A Southern Star (8 page)

Blake saw her shoulders hunch slightly as she averted her face; he swore to himself, reminding himself of her obvious distress when she had woken overnight. He got out of the bunk, moved over to his pack. “Were you actually cold last night?” he asked abruptly as he zipped up his sleeping bag. Christie looked at him quickly, glanced away. She hesitated. “Before you woke up,” he added, his face impassive. Her heart ached as she thought of the flirtatious comments she could make, wanted to make.
 

“Not really,” she lied, not wanting to admit the uncomfortable cold in her thin sleeping bag that she had packed so hastily in Auckland, not thinking through the fact that even summer nights on the island would be colder. She shook her head slightly, realising again how much her usual habit of planning had fallen away in the shock of Paul and Amanda’s betrayal.
I’ll just wear another jumper tonight
, she thought to herself.

Christie realised Blake had walked across the room, picked up her sleeping bag, was rubbing it between his fingers and thumb. “What?” she said defensively, on edge. Blake shrugged, putting her sleeping bag back on the bunk. Christie picked it up, started rolling it up.
 

“Where’s the bag?” he asked, clearly still watching her.
 

“It doesn’t have one anymore,” she said, self-conscious as she noticed Blake’s sleeping bag, saw it was obviously top of the range, fitted into an impossibly small storage bag.
And yet was so warm
, she thought, her self-consciousness increasing as her mind veered back to the night. “I haven’t been tramping for years,” she muttered, hastily stuffing it into the bottom of her pack.
 

“So you said,” he commented neutrally.

Forty minutes later Christie was ready to leave. She had put her pack on, ignoring the stab of disappointment as Blake made no move to help her, seemingly focused completely on packing away the cooker on which he had casually offered to cook them both porridge, making absolutely no reference to the night before, eating in relative silence.

Now all Christie wanted to do was head off, get away from Blake’s unnerving silence, his tense watchfulness. She had looked again at her map over breakfast, planning the trip, and the timing. Blake had expressed polite interest in her plans, subsided into silence again when she disagreed with his suggestion about the timings she should allow. She shook her head, thinking back as she walked towards the bay, turning slightly as Blake caught up with her.

“I might see you back at the pub,” she said pointedly.
 

“You might,” he said, refusing to respond to her rudeness. She quickened her pace; he easily matched it, seeming content to walk in silence. Averting her head slightly, Christie walked past the dunes, her heart pounding at the memories. The silence lengthened as Blake stayed next to her, a cold and remote stranger.

Eventually, the bay opened up before her, the ocean sparkling in the morning sun, the foam on the waves whipped up in the light breeze. Again, the stark beauty of the bay captivated Christie. She stopped, noticing a small aircraft approaching, wondering where it was going. “My friends,” Blake said shortly. “They’ll land on the beach,” he continued, anticipating her question. “Stay and watch.” Christie shook her head, suddenly uncertain. Blake had been cold, barely polite all morning; she was intensely aware of the raw, unfamiliar environment. Her usual confidence fled as she looked down the spectacular beach, Blake’s presence suddenly unbearably painful.

“Up to you,” Blake said, inwardly furious that she had hardly acknowledged him all morning. “After all, you’ve got such a busy day.”
 

Christie’s heart lurched at his cutting tone. “It’s not that,” she said quickly, and then stopped abruptly, realising what she had said. Blake looked down at her, noticing her expressive blue eyes were unguarded, troubled. In a flash of perception he saw there was no malice in them, only confusion.

He tried again. “The plane will be landing in a few minutes. Stay and watch it from here if you want to, then you can head off.” Still, Christie did not move; Blake watched her, silently admiring her figure, her long legs as she balanced on the sloping sand. And last night he had again noticed her quick mind, her obvious intelligence. He had always prided himself on staying one step ahead, yet with Christie, this was a constant challenge. She did not seem at all unnerved by the solo tramp, was obviously well prepared.
Apart from her sleeping bag
, he thought, a slight smile on his face.

Christie shrugged. “I’ll keep going, watch the plane on the way.”
 

Of course you will,
Blake thought silently.
Because that’s the exact opposite of what I suggested.
“See you later then,” he said casually, turning to focus on the approaching plane, watching her walk away out of the corner of his eye.

— # —

Christie returned to the hut late that afternoon, more confused than ever. Only yesterday, Paul had still intruded regularly on her thoughts as she tried to come to terms with his betrayal. She shivered as she thought of the vivid dream last night. And yet today, Paul had been swept out of her mind; her thoughts were filled with Blake, with the evening they had shared. With the night.

Even as Christie reached The Gutter at the very tip of the bay, saw the raw power of the ocean current through the narrow channel, all she could think of was Blake, wishing he was with her, wondering if he had been to this place. She had lingered in the area, amazed at the size of the sand dunes, the remote landscape. Eventually she turned back towards the hut, still hearing the waves breaking along the shore at the tip of the bay.

Christie’s mind veered back to Blake, reluctantly acknowledging to herself how unfair she had been to him. Even looking around the bay, recalling seeing the kiwis, reminded her inexorably of Blake, at the bay, showing her the kiwis, cooking her dinner. Keeping her warm.
Very warm,
Christie thought, blushing as she realised the path her thoughts were taking. Again.

I should have explained
, she thought now as she searched for a free bunk. She realised she had no real idea what Blake felt.
Last night maybe, but after this morning…all bets are off. And last night I couldn’t make up my mind.
She cursed her indecisiveness, the lingering hurt she still felt over Paul and Amanda’s betrayal.
I’m just not ready,
she thought, weighing up the seductive idea of a fling with Blake, his sense of humour, his incredible good looks, acknowledging the outcome would simply be more heartbreak.

— # —

Christie spent a relaxing evening at the hut, cooking dinner, talking to others. Thoughts of Blake intruded at every turn as she remembered the dinner he had cooked for them both. She fell into conversation with a local, Mark, fascinated by his stories, taken aback as he quietly confided the reason for his tramping trip.

Others eventually joined the conversation; a friend of Mark’s together with other tourists. Christie relaxed in the firelight, a sense of calmness creeping over her.
I haven’t thought of Paul all evening,
she realised, relieved. Instead she sat listening to Mark’s hunting stories, made conversation with some Australian backpackers. As Mark continued to talk knowledgeably about hunting she interjected, guiltily trying to find out more about what Blake would likely be doing over the week. Mark answered her questions in detail although Christie was careful not to mention Blake by name.

Christie returned to her bunk not long afterwards, conscious of needing to be at Freshwater Landing by late morning the following day to catch the tide. Automatically, she reached down to her pack, recoiling in surprise, sitting abruptly on the bunk. Her mind refused to accept what she had seen as she frantically thought back to the morning with Blake. Her first thought was concern for Blake, followed by guilt and a spiralling, dangerous sense of hope.

She reached down again, pulling the compact bag out of the compartment of her pack. Blake had clearly deliberately swapped her sleeping bag for his, taking her old, worn sleeping bag on an extended hunting trip, leaving her with his warm, top-quality bag for one night in a hut. She shook her head in wonder, her heart alternating between hope and fear as she remembered her earlier decision to avoid further heartbreak.

Without stopping to think, Christie quickly returned to the main room as an idea took hold. Urgently, she asked Mark several more questions, trying to work out times, wondering if what she wanted to do was even possible. “Christie, the hunters’ hut has a fire too. Hunters usually return there every night. Why do you want to know?”
 

Christie hesitated. “A friend left something with me,” she said. “Accidentally. And I think they’ll need it,” she added, blushing in the subdued light of the hut. Mark watched her, politely not asking for details.

“Blake should be fine,” he said eventually, surprising her. “I’m sure he’s got all the gear he needs.” Too late, Christie realised that Mark seemed to know Blake, that the small island community would have instantly paired her with him on the basis of one dinner.

She looked at Mark, embarrassed but determined. “It’s his sleeping bag,” she said after a pause. Mark raised his eyebrows slightly as a smile tugged at his mouth. “I won’t ask,” he said dryly.
 

He was silent for a moment, then spoke. “I’m heading down the beach tomorrow,” he said quietly. Christie nodded, realising he was referring to the tragic story he had told her earlier. “If you walk down the beach with me I’ll point you in the direction of the hut.” He named the time they should leave, smiled at the look on Christie’s face. “It is early,” he said. “But then you’ve got to backtrack, come back through here to the jetty.”
 

Christie shrugged. “I want to get the sleeping bag to Blake. An early start doesn’t worry me.” She went back to her bunk, her heart pounding unreasonably as she burrowed into Blake’s sleeping bag, her senses a whirlpool of mixed emotions. She choked back a half laugh, realising that not only was her sleeping bag a basic model it could not possibly be the right size for Blake’s towering height. Her ungracious and rude words from the morning played on her mind; she eventually fell asleep, woke in the early dawn, determined to follow through with her plan.

Christie struck up an easy conversation with Mark as they walked down the beach; thanking him as he directed her to the path which would lead to the hunters’ hut, repeated the directions he had given her earlier. Determined to find Blake, Christie followed the path, stepping on some dry driftwood that snapped under her weight. She heard a rustle in the undergrowth as though an animal was running away followed by a blunt oath. Christie turned quickly, unnerved. Two hunters stood there; she swallowed at their grim expressions.

“I’m looking for Blake,” she said firmly.
 

“Who else?” she heard one of the hunters mutter sarcastically.
 

“Blake Ryan,” she added, remembering his last name.
 

“And we’re looking for deer,” the same hunter said tersely. “Nearly had one, too.”
 

The second hunter smiled at Christie, making a slight dismissive motion with the flat of his hand. “I’m sure there’ll be more,” he said easily, stepping forward. “Scott,” he said, introducing himself. “You want Blake, he should be—”

“Here,” Blake said, coming down the path with such stealth Christie was amazed. Feeling awkward, realising she had ruined the hunters’ shot, Christie looked at him silently, her face flaming.
Why can’t this be easy,
she thought. “How did you get here?” Blake asked, shocked at Christie’s arrival and aware of how early she must have left the main hut.

“Walked,” Christie said, not answering his question. She heard Scott’s quiet laugh, saw the slow burn in Blake’s expression.
 

“That tells me a lot,” he said tersely.

“That was the intention,” Christie retorted with mock sweetness. “I met Mark yesterday, he gave me directions,” she said eventually.
 

“You have been busy,” he responded, his voice deceptively pleasant.
 

Christie took a deep breath, suddenly desperate to talk to Blake rather than trade barbs. “I wasn’t cold at all last night,” she said, ignoring a low whistle from the direction of Blake’s companions.
 

“And who’s to thank for that?” Blake asked coolly.
 

Christie glared at him. “Blake, please. Thank you for what you did. It wasn’t necessary, but thank you.” His face relaxed slightly, but his eyes remained guarded. “It can’t have been big enough for you,” she added, smiling slightly as she saw Scott grinning at her, holding his flat hand out from just below his ribs, silently miming where her sleeping bag had reached on Blake’s body. Blake swung round, following her gaze, struggling not to laugh himself as he realised what Scott was doing.
 

Blake turned back to Christie, shrugged. “At least it wasn’t pink,” he said flippantly, deflecting her comment with humour.
 

Whenever I try to talk to him he jokes around,
she thought desperately.
And whenever he tries to talk to me I just clam up
. She spoke with difficulty. “I didn’t want you to be cold for the entire week, I…” Her voice trailed off as she watched his face, acutely aware Scott and the other hunter were moving away.