Grace Under Fire, page 6
Entrusting Ryan with her children made him family for Ella. Grace wished her feelings were so simple. Her pulse had skittered when they’d crouched beside each other at the field day. Her gaze had followed his hand as he’d caressed Satan. Long, lean fingers—strong, she had no doubt of that, but with the ability to gentle—an animal, a child, a lover. She’d itched to tip those dark glasses down his nose, to see his eyes, to try and take her measure of the man. His mouth had curved in a half smile when he’d spoken to Ella. Again, when he’d introduced Tessa to his dog. He hadn’t smiled at Grace.
Today she’d trotted out her prejudices over a coffee he’d paid for, and every one of them was flawed. She’d had the chance to study his eyes today, tawny brown with hints of green. His expression had given little away. Resenting him was easier than respecting him. Despising him was easier than having her pulse skitter and little balls of lust explode in her belly.
Grace slung the last bag into the boot of the hatchback her parents used for off-farm travel. All done.
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
She couldn’t remember the rest of the poem from high school, but those words by T. S. Eliot had stayed with her. She’d never imagined they’d apply to her life. She searched the mid-morning spring sky. Where was the storm and tempest to mark her parents’ leave taking? A little meteorological melodrama seemed called for, for the end of an era. They’d visit, but a visit wasn’t the same as sharing a life.
Her mother had had another episode overnight, and the urgent family confab in the early hours of the morning had voted for an immediate departure. Grace couldn’t claim desertion when she was urging them to go. A breath hitched in her throat. She tipped her head back to stop the tears from falling.
Her father leaned against her and followed her gaze. “A mackerel sky.”
“Change is coming.” She gave him a wry smile. She’d giggled as a little girl when he’d first told her about mackerel skies. “A fish sky, that’s silly, Dad.” Yet she looked for those rare days, and the symbolism was another kind of magic.
“It’s happened so quickly.” He slipped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her to him. “I’m not sure I’m ready.”
“Neither am I. I’ll miss you.”
“I’m at the end of the phone.”
“Just as well, because I’ll be ringing daily.” She worked to keep the mood light for both of them. “Where did you hide that thingamajig?”
“Bluey will know the answer, and unlike most of the planet, he’ll know what you’re talking about.” Her father was reassured by Ryan’s choice of Bluey. “I’d hoped to go with you to the bank.”
She’d hoped he’d be with her too. “I’ll be fine.” Five days closer to her deadline, but who was counting? Her gut went into freefall every time she let her mind stray to potential pitfalls.
“Make sure you push for ten percent deposit,” he repeated his favourite mantra.
“Got that bulletin, Dad.” Rural properties traditionally required higher deposits than houses in town. She was gambling on the family name to keep it lower than a newcomer to the area.
“You need a margin for error.” He restated the warning learned from hard experience. “Farms always have unforeseen expenses—a sick animal, wild weather, broken machinery. It’s risky not to leave yourself with a buffer.”
“You think I should buy more chickens?” She elbowed him in the ribs. The chickens were waiting to be picked up. She’d reworked her figures, had approached the tourist office about greater promotion of the farm stay and had upped her promotional activities. The café had placed a paying order—small, but an order—and she hadn’t finished her door-knocking. The chickens were another link in her very fragile buffer.
“You hated raising chickens as a child,” he muttered.
“But these are organic chickens,” she teased.
“Like that makes a blind bit of difference!” He turned as her mother came out of the house, hurrying back to take her arm.
“I’m glad Ryan’s lending you Bluey.” Her mother made her way slowly up the path. “He could have sent someone else. He remembered you love Bluey.”
“He said that?” She stared at her mother.
“He had a few hands available.” Her father settled her mother in the car. “I was surprised he suggested Bluey, didn’t think he’d give him up. He said Bluey was family to you.”
“I’m not some helpless female,” she protested. Ella had tagged Ryan as observant and kind. Recognising Grace loved Bluey showed a perception she would have denied before the last few days.
“Hell no! You’re an Amazon trained from birth to fight dragons and defeat small nation-states.” Her father laughed at her.
“I am not overreacting.” For her parents’ peace of mind, she needed to negotiate a truce with Ryan.
“Just asserting your independence,” her father deadpanned.
Her independence was all she had. She was riding a pretty rocky see-saw between hope and fear. When she walked the gentle hills of the farm or milked the cows or zoned out in her cheese-making room, she couldn’t imagine losing Blue Sky. Sometimes in the early hours of the morning, the memory of Smithhouse’s swindle invaded her dreams, and she’d wake to the taste of failure.
“Call me when you get to the mountains.” She bent to kiss her mother.
“We may be feeling far too independent to do that.” Her father kissed both Grace’s cheeks. “If we forget, you call us.”
She stood, long after they’d driven away, before turning back to face the empty farmhouse. Taking responsibility for the farm wasn’t an issue. She’d done it before.
She’d been alone before. She was used to working alone. Liked it.
Today loneliness crept like a dreary mist up from the river to descend on the house. Turning her back on it, she crossed to lean on the fence of the yard housing the poddies, as she and her father did every morning after milking. Today he wasn’t at her shoulder. The sensation of being hollowed out was the surprise. She shivered. Then, impatient with herself and unable to settle, she drove into town to collect the chickens.
“You want some help, Grace?”
She turned with a smile. “That would be good, Bluey.”
“Branching out?”
“Testing an idea. Organic eggs, although it’ll be months before these chicks earn their keep,” she said. They lifted the boxes of chicks into the van. “We’ve only got one more inspection to pass for organic farm status.”
“Chickens aren’t my thing.” He sounded apologetic, but she recognised a declaration on the division of labour when she heard it. “Got another clue you can help me with,” he said.
“Can’t see you wearing any sunglasses.”
He slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out a pair, pushing them onto his nose with a grunt. “Can’t get the hang of them.”
She leaned across and planted a smacking kiss on one cheek. “For that I’d do anything. I love you, Bluey.”
His gaze slid sideways, his face crumpling into a smile. “I love you too, Grace girl.”
She nudged him. “I’ve heard you’ll be working at Blue Sky for the next three months.”
“Your dad called Ryan this morning. Sorry about Elaine. I’ll be there tomorrow.” He accepted his new role with a wave of the hand. “I’ve got another anagram for you. Two words, nine and four letters. I’ve worked out enough to know it’s got something to do with cheese again.”
“My speciality.” She collapsed the trolley and loaded it into the van. Despite their disagreement, Ryan hadn’t delayed even a day before sending her Bluey. No game playing, no delaying to make her have to remind him.
“I like cheese. I know cheddar, and now I know Edam is a name, but I’m a plain man, and this has got me stumped.”
“Did you try cruising the dairy section at the supermarket?”
“Don’t be daft, girl. ‘Rooftop timber became two cheeses.’ ‘Rooftop’ means top of roof, that’s the first letter of roof, right?”
“Right.”
“So, I’ve got R plus ‘timber became.’ That gives me the thirteen letters.”
“Any guesses?” she asked.
“If I had any halfway decent guesses, I wouldn’t be standing here wearing a damned pair of sunglasses and hoisting chickens.” He lifted his hat and slapped it against his thigh.
“Mrs. Wilson has some of my cheeses,” Grace said slyly.
“What’s that got to do with anything?” He put Grace firmly in her place.
“Camembert and brie.”
“You’re having me on.” He snorted.
“Nope. French words. I produce those soft cheeses. Give me your phone, and I’ll write them on your notes page.”
“Who says my phone has notes?” He tucked his glasses back in his pocket.
“You only pretend to live in the last century, Bluey. Your brain’s like a steel trap.” She tapped out the words in the phone he passed. “Thanks for the help. And for swapping Wilson’s for Blue Sky.”
“I expect you to help me with clues.” He hid a smile.
“A small price to pay.” She had a new puzzle as she drove back to the farm.
Ryan had forced a chink in her defensive wall. His repayment of his debt to her father guaranteed she’d bank a ten percent deposit, although she doubted her bank balance featured high on his list of motives. Dismissing his choice of Bluey as a random act of kindness was a cop-out. The itch between her shoulder blades returned with a vengeance. No insensitive monster—just a kid who’d been too overwhelmed at seventeen to do more than retreat to lick his wounds. The child in her, who’d felt abandoned after Danny’s death, had refused to forgive him for not being able to undo what was done.
CHAPTER FIVE
A month!
Ryan had let her stew for four weeks before inviting her to see his robotics. Not that Grace had been sitting on her backside in that time. Yard work, cheesemaking and deliveries each day, endless paperwork in the evenings, while her sleep had been fractured by a restless conscience insisting her half-hearted apology to Ryan in the coffee shop hadn’t been good enough. He’d touched a nerve that day. Like an aching tooth, it wouldn’t let her rest. Her family wasn’t perfect, because she wasn’t perfect. Her temper could be as foul as the smell of her chickens’ poo.
She pulled into the side of the road. Crossing her arms on the steering wheel, she leaned forward to rest her head. She’d been up eleven hours and had work for the next eleven. She hadn’t ticked off half her list any day this week. Bluey had taken to appearing wherever she was at regular intervals and standing over her while she ate. A ham sandwich, an apple, a chunk of cheese. Despite the butterflies rising en masse in her stomach, Ryan’s invitation was a welcome break in her grinding routine.
Raising her head, she scanned the horizon. Her valley. Ryan’s as well. She pulled back onto the road, slowing as she drove past the old Donovan place—now part of Ryan’s holdings. It had always been known as the Donovan place, and people stuck with the known. Like the Wilson place. The farms had names. In the past, few locals had used them, instead talking about the Wilson place, the Donovan place. Theirs had always been Blue Sky, as if it held a magic for others, not just her. She’d hugged the enchantment to her chest growing up, a secret pride. Blue Sky and so often the skies were a pure bright blue to dazzle the eyes and make the world seem brighter, lighter somehow. No clouds today—not in the sky—but she was grappling with some weighty issues. Not all of them called Ryan Wilson.
Her plan was to offer regret, demonstrate respect and set the growing lust to one side to negotiate a friendly truce.
Ryan lounged against the veranda post when she pulled into his yard, Satan at his side. Some nights the insults she’d thrown at him were all that filled her head—her small-minded bitchiness for Ryan’s perceived sins of the past. Man and dog came down the steps to meet her. Ryan’s body was long and lean, and his face was shaded by the broad brim of his hat. His eyes were hidden, and she had the urge to whip his glasses off. Again. The hitch in her breathing was more than nervousness about the apology she owed him and had been practising for most of the journey here. Pushing open the door of the Ute, she stepped down.
“You came,” he said.
“Thank you for the invitation.” She put her hat on. Her glasses were as effective a shield as his own. “I need to clarify something from our last meeting.”
“What’s that?”
“I think Mum and Dad are pretty perfect. Ella’s always fair, even when she suffers because of it.” She tipped her glasses down her nose, her gaze steady. “I tend to speak before I think sometimes.”
“Just sometimes?” He sounded as though he was enjoying himself.
She huffed out a breath and offered her worst dummy-spit for his judgement. “I didn’t speak to Chrissy for more than a year. I only started again when she was diagnosed with cancer. Two years later, she died. I’m ashamed of that temper tantrum.”
“What brought it on?” His immediate acceptance she’d had a reason settled the jingle-jangle in her head.
“Chrissy ran away to Sydney with Ella’s boyfriend. Neither of them said a word.” Grace’s hands fisted. “Just disappeared, leaving Ella to deal with the gossip and snide remarks.” Chrissy’s disloyalty to Ella had enraged Grace. With time, the memory of her anger had muted, flaring occasionally like an old injury from a disgruntled cow who’d stepped on her foot.
“Mum’s not big on sharing spiteful gossip,” he said. His dislike of narrow-minded, malicious gossip probably began when Danny started high school. “I didn’t know.”
“It was years ago. After Mum’s tractor accident. Ella was working her butt off to care for Mum and help run the farm. Chrissy was looking for a ticket out of town. I was furious.” Grace took another deep breath and let it out with a whoosh. “Anyway.” This confession was part apology, part thank you and all peace offering. “I like your mother. I visited a lot after you left. She wanted to talk about Danny. More, to hear me talk about Danny. The stories she didn’t know.” Grace wanted to explain herself to Ryan, and explaining herself to a man was new for her. “I need to talk, Ryan. It’s how I process the big stuff.”
“I don’t talk about Danny or my family much,” he said flatly.
“You loved him.” She pushed because his answer mattered to her. In her darkest moments she’d questioned whether his silence at the funeral was because he’d been ashamed of Danny.
“Do you have to ask?”
Scanning Ryan’s face, she noted the sculpted cheekbones, the determined chin and his strong nose. Danny’s had been broken in a fall they’d had as kids. Otherwise they might have been twins. They’d been best friends as well. Like her and Ella.
“No. No, I don’t. Any more than I had to ask if he loved you.” Their love for Danny had united Ryan and Grace as teenagers, although they’d never acknowledged their shared role as sentries. She touched his upper arm and inhaled his calm—a hard man, of necessity. “I’ve come to ask for a truce.”
“I can do that.” He made it easier than she deserved.
“Let’s go see your robotic milking setup.” She pushed her glasses back into position.
“It’s this way.” He gestured. “How’s Bluey working out?”
Paying a debt to her father was none of her business. Lending her Bluey made it personal. The butterflies rose again, and she pressed a hand to her stomach. “He knows me, knows my rhythm, is there before I need to ask. You worked that out.”
“You told him to skip the morning milking.” Ryan must have been asking questions about her. Bluey wasn’t the garrulous sort. “Mum told me.”
“Do you object to them being a couple?”
“More reason to demonise me, Grace. I’m so narrow-minded I don’t want my mother to have a lover.”
“Wow!” She halted. “That picture’s stuck in my head now.”
“You brought it up,” he chided her.
She scrunched up her face. “I’m not looking for another reason to have to apologise to you.”
“I like it when you’re chastened.”
“Then you’ll like what I have to say next.” Grace sent him a sideways look as they continued across the paddock. The urge to snatch his glasses and fling them into the tall grass hugging the fence line made her fingers tingle. “Dad called this morning. He’s been chatting with Mr. Donovan.”
“I remember them being close.” Ryan turned his head, and she wanted more than ever to see his eyes.
Serious eyes, maybe more chestnut than tawny. At the café they’d flashed when she’d accused him of needing her seal of approval. She’d guessed they were as hard as petrified wood when he’d accused her of a temper tantrum. “Aren’t you curious about why I’m bringing it up?” she asked.
He ran his hand over his dog’s head, a habitual gesture. “I’m curious about you.” His husky growl momentarily silenced her, a quicksilver slide under her guard.
Her heart dropped to her toes. “You bought him out three years before you took over. You let him choose his own departure date.”
“It suited me.” His strides ate up the distance.
“It made a huge difference to him.” She had to hurry to keep up. Her father said Donovan couldn’t stop singing Ryan’s praises.
“From a callous bastard to a Good Samaritan.” He halted abruptly. “That’s quite a leap, Grace.” His tone scalded.
“I’m not granting you all the virtues.” She was trying to navigate around ten years of silence. “Giving Donovan control was decent and shows you understood how hard it was for him to leave.” Ryan’s treatment of an old man demanded Grace’s respect and provided a blueprint for how he might treat others.
He’s already lent you Bluey.
Distrusting strangers was an early lesson for Grace—cause and effect had stamped their mark on the faces of people she loved. Her father still doubted himself because of Smithhouse’s swindle. Scars remained from when Tessa’s biological father had tried to steal custody of her. Not because he loved her. To punish Jake and Ella for falling in love. She knew it was wrong to watch people, always expecting to be tricked or lied to, but she couldn’t help herself. Ryan’s actions had given her pause; first Donovan, now he’d repaid a debt to her father. Bluey said little, although his occasional laconic asides added weight to the view Ryan paid attention to people.
