by Jessica Kate
He held up two fingers. “First, I’ll deal with Mum. Second—” His grin widened. “I love your definition of professional.” He came forward half a step, well into her space.
Kimberly’s pulse skyrocketed. She’d never been able to flirt to save her life, but maybe the trick was in the right sparring partner. She tipped her head back to keep her eyes on his face as he came closer.
“And I’d like to return to that professional discussion—if you didn’t have muck on your nose.”
What? She dropped her face and swiped at her nose as heat rushed into her cheeks like firemen to an inferno.
Two fingers grazed her chin and tipped her face back up. Sam’s face hovered above hers, smile crinkles around his eyes. “On second thought, I really don’t care.”
A laugh bubbled up between them as Sam pressed his lips to hers. She caught his cheek, rough beneath her palm, as his hands anchored onto her waist. Her other hand slid around his neck.
She was kissing Samuel Payton.
Out here on the track between the dairy and sheds for anyone to see.
“Stop smiling,” Sam mumbled against her lips, his own tugging into a grin. “It makes it really hard to kiss you.”
She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him back. “How’s that?”
His grin was even more spectacular up close, all warmth and excitement and the intensity of his attention focused on her. “Perfect.”
She returned to normal height as he took her hand and turned them toward the house. He intertwined their fingers. “How about we go out to dinner tonight? Check out the finest of what Burradoo has to offer.”
Her heart lifted with the joy of a thousand hot-air balloons. “That sounds like something I couldn’t miss.”
They reached the house—stopping off on the way to admire a semitrailer with the first load of loan-funded hay—and as she lifted her foot for the first step, the door flew open. Mrs. Payton stood there, the Christmas wreath on the door framing her head like a halo. But her hands rested on her hips, and a frown creased her forehead.
Kimberly reflexively pulled her hand back, but Sam held tight. “Mum—”
“Have you seen the weather report?” Her tone was full of concern, not rebuke. Kimberly looked between them, worry climbing up her throat.
Sam shrugged. “No. Why?”
“Cyclone Regina has changed paths. It’s headed this way.”
* * *
“This is a mistake.”
Kimberly jerked her gaze up from the phone ringing in her hand, her other palm braced against the torn back of Sam’s chair in the tractor cab. Their planned dinner date last night and even church this morning had been swapped for frantic cyclone preparations, including this afternoon’s task: storing Jules’s new hay.
The tractor hit a bump, and her head smacked the cab roof. Her perch on the wheel arch meant it happened approximately every forty-six seconds. “What’s that?”
Sam, one hand on the hydraulics and the other on the steering wheel, directed the tractor like a master puppeteer. He pushed the tractor forks forward until they pierced another half-metric-ton bale of hay from the second truckload of the day. Balancing another bale on top of that one, he lifted them from the back of the flatbed and stacked them inside the shed next to the dairy, which Jules had hastily cleared of machinery.
“If we had time, I’d make a couple of stacks.” He ducked his head to see beyond the tractor cab, and Kimberly did the same. “But this storm’s coming like a freight train.”
Blue-black clouds massed above, and majestic gum trees swayed in violent winds. The tractor wasn’t immune—wind gusts rattled the cab and whistled through loose window seals.
The phone kept buzzing, and Sam glanced over his shoulder. “Steph?” The board member was the only person who ever called.
“Yep.”
Sam smiled up at her. “Want to tell her I’m coming back?”
Kimberly grinned back at him, but when the call ended she didn’t reach to return it. “I’ll call her later.” Her stomach folded over, half ecstasy, half dread. After Mrs. Payton’s storm announcement, the thought of Sam saying no to Wildfire—and to her—had her tied in knots. Her dream dangled before her—them at Wildfire together, as a team. The thing she’d longed for these past three and a half years. Longer, if you counted the lonely eleven-year-old starving for a place to belong. But the cyclone hadn’t hit yet. Who knew what was about to go down?
She gripped the back of Sam’s chair as the tractor hit another bump. It’d taken three weeks to convince Sam to return, and she only had one left in this country. If he got cold feet, she was done for.
Best be a little more certain before crowing victory to Steph.
She pocketed the phone and jiggled her leg, muscles restless. The nervous energy stemmed not just from her Wildfire concerns—but her fragile hope for a relationship. If Sam changed his mind and decided to stay—even if the reasoning was about his family, not her—the tight knot already in her stomach told her the rejection would hit hard.
Jules’s words from days ago echoed through her consciousness: “Your worth isn’t determined by what my mother or even Sam thinks of you.”
If only she could convince her churning stomach.
Subject change. Kimberly fiddled with the radio until she hit a station playing Linkin Park. “Why should we do multiple stacks?”
Sam smacked her fingers away but left the station unchanged. “There’s less chance of it spontaneously combusting.”
Kimberly laughed. He looked at her. She blinked. “Wait—you’re serious? There’s no such thing as spontaneous combustion.”
Sam lifted the next bale. “If the hay has too much moisture when it’s baled, it rots inside the bale. That generates heat, and when it’s stacked the heat can be enough to make it combust. Dad lost a stack once when I was a kid.”
She gulped, visions of a flaming shed in her mind’s eye. “Yikes.”
“That’s why we’re putting it in the shed. There’s a chance old mate here”—he indicated the farmer inside his truck—“baled in a hurry to beat the rains. We don’t want to add extra water to that, so we’ll stash it in the shed for the storm. But afterward I’ll spread it around in a few stacks and keep a close eye on it.”
Kimberly shifted on the wheel arch, an ache emanating from her tailbone and dust in her nostrils. These winds had coated everything in grit. “Just how intense is this cyclone meant to be?” She’d never been in a hurricane back in the States, but surely their location a hundred miles inland would provide some sort of buffer.
“We’ll cop the outer edge of it. The wind damage will all be on the coast, but the rain’s going to come in fast and hard. The river could flood.”
So that’s why Jules was moving all the cattle to the west paddocks, farthest from the river. Still, the crop losses she’d sustain if the east paddocks flooded had to be significant.
Numbers whirred in Kimberly’s head. What was the maximum loss Jules could take with the added burden of this new loan? She’d already spent a significant chunk of money on new cattle and this hay. As long as her production potential remained high she should be able to dig her way out. But the beginnings of a tension headache niggled at the base of Kimberly’s skull.
“Does this happen often?” She ran her research through her mind. She’d covered weather patterns. Cyclones had come up but didn’t seem to be a major factor.
“They usually hit farther north. We thought this one would, too, but it changed direction yesterday.”
Kimberly rubbed her forehead. “Fabulous timing.”
Sam’s mouth tightened. “Jules is stressing about it.”
Kimberly refocused on him. What stressed one sibling stressed the other. She couldn’t have Sam stressed—not already. Iron bands tightened around her chest.
She gripped his shoulder. “She’ll be fine.”
He grimaced. “Sure hope so.” The first raindrops splattered against the window.
; Chapter 34
The water wouldn’t stop, but right now that wasn’t Jules’s biggest problem.
She knelt by a cardboard box in the corner of the veranda where Meg lay panting. Rain lashed the windows above them, and her knees ached on the worn wooden floor. She’d left Meg alone when her contractions first started, but when they slipped past the hour mark and no pups . . . her decades of farm experience rang alarm bells. That snakebite had increased the risk to Meg and the pups. And dogs birthed much faster than humans—or were meant to.
What a way to spend December 23.
Jules rubbed a hand over her scratchy eyes. For a farmer who’d grown up in drought, the sound of rain on the tin roof at night usually soothed her. But last night she’d just stared at the decaying glow-in-the-dark stickers on her bedroom ceiling.
This could end them.
Footsteps paced the veranda behind her. Her brother’s heavy tread. “How long’s it been?”
Since floodwaters broke the riverbanks? Fifteen hours. Since Meg went into labor? “Two.”
“I’m calling Mick.”
Jules shifted from her knees to sit cross-legged, chin in her hand and eyes on Meg. “Okay.” The floodwaters, even shallow ones, often proved deadly. There was no way Mick could come himself. But maybe he’d think of an idea she and Sam hadn’t tried.
She bit her lip and winced. She’d chewed it so many times, her tender skin was swelling into an ulcer.
Sam paced the veranda behind her, talking to Mick. “—heart feels too fast, and she’s just gotten some tremors . . . uh-huh . . . uh-huh.” The symptoms could’ve described either Jules or the dog.
Sam paused and nausea swirled inside Jules. Was it caused by the stress or the fact she hadn’t been able to choke anything down since yesterday? She couldn’t lose the farm and Meg. There was only so much a person could take.
Sam paced back toward her, ear still glued to the phone. “You sure? . . . Well, don’t go near the flying fox.”
Jules snapped her head up. “Don’t tell me he’s taking the boat out.”
Sam shrugged. “See you soon, mate.” He hung up the phone. “He’s taking the boat out.”
“Idiot!” The word exploded from her lips as she raked a hand through her hair. She’d put him through all this, and still the man would risk his dad’s old fishing dingy in floodwaters just to save her dog? “Why do men always think they’re smarter than the disaster management people who say not to boat in floodwaters? He should just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.” Plus, her eagerness to be in the same room as Mick compared to her eagerness for a gynecological exam. Would he look upset? She’d feel lower than scum. Would he look fine? Even worse.
Sam rested on his haunches beside her. “He thinks it’s hypocalcemia. He’s coming with calcium and fluids.”
Meg stirred at his nearness, panting with another fruitless contraction.
Jules rested her elbows on her knees and buried her face in her hands. A hand rubbed her shoulders. “Kimberly’s spent half of today locked in her room going over figures. She swears we’re not at the point of no return.” His tight tone belied the words intended to comfort, and a sour taste coated her tongue. She knew her brother—inside he was as sick over this as she was. But one of them had to put on a brave face.
Jules dropped her hands but couldn’t even fake a smile. “She can’t know that.”
Sam stayed next to her as they stared at the dog in silence. Water dripped from the ceiling into Mum’s biggest pot, and the room steamed with racks of laundry that wouldn’t dry. Kind of ruined the festive vibe of the Christmas tinsel lining the room. It’d take them ages to air out the moldy scent.
After an eternity an outboard motor broke the spell. Sam stood. “That’ll be Mick.”
Jules clambered to her feet. Best make herself scarce. She took a step away—and Meg whimpered. Jules squeezed her eyes shut. The whimper was probably in response to a contraction rather than Jules leaving. But she couldn’t leave Meg alone. “Okay, I’ll stay.”
Sam opened the door, and a bundle of dripping oilskin coat walked through. Mick flicked back his hood. Time slowed.
Sunken eyes. Three days’ stubble. No hint of a smile.
A stake pierced her heart. What had she done to him?
Mick and Sam exchanged quiet words, then Mick approached. His resigned gaze seared her soul for an unending moment.
Her tongue moved of its own accord. “I can’t believe you came out in this.” A gust of wind illustrated her point.
“Of course I came, Jules.” Each quiet word stung like a whip. How could she have thought he wouldn’t come through—either for her or for Meg? This was the man who’d driven her to the Gold Coast just to cheer her up. The man who’d dragged her broken body to safety in the middle of the night.
The man who loved her.
He fixed his attention on Meg. Jules slunk away, angling to position Sam as a buffer between her and Mick as the vet knelt by the dog and mumbled soothing sounds. Her brother slung an arm around her shoulders, the calluses on his hands rough and warm against her flannelette shirt. They stood like that for twenty agonizing minutes as Mick administered an IV line and then helped Meg deliver. Finally, he gave a whoop. “We have a puppy!”
Sam started forward, but Jules remained still. He crouched a few feet behind Mick, not crowding Meg, and peered into the box. “That is a-dor-able.”
Mick leaned into the box. “And another.”
Jules crept forward till she could lean a hand on Sam’s shoulder and squint into the dark box. Two pups squirmed next to one another. One black and tan, one white, both with the finest layer of curly fur. Meg and Killer’s pups. Hers and Mick’s.
She bit down on that ulcer to keep the tears at bay.
They stayed in their huddle as Meg took care of business. Finally, Mick eased back from the whelping box and stood, movements slow after an hour on the floor. “A big litter. Seven pups.”
Seven? Enough for each of the homes at the Gold Coast, plus her, plus Mick. Though—with all that had gone down between them, would he want it? Never mind. She’d keep them both. The coming days would be long and lonely, and the more puppies that filled them, the better.
Mick stretched his back, gaze still on the dogs as he spoke. “Watch her carefully over the next few days. She’s not out of the woods yet. And watch the pups too—they might need a bit of extra bottle feeding. Call me if something feels off, though I’ll be gone by Sunday.” He shook Sam’s hand, clapping him on the back like it was the last time they’d see each other for a while.
Or ever.
Centuries passed in the time it took Mick to aim his piercing blue eyes at her. Jaw set, stubble sexier than ever, eyes lined as though he were older than his thirty-one years. He offered his hand. “Goodbye, Jules.” The words rang with finality.
The clock ticked. Once, twice, three times. Her mind fled, her body refused to respond. Goodbye? No. Acceptable options: See you later. Catch ya ’round. Till next time. But never Goodbye.
The corner of Mick’s eye twitched. Could he see past her eyes and deep into her soul? Could he see her mountains of resolve collapsing into a raging ocean of despair?
Or did he only see the woman who’d broken his heart—again?
She spun and fled the room. She could face angry cows, mounting debt, and floods.
But she could not say goodbye to Mick Carrigan.
* * *
Kimberly leapt to the side of the dining nook and collided with the table as Jules flew past her, down the hall and—bang—to her room. An ache pounded through her left hip. Still, worth avoiding being trampled by Jules. Kimberly swung her gaze to the open internal door between the kitchen/dining room and veranda. Mick stood, frozen, staring at the place Jules had been. His anguished expression scraped across her heart like nails on a chalkboard. Make it stop.
Sam slid a hand onto his friend’s shoulder. Kimberly looked away. She’d seen flashes of Mick’s expression before—a du
ller, veiled version, but increasingly frequent—on Sam. She walked to the fridge and opened it, viewing the collection of Christmas pavlovas and pudding just for a distraction. The cold blast increased her chill.
Unlike her, Sam had never been good at hiding his emotions. He didn’t just worry for his sister, for the farm. No, that particular expression only crossed his face when he was looking at her.
She shut the fridge, collected her laptop, and headed for her room. Her back ached. She’d hovered in the dining nook the past two hours, pretending to work on her laptop but actually listening to Meg’s progress. Jules needed her space—the poor woman suffered on so many levels today—but Kimberly couldn’t bear to go farther than the kitchen counter away from that beautiful dog.
Now Meg and her pups were okay, and a greater problem loomed: what to do when Sam both reneged on his promise to Wildfire . . . and also broke up with her. Her stomach twisted. No matter that she’d run the figures over and over, nor that she’d reassured both Sam and Jules a thousand times. The truth was that her reassurances were based on the rain stopping soon. And just as the Paytons dreaded Mother Nature’s wrath, she sensed Sam’s dilemma and feared his eventual decision. If Jules’s future looked at all uncertain—especially after taking out this loan—there was no way he’d abandon his sister.
The end, at least for her, was coming. She knew it.
“Can we talk?”
Kimberly jolted, yanked her gaze up. Sam’s mother stood at the entrance to her bedroom and jerked her head, motioning Kimberly in.
Shouldn’t the woman be comforting her daughter? “Jules—”
“Needs her space. I’m here to discuss my other child.”
Kimberly tensed.
“Stop looking at me like I’m the Grim Reaper. You might be surprised.”
Kimberly edged into the room, giving Mrs. Payton the same kind of berth she’d award a tiger. Sam’s mom had given her a stilted apology for her words the other day, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t strike again.
“I wanted to thank you.”
