Grace Under Fire, page 16
“Being detached makes buying and selling painless.” He sucked in air and continued, as if making a terrible confession. “Protects me from experiencing that kind of grief ever again.”
“It doesn’t work like that,” she said gently. “What about your mother? She lost two sons that day.” What about us? What about intimacy? Friendship?
“She said she wanted to stay. Needed to stay to be near Danny.” The dog leaned against his leg, and Ryan automatically reached down a hand to fondle its ears. “I like your memorial better than the tombstone in the cemetery.”
“He loves you.” She nodded towards Satan, dismissing the compliment as the distraction he’d intended it to be. “Without reservation. You can stop loving land. Harder to make yourself stop loving animals or people.”
His fingers stilled, and he straightened. “So?”
Grace cocked her head to one side. “Danny said your dad didn’t like him.”
“It wasn’t personal. He wasn’t interested in kids, but Danny was sensitive to rejection, even as a two-year-old.” Ryan was trying to pretend his four-year-old self had been too grown up for that sort of pain.
Grace picked some more at a scab needing to be knocked off for the wound to heal. “What happened?”
“He disappeared. After a few years Mum got something from a lawyer. Said he was sorry, signed over the farm to her. Said that should make them square. Pity about the colossal mortgage!” His growl screamed disgust.
“Let’s see if I’ve got this straight. You stopped caring about your farm because you were forced to leave, and it carried bad memories anyway.” She met his scowl, but she had nothing to lose. “You have a choice this time, so moving on now is different. But, hey, your father’s a handy excuse this time. He was a wanderer. It’s in the blood.”
“I don’t know what my father’s like,” he snapped. “Even if he’s still alive.”
She attacked again. Fighting for Ryan’s future if he wouldn’t. “I don’t buy that biology is destiny crap.”
“You’re the one who insists on being the fifth-generation farmer on the same farm.” His eyes narrowed.
“That’s nurture as much as nature, Ryan. Every time I showed interest in the farm, in farming, I was rewarded, encouraged until working the land was as natural as breathing.” She took a risk. “The same is true for you, if you’ll accept it.”
“I farm. I’ve got my eye on a neat little property on the south coast.”
Would he have told her if she hadn’t challenged him about leaving?
She paused until he wouldn’t hear the ache of loss in her voice. “For how long?”
“I haven’t decided.” He crossed his arms, as good a way of saying “not your business” as any other.
“You aren’t responsible for Danny’s death”—she drilled a finger into his chest—"and you aren’t your father. You’ve chosen different role models—my dad, Mr. Donovan, Angus McHugh.”
“You think it’s that simple.” He threw a hand in the air.
“I’m a pragmatist, Ryan.” Or she fought hard to be.
“Don’t make me laugh. You’re a spitfire.”
“I’m working on that,” she exploded.
“Don’t work too hard. It’s who you are.” His anger was gone. He caught her hand and turned them to continue the walk to the vehicles. “Danny said you were the second person he told he was gay.” Ryan’s voice was low, deep, steady, even as the words he said shocked her. “I was the first. He said you hugged him.”
“He was nervous, skittish really.” Her throat dried up as past and present emotions jostled for space. “Wanting to come here after school. Racing me down the track. Then he wouldn’t look at me. When he did, he was so anxious.” She recalled the look on Danny’s face, half determination, half fear. “I didn’t know I was the second. He didn’t tell me that. I hugged him because he looked impossibly terrified when he was being so brave.”
He pulled her into his arms and rocked her from side to side. “We’re less publicly demonstrative in our family.” He was talking present tense because she’d seen him with Danny.
“That’s one of those things you can change.” She held her breath, waiting for his answer.
“You want me to tell Mum and Bluey it’s okay for them to canoodle on the couch when I drop in to say hello?” He pretended shock.
“You could tell her you approve.” When he left, his mother would be comforted knowing she had Ryan’s support. It hurt to think of him leaving.
“Done that.” He leaned back, dropping his hands to link around her waist. “If it’s okay with you, I might use this paddock for agistment until the sale is confirmed?”
“Do you have animals needing agistment?” she asked carefully, feeling the ground fall from under her until there was only business between them. Friendship might last when he left town again. When she was alone, she could almost convince herself their buzz was too strong to last. With him, she couldn’t maintain the lie.
“It’s good land. You’d have extra income while we’re waiting to complete the sale. I can start on some of the minor building works so when we settle the sale we’re good to go.”
She bristled. “I don’t want your charity.”
“Providing agistment is a normal part of farm business. The only way I can access this land before settlement is to pay you.” He’d retreated again. “No big deal. Forget it.”
“You’re making me feel lower than a worm again,” she muttered. He’d flipped the situation on its head. Paying her way was a matter of family honour. She wasn’t using the land, and it would be his within weeks. “You’re already helping me enough.” She replayed his comment. “What minor building works?”
“A fence to house off a corridor for the poppy field,” he said, as if permanently securing her memorial to Danny didn’t reach into her chest and squeeze her heart so tightly it hurt. “A pity to see them trampled.”
Her resistance dissolved in a puddle of gooey sentiment. “That would be nice.”
He grinned.
“You should smile more often.” She ran her fingers down his cheek. “Build your fences, bring your animals over. I won’t take payment. You have to let me give something back. More than agistment. I’ve got some ideas for vegetation improvements at your place.”
“I’ll listen.” He slid his glasses back into position. “I need to get back to the farm.”
“Me too.” She fell into step as they walked back along the track.
He stopped as they drew level with her Ute, took her chin in his hand. “One more. You make me want one more, Grace.”
“I like the taste of you too.” Her pulse skittered wildly.
He brushed another kiss across her part-opened mouth. “Just marking my place.” He moved back.
For how long? The more of himself he shared—her temporary neighbour—the more she had to lose. Loving him was like stepping off a cliff. Why hadn’t she known it would be like that? She hadn’t reached the bottom, but it would be foolish not to expect a crash landing. For her.
Grace’s eyes opened on an inky darkness. The wind had picked up while she slept, rattling the window in its wooden frame and bringing the earthy scent of a recent downpour into the room. She lay perfectly still, warm, but with a feather of alarm brushing up her spine. Easing onto her back, she listened for the sound that had woken her. Not the window, not in the room with her.
Her great-grandfather’s upright clock sounded the hour from its place at the bottom of the wide hallway running the length of the house. Its metronome-perfect tick-tock had banished many a childhood nightmare. Maybe that’s what had woken her? A grown-up nightmare about losing the farm. Family ghosts taunting her with her failure to save what they’d fought to win. Pushing away her uncharacteristic defeatism, she let the clock’s familiar chimes soothe her and found another sound beneath them. A muffled thud.
She flung the doona aside. Her bare feet hit the cold wooden floor and pushed forward in a single movement. Leaving windows open despite the coming storm had been thumbing her nose at nature. Never a good move. Now her mother’s favourite crystal vase was collateral damage. That and the delicate pink trigger plants it contained victims to the snap of a curtain in a high wind. If she hurried, she might be able to stop the vase rolling to the floor. She hesitated at the door, the hairs on the back of her neck rising like tiny antennae sensing danger. She could find her way through the house blindfolded, yet instinct urged her to turn on every light, to check every room. Her heart raced. She was alone in the house. She reached for the door, its solid strength beneath her fingers steadying her.
They’d never had a break-in at the farmhouse, didn’t lock the doors or windows. She ran her tongue across dry lips, tasting her growing uneasiness. Before last month, they’d never had contaminants dumped on their land either.
Her shallow breaths sounded frighteningly loud to her ears. With her hand gripping the knob, she peered into the darkness. The kitchen door opened. Slowly, but the squeak her father had promised to oil was unmistakable above the wind. She stared, unable to see. Each new high-pitched whine tightened the bands of fear around her chest.
She hadn’t heard Bailey’s welcoming bark. A picture of the dog, injured or worse, flashed through her mind. She surged forward, blood pumping through her body. With a rebel yell she ran, hitting light switches, ducking and weaving down the hall, before dropping behind the dark sideboard standing at the kitchen end of the hall.
“Bluey. There’s someone in the kitchen,” she shouted, pretending she had backup. “I’ve called the cops!” She reached behind her, rattled another doorknob, then slammed a door back hard against the wall, before dropping to the floor on the opposite side of the hall. Trembling, she counted to five and deepened her voice. “Grace. I’m here. I’ve got a gun.”
She crawled towards the kitchen, her hands clammy, perspiration running down her back despite the damp air hitting her. Damp air. She stumbled into the kitchen. The back door stood open. A figure with a flashlight ran down the driveway.
“Bailey!” Two quick strides and she’d reached the dog, dropping onto her knees to check his unmoving form. His breaths were laboured and irregular. When she tried to help him stand, his body sagged limply. A faint cloying scent clung to him. Vaguely familiar, like a sickly-sweet perfume, but she couldn’t place it.
Carrying him into the house, she lay him in front of the stove. She lifted the receiver from the landline hooked to the wall and sat down on the floor, her eyes never leaving the dog. The vet was on speed dial.
“George, it’s Grace Anderson. I think Bailey’s been poisoned. I don’t know what or when. I’m guessing quick acting and in the last thirty minutes or so. He can’t stand, and his breathing’s rapid.” She rested a hand on the dog’s head, the mute distress in his eyes bringing tears to hers. Anger swirled below the anxiety. Bailey wouldn’t hurt a fly. Who’d do this to a dog?
“I can’t bring him in.” She swallowed hard. “I need to call the police, and I can’t leave the farm. There’s been an attempted break-in ... You will?” She sagged against the table leg in relief. “Yes, I’ve got some hydrogen peroxide ... Yes. Yes. Thank you.”
She started for the pantry, dialling triple-zero as she moved. “Where is it?”
The call connected. “Police, please.” She waited for the redirection.
“There it is.” She grabbed the hydrogen peroxide from the shelf and backtracked to the kitchen table.
“Grace Anderson, Blue Sky Farm. There’s been an attempted break-in ... Ten minutes.” She pushed her hand through her hair. “Maybe ten minutes ago. I scared the person off. He ran down the driveway.” At least he’d run like a man. “He must have had a vehicle nearby. I didn’t hear it or see any lights. I have to go. He poisoned my dog ... Okay.
“I have to get you to vomit, boy. George is coming, but we need to try and empty your stomach as quickly as possible.” She measured out the hydrogen peroxide and mixed it with some milk as instructed, then searched the kitchen drawer for a dropper. Sitting beside the dog, she lifted his head and pushed the dropper into the side of his mouth. “I’m sorry, Bailey; I need to do this.”
Then she raided the paper box beside the fuel stove, laying newspaper around the dog. The vet said to give him thirty minutes. The police might be faster. Having done all she could for Bailey, she surveyed the scene. The back door was still open, the wind whipping fresh rain into the kitchen. She shut and locked it, backtracked to the front door and locked it as well. The attacker must be far away by now. Still, the frantic pounding of her heart, the lick of fear at how close someone who wanted to harm her and her family had come, lingered. Working her way back to the kitchen, she systematically locked windows and turned on the outside lights.
Her next decision was a no-brainer.
“Ryan. Sorry to wake you.” She dragged in a deep breath to steady herself. Base instinct was driving this call. “There’s been an attempted break-in.” Her voice wobbled. “Bailey’s been poisoned.”
“I’m on my way.” He asked no questions, offered no argument.
Relief flooded her, dropping her to her knees. She rocked herself backwards and forwards, admitting to a weakness she couldn’t afford. She wanted him here. More than the cops. More than anyone.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Grace crawled across to Bailey. The dog vomited over the paper. “Good boy. My beautiful boy.” She rolled up the papers and laid out more, pushing the sodden, foul-smelling mess into a large plastic bag. Maybe they could do tests and identify the poison. Setting a bowl of water at Bailey’s head, she stroked his throat gently when he lapped at it.
The roar of a utility speeding had her back on her feet. Reason told her it was Ryan, but her stomach churned, and she searched for a weapon. Adrenalin still pumped through her. She edged towards the window, keeping her body out of sight. Ryan’s number plate flashed in the circle of light cast by her external lights before he doused his headlights. He’d set a speed record for the few kilometres between them, on a wet, dark road. They reached the kitchen door at the same time. She pulled the bolts as he pushed against it, and he stumbled inside, Satan at his heels.
“I locked it.” She leaned forward, resting her hands on her knees.
“Good girl.” He slammed it behind him, locking out the storm and shot the bolts before scanning the room. “Has he vomited yet?”
“Once.”
He crouched at the dog’s head, his hand gently stroking down his flanks. “Any change in his breathing?”
Grace knelt at Bailey’s tail and placed her hand beside his. “Easier maybe. The vet’s coming.”
Satan dropped beside Bailey’s back, nudging him gently.
“He’s Mum’s.” Fresh tears filled her eyes and started to slide down her cheeks. Impatiently, she brushed them aside. “She adores him. I can’t let anything happen to him.”
“How are you?”
She raised her eyes to his. No longer afraid. Worried about the who and the why on top of the contamination. “I need a hug.”
“That’s doable.” He rose to his feet, reaching down a hand to pull her to hers. He simply opened his arms for her to walk into.
First, she registered his warmth, then the sheer solid strength of him, the comfort of believing no one could touch her now. Then his spicy scent. She wanted to burrow into him and curl up until the aftershocks of fear drained from her body. He demanded nothing, just held her. The realisation she could get used to this kind of steady comfort as much as she could the blaze of his passion had her pushing back. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” he murmured. Flashing blue and white lights lit up the window. “Looks like the cops.”
Her hands rested on his chest. “I might get some clothes on if you can let them in.”
“I like what you’re wearing.” He grinned, and she took a step away from the heat in his eyes. “Or maybe, not wearing.”
“Right.” She took another step back, flustered by his husky drawl, by the remembered feel of her breasts pressed against his chest. “Pyjamas. I’ll get out of my pyjamas.”
“I’ll let the cops in.” He crossed to the back door. “Maybe you should cover your toes too. I forgot to tell you, I find your bare toes—bare anything—distractingly sexy.”
Whisking herself into her bedroom, she grabbed yesterday’s clothes from the chair she’d thrown them onto. She listened with half an ear to Ryan talking to Bill, and ... Pete. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, only the quiet rhythm of Ryan’s voice and the staccato volley of questions Bill was firing at him. She sat on the side of her bed, reaching for her socks and boots. Ryan found her toes sexy. She wriggled them—ten standard toes. Her stomach did a little jump of elation. He’d said it to distract her. To shake her out of her meltdown. The sizzle down her spine was a bonus.
Pulling a sweater over her pyjama top, she walked back into the kitchen.
“Grace.” Bill nodded. “Can you tell us what happened?”
Bailey vomited again. Satan whined in sympathy. “I’ll get it,” said Ryan. “You talk to Bill.”
“There’s not a lot to tell.” She gestured to the chairs around the kitchen table, not sure of her role. “Would you like a cup of tea or something?”
“Only if you’re making one,” Bill answered. “Sometimes it’s easier to have something to do while you talk.”
Grace set the kettle on the Aga to boil, then lifted the tea canister from its shelf. The teapot sat beside the stove, but she set out mugs on the table and started at the beginning. “Something woke me. I’d just convinced myself it was nothing when I heard a thud. I assumed Mum’s vase had been toppled by a gust of wind, and that I could catch it before it hit the floor.”
“Was that it? Did they try to come in the window?” Bill asked while Pete took notes.
“I didn’t even check.” Grace shook her head. “I’d reached the bedroom door when the kitchen door opened. It squeaks, you see.” The kettle screamed, and she poured the water into the pot and brought it to the table. “I didn’t hear Bailey. Nobody could get past that door without Bailey barking a welcome.” Sitting, she huffed out a breath. Please let Bailey be okay.
