by Jessica Kate
Her muscles tensed, and she held her breath. It took every bit of her willpower not to break eye contact, stammer out some glib comment, and scuttle to safety.
Sam’s gaze dropped to her lips, and her heart rate found a whole new gear. Oh. My. Gosh. Was this seriously happening? She’d never noticed how long his lashes were before, nor the slight bump in his nose. Had he ever broken it boxing?
Concentrate, Kim. This was not the time to be wondering about a person’s sporting history. She had the most ridiculous thoughts when she got nervous.
His fingers brushed her jaw as he leaned forward the tiniest amount.
“Samuel!” An older woman’s voice called out.
Sam jumped away like he’d been caught in his parents’ liquor cabinet. Kimberly blinked.
A woman moved at a fast clip toward them from the direction of the house. Sam swung toward her. “Mum?”
Kimberly gaped as the five-foot-nothing lady with curly gray hair and a wardrobe that matched Jules’s threw herself into Sam’s arms. She squeezed him half to death, then pulled back and beamed. Then her gaze landed on Kimberly.
And the smile died.
* * *
If Kimberly could see her face in the mirror right now, it’d probably be greener than Shrek’s complexion. Both from her jealousy of Sam’s family and all the triple-chocolate muffins she’d just eaten. She readjusted the waistband of her workout shorts as she dumped a stack of muffin tins in the sink.
At the dining-room table, Sam, Jules, and their mom were setting up a game of some faster version of Monopoly. It was the first time the three seemed to have drawn breath since Mrs. Penny Payton arrived four hours, one plastic Christmas tree setup, and many muffins ago. The woman—small in stature and big in personality—had grumbled something to Jules about her loan approval, scolded them for their lack of festive spirit, decorated the house, and then commandeered the kitchen. The assortment of sweets she produced was nothing short of Wonka-esque. How was Sam not a diabetic yet? And she’d done it all while talking a mile a minute in that Aussie accent of hers. Kimberly’s head was still spinning, especially from the weirdness of seeing Christmas decorations and hot weather together. Weirdly, many of the stars, baubles, and wreaths were still winter themed.
Kimberly blasted hot water into the sink, trying to hear the group’s chatting over the rush of the water. She’d sat on the edge of the afternoon’s festivities, leaving only when she covered Sam’s milking with Butch. Even now she tapped her fingers and willed the sink to fill up faster so she could shut off the noisy water. But the least she could do in exchange for the afternoon’s entertainment and snacks was clean up.
“Hey, Kim, you wanna play?” Sam popped his head up and looked at her. “You’re the money whiz. You’ll kick butt in this game.”
She eyed the happy picture they made. Sounded fun. She bit her lip. “I’ll clean up, but thanks anyway.” Somehow she just didn’t fit into that picture.
Sam shrugged and returned to setting up the game. Mrs. Payton’s lips tightened for a moment before her expression smoothed out and she handed out the Monopoly money. Kimberly grimaced. Had the woman decided to dislike her already? In her life experience, mothers tended to do that.
Undeterred, Kimberly watched them as she scrubbed four muffin tins, six plates, and a ridiculous number of cups, considering how many people were in the house.
But the amount of washing gave her time to observe and plan. Mrs. Payton seemed like the mother Kimberly had daydreamed about as a little girl—and to be honest, as a big girl as well. She had to get this woman to like her. Maybe she could make a special breakfast tomorrow morning? Something familiar, with a hint of USA? She was mentally comparing her cooking repertoire to the contents of Jules’s pantry when her phone rang. Butch.
“There’s a cow stuck in the dam. Bring the tractor and the hip lifters.” Click.
She dried the final cup, placed it in the cupboard, and slipped out the door. Mrs. Payton and Sam were crowing at Jules’s downfall in the game, so she didn’t interrupt. Let them have their time together without an outsider. Surely that would work in her favor.
Mrs. Payton might be giving out some chilly vibes, but Kimberly was going to warm her up if it was the last thing she did.
Chapter 27
Sam jiggled his knee and watched the door from his place at the dining table. Kimberly still hadn’t returned, the cane toads were in full chorus, and the clock hands were nearing eight o’clock.
Mum dropped into the seat next to him, Jules’s laptop in one hand and a plate of Christmas pudding in the other. She slid the plate of pudding before Sam, and the scent made his mouth water. “Could you help me search for cruises, Sammy? The internet and I had an argument last week and aren’t on speaking terms.”
Sam groaned. “You didn’t accidentally reformat your hard drive again, did you?” He forked off a piece of pudding and dunked it in the homemade custard pooling in the bottom of the plate. Yum. Tasted as sweet as it smelled. Mum could never wait until actual Christmas Day to crack into the Chrissy pudding.
She pushed the laptop toward him. “You seem to have better luck at this than me.”
He rolled his eyes and started a search, one eye still on the door. Kimberly’s phone had gone straight to voice mail, but that was normal. Most areas on the farm got terrible reception.
She was probably fine. It wasn’t unusual for one of them to be caught outside at this time, finishing up one of the millions of jobs that popped up on the farm. But he’d hoped Mum would have the chance to get to know her more tonight.
Just in case he decided to kiss her before morning.
Mum caught his glance toward the door. “How are you going with Little Miss Big Ego? She still plotting to torment you?”
Sam grimaced. He should’ve known his past whinging about Kimberly would come back to bite him. “She never plotted against me. We just had creative differences. And we’re getting along . . . swimmingly.” He laced his hands behind his head and smiled at his mother.
She raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“I’m going to return to Wildfire.” He hadn’t officially made the decision till the words popped out of his mouth, but in that moment he couldn’t imagine telling Mum any other plans for his life.
Mum pinched a bite of the dessert. “What about Bible college?”
He’d emailed her his thoughts on that topic not long after that conversation with Kimberly.
He gulped. This was the first time he’d said this part of the plan aloud—and his frustrating homeschool days were burned into both their memories. Learning at home with Mum—who wasn’t a natural teacher and had almost no resources—had still been better than regular school. But that didn’t mean they hadn’t both been stretched to the limits of their patience. “I’m thinking of doing it part-time online. They’ve got flexible options nowadays.” An ambitious undertaking, balancing work and study with the extra challenge of dyslexia. But Kimberly’s prompting had tacitly given him permission to consider it. He took another bite of pudding and smiled at the thought.
“All while dealing with this girl?”
Sam narrowed his eyes. Hard to tell if she was hinting that she suspected his feelings, or if she was referring to his and Kimberly’s tumultuous working relationship. “We’ve come a long way since we’ve been out here.”
Mum rested her chin on her hand and didn’t say anything. Sam’s unfurling hopes shriveled a little under her gaze.
“You don’t think it’s a good idea?”
“You only just got back to Australia.”
Guilt weighed on the helium balloons of hope that’d been inflating his chest. He’d left for the US in the aftermath of Dad’s death, looking to connect with Dad’s extended family and process his grief without a constant reminder of what he’d cost Mum. But that had meant Mum lost her husband and face-to-face contact with her son within a few short months.
Mum laid a hand on his. “I just don’t want you bit
ing off too much.”
Sam deflated. Was this her well-known desire to keep him in Australia talking, or her doubts about his ability to study? Probably both. No one would question if Kimberly wanted to work and study part-time, not with her genius brain. But him?
Apparently not even his mother thought he could do it.
He eked out a small smile. “We’ll see.”
Maybe.
* * *
Kimberly yawned as she tied a Christmas ribbon around the picnic basket she’d just packed. Her gaze swung to the horizon, visible through Jules’s kitchen window. A streak of sapphire ran along the divide between sky and earth.
And she’d already been up for an hour.
Another yawn escaped as she tugged the bow till it was perfect. Sam, Jules, and Mrs. Payton’s talking had kept her up until eleven thirty last night. Which meant she’d had less than five hours’ sleep. But the sacrifice was for a good cause. She’d needed to prepare this before she left to milk, because Mrs. Payton would surely rise before she returned.
The basket contained fresh-baked biscuits, pancake batter, a glass bottle of freshly squeezed orange juice, half a dozen silkie eggs she’d carefully cleaned, Canadian bacon—known in Australia simply as “bacon,” plus Vegemite and Weet-Bix cereal for a traditional Australian touch. She tucked a little note and a bunch of flowers in the top.
The happy thought of Mrs. Payton’s reaction carried Kimberly through a long milking with the ever-quiet Butch, during which she was continually tempted to lean against the dairy wall and fall asleep. Her brain was so foggy, she even forgot to bring him more copies of Dad’s artwork. By the time she dragged herself back to the house for “second brekkie,” she was praying for a good chunk of that bacon to be left and a magical genie to complete the rest of the day’s chores for her.
She’d had to lock the cows away in the farthest paddock, so Sam had already left to log some hours on the tractor when she arrived back home, sweating and stinking of the dairy. In fact, the house appeared empty, save for Mrs. Payton sitting at the dining table in a blue button-down and work jeans, fragrant coffee in hand and a laptop in front of her.
Kimberly smiled at the older woman as she entered the room, sweaty socks sliding across the timber floor. “Good morning.”
Mrs. Payton set her coffee down, her leathery skin accentuating the frown lines in her forehead. “Morning.”
Kimberly glanced at the kitchen counter. The basket sat there, untouched. “Did you see—”
“I only have coffee and a piece of fruit in the morning.” Her tone was cool.
Hurt sparked through Kimberly’s nervous system. She paused. “Oh. Well, feel free to have some of this for lunch.” She headed toward the basket. “I’ll just pop it in the fri—”
“I’d like to have a talk with you.”
Kimberly froze halfway toward her rejected basket. Mrs. Payton’s tone boded no argument. “Okay.” She took a seat at the table with trepidation, careful to only perch on the chair in her dairy clothes.
Mrs. Payton pushed the laptop aside. “From what I hear you’re a straight talker, so I trust you’ll appreciate it when I take the same approach with you.”
Gulp. Kimberly laced her fingers together, wiped her expression of emotion, and braced herself.
“I know you’re here to take my son away again, and you’ve already convinced my daughter that this insane mortgage is the only way to save us from financial ruin.”
Kimberly raised her hands in surrender. Thank goodness the loan had come through yesterday morning before Jules’s mother tried to talk her out of it. “I only—”
“I can understand your motivations—that ministry of Sam’s is a worthy cause, and Jules asked for your help and insists that this loan is her decision.” She pursed her lips. “But she never would’ve done it without your interference, and Sam’s spent long enough away from his family. I don’t want your influence here. Not much point in pretending otherwise.”
With every word, Kimberly’s Christmas Day fantasies soured. No matter what she’d let herself dream of over the past weeks, this place was not her home, and this was not her family. The Mrs. Payton she’d dreamed of meeting was no fairy godmother, just a mama bear protecting her cubs. From Kimberly.
It seemed mothers were allergic to her.
She forced her lips into a tight smile. “Message received. I’ll stay out of your way.”
Throat aching with a rush of emotion, she slid a pan onto the stove and tossed a slice of bacon in. That woman could be as rude as she wanted, but she couldn’t keep Kimberly from bacon and eggs. Kimberly rubbed dust from her eyes as the fat began to sizzle. This was good in the long run, really. It proved yet again why she and Sam would never work.
Fat from the pan popped, catching her hand with a sharp sting. She hissed and ran her hand under cold water as her thoughts swirled through her mind. Sam was obviously close to his mother, and the woman couldn’t stand the sight of her. No way would she be stepping into the middle of that.
This was just the kick she needed to remind herself that any feelings for Samuel Payton would only result in heartbreak.
Chapter 28
Something weird was going on.
Jules eyed Mick as the vet slurped down the last of his kombucha and surveyed his dad’s silage wagon. The big green contraption was parked in Jules’s machinery shed. Mick’s dad needed Jules’s mechanical know-how and tools to fix it, and Jules needed Mick’s functioning limbs to actually carry out the work. But no one had figured out how to get her in the trailer.
Yet not that problem, nor the stuffy heat in the shed, nor the arrival of the new cattle today was what triggered an icky unease beneath Jules’s belly button.
It was Mick.
In the less-than-a-week since their spontaneous trip, she’d rewound their time together through her head. Him rescuing her from Psycho. His anger at her risky actions. Him saving Meg. The rodeo.
He’d mentioned his girlfriend that one time, and she’d grabbed it and run with it. It meant she was safe to revive their friendship without awakening any ancient history. But after their weekend away, doubts battered her brain’s wall of denial.
“What if we sent you up in the bucket?” Mick’s voice broke through her thoughts.
She pulled her unfocused gaze from a flat tire leaning against the shed to his face. “What?”
“The tractor bucket. Hop in, and I’ll lift you up next to the wagon, then climb up and help you in.”
She shrugged and swished a fly. “Okay.”
Mick tossed his bottle into her forty-four-gallon-drum-cum-garbage-bin and climbed into the tractor cab. Jules pursed her lips as he maneuvered the tractor into position.
The Gold Coast weekend, fun as it had been, was probably a mistake. She’d let her mind drift down a road it had no business traveling, and Mum’s return was a great reminder of why. This farm was their home—their legacy. Dad’s burial place. She couldn’t just ditch it all for Mick and the coast and leave Mum in the lurch. And she couldn’t give up who she was—a farmer, a problem solver, an independent woman—to become one of those Gold Coast wives with their fake nails, plastic lawns, and yoga classes. Not even to be with Mick.
Who had a girlfriend.
Tractor in place, Jules maneuvered her bad leg into the bucket, sat on the rusting metal, and surveyed the farm as the hydraulics lifted her several meters into the air. The tractor shuddered to a stop as Mick killed the engine, then used the back of the ute to scramble up and over the side of the wagon. He overbalanced and disappeared over the edge.
Thud.
Jules leaned over to see from the bucket, hovering about half a foot above wagon. Was Mick alright?
And more important, how the devil was she going to get from this tractor bucket into the wagon without jarring her sore foot?
Mick popped up, bits of silage and grain dust speckling his hair and pineapple-patterned T-shirt. “Alright, come ’ere.” He tugged her arm toward him
.
A rush of energy shot through Jules’s system. Uh-oh. Not again.
Mick looped her arm around his neck, bringing her face close to his. She counted the freckles on his nose as he slid one arm under her legs, the other under her back, and hefted her from the bucket into the wagon. Ugh. Even hotter in here.
He kept his arms on her waist until she was steady on her feet, then stepped away and crouched at the front of the wagon. “Okay, Dad said the bearing has collapsed in the bottom beater—”
“Mick, can I ask you something?”
He swiveled to look up at her. “My response to that question has never stopped you before.”
“What’s your girlfriend’s name?”
He dropped his gaze and grimaced.
She clenched her teeth. She’d been an idiot. There was no girlfriend. And that joyful unicorn currently shooting rainbows around her brain could shut up, because any soft thoughts toward Mick were unwelcome here.
“It was a stupid thing for me to say.” He brushed his hands clean and stood, only an arm’s length away. “Brittany and I did go on a couple of dates, but it kind of fizzled out as I was preparing to come out here. You just caught me at an insecure moment, I guess.”
How could something with Mick ever “fizzle out”? She’d had ten years to stomp out this spark, yet it kept flaming to life. She sucked air in through her nose and released it in a hiss between her lips. “So the Gold Coast weekend—did you do that as a friend?”
“I’m always a friend.”
“You know what I mean.”
His eyes lit with an intensity she hadn’t seen for way too long. “I’m always a friend, Jules. But if you’re asking whether I’d kiss you right now if I thought for half a second you’d let me”—he edged half a step closer—“the answer is yes.”
Her mouth dropped open at his bluntness. Whoa. Where had blushing Mick gone? She cleared her throat. “Then it’s a good thing I won’t let you.” Yet she swayed the tiniest bit in his direction.
He grinned. “Liar.”
