They stopped on the way back to the house for a visit to Maria, and Helen immediately decided she liked the old girl best of all. Maria, she was told, had been captured from a wild herd in central Australia many years before, and apart from an inclination to stubbornness, had few real faults.
‘She rules the rest of them with an iron hand ... or rather hoof,’ Dane said. ‘Marches around so haughty you wouldn’t believe it, like the chairwoman of a posh, ritzy women’s club.’
It wasn’t until they were back in the kitchen that his curious reticence during that telephone conversation sprang to mind, and his promise, and the one animal they hadn’t met during morning rounds. Helen already thought she knew the answer, but still she had to ask, just to stir him a bit.
And she wasn’t at all surprised when she asked, ‘Where’s my horse?’
She got the half-expected reply, ‘What horse? I never promised you a horse.’
CHAPTER THREE
‘You are a cunning, devious, sneaky so-and-so,’ Helen said accusingly, but her heart wasn’t in it. She’d been had, and they both knew it, but she’d done it all herself.
Dane only grinned. ‘Shall I quote?’ he said. And without waiting for a reply, he continued, ‘I want something to ride. Doesn’t have to be a flash Arabian or anything, but something at least fit to throw a saddle on.’
‘Which shows it’s not much wonder I’m out of a job,’ Helen sighed. ‘Talk about not checking my facts.’
‘Your trouble is, you’re just too damned innocent,’ he replied with another grin. ‘You just wander around all day with your mouth open, waiting for a new chance to stick your foot in it.’
‘That isn’t fair!’ Helen cried. ‘I mean ... surely to God I should be able to trust you?’
‘Me least of all,’ was the reply, and there was a grimness in his voice, a faint, almost imperceptible warning, but she couldn’t quite tell if it was directed at her, or himself.
‘I’ll certainly keep that in mind,’ Helen retorted, rising to pour each of them a third cup of coffee. She shouldn’t, and knew it; she’d be hyper all day. But Dane had such a dastardly ability to get her stirred up and keep her there that she needed something to do with her hands. And if nothing else, she determined, she could always throw it at him.
‘Well then stop trying to force yourself to be shirty,’ he said. ‘Actually you’ll probably enjoy riding Maria. She hasn’t got a vicious bone in her body, but she’s a cunning old devil, and you’ve got to be on guard constantly that she doesn’t just happen to find a convenient tree or fence post to rub you off against, or a low branch to walk under, or whatever. She needs somebody with a bit of experience to take her in hand.’
‘Experience? I’ve never ridden a donkey in my entire life,’ Helen snapped.
Dane, however, seemed impervious to her reaction. ‘Well it’s not a helluva lot different than riding a horse, is it?’ he replied. ‘And besides, nobody says you have to ride a donkey. Nobody’s saying you have to do anything! You’re here to have a holiday ... a rest ... a change of scene. You can do absolutely nothing but sit and contemplate your navel for the next month, if that’s what makes you happy.’
‘But you’d rather I spent my time riding Maria and working with the others so they’re manageable,’ Helen replied, not making it a direct question as much as thinking out loud.
‘I would rather you did whatever makes you happy,’ Dane replied firmly. ‘But it isn’t up to me to make that decision. You ought to know me well enough by now to realise that I’m not interested in running your life for you, Helen. I’ve got quite enough to do with running my own, thank you.’
Simple. Perhaps too simple. And yet why was she being so damned suspicious in the first place. Helen wondered. Dane, of all people, she ought to be able to trust, disregarding his own opinion on that exact question. But...
‘Do you honestly expect me to believe that my experience with horses had nothing to do — nothing at all — with your invitation?’ she demanded.
‘Of course it had something to do with it,’ was the rather unexpected reply. But he wasn’t upset by her suspicions, nor rattled by the tone of her comments. Dane replied almost too calmly. ‘But only in the sense that I reckoned the donkeys might give you something to do if you were threatened with boredom.’
‘And does that mean you expect me to get bored?’ Helen couldn’t help asking that question, unfair as she realised it might sound.
‘I don’t honestly know what I expected, in that regard,’ he replied, eyes regarding her soberly. ‘For myself, the thing I like best about being out here is that I never have much chance to be bored, but there’s no hard-and-fast rule says you have to feel the same. I suppose it’s just something we’ll have to wait and see.’
He paused long enough to slurp down the remainder of his coffee, then continued before Helen could think of a reply. ‘Or rather, you can wait and see. I’m off to hibernate in my office until lunch, which means there’s a great big do-not-disturb sign on the door except in vital emergencies.’
And he was halfway out of the room before she could stop him with a cry of, ‘But wait! Who’s going to make lunch? Me? And if so ... what do you want to eat?’
Dane paused only long enough to grin at her. ‘Don’t hassle so much. We can organise lunch when it’s time for lunch ... and without getting all in a tizz about it. See you at twelve.’
Leaving her standing there, Helen decided, very much like a child who’s been told to go off and play, to amuse herself without disturbing the adults.
Which was, she also decided, almost annoying. Certainly distracting. Although Dane, obviously, wasn’t at all distracted; she heard his typewriter begin to chatter almost as soon as the office door had closed behind him.
Not totally sure if she was being patronised or what, she spent a few minutes cleaning up the coffee cups, another few unpacking clothes and arranging her room, and then ... then what, she wondered? Torn between the desire to go outside and inspect the menagerie at her leisure or just relax with a good book, Helen glanced out at a glowering sky and decided on the latter. Besides, tizz or no tizz, she was determined that she would prepare lunch.
The difficulty was in deciding what to prepare. She knew Dane hadn’t had breakfast, discounting the coffee, but she was sure that he seldom did. And whether or not he ate a big lunch, or just something light, she had no idea. She didn’t usually eat breakfast herself, nor much for lunch as a general rule, but now she felt the need for something substantial, either because of sheer nervous reaction or because of the definite change in climate.
A check in the refrigerator revealed several pork chops, sufficient left-over boiled potatoes for a decent serving of hash-browns, and just enough salad fixings to get by with.
But it was nowhere near time to start the preparations, so she returned to her book, wondering if she dared interrupt him to offer morning coffee. Then decided against it. If he felt like coffee, he’d come out and organise it; the verbal do-not-disturb sign applied to her as much as anyone.
Dane didn’t, in fact, emerge from his office until a few minutes before noon, and when he did venture forth he looked quite distinctly pleased with himself. Then he looked at the table set for lunch, the pork chops sizzling merrily in the frying pan, and his focus of pleasure shifted directly to Helen.
‘I knew I shouldn’t have invited you down here; you’re already starting out to spoil me rotten,’ he smiled. And sat down to his lunch with an enthusiasm that more than matched her own impatient hunger.
‘Well,’ he said when the meal was done and they had both leaned back to enjoy a cigarette and their coffee, ‘it’s a good thing I had such a productive morning, because I’ll have to go do some physical work now, to wear all that away in time for dinner. And, of course, retract my criticisms of your cooking, if that’s any example.’
‘Thank you, I think,’ Helen replied with a shy grin. ‘But I think you’d best reserve judgment. I might have been luc
ky.’
‘Well you’d best watch out, or you’ll find yourself lumbered with it on a regular basis, but all right, I’ll reserve judgment for a bit. At least until I’ve seen whether you can handle one of our big, home-grown ducks and a proper roast of pork. Stuff up either of those and I’ll be forced to marry you off to somebody with less discerning a palate than mine.’
Helen couldn’t help but laugh, despite the implied compliment. ‘Your problem really is having been spoiled rotten,’ she replied. ‘And remembering Vivian’s cooking, I’m not surprised ...’ Then she stopped, suddenly, wondering if she ought to have mentioned that. Was Dane still sensitive to the point that he’d rather not be reminded of his wife? Not surprising, if true; they’d been as close as any couple Helen had ever met, and far closer than most.
But he merely grinned at her, a grin of total reassurance even before he spoke. ‘No, love, you’re not going to have to run around worrying about things like that. I’m sensitive, but I’m not paranoid, and I’m not carrying around any ghosts in my pockets. Viv was ... unique. And you know the way I felt about her. But she’s gone, and sorry as I am for that, I know all any of us can do is remember her with love and ... well, you know what I mean.’
‘Yes, I think so,’ Helen replied. ‘But still, I don’t envy the next woman in your life, presuming, of course, that there is one. Vivian would be a terribly hard act to follow.’
‘What makes you think there isn’t one already?’ he asked, and laughed as Helen’s eyes widened with surprise. Then he continued before she could say a word.
‘Hah! That got you, didn’t it? But more seriously, if the right woman had been standing at the graveside, I’d have taken her home with me, and Viv would have cheered all the way from wherever she is now, just as I’d have done if the circumstances had been reversed. And you think that’s a horrible thing to say, don’t you Helen?’
‘I think you’re exaggerating just a bit,’ Helen replied cautiously. ‘Especially as I know very well that no other woman even existed for you while Vivian was alive, despite all the smart remarks you used to make about window-shopping. And she knew it loo, so don’t bother to try and deny it.’
‘So ...?’ He was fishing, now, but for what? Helen waited, but it seemed that was to be Dane’s only reaction. He was waiting for her to continue. And then he wasn’t.
‘But I suppose what you’re trying to say is that because Vivian loved you, she’d want you to remarry or ... whatever, and certainly not to spend the rest of your life mourning,’ Helen finally said.
‘And she also wouldn’t want me putting some poor girl in the invidious position of having to feel she was Viv’s successor,’ Dane replied, a note of bitterness creeping in. ‘God, what a cruel thing to do to anybody under the pretext of love. And done, as you very well know, far too often.’
True, Helen thought. They both knew people who’d remarried, only to spend their time drawing comparisons, usually unfair ones. How, she wondered, could anyone love somebody and persist in putting them as second-best? But then, how could anyone allow themselves to be placed in such a position ... except if they were in love?
‘All right,’ she finally said. ‘I understand what you mean, I suppose. But how can you not make comparisons? It must be inevitable, especially when ... well think about it. I haven’t even seen you in two years, but I cook one meal and I have to make a comparison. It’s ... it’s human nature.’
‘It’s stupidity, that’s what it is,’ he growled, and there was real anger behind that growl, though she sensed he was deliberately controlling it, stage-managing it to perfection.
‘It’s not!’ Helen denied. ‘It’s perfectly normal reaction. Especially when you’re dealing with a known quantity. Lord, I’ll never forget the first time I ever had you both over to dinner; I was terrified, absolutely terrified. Because I knew how good a cook Vivian was, and how good a cook I wasn’t.’
‘And you turned out a rather splendid leg of lamb, as I remember,’ Dane interrupted. ‘Especially so, considering you’re the girl who always said you hated lamb, after having been raised on it and because of the God-awful way your mother used to cook it. We were both quite proud of you, as I remember, although of course you couldn’t quite understand why.’
‘And I’m a much better cook now,’ Helen said. ‘But I’m not in Vivian’s class and very likely never will be.’
‘So what?’ was the brusque reply. ‘You could be the best in the world, but if you had to compete with a ghost you’d lose. Nobody can compete with a memory, and nobody but a monster would expect them to.’
‘Yes but …’
‘Yes but what?’ And now the anger wasn’t stage-managed. Now she could see it gleaming hotly from his eyes, see it in the stern set of his jaw and feel it in the ragged timbre of his voice. ‘I suppose next you’ll be telling me that you could quite understand it if I occasionally allowed myself to make comparisons, and you probably could, because you’re a very tolerant, understanding person on your better days. So I am telling you now... no comparisons. None! Is that quite clear?’
‘Yessir! Anything you say, sir! Of course, sir!’ Helen snapped out her retorts to cover the confusion and hurt she felt. Why was he being so touchy? So ... so distinctly aggressive? She felt her eyes dissolving, started to rise, to flee to the safety of her room, only to run into a wall that closed softly and firmly around her, holding her gently.
‘Poor girl,’ a soft voice crooned in her ear. ‘1 bring you down here for a rest and immediately start rousting the hell out of you. But Helen ... that’s the whole problem. You’re here to sort out who you are, and throwing yourself into competition with a memory isn’t the way to do it.’
‘I know who I am!’ The violence of her reply shook her, even to the point where she thrust herself from his arms, fire blazing in her soft eyes, burning off the tears. ‘I know who I am! And I’m not trying to compete with anybody. That’s not what I’m here for, remember? I’m here to be a sort of jillaroo ... the Dane Curtis cure for unemployment. And that’s all!’
‘And just see that you remember it,’ he replied, scowl turning to something that might have been a grin. ‘Yes, young Helen, I certainly shall. Indeed.’
‘Well see that you do,’ she retorted. ‘And please don’t call me young Helen. I am, in case you’ve forgotten, all of twenty-five years old, I’m no longer a child.’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’m beginning to see that, I think.’ And before she could move his arms had closed around her once again, without that incredible gentleness, this time, pulling her tight against him as his lips dipped to claim her own. His kiss was fierce, demanding, almost punishing, his lips crushing hers as his hands pulled her tighter to him, hip to hip, her breasts crushed against his chest, her thighs all too aware of the hard muscle against them.
This was no brotherly kiss, held no hint of chaste affection. It was demanding, demanding of a response her body couldn’t deny, didn’t even think of denying. The heat rushed up from somewhere inside her, melting her bones, softening her lips as they moulded to his. The tide of her desire was like an electric shock; the realisation of his was a lightning bolt.
And dispersed as if by a lightning rod within seconds. Dane stopped kissing her as quickly as he’d begun, stepping away to stand looking down into her eyes with a look that held both passion and gentleness, shock and awareness. But mostly rejection.
‘Well I don’t think we’ll try that again, Helen,’ he said, and it was almost with a sigh, although Helen didn’t somehow think it would have been a sigh of disappointment. ‘Nor, shall we discuss emotion-laden subjects again, at least not for a day or so. I doubt my old system would stand it,’ he continued. ‘No, I think I shall whip through these dishes and then see about walking off that most excellent lunch. You may come, but only if you promise not to talk.’
Helen nodded mutely, hardly trusting herself to speak. How could she? Inside her, the molten flow of passion was only barely starting to cool, chi
lled — but not quickly — by the fierceness of her wanting, by the sheer physical need that her body had so abruptly exhibited. By the realisation that she could never think of Dane Curtis as an elder brother figure, not ever again.
She was shaken. She had been able to handle her crush on him, now seemingly a lifetime ago, because of the understanding attitude both he and Vivian had taken towards it. And because it had been just a crush, a childish thing relatively easily outgrown.
But this ... this sudden onslaught of a desire so vivid, so all-encompassing. So physical. It frightened her, and as they stood side by side at the sink, she realised it must also have frightened Dane. Certainly it had shaken him; and there could be no denying that his physical reaction had very nearly matched her own.
Worst of all, however, was that now something was changed in their relationship. Something vital and yet ... so difficult to put into words without cheapening it.
The dishes were done in an uncomfortable silence, a silence that continued when they’d put on boots and jackets, gathered up Molly, and strolled off through the paddocks with a retinue of donkeys and goats.
Dane seemed relatively untroubled, although deep in thoughts that Helen thought she could guess with some accuracy. For her own part, she was troubled, because something in that one kiss and the reactions to it had lurched her into a loneliness she knew would not have otherwise existed. Before, he might have taken her hand, might have at least smiled to show that yes he was with her and yes, he cared. But now, they might as well have been strangers, and the feeling made her more lonely than if she’d stayed in Queensland.
The long, silent stroll didn’t really accomplish much, and when they returned Dane buried himself in his office for another two hours before emerging to go feed the livestock. As she’d done in the morning, Helen joined him, making mental note of the quantities and the routine involved.
But it wasn’t until dinner that night that the air was cleared, or at least cleared as much as it could be. Dane began it.
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