three boys she’d seen ten minutes ago still playing backyard cricket. A shout arose. A white Maltese dog dashed past the gate, tennis ball in mouth, and a moment later a child flashed past in hot pursuit.

  At the gate Mick waved a final goodbye to the suntanned yummy mummy who owned these six kids, loving husband, and fabulous house next to the park. Jules lifted a hand in farewell. Mick waggled his eyebrows at her as he approached, now clad in board shorts and a Rip Curl tank that showed off his surfer’s physique.

  “Well?”

  She grimaced. “I don’t think they’re puppy appropriate.”

  Mick rolled his eyes and walked around to the driver’s side. Jules stashed her crutch and pulled herself up into the vehicle. Her stomach rumbled as they drove onto the road.

  “Want that fish-and-chips for lunch now?” Mick tapped his fingers on the steering wheel to the tune of the pop song on the radio. Her stomach growled again in response. It’d been a long morning of meeting potential puppy families.

  Jules rolled down her window to let the delicious sea breeze in. Everyone here seemed to drive with their windows down—unlike home, where they stayed tightly closed to prevent the onslaught of flies, dust, and extreme temperatures. “Did you hear what I said?”

  “I’m ignoring you because hunger has obviously caused you to lose your mind.”

  �
�How many puppies did you say Meg’ll probably have?”

  “Can’t know for sure, but average litter size for Kelpies is around five.”

  She eyed the home. The fifth one they’d checked. “I don’t think they have room for another living thing in that house.”

  “They have a six-bedroom house, and they live next to a park. Just say it.”

  “Say what?”

  He stopped at a traffic light and looked at her, those blue eyes seeing straight through to her soul. “You want one.”

  His gaze was almost as potent as his touch. She looked back at the road. “Do not. They’re a ridiculous crossbreed. But if we can’t find enough good homes, I might just have to keep one.” Despite her best efforts, her lips twitched with a smile.

  Mick huffed out a “Ha!” then reached behind her seat and pulled out a plastic bag. He tossed it into her lap as the light turned green.

  “What’s this?” She pulled out a tangle of fabric and shook it into shape. Two pirate outfits. For dogs.

  “I couldn’t resist. I have a matching outfit. Last year at the RSPCA Million Paws Walk, all the vets at the practice dressed up to match their dogs and told the kids of our clients to do the same. Donations skyrocketed.”

  Best mental picture ever. She grinned at the tiny pirate outfits. One for Killer and one for—“You want one too?”

  “Killer needs some company.” He pulled the ute into a car park beside Currumbin Creek, a sandy waterway that met the ocean. “Let’s go. Lunchtime.”

  They headed across the road to a fish-and-chips shop, and as Mick ordered, Jules slouched in a chair at one of the outdoor tables, head back and eyes closed. She stretched her legs out to the sun. Warm darkness enveloped her consciousness—until a hand glided from her shoulder to her neck, then tugged her ponytail. She shivered, caught his fingers with both hands, and opened her eyes. “Got my food?”

  “We’re not eating it here. Come on.”

  He headed to the road, and she hustled to catch up. “Picnic by the beach?”

  He waited for her before he crossed, positioning himself between her and the traffic. “Sort of.”

  Sort of? What was he planning?

  He sat her and the food down at a picnic table that offered a great view of the beach. “Just a sec.” He jogged down to a wooden shack by the sand, his thongs—flip-flops to their American guest—slapping against the ground.

  Jules sneaked a peek at the chips. Had they used enough chicken salt? Only one way to find out. She was one and a half handfuls into her taste test when she heard a “Hey!”

  Mick walked toward her, carrying what looked like an overweight surfboard and a paddle. “Quit stealing chips.”

  She wagged one at him. “You knew the risks when you left me alone with the food.”

  He scooped up the paper-wrapped cardboard box of lunch and nodded toward the water. She balked. “Are you serious? Paddleboarding?” She waved her foot at him. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  He was already walking to the water, managing to hang on to all three items in his arms. “Don’t be a sook.” He plopped their lunch onto the sand and positioned the paddleboard two-thirds on water, one-third on land.

  She stood where the grass met the beach, one arm gripping her crutch and one on her hip. “I’m not getting my moon boot wet or sandy. And what are you going to do with my crutch?”

  He secured the paddleboard in the sand, jogged up to her, and took the crutch. “Just a sec.” He ran over to the ute, locked it inside, and jogged back to her. “So, no sand?”

  “No sand.”

  “Right-o.” He reached down and swept one arm behind her knees and the other around her back. Jules squeaked as her feet left the ground, her arms latching around his neck. He grinned at her, close enough she could count every freckle where his Irish skin met the Australian sun. “No sand it is.”

  He carried her down the beach, waded two steps into the water, and sat her on the paddleboard. Jules gripped his neck as she tried to balance and keep her moon boot on the paddleboard at the same time. Mick laughed, breath tickling her ear and doing all sorts of things to her nerves. “You can let go. I’ve got it.” He unfisted her hand from his shirt, his other hand on the paddleboard, and made his way to the back. “Take this.” He passed her the fish ’n’ chips, picked up the paddle, and managed to launch them while stepping onto the back of the paddleboard and somehow not pitching her off.

  “Whoa.” Jules clutched the edges of the board in a death grip, lunch safe in her lap, as Mick used a few quick strokes to direct them to the center of the wide, salty creek. Once they were drifting out of the path of the other paddleboarders and swimmers around them, within sight of the crashing waves at the mouth of the creek, Mick balanced the paddle across the board. “You face one way, and I’ll face the other, and it’ll balance.” He nudged her to face the left shore, her good leg trailing in the water, as he sat next to her and faced the right. “Okay, hand over the goods. Or what’s left of them.”

  She gingerly released one hand from the board long enough to pass him the fish-and-chips. He tore open the paper and held the box out to her. “You can let go. You won’t fall off.”

  “Says you.” But the irresistible smell drew her fingers to a particularly large battered chunk of fish.

  Mick popped three chips into his mouth. “Nothing like eating fish ’n’ chips while on the actual ocean.”

  She couldn’t disagree. The fresh sea air, cool water, spectacular views of waves and sand and surfers—it was addictive.

  Or maybe that was just the man beside her.

  That man ate a bite of fish and nudged her with his leg. “So talk to me. What did Kimberly say that’s got you freaking out?”

  She licked a grain of salt from her fingers, eyes on the water. Mick had bided his time, but he’d never let her get away with not having this conversation.

  She sighed. “Because money stuff might not be my thing, but I know how many zeroes were in that number. What they’re asking me to do is a gamble, and they’re telling me it’s my best option. Which means my other options are worse.” Her next words tasted of metallic fear. “What if I lose the farm?”

  “Tell me why that would be terrible.”

  She swung toward him, and the paddleboard wobbled.

  He held both hands up. “I’m not saying it wouldn’t be terrible. I’m saying that naming the fear sometimes helps.”

  “I’m afraid . . .” The worries poured in, faster than she could get the words out. “I’m afraid I’ll lose my job. My lifestyle. I’ll lose who I am. And I’ll—” Sobs threatened, but she swallowed them down. “I’ll lose all I have left of Dad.” She swiped at her eyes. “I know it’s silly—he’s already gone, and he’s in absolute paradise with God. But I can milk in the dairy and pretend the knocking in the vat room is Dad tinkering with the vat, not the loose drainpipe on the east wall. I can see his murals on the walls. I can take care of the animals he loved. I can fix the tractors he drove, tend the paddocks he and Mum cultivated.”

  “It’s not silly.” Mick’s voice sounded rough with emotion. She bit her lip. It wasn’t the same kind of grief, but she wasn’t the only one who missed him.

  Mick’s hand squeezed her shoulder, and she leaned into his chest. With his arm around her and her forehead resting against his collarbone, she could feel the vibrations of his words as well as hear them.

  “It’s not silly, but you can’t let that hold you back. Whatever happens, God won’t desert you. You aren’t alone. Trust Him.”

  She smiled, her cheek brushing the fabric of his shirt. “Since I ended up in this godforsaken place, maybe I shouldn’t have trusted anybody.”

  Mick laughed, the rumble through his chest a comforting sound. “‘Godforsaken’?”

  “Look at it. Not a cow in sight.”

  “Take one surfing lesson with me, and you’ll never want to leave.”

  She drew in a deep breath, sat up, and smiled at him. He was ri
ghter than he knew.

  Chapter 24

  Kimberly had made a mistake.

  She stacked the dishwasher with Sam, muscles aching from the even-harder-than-usual day’s work. She, Sam, and Butch had purchased new paint, ripped out the old cottage’s kitchen, scrubbed the bathroom, undercoated two rooms, and discovered actual timber floors underneath the mangy carpet. She had paint on her old Wolfmother shirt, splinters in her fingers, and the aftertaste of bleach in her throat. And it had been awesome. They’d worked so well together, Sam had even complimented her quick meal of spaghetti Bolognese before they launched back into painting.

  But a whole day was gone, and she hadn’t dragged up the courage yet to talk about Wildfire.

  She switched on the dishwasher and watched him from the corner of her eye as he stacked pots in the sink. It’d been five days now since she’d taken him through her expansion-plan figures again, and he’d reacted much the same as he had to the farm plan. Quiet nods, thoughtful expression, a promise to think about it.

  But this time he hadn’t returned the next day to say yes.

  Maybe a head-on assault wasn’t what this situation called for. She cast her mind back to that day in the dairy when they’d been discussing their long-term goals and motivations. She could be totally off base, but her Spidey senses had tingled at the time. His answer—“Preaching”—was plausible but vague. Preaching where? Full-time? To what audience? Surely he had some kind of secret dream—one he was afraid to hold up to the light.

  Sam had unknowingly nailed hers in his pep talk before they presented the farm plan to Jules: “We’re a team.” A feeling of belonging, of purpose—of being wanted—had addicted her at that moment more powerfully than any opiate ever could.

  What was that dream for him?

  She shifted his boxing gloves from the countertop to his gym bag in the corner and fetched a tea towel from the kitchen drawer. “Excluding the obvious options, if you could do anything, what would you do?”

  He dunked a pot in suds. “Didn’t we play this game the other day?”