His Brand of Beautiful (11 page)

“Not too bad. This is good fun. How much further to the east boundary?”

“We won’t get close until early afternoon tomorrow, so let’s keep going. Next stop I’ll buy lunch.” He nudged heels into Bond’s sides and the horse moved away in a ground-eating walk.

The landscape changed. It sloped gently upward sprouting sparser grass, even fewer trees and more rock: fist‐sized red rocks that Tate called gibbers. The green undercoat wasn’t so vivid here as she’d noticed flying in, but there was colour between the rocks—

more than she could have imagined—last summer’s rains had brought out the wildflowers and the red earth was dotted with shy pink, buttercup yellow and dainty white.

At the top of the incline, Tate let her draw alongside. Below, a line of trees followed the river, flanked on both sides by a flat sea of orange‐red rocks, low scrub, and red sand.

The pack horse behind Bond stamped his foot.

Christina unscrewed the water canister secured to her saddle and took a deep drink.

Tipping her head back, she spied a pair of birds circling.

“Are they eagles?”

“Kites,” Tate answered. He pointed to the right. “That line of trees is the river.

There’s a ford down there. We’ll eat on the other side.”

The track widened as they descended and with every pace the vegetation increased.

She smelled cattle before she saw the beasts, mud mixed with manure, sweet herbivore breath.

Lily Malone

The herd appeared like magic, as if they’d been playing hide and seek in the scrub.

They were sleek from abundant summer and autumn feed, coats loose and shining. The tallest steers approached the height of the horses’ withers.

She checked her watch.
Three hours
. The first twinges nagged at the inside of her knees and an ache bit into the fleshiest part of her backside.

“Where does Shasta sell his steers?”

“Most to the restaurants and supermarkets in Adelaide. Some to Melbourne. He exports about fifteen per cent to Indonesia.”

“Not live animal export?”

Tate turned in the saddle. Muscles and tendons glided beneath the skin of his arms.

“What’s the difference? They’re transported live to Australian abattoirs.”

“How would you like to be crammed inside an airless crate for thousands of kilometres on a stinking floating boat with no control over where you’re going and the only thing to look forward to is the knife that cuts your throat?”

“Millions of people in Indonesia have to eat, Christina.” He said it with the tone a smoker might use as he puffed his lungs full of his last cigarette and mumbled:
we all have
to die of something someday, right
?

“All animal livestock industries are cruel when you think about it. They take dairy cow calves from the mothers so humans can drink the milk, and a chicken, or a pig? Don’t get me started on what happens to them.”

“At least they stun chickens,” she said.

He didn’t answer. They’d reached the river.

The water oozed rich with nature’s decay. On the banks, trapped twigs and leaves from the summer floods evidenced the height the water had reached. Sunshine’s rhythm changed as she descended into the river, hooves squelching in wet mud. Christina leaned back.

“It shouldn’t be much over their knees here, but I’ll take Charlie Brown across, just to be safe.” Tate rode Bond close so he could untie the rope that secured the gelding to her saddle. “I’d hate to see you fall on your butt and get trampled.”

“Bullshit. You’d laugh for a week.”

By the time they were three‐quarters across, Tate no longer led the way. The pack horse pawed the water with his hoof, baulking at the sound of the splash. She reached her hand to the gelding, patted its neck as she drew level.

“Whose pack has the lunch?” she asked over the gush of splashing hooves while Tate battled to keep his three animals moving.

“Yours. There’s a track along the river. A couple miles up we can tie the horses.

Shasta built a bench there.” Tate’s face was tight in concentration, his attention diverted.

Charlie Brown baulked again, tossed his head, tried to turn.

Christina gripped the reins, squeezed hard with her thighs and leaned forward. She felt Sunshine’s answering surge and yelled back over her shoulder: “I’ll have lunch ready when you get there.”

The splash washed her words away, she wasn’t sure he even heard.

“
Whoa
Sunshine!” Tate shouted.

Christina felt propulsion between her thighs; like riding a rocket.

Sunshine raced through the edge of the ford, lifting her hooves clear of the cascading water. Hooves dug into the bank which wasn’t steep and she leapt up and out, water streaming from legs, belly and tail. Swinging onto the sandy track, Christina gave the mare her head. White mane whipped her cheeks and everything blurred into thrilling strands of sand, water, trees.

Glancing back, she saw Tate struggling with three horses in the shallows of the stream. She felt a quick twinge of guilt and almost reined the mare in but then Sunshine veered with the river’s course and Tate disappeared from view.

Christina told herself he had it coming.

She ducked a low‐hanging branch. The speed was exciting but she didn’t want the mare to trip on a root so she sat straighter, let the horse slow to a steady canter until all she could hear was the tattoo of hooves and snorted breath. They reached the clearing in minutes.

****

Tate saw Sunshine bolt, heard Christina shout, but her words were drowned by the rush of heaving water and a wrenching pain in his shoulder as Charlie Brown damn‐near yanked his arm from its socket. The leadrope seared a shiny red welt across his palm and he had a second to think:
Why didn’t I tie it off?

Rocket shied right, buffeting Bond’s flank and Bond snaked his ears back. Tate felt the horse ready a kick and urged Bond forward instead, using his voice and sheer will as much as the power of his legs to get the animals moving.

If Christina screamed? He had no way to hear her until he was out of this splash. No way to help. The thought of her hurt made his blood run cold.

Once he cleared the river it was easier. He listened hard. Water dripped from legs and tails, cattle lowed on the far shore. He wrapped Charlie Brown’s leadrope around the pommel and kicked Bond into a trot. The mare’s prints were easy to follow and by the time he burst into the clearing, the three animals had hit a canter.

There she was. Unhurt. Hair shining in the sun.
Christina
.

Then he noticed the helmet by her elbow. She had lunch spread on the bench like she hosted the teddy bears’ damn picnic and Shasta’s prize mare, still blowing from the gallop, was tied with an expert‐looking slipknot to the hitching rail; saddle upturned against the base of a post.

Tate hauled back on Bond’s reins, felt the horse’s hoofs chew the ground beneath him, felt the pressure of the trailing animals slacken.

Sunshine doesn’t bolt.
It snarled in his head. His hand closed over the leather so hard it stung the raw welt on his palm.

“Have you lost your mind?” His voice smashed across the clearing.

Christina placed her half‐eaten sandwich very deliberately on a plank and the skin above her lip tightened to white. She took forever to chew that last mouthful and swallow.

“Don’t you think you might be over‐reacting just a—”

“What the
fuck
were you thinking? Are you stark raving mad?”

Her head whipped back, nostrils flared. “Don’t say that to me. I’m not
mad
.”

“That’s not some hack you’re riding, Christina. She’s Shasta’s best mare and she’s in foal. What were you trying to prove? She could have stepped in a rabbit hole and broken her leg. Did that cross your mind? Would you have
liked
to see me shoot her out here?” His shoulders felt fused to his neck and spine, everything hot and tight as razor wire. Christ, if something had happened to her or the horse?

Lily Malone

“I didn’t flog her up the bloody track. I was careful. I do know what I’m doing, in case you hadn’t noticed.” Her hands had clenched into fists, but now she opened them in her effort to explain and part of him noticed she’d cut the fake nails.

He swung off Bond’s back, hooked the reins over the rail and started untying the two pack horses. It helped steady his breathing, lessened the pound in his heart.

“Next time you decide to turn all Kamikaze on me, give me some warning. I thought Sunshine had bolted. I thought you couldn’t ride. I
thought
I’d be collecting bits of you off the dirt.”

Christina examined the sandwich on the weathered bench, picked at a speck and her green eyes collected his. “If I didn’t know you better Tate, I’d think you were worried.” She bit into a mouthful of pickles and cheese and his eyes slipped to her mouth like she’d called out his name.

“I’m responsible for you out here. And the horses.”

“I signed the disclaimer,” she said soberly. “I absolve you from all responsibility.”

He barked with laughter, and the tension broke. “And what disclaimer is that?”

“No member of the Newell family nor any or all of his agents will be held responsible in the event Miss Clay falls off a horse and breaks her neck. Yada. Yada.”

“Jesus.” He said, shaking his head, and held out his hand for a sandwich. “Give me that before the flies get it.”

Flying insects skimmed over the river. Small birds he could hear but not see, dug for insects in the grass and their insistent calls were like piped notes from a flute.

“A semester of dressage, my arse,” he said.

She smiled sweetly. “I always hated dressage. It’s so
tame
. I like riding fast.”

“Let’s see how fast you feel by four o’clock.” A brief image of Lila crossed his mind, red sandfly welts on her forehead.

Christina popped a walnut‐sized crumble of apple and cinnamon cake into her mouth and let out a contented sigh. It turned to a groan when she shifted weight.

“Is it bad?”

She winced. “It’s not pretty.”

His voice turned persuasive. “We can turn around if you want. We’ve still got time to get back to the homestead tonight. You can have a hot bath. Nice comfy bed. Soft mattress.

A quilt. Hell, if you twist my rubber arm, I could throw in a foot massage.”

He let the offer hang, for the first time unsure what he wanted most to hear.

Two nights ago as CC and Muddy Pot came to life under his pen all he’d wanted was a chance to get Christina out of his head. Now, he didn’t know what he wanted more. To have her prove him right? Or prove him wrong?

She didn’t give him time to ponder.

She stood, a little stiff, and moved around the table toward him. Her left hand trailed on the planks and for one thrilling second he thought she was coming to sit on his lap.

Instinctively he braced to take her weight, pushing the bench seat back, but she stopped at the corner and leaned back against the table. The plank cut an indent in the curve of her arse.

And sitting there like that, she laid a kiss on the index and middle fingers of her right hand, resting them on her lips long enough to make the blood in his thighs boil.

The teal shirt dropped open as she bent toward him. He caught a glimpse of white lace—dusted grey—across the top of her bra and a cashew‐shaped birthmark smack in the valley between her breasts. He smelled coconut sunscreen, saw its gleam on her skin.

“Two things, Tate,” her buttery voice cooed as she stretched her hand toward his mouth. “First. I know about your bet.”

He tilted his head back, trying to meet her eyes. “Did Bree—”

She shook her head. “I was looking at photographs in your hall yesterday when you started mouthing‐off about humps on a camel. I know you have a vested interest in me quitting this gig. Say, oh, a hundred bucks that I can’t stand the pace?”

Warm fingers stroked her kiss against his lips. The teal shirt billowed again and he changed his mind about the birthmark, decided it was more peanut‐shaped than cashew.

Her hair tickled his chin. He wanted to twist his face into her neck and breathe her in.

Her lips opened with a slow pop, very close to his ear.

“Second. I don’t think Stockholm Syndrome works that fast.”

His laugh echoed beneath the dappled quilt of mallees and gums and he caught her hand. His thumb slid the length of the tendon at the back of her wrist. “What if I slow down?

Could you fall in love with your kidnapper then?” He’d meant it as a joke, but her chin shot up.

“I’m crap at love.” She tugged at her hand. He let it go and it fell to her lap with a dull pat.

“I’m not giving in just so you can prove I’m too soft for Cracked Pots. I want this brand. I want you to design it for me. I can do
wild
. Just watch me.”

He swept his palm toward the horses. “Sweetheart, be my guest.”

Lily Malone

An army of flies buzzed around Sunshine’s nose and the mare shook her head. Christina opened her right hand and made a face at the three blisters seeping on her palm where the leather had rubbed the skin raw. Something slithered through a waist‐high rock outcrop to her right.
Snake
? After eight hours in the saddle, she was too tired to care.

Ahead, Tate dismounted, so damn fluid and fast she could have shot him. He’d led them away from the river to escape the mosquitos and now he kicked rocks from a patch of sand pockmarked with animal tracks. She pulled her feet from the stirrups. The ground seemed a hell of a way down.

Gritting her teeth, she swung her right leg back and dropped. The shockwave jarred everything, even her hair.

“There’s chaff in the packs on those two,” Tate nodded towards the spare mounts.

“Once we’ve seen to the horses I’ll get a fire started.”

She saluted him. He didn’t see it, but it made her feel better.

Charlie Brown’s pack yielded a sweet‐smelling dry mix of hay and oats and as she divided the spoils among four nosebags she decided the chaff smelled better than she did.

“What are we doing for dinner?” Christina said, pulling the saddle from the mare’s back. “If you want me to, I could shoot a rabbit.”