Grace Under Fire, page 12
“We took samples,” Ryan volunteered, when they reached the police car. “We’d like to do some risk management today. Prevent it spreading further.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Bill climbed into his car. Pete slid into the driver’s seat and they were gone.
“Bill didn’t seem to be especially pleased to see you on arrival.” Grace followed the police car with her gaze until the dust settled.
Ryan adjusted his hat. “As he said, there’s a history.”
She couldn’t remember any stories of Ryan being picked up by the police as a teenager. He’d been too busy at his own farm or Donovan’s to mix with a wild crowd. “And it’s none of my business.”
“That’s right.”
“You know more about my finances than anyone else!” A pathetic excuse, Grace.
“If that’s an apology, it needs a lot of work!” he grunted. “More sleep might help you think straight.” He started walking towards his vehicle.
“What’s my sleep got to do with this?” She ran beside him.
“Lack of sleep is the kindest way to describe your muddled thinking. Nothing’s private in this community. Before you got home from the country women’s association they’d probably figured out your mum’s health is driving the sale, calculated the value of the land and farm income and your worth. Their husbands are probably running a book on whether you’ll get the loan. It’s pub gossip every time I’ve entered a bar.”
She grabbed his arm. “You’re saying this is deliberate sabotage to force me out!”
“That’s Bill’s theory.” He shook off her hand. “Don’t get pissy with me, Grace. Because if I’m not guilty, the field is wide open.”
She scampered to catch up, her mouth dry and her heart pounding. “I know you didn’t do it.”
“You a clairvoyant now?”
“It makes no sense.” She’d known in her bones before the cops arrived, but her growing reliance on him terrified her. “I’ve seen what you’ve done with your land. Poisoning the water hurts both of us. And poisoning land you want to buy is even stupider.”
“But, gee, it would drive the price down,” he said snidely. “Old Let Her Rip Gracie. Do you always make the nearest bystander your punching bag?”
“Nobody calls me that anymore.” She’d largely outgrown her rash outbursts. Ryan stirred her in ways she couldn’t explain. “Bystanders aren’t usually caught in the crosshairs. Your strong-silent-type act throws me off my stride.” Her sarcasm fell flat. “I was wrong.”
“And then some.”
“You seem to have a problem accepting apologies.” She shuffled from foot to foot. Did his milder tone mean he’d forgiven her?
“You’re suspicious of everything I do. But”—Satan stuck to Ryan’s side, his loyalty clear—“I might suspect me if I was in your position right now.”
“I’d have a right to suspect you if everything you said wasn’t true. You did bring me here today. Otherwise I might not have come for weeks, and the damage could have been irreversible.”
“Took you long enough to work that out.”
“Do you want me to grovel?” She eyed his back mutinously.
“The idea has possibilities.” He halted at his Ute and swung around to face her. “I want this land healthy as much as you do, Grace.” Strength and purpose radiated off him.
Grace remembered. He’d looked poleaxed when she’d told him about Danny’s memorial. He’d traced a finger over the fragile petals of a poppy. She’d held her breath imaging those rough, sensitive fingers on her, and the deep drag of that yearning had wiped her mind clear. Sensing she’d be powerless to resist his touch had primed her to attack.
“I know someone at the University who’ll do the tests fast.”
“Thank you.” She accepted this one offer, a necessary part of her apology. Being unfair to anyone was a criminal offence in her family. “Blaming you was a distraction from thinking about who did this.” Self-preservation demanded she keep her protective barriers in place. He was leaving. She was staying. Still, she made the admission. “An unknown enemy is scarier.”
“You could ask Bill to organise drive-bys?” His voice gentled. “We can hire someone to stay at the house?” He understood she was afraid.
“I’ll up the security around the buildings.” Grace huffed out the breath caught in her throat by his concern. Folding at the first challenge to her ownership would permanently weaken her. “I’ll do more spot checks across the property, but I appreciate the offer. Bill knows his job.” Although he hadn’t been able to charge Smithhouse with a crime.
“Your call.” Ryan accepted her decision with a nod. “We need to contain it. A mix of sand and sawdust as a temporary cover, with a trench dug around it.”
“I’ll organise it,” Grace stated.
“We’ll organise it. Bluey can help me.” The damn man was back to organising her.
“My land, my responsibility.” She straightened her spine.
“You should get that tattooed on your butt.”
“How do you know it isn’t?” Grace whipped back, sparring with Ryan beat trembling with fear.
“I can’t wait to see.”
“When hell freezes over.” Had she really said that?
The corner of his mouth tipped up. “We both know that’s a lie.” He surveyed the site critically. “Sand and sawdust will work as a neutralising agent to start. I’ll bring a truckload through my place.”
“Thank you . . .” She couldn’t refuse this act of kindness without looking churlish. “Again.”
“Later, we’ll need specialist removal. They can come and go through my place. Reduce the chance of more damage to your land.”
“How do you manage to turn things around so I look like a bad-tempered shrew and you look like a friendly neighbour?” He was new territory for Grace. Her blood quickened when she was near him. Her instinct was to lean on him, lean into him, absorb the scent of him through her pores, surround herself with the heat of him, because that’s all she’d have when he sold up and moved away.
“You’ve had a shock. A bit of shrewishness is forgivable.” He shrugged.
“That’s very reasonable of you.”
“It is, isn’t it?” His chin wobbled—he’d almost chuckled. “If there’s any connection between this stuff and my place, it’s fair I deal with it.” Anthony Callea’s cover version of Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go interrupted him. “Interesting ringtone, Grace. Better get your phone.”
“Bill.” She listened, then ended the call.
“Forensics are on their way. We should be able to do basic clean-up in a few hours.”
“‘You put the boom-boom into my heart?’ Really?” he patted his heart in time with the lyrics.
“If you must know”—she tipped down her glasses—“it was a joke with Dad. Payback for long mornings of classical music in the milking barn.”
“My offer stands. This slice of land gives me access to extra water from both sides, and another exit directly to the main road. You’ve invested in its health. That makes it very attractive to me. My land has years before it reaches the same level, and some of it may never get there because of past land practices.”
Ryan was matter-of-fact, quick to act, turning a catastrophe into an inconvenience they’d handle together. The easy mingling of their interests became terrifyingly natural with repetition.
“I’ll call the organic certifying body while I collect my protective gear.” She pushed her glasses back up her nose. Accepting help is not dependence.
He caught her hand, turned it over and pressed a kiss into her palm. “Thank you for telling me about Danny.”
The tremble travelled to her toes. “Will you tell me about Danny?”
“Maybe.” Ryan tugged her closer.
“I have to go.” She needed some space to work out what was happening to her. Madness, to want him to hold her. To allow herself to believe she’d find comfort as well as heat in his embrace.
“What about my offer?”
Her mind shot back to that other time when they’d been standing close together, when his offer of a quick tumble had amused and tempted her. To the alley, when his kisses had sapped any sense of self-preservation. With an effort, she returned to the present. “I need time to think about it.”
He lifted his free hand and rubbed her brow. “You’re frowning.” Then he dropped his hand, as if he knew his touch addled her thinking. “How much time do you need?”
Never. Forever. There'd never be a time when she would be comfortable or ready to sell part of her heritage. Twenty-five percent deposit meant she no longer had that luxury. Sometimes you had to cut off a limb to save the animal, as he had for Satan. Only a coward delayed that decision. She stood straighter. She wouldn’t let a cowardly attack cheat her out of her birthright. “Come to my place for dinner tonight.”
“I’m happy to take you out.”
“If we eat at my place, I don’t have to travel and can kick you out early,” she said. His mouth twitched at her awkward invitation. Having to make another apology annoyed her. “I could have phrased that better.”
The bastard grinned. “I understand. You need your beauty sleep.”
She needed sleep to survive. Leaning against the cows in the dark milking shed, she dreamed of sleep. Some nights she considered skipping meals to get extra shut-eye. She had sense enough to know that was lunacy. “We’re not dating.”
“Of course not.” He said so smoothly she wanted to slap him.
She jerked open the door to her Ute.
“Although the buzz is getting louder.” His murmur was velvety dark and deliciously wicked.
“Six-thirty,” she called over her shoulder. Her heart rate steadied as the short distance between them grew. Despite these last few weeks, Ryan remained an enigma. A brainteaser of a problem in very human form.
Buying her cheese was supporting local businesses and building community. Every landowner, producer and retail operator benefitted from a stronger community.
Engineering business referrals, even lobbying for her inclusion at the field day fit in the same category. Paying his debt to her father was honourable.
Giving her Bluey was personal.
Letting him pay for the clean-up would be crossing a line she’d drawn in the sand of her personal independence. Ryan’s latest offers were personal in a whole different way; she was seriously considering accepting help from him. Like dancing on a tightrope without a net, the sensation was simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying. The prize was living her dream. The risk was losing the entire property. She had a piece of land Ryan wanted, and that’s how she’d approach negotiations. She wasn’t a supplicant or a freeloader and wouldn’t be treated that way. She wasn’t a taker either. She paid her own way.
Who was she kidding? She was only considering doing business with someone outside the family because the outsider was Ryan. She needed him more than he needed her.
Accepting help is not dependence. Maybe she should get that tattooed on her butt.
She buckled herself into the driver’s seat before checking the side mirror. He stood beside his vehicle, watching her, as if he sensed her watching him. He exuded a sense of leashed power. Yet his movements were loose, unhurried. Snapping on the ignition, she pulled back onto the laneway, taking a last look in the rearview mirror. He hadn’t moved and now dipped his hat, an old-fashioned gesture reminding her she was a woman. His mouth fascinated her, and his eyes. He’d have to ditch his glasses for dinner.
CHAPTER NINE
Headlights hitting the main farmhouse then turning off to the left, a dying engine, a car door slamming—Ryan announced his arrival for dinner even before her mother’s old dog, Bailey, a permanent fixture on the back veranda, barked in welcome. Wanting to keep the heat inside, Grace opened the laundry door. Ryan held a bottle of wine in one hand and a box in the other. Satan and Bailey had finished sniffing each other, circling and remembering they’d met before. Satan pushed forward to nuzzle Grace’s hand.
“Hello, darling,” she crooned before eyeing the bottle suspiciously.
“You don’t have to drink it”—Ryan handed her the bottle—“darling.”
“We’re eating in the kitchen.” She turned and led him through the laundry, his husky endearment sending her nerves into a jig.
“That’s put me in my place.”
“I was living at Grandma and Grandpa’s old house but moved across here this afternoon. I thought the family kitchen was the best place for a business transaction between maybe-friends, one of whom has brought a dog to dinner.” She opened the kitchen door, and the temperature climbed several degrees, enveloping them in its warm, fragrant air. Pointing to a blanket in front of the fuel stove, she smiled when Satan obediently walked in a circle then curled up.
“Smells good.” He sniffed appreciatively while his eyes travelled around the room. “I remember the chairs.” He sounded delighted. “Your parents talked endlessly about their plans to renovate them.”
“Work and a growing fondness for their battered state kyboshed those.” She placed the bottle of pinot on the table. “Would you like a beer to start?”
“That’d be great. This room hasn’t changed much at all.” He crossed to the large sideboard backing onto the hall’s wall and ran a respectful hand over its red timber. “Always loved this piece.”
“The cedar came from the valley,” she said, topping a beer and handing him the bottle and a cold glass. “You must have heard Grandpa’s stories about the old timber cutters.”
“I loved them. Rare to find a piece like this today. It’s a good history to have, Grace. Are you going to join me in a drink?” he asked curiously.
“With dinner. If I have a drink now, I might pass out.”
“That would be a pity.” His deep growl told her whatever happened between them, he wanted her to be fully awake and aware.
Her body jangled with anticipation. He wasn’t wearing glasses. That didn’t give her the advantage she’d hoped for. His eyes, a dark chestnut in this light, studied her with a slow patience, making her body ache for his touch. She’d already been primed. Standing naked in the shower earlier, goose bumps had spread across her body imagining his broad shoulders and solid chest a short metre across from her at her kitchen table. She’d shivered, not from the cold. Now she swallowed a groan. “What’s in the box?”
He set his beer on the table and lifted the lid. “A rhubarb and strawberry pie.”
She peered into the box, then lifted her gaze to his. “A Bess Riley award-winning pie?”
He nodded.
“Do I have to kiss your feet in gratitude?”
He pointed to his cheek, and she inched towards him, caught by the twinkle in his eye, the “I dare you” cockiness of his stance. She leaned in, planted a kiss on his cheek and quickly withdrew.
“You need practice.” He settled his hands on her hips and eased her forward, pressing his cheek to hers. “I like your perfume. It reminds me of Sweet Peas. Mostly Mum grew vegetables, but she had a fondness for Sweet Peas.”
“I remember them.” She turned her head, and his lips met hers. A different texture to the smooth skin of his cheek, to the working man’s thumb pad drawing circles under her ear, to the woven cotton covering his forearms where her hands gripped him. His lips were firm, knowing and seduced as they touched, coaxing her mouth to open. When his tongue teased across her bottom lip, she was afraid the sobbing moan echoing in the kitchen was her own. Then she surrendered to mindless pleasure and a dragging need at the apex of her thighs. Straining to get closer, she locked her hands behind his neck, feasting on his kisses with a craving only his taste could satisfy.
The timer on the oven shrilly demanded attention. He released her, and she struggled to focus. He was breathing as heavily as she was. She backed away, her hand against her mouth, while her pulse skittered. “That’s d-d-dinner. S-s-sit,” she stammered.
She’d set the table earlier and only needed to transfer the casserole from the oven to a heat mat on the table. Hell’s bells, Grace. It was only a kiss.
“You’ll need potholders.” He stepped to her side, his hands already encased in the insulated gloves. “Let me.”
More potent than their first kiss, and she hadn’t considered a second kiss could taste better. “I’ll get the bread.” She slid the hot, crusty bread into a basket and set it beside the casserole.
“If it’s any help, you pack a powerful punch, Grace.”
She sank into the chair opposite him, tucking her legs under it, conscious that the slightest movement could tangle her legs with his. “You’re”—she searched for a word—“unexpected.”
His rare smile appeared. “But worth the effort.”
She didn’t know if he was talking about himself or her. Wriggling in her chair, desire was a ticking time bomb, and she hadn’t been prepared for its speed or power. She hesitated to start anything until she’d resolved their business relationship. For a woman who didn’t do partnerships, she was caught between physical attraction and an offer to trade, both of which had the potential to blow up in her face.
“I cheated,” she confessed. “I made the casserole and bread weeks ago. Tonight, I defrosted.”
“Smells great.” He opened the bottle and poured two glasses. “I appreciate the effort.”
For a while they ate companionably, the country music playing low in the background enough to keep the conversation ticking over as they talked about performers they liked.
“Troy Cassar-Daley did a gig in Lismore about three years ago. At the pub. Ella and Jake came home for the weekend. Brilliant to see him live.”
The player flipped to a new track. “Garth Brooks keeps hinting he’ll come to Australia,” Ryan commented.
“Hinting isn’t doing.” She sighed. “Dessert?”
“The pie’s a present. You can eat it instead of breakfast to get your energy levels up.”
“Don’t joke. I just might.” She yawned. “Coffee or another drink?”
