Misplaced Hands: 4 (Foreign Affairs) (14 page)

Marc let out a low growl. “I’m going after Big Mac before he gets to Hunter. Make the bastard tell us what he did.”

Keith returned his hat to his head, disgust and rage simmering in his eyes. “As much as I want to deal with McNamara
my
way, we need to play this straight. We need to make sure he’s gone to Hunter and that the cops are notified.”

Marc frowned. “Y’know the cops are going to question you too, mate. Probably even arrest you. It’s not the first time you’ve dealt with a fuckwit before.”

Keith’s way of dealing with men who sexually harassed women he cared for was very simple and bloody. The last time Keith “dealt” with someone, that someone—a dickhead in Cobar who tried to follow Amy into the loo at the rodeo—ended up in the hospital with a broken jaw, fractured cheekbone and shattered nose. It hadn’t helped the wanker’s cause that he was the same man who’d been sending Amy drunken text photos of his crotch. Nor that he was the same idiot who’d declared loudly and to anyone caring to listen that Keith’s retired cop father was corrupt after Keith beat him for the Cobar rodeo title.

Keith had “dealt” with that bastard swiftly, spent the night in lockup after his father’s replacement reluctantly arrested him, and then he’d had to endure Dylan and Hunter’s wrath the next day.

Marc didn’t doubt Big Mac deserved everything Keith gave him, but the last thing he wanted to see was his mate in the cop shop, charged with assault. The problem was, neither Marc nor Keith knew what Big Mac had done, and Harper wasn’t talking. If they both beat the shit out of Ronnie for just being a tosser, even one who’d planned to do something utterly repugnant and vile, they’d be in trouble.

Not only with the cops in Cobar, but with the Sullivans. Most likely they’d both be sacked. On the spot.

Hissing out a harsh breath, Marc slumped against the nose of Keith’s ute and shook his head. “I know you’re right, mate,” he said, studying the cottage. “But I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to.” Keith’s answer was a flat growl. “I don’t either, but it’s the way it’s going to be. Until we talk to Hunter and let him know Big Mac’s being a dick, potentially a dangerous one, let him know what happened and what we think
would have
happened, we’ve got to keep our emotions in check. Got it?”

Marc scowled. “Got it.”

“Good. Go check the door first.”

Marc levered himself upright. “What for?”

Keith’s expression grew bleak. “I need to know it’s locked.”

With a nod, Marc jogged the ten or so meters between the ute and the front porch, his chest tight. Climbing the two stairs, he winced at the protesting creak of wooden floorboards beneath his feet. With slow movements, he reached out and wrapped one hand around the doorknob, giving it a gentle turn to the right.

Locked.

Harper had locked it after they’d left.

His old home, locked against the world…and him.

A shard of sharp pain shot through his chest. He’d spent his childhood in the cottage. Had never felt safer than when he was within its familiar walls. It had never been locked when he was growing up, and when Amy had moved in she’d never felt the need to lock it either. Locks weren’t needed on Farpoint Creek.

Until tonight, it seemed.

The sound of movement on the other side of the door jerked his hand from the knob. “It’s just me, love,” he said, raising his voice enough for Harper to hear him through the old wood. “I’m not coming in. Just wanted to check the door still worked.”

A long moment of silence followed. Silence except for the thumping of his heart in his ears. And then Harper’s soft voice answered, “It does. Thank you.”

He stood motionless, aching for her to open the door. To ask them to make it better. To tell them what had happened.

She didn’t.

What felt like a lifetime passed before he turned away from the door and walked back to Keith.

“Did she say anything?”

Marc shook his head.

Keith’s jaw bunched. “Okay, let’s go.”

Long, tense minutes later, neither uttering a word, Keith pulled the ute to a halt outside the main homestead.

For a split second, the potent urge to tell Keith to drive away, to convince him they should take care of Ronald themselves, surged through Marc. He opened his mouth, his pulse racing. And closed it again at the thought of Keith in jail.

Keith would not stop at a few punches. The fear in Harper’s eyes, the terror in her body when they’d stormed into her home, would haunt him. Marc had no doubt. Hell, Marc couldn’t shake it himself. If Keith and Marc caught up with Big Mac, the man would end up in the hospital, if not a coffin. Simple as that.

With a sharp sigh, he squeezed Keith’s shoulder. “C’mon, Blue. Let’s do the smart thing, even if it bloody well feels like the wrong thing.”

With a muttered curse, Keith swung open his door and climbed from the ute.

Marc’s gut dropped when Hazel answered their knock.

“Mr. Thompson.” She smiled at him, her softly seamed face warm and friendly despite the fact it was past six o’clock in the evening and she was being disturbed by two of her employees. “Mr. Munroe. What do I owe the pleasure of this visit? Is there something wrong? Is young Mr. Hill okay?” A frown pulled at her forehead, making Marc’s gut sink further. He hated distressing Hazel Sullivan. She was the closest thing to a grandmother he had, even if she was his boss. How would she handle being told about Big Mac and Harper?

“Everything’s all right, Mrs. Sullivan.” Keith’s relaxed answer made Marc stiffen. He hid his surprised expression by readjusting his hat. “Just needed a quick word with Hunter if that’s okay? Wondering if Big Mac’s been to see him ’bout…’bout the south mob’s drenching tomorrow? We weren’t sure the Bayticol was in date and we wanted to check if there was another batch somewhere in the main shed. Just in case.”

Steady light-blue eyes held firm on Keith’s face. Marc shifted his feet, glad he wasn’t under such intense scrutiny. Hazel Sullivan may be sixty-four years old, but her mind was still as sharp as a tack.

“The drench is in date, Keith. You were driving the ute when we both went into Cobar last month to collect it, remember?”

Keith swiped his hat from his head, giving her a chagrined smile. Marc noticed for the first time he’d cleaned the blood from his knuckles at some point. “Shit, that’s right. Sorry. Is Hunter about? Has Ronald come to see him? I know it’s late but—”

“I haven’t seen Mr. McNamara all day and Hunter and Annie have gone into Cobar for the night. Dinner with the mayor.” Hazel pulled a face. “I don’t think either were fussed about going, but they’ve been putting if off for so long I think the poor man’s sense of pride couldn’t take another rescheduling. I told them to check in to the Town and Country Motor Inn, stay the night. Dylan and Monet are due back in a week and I suspect Hunter’s getting an itch between his shoulders. I caught him surfing a website today called ‘World’s Best Honeymoon Locations’.” Her eyes sparkled, and Marc was overcome with relief that Keith had kept from her their reason for calling so late.

He didn’t want to destroy Hazel’s joy at the idea of another family wedding with the possibility one of her hands was being a dick.

Shooting Keith a sideways glance, he knew his best mate was thinking the same thing.

What the hell did they do next? Big Mac hadn’t come to the main house, which meant he could be anywhere now.

Marc’s heart thumped hard and fast in his throat.

Anywhere.

He was about to say his farewells for the evening when Hazel’s eyes narrowed. “How is Ms. Shaw this evening? I thought you two boys were taking her into Cobar tonight?”

“She’s got a killer headache,” Keith answered, his expression regretful. “We were heading ’round to see her when we finished up here.”

“Poor lass.” Hazel waved her hand at them both. “Hurry on then. Shoo. Tell her she is more than welcome to spend the night here in the main house if she wants.”

“Will do, ma’am,” Marc nodded, already retreating.

“Are you sure you haven’t seen Big Mac tonight, Hazel? There hasn’t been a knock at the door?”

Marc stiffened at Keith’s question.

Hazel shook her head. “No, no knock. I must admit, I think Mr. McNamara is trying to stay clear of Hunter, going by the way Hunter was muttering about him under his breath this afternoon.”

Marc’s pulse thumped. He watched Keith tip his hat to their boss before saying goodnight.

“Remember to tell Ms. Shaw to let me know if she needs anything,” Hazel called as they crossed back to the ute.

Gut knotting, Marc yanked open the passenger side and dropped into his seat. “Fuck,” he whispered, keeping the unease from his face until Hazel closed the homestead door.

“All right then.” Keith slid into the driver’s seat and reached for the key in the ignition. “So we do it this way. Drop me off at Harper’s and go see if you can find McNamara around the traps. See if he’s taken off in his truck or the communal ute. See if any of the other blokes know where he is. I’ll camp out under that old ghost gum opposite the cottage and keep an eye on it, just to be sure he isn’t a complete fuckwit and goes back there.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Marc buckled his seat belt. “And if I do find him?”

Keith’s expression turned deadly as he started the ute. “Don’t let him go.”

* * * * *

Being outside at night in the Outback had always been a special time for Keith. The sky was hypnotic, its never-ending black expanse the backdrop to a spectacular display of the heavens. Stars no city folk ever saw with the naked eye twinkled above, as if sharing the secret of their beauty with but a few. A privileged few who knew life away from the hustle of the big smoke was so much more enriching.

Keith had spent many nights on Farpoint Creek lying on his back, gazing up at the stars, picking out the Southern Cross, the Saucepan, the celestial shadow known as the Emu. Wondering how those denied the stars by the ubiquitous lights of the city could ever find peace at night.

Yet now, sitting with his back pressed against the ancient ghost gum tree opposite Amy’s cottage, the thinnest sliver of a new moon hanging high in the midnight sky above him, peace was far from his mind or soul.

Rage simmered through his blood. Rage and worry.

Marc had dropped him off at the head of the track leading to Amy’s a few hours ago. He’d told the younger man not to do anything stupid if he found McNamara. He knew Marc was just as angry with the wanker, but Marc was less volatile than Keith. If Marc found Big Mac, there’d be little bloodshed. If Keith found him…

He flexed and coiled his right fist, keeping his stare on the front left window of the cottage. His right hand had never truly recovered from the beating he’d given the bloke hassling Amy years ago. Torn tendons and five hairline fractures in the metacarpal bones meant his right hand was weaker than it should be. Weak enough for him to lose his grip every time he rode a rodeo bull. Weak enough for it to ache on cold, wet nights.

Not weak enough to beat the shit out of Big Mac, however. Keith would suffer the pain gladly if the man had hurt Harper.

He watched the faint shadow of the American woman he was rapidly falling in love with move around the living area. The gauzy curtains Amy had hung on the windows prevented him from seeing her clearly, but that was okay. All he wanted to do was make sure she was alone. Safe.

Marc had checked in with him once in the time he’d been on guard, letting him know McNamara’s truck and the communal ute were still in the hired hands’ shed. That meant Big Mac was likely somewhere on Farpoint, and that meant Keith wasn’t going anywhere.

Not until McNamara made an appearance.

He didn’t think the bloke would come back to Harper, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

Not with Harper’s safety. Not with her happiness.

Letting out a slow, silent breath, he adjusted his hat and massaged his right hand.

He’d never felt so bloody helpless. He knew she was scared and upset, but he didn’t have a clue what to do about it. He was just a stockman. He could round up a hundred-head mob of cattle alone, without any help from anyone apart from his dog, but when it came to something like this, he was running blind. The primitive instincts in him called for blood and pain, but that wouldn’t help take away Harper’s fear. He had seen it in her eyes, before she’d refused to look at either him or Marc after Big Mac fled the cottage. That fear was deep-seated and absolute. The best he could offer her was his arms and his strength, and Harper had refused both.

Around him, noises of the night played softly on the air. Crickets, distant dingo calls, birds unsettled by nocturnal predators, most likely wild boar or abandoned house cats gone feral.

The familiar soundtrack of his nighttime study.

It didn’t calm him.

He doubted he’d feel calm for a long time. Even if Big Mac turned up in the next minute, there was still the issue of what would happen when Harper went back to the States. There was no denying it. He didn’t want her to go. He wanted to spend more time with her. He wanted—

The sound of a sob jolted him to his feet. His heart beat fast, his stare locked on the cottage but a few yards away.