Laughter tugged at Fliss’s mouth but when she spoke her words were firm. ‘I thought your bull-riding days were over? You said your bones creak as if you were a hundred.’
Hewitt had known Denham for over a decade and it was a strong woman who’d take him to task about the toll his rodeo career had taken on his body. He’d once tried to stop Denham from riding with a broken hand and had failed.
Pain, which had nothing to do with his broken shoulder blade, lanced through him. Not only was the woman before him breathtaking, she had a strength of character that would ensure she’d stand beside a man, never behind him. But he had no right to find any woman compelling or beautiful, just like he had no right to allow his loneliness or his longings to steer him off course. The day his brother Brody died was the day he committed his life to looking out for his family.
Denham shifted on his feet as he stared at Fliss. ‘They do but … it was just one ride.’
She arched a fine brow. ‘One ride on a bull no one had ridden this season.’
‘I wore a helmet and protective vest. If I’m to buy this bull’s offspring I need to know what he’s capable of. Cressy was there.’
Fliss exchanged a look with her sister. ‘Which is why I’m not reading you the riot act.’
Denham’s expression turned sheepish. ‘So how did you know?’
‘The internet’s a wonderful thing, even if my dial-up connection is slower than the turtle who lives in my garden.’
Denham flicked Hewitt a wry look. ‘Just as well I stayed on and didn’t make a fool of myself. I’m getting rusty in my old age.’
Cressy went to Fliss’s side and slipped her arm through her sister’s. ‘You know I would have called if anything happened. You’re the only doctor Denham listens to.’
Pain flashed across Fliss’s face.
A large raindrop hit Hewitt’s forearm where it was left bare by his rolled-up shirtsleeve. Another raindrop targeted the toe of his left boot. No words were needed as they all turned towards the ute. While Denham collected the tool box stashed beside the quad bike, Hewitt reached for the esky. As his right hand wrapped around the handle the twinge in his upper arm reminded him he wasn’t capable of lifting something so heavy.
He swapped hands and, bracing himself, hauled the full esky over the side of the ute. He sat it on the ground before reaching for the navy duffle bag. When he turned, he realised Fliss stood behind him, her attention on his bad shoulder. He bit back a sigh. Somehow Fliss had homed in on his physical weakness. Even Denham didn’t know the true extent of his motorbike injuries.
Her eyes briefly held his before she took the duffle bag from out of his hand. ‘I’ll put this in the stables, if you want to head into the kitchen with the esky?’
He nodded, not trusting his words to emerge as anything but a hoarse rasp. His shoulder hurt like hell plus Fliss was too close. Far too close. He could see the smooth softness of her lips and caught the faint scent of gardenias. His tension must have shown on his face, as her mouth firmed before she turned away.
He ground his teeth. Whatever first impression Fliss had formed, it couldn’t be good. Not only did he look rough around the edges, the tightness of his jaw reminded him that his default expression this past year had become more grim than reassuring.
Uncaring of the raindrops that now splattered the top of the esky, he continued his unhurried pace towards the main house. After the dry years on his family farm further out west, he still appreciated the earthy scent of rain and the novelty of getting wet. Water trickled past the collar of his shirt, cooling the heat of his skin.
To his left, Denham and Cressy carried the tool box and a garden rake over to the tin shed tucked beside an old cedar tree. Hewitt studied the yard through the thin curtain of rain. Everywhere he looked there was work to be done.
The lawn needed mowing, the beds needed weeding, the fence posts needed straightening and the wire needed straining. He scanned the front of the Federation-style bluestone homestead that loomed before him. And that was only the garden to-do list. The house required some urgent TLC. Windows needed new glass panes, wood needed painting and gutters needed replacing. Water coursed through a hole in the rusted front gutter, spilling into the bucket below like a high-country waterfall.
A cow mooed and he looked beyond the house to the green slopes dotted with Cressy’s Black Angus cattle. Denham had mentioned that Bundara backed onto Glenmore, allowing Cressy easy access to the rye and native grass pastures for her breeding herd. At the moment Fliss wasn’t interested in the land of her new home, just the house and garden.
Hewitt reached the veranda and set the esky down. Boots thundered as Cressy and Denham bolted up the steps behind him. Raindrops glistened on their skin and clung to their hair, but their smiles were joyful. Hewitt looked away as Denham pulled Cressy in close for a tender kiss. Even when he’d known them years ago, the bond between them had been special. He was happy to see that after riding bulls in America, Denham had made peace with losing his father and his brother and Cressy was back in his arms. Hewitt ignored the loneliness that stirred within him.
Fliss too ran up the steps and out of the rain. But instead of laughter shining in her eyes and flushing her cheeks, her face was pale. She dragged her fingers through her hair, a deep weariness pinching her features.
Denham spoke above the drum of impatient rain on the roof. ‘Hewitt, that tinny of yours might have been better for getting around the cattle than your quad bike.’
Hewitt looked out at the water already flooding the hollows in the garden path. ‘True. I knew I should have brought my fishing gear.’
Fliss briefly joined in with the laughter before moving to open the screen door. ‘Coffee anyone?’
Cressy walked through the doorway. ‘Yes, please. I’d also love one of Meredith’s brownies. They weren’t ready when I left so she said she’d send some with the boys.’
Denham bent to lift the heavy esky. ‘It isn’t only brownies Meredith’s sent over.’ As he straightened he grimaced and rubbed his stomach. ‘Say goodbye to that six-pack.’
Hewitt’s smile lingered as Denham strode inside. It was a running joke they’d have to let their belts out when they left the rodeo circuit for an easier life. But so far they’d needed to pull their belts one hole tighter. He glanced at Fliss and his amusement ebbed.
Her wet hair showcased the delicate jut of her cheekbones and the symmetry of her features. But it wasn’t her beauty that held him still. Wariness again shadowed her eyes, along with an intense seriousness. It was as though she could see straight through his defences to the pain that went far beyond any physical injury.
‘Coming inside?’ she asked, voice quiet.
He didn’t immediately answer. Above him the hammering rain echoed the pounding of his heart. If he had any sense he’d heed the calls of his self-preservation. Living in close proximity with a strong, beautiful and perceptive woman like Dr Felicity Knight was a bad idea.
He glanced at his ute before taking a step towards the door. ‘Yes.’
He couldn’t back out now. He might be many things but he wasn’t a coward.
Fliss needed help and he needed a place to stay, somewhere other than the family farm, where memories didn’t taunt him every morning. A place where he could lie low while his body healed. His chest tightened. A place where he could grapple with the grief and the guilt he’d buried so deep he thought it would never resurface.
CHAPTER
2
What a difference three days and a cooperative lawnmower made.
Fliss sat her clean mug in the drying rack and gazed out the kitchen window. Her control-freak side rejoiced. Her wild, rampant garden had been tamed.
A short, velvety lawn stretched between the house and the turn-of-the-century bluestone stables. If a snake even looked like making a dash for the gap below the back door, she’d see it. Mauve, yellow and white blooms swayed in the neat garden beds. Who knew she’d had flowers amongst her weed jungle
? A cloud of white butterflies hovered and flittered, making the garden look like it sparkled.
She hesitated and then leaned to her right. From this angle she had an uninhibited view of the front yard … and of Hewitt. Her interest wasn’t personal, she just wanted to check his shoulder was coping with all the mowing and weeding. She scanned the garden until she saw him over near the shed. All contact between them had to be kept to a minimum. He needed to be left alone as much as she did. For a split second, when she’d held the door open for him the afternoon he’d arrived, she was certain he’d almost turned on his boot heels and left.
Today he was tackling the tap that overnight four-legged visitors had rubbed against and snapped off at the base. She’d woken to a loud moo outside her window and to the sight of an impromptu water feature. She’d chased the two cows out, turned off the pump so the water spout subsided and headed inside to research how to repair it. Thanks to an internet tutorial she’d already replaced a cracked window pane. But when she’d returned outside, Hewitt had everything under control.
The faded red cotton of his shirt pulled tight across his back as he used a shovel to dig around the bottom of the tap. She reached for a plate to wash. She wasn’t going there. Hewitt might be muscled and ripped beneath his shirt but the last thing she needed was to notice how good he looked working up a sweat. Even if the warm, reassuring clasp of his hand had made her feel like the world had stopped spinning, for just a moment.
She stared out the window again but this time focused on the injury he was determined to conceal. While he worked he used his left side as little as possible and when he bent to look into the hole, he briefly massaged his shoulder. From his limited range of movement, she guessed he had rotator cuff problems or had maybe done his acromioclavicular joint.
Sunlight glanced off the spoon she dropped into the cutlery drainer. The strength of the sun slanting through the oversized window bathed the kitchen in warmth. The handful of wispy clouds outside weren’t going to deliver rain anytime soon. She’d be right to drive to town to meet an old school friend, Kellie, and her daughter, Zoe, when they called in to the local hospital on their way home from Sydney.
She dried her hands on a tea towel, not surprised to find her fingers unsteady. She might know all the theory behind her anxiety but surely she’d be capable of doing something simple without being a total wreck. A drive along the red dirt roads to the town she’d grown up in shouldn’t be such a big deal. The sooner her nervous system went off high alert the better.
Deep in thought, she didn’t hear Hewitt’s boots on the veranda, until his knock rattled the front door. Her hands went to smooth her hair before she remembered her sleek city hairstyle was long gone. Along with her tailored clothes, hospital scrubs and the stethoscope she’d worn around her neck. She lowered her arms and tugged at the oversized navy T-shirt she wore with denim cut-offs.
Instead of knocking again, Hewitt spoke. ‘Fliss?’
The sound of his low, deep voice curled through her. She sighed and left the kitchen. She’d been on her own for so long, it was natural an attractive male voice reminded her she was a woman.
‘Yes.’ She slowed her pace along the hallway. She didn’t want to appear breathless. ‘Morning.’ She pushed open the screen door. ‘The cows did a good job, didn’t they?’
Hewitt answered with a reserved nod. ‘The tap’s had it. I’ll need a new t-piece joiner.’
She stepped outside to join him on the veranda. Since coming in for a coffee the day he’d arrived, he hadn’t accepted any of her polite offers to come inside. As much as she needed to be alone, her mother had passed on the importance of good manners. To her relief Hewitt hadn’t only kept to himself but their contact had been limited to casual conversations about the garden. ‘I’m heading to town today. I can get one, if you like?’
Hewitt turned to look at her bronze-coloured car that gathered dust beneath the car port. She ignored the splash of mud low on his tanned throat where his shirt opened.
His serious eyes met hers. ‘Take my ute. It’ll be better on the roads.’
She shook her head even before he’d finished speaking. Taking Hewitt’s four-wheel drive would be the sensible thing to do. But the part of her that had broken when Caitlyn had flatlined would spend the entire drive fearing something bad would happen. All it took was a split second for a car to spin out of control.
‘Thanks but I’m the first to admit driving on dirt roads isn’t my thing. Your ute will stay in one piece if it stays here.’
Hewitt didn’t immediately speak. Instead he rubbed his hand across his chin. His stubble rasped in the silence. ‘I … could drive.’
Fliss searched his face. His grave expression hadn’t changed but his tone was deeper, quieter. ‘Thanks again but there’s no need for both of us to go.’ She paused to choose her words carefully. ‘Especially when town’s the last place either of us might want to be.’
‘True. But there are some things I need and if the bridge goes under it could be a while before we can get there again. I’m ready to go when you are.’
The slight curve of his lips reassured her he really was fine about playing chauffeur. Her relief at not having to drive must have shown in her own smile because something indefinable flared in his eyes.
‘Let me get changed.’ She reached for the door handle. ‘I don’t want to cause a traffic jam in Main Street. Woodlea’s not ready to see me in my farm clothes just yet.’
‘Take your time.’ His voice followed her as she sped to her room. ‘I’ll have a quick shower.’
Despite his reassurance, she soon emerged wearing slim legged jeans, a sleeveless black top and black wedges. With any luck her French twist would hold and she’d managed to slick gloss over her lips and not her chin.
From the kitchen bench she grabbed her phone, her sunglasses, a wrapped present and her favourite butter-yellow leather handbag. She locked the front door and, with the sun warm on her arms, headed for Hewitt’s ute parked near the bluestone stables. Her steps slowed as she caught a flash of black and white to her left. She studied the trees that disappeared into the creek gully. She could have sworn she’d seen a dog.
The door of the stables opened and Hewitt emerged. Dog forgotten, she stared. Sunlight caught in the darkness of his shower-damp hair and spilled over the width of his shoulders. He’d changed into a crisp blue-and-white checked shirt and as she drew near she saw that he’d shaved. She concentrated on opening the ute door and not on the smooth, firm line of his jaw. It had to be her nerves magnifying her awareness of him. The sight of a good-looking, clean-shaven man didn’t usually empty her head of all thought.
Hewitt slid into the driver’s seat and the ute cabin filled with the fresh, cedar scent of his aftershave. Fliss took her time clicking her seatbelt into place. In the small space there was no escaping how good he smelt, or looked. The appreciative hum of her senses only confirmed how out of control she was and how far she had to go before she could even think about where her future lay.
She wasn’t sure, but when Hewitt’s gaze skimmed her face she thought his attention lingered on her mouth. ‘So is this the Dr Felicity Knight Woodlea’s used to seeing?’
‘It is.’ She worked hard to keep the strain from her words. ‘It’s not quite the version my city colleagues saw but this is who I am now.’
Hewitt nodded as he started the ute before touching the screen on the dashboard. The soft strains of country music wrapped around them, negating the need for small talk. Fliss entwined her hands in her lap and settled in the passenger seat. Silence fell between them.
The ute rattled over the cattle grid before following the red dirt road as it wound its way through the cream-trunked gum trees to the creek. When they reached the one-lane bridge, Hewitt slowed to check for oncoming traffic. Normally a sedate flow of water trickled beneath the white wooden structure. Today a fast torrent had submerged willow branches that were normally above the water line.
Hewitt voiced he
r thoughts as they crossed the creaking timber boards. ‘Just as well we’re heading to town. If the water level rises another few inches we won’t be going anywhere.’
‘I think I’ll get some long-life milk. At the risk of sounding high-maintenance, I’m the first to admit I’m a hot chocolate tragic. My milk frother came with me from Sydney.’
A smile tugged Hewitt’s lips but he didn’t make any comment as he avoided a small, round shape crossing the dirt road.
Fliss turned to look over her shoulder at the freshwater long-necked turtle. ‘At least someone’s enjoying this wet weather. I thought I saw a brown snake the other day until I realised the small head was attached to a shell.’
Hewitt chuckled, a low, deep sound that hinted at the humour tightly contained beneath his gravity.
‘Now your garden’s tidy there shouldn’t be any more cases of mistaken identity.’
‘I hope so. My blood pressure can’t take any more.’
‘The geraniums you planted in the bed near the veranda will help. My mum swears they deter snakes.’
‘Mine did too.’
The dirt road turned into bitumen and every so often they’d pass a car going the other way. Each time Hewitt would lift the fingers of his right hand from off the steering wheel. Out here everyone acknowledged each other, even if they were strangers.
Beyond the ute window, green pastures carpeted gentle hills that backed onto the ridge flanking the edge of the fertile valley. The first windmill appeared, then the second and then the third. There was a reason why Woodlea was called the town of windmills.
They passed the corrugated-iron tank perched upon nine wooden posts that tilted at a sharp angle. Thanks to a decades-ago flood, the tank stand looked like it would topple over at the next breath of wind. Somehow the tank continued to defy gravity and tourists regularly pulled to the side of the road to snap photographs.
When the ute topped a rise, signalling their arrival at the town limits, Fliss broke the silence.
The Red Dirt Road Page 2
