Christmas at Candlebark Farm (2 page)

It took a major effort of will not to curl his lip at the sandal—two-inch cork platforms with a criss-crossing of
colourful straps. This wasn't so much a shoe as a silly piece of confection. A bit like the lady herself.

He glanced at her again and his skin grew tight. She was too young, too fresh and pretty, too…shiny. It hurt his eyes to look at her.

She folded her arms and tapped a foot. ‘Well, that's an improvement.'

He snapped to, glanced down, and found that while he'd been busy cataloguing every line of her face he'd streaked her shoe with grease. He cut back something rude and succinct. Black streaks slashed through the green ones, in some spots completely replacing them. There was no way he'd get that grease out.

Nice one, Hillier. How are you going to convince the lady to stay now?

‘I'll pay for the damage,' he found himself offering.

‘Not necessary. They only cost me five dollars in a sale and, believe me, I've had my five dollars' worth out of them. But…'

She stared at the sandal, lips pursed, and then she glanced up at him. That glance—it hit him square in the chest. Her eyes were grey—a clear, light grey that somehow picked up and reflected the colour of her surroundings. At the moment he could pick out flecks of green from the nearby bottlebrush tree, blue from the sky, and gold from the swaying fields of wheat. He blinked, floundered, and tried to find his centre of gravity.

‘Have you wiped all that disgusting stuff off?'

By ‘disgusting stuff' he figured she meant the horse manure. He'd never seen anyone react so irrationally to a bit of dung before.

He reminded himself about the overdraft, and the fact she was only staying for one week. If he could calm her down and convince her to stay, that was.

He made a show of checking the shoe carefully. ‘There's
a stain here and here—' he showed her ‘—but the shoe itself is clean.'

‘So…it doesn't smell of…?'

God give him strength. ‘No, it doesn't smell of…' His voice trailed off in a mocking imitation of hers before he could help himself.

Thankfully, she didn't seem to notice. Instead she took the shoe and surveyed it. ‘Do you think I could black the cork somehow? I know they only cost five dollars, but they're so comfortable.'

He tried to hide his surprise. ‘You could give it a go.' He doubted if the end result would set the world of fashion on fire, but he was determined to humour her.

And then just like that she bent down and slid the sandal back onto her foot as if it had never touched ‘disgusting stuff.' In the process, though, she overbalanced and had to grab his arm for support.

It was not that he wasn't happy to lend that support—it was better than her landing flat on her face—but she let go so quickly, and then she blushed. Like she had at the back steps, when she'd realised she'd been caught out staring at him. And he wasn't happy about that—the reminder of his own reaction to that steady appraisal and the feminine appreciation that had momentarily lit her face. It had flooded him with hormones he'd forgotten all about, filling him with a primitive need he'd done his best to disown.

He took a step back, fighting the urge to rub the imprint of her hand from his skin. She was soft and warm.

He didn't do soft and warm.

She smelt like vanilla.

Trouble. That was the word that flashed through his mind. His every instinct told him this woman was trouble.

She wore a pair of three-quarter-length jeans and a hot pink top that tied at the waist and left her shoulders bare.

He tried to dismiss her as pale and skinny.

It didn't work. She wasn't pale. Her skin gleamed, luminous like ivory. It wasn't the kind of skin that would tan in the sun—if it got burned it would blister and peel—but to call it pale didn't do it justice. And skinny? He swallowed. Those jeans were a snug fit. Too snug. She might be slender, but she had hips that flared, a waist that curved in, and breasts that would fit in the palms of—

He cut that thought dead.

Her gaze speared back to him. ‘Give me one good reason why I should stay at Candlebark?'

He forced his mind from the shape of her lips. ‘Follow me.' He led her up the front steps and around to the side of the veranda. ‘Look at that.' He gestured to the view. ‘It can't be beaten.' He stared at the thousands of swaying heads of wheat and some of the tension eased out of him.

She glanced at it, and then back at him. ‘Well…it is kind of pretty,' she allowed.

He folded his arms. ‘The perfect place for a country holiday.'

‘But I'm not here on holiday.'

He unfolded his arms and tried to think of something else that might tempt her. She'd said something about country hospitality. He pointed to a nearby bench. ‘That's a great spot to have coffee in the morning. And, um…' He scratched a hand through his hair. ‘And for a glass of wine in the evenings.' That sounded hospitality-ish, didn't it?

Her lips twitched. ‘So that's your selling point is it—an old bench?'

It wasn't that old! It… Okay, perhaps it was. But—

‘And as I'm currently abstaining from both caffeine and alcohol…'

He slammed his hands to his hips. This woman had turned being difficult into an art form!

‘Still, if you substitute chamomile tea for coffee…'

He gave up trying to read her expression from the corner of
his eye and turned to face her fully. She met his gaze without blinking. Her hair—red-gold—tumbled around her face and shoulders in a riot of messed up curls and wispy bits, fizzing up around her sunglasses. It made her look wild and full of mischief, like an errant fairy.

Luke swallowed. He needed water. A long, cold glass of water. He was so dry. He couldn't remember the last time thirst had plagued him with such ferocity.

He cleared his throat and stared back out at his wheat. ‘Look, I'm sorry about earlier. I thought you were after some kind of hokey family-farm-stay. Candlebark isn't set up for that sort of thing. I usually only rent the room out to temporary mine workers. It's coming up to harvest, and I'm too busy to…'

He trailed off. The words that had sprung to mind were
play host
. He wasn't a host. He was a landlord, and she was a temporary—very temporary—lodger. ‘And of course you have full access to the kitchen while you're here. You can use the dining and living rooms too if you want.' No skin off his nose. He didn't care if she took over the entire house. He was hardly ever in it anyhow.

She surveyed him for a minute, and then she grinned. That off-balance thing happened to him again.

‘Help me unload the car?'

He shrugged. ‘Yeah, sure.'

‘Then I guess you have yourself a guest for the next week, Mr Hillier.'

Lodger, not guest. He bit back the correction and reminded himself about the hospitality thing. ‘Luke,' he offered from between gritted teeth. ‘Why don't you call me Luke?'

He followed her out to her car and tried not to notice how sweetly she filled out those jeans of hers. He'd carry her bags in and then he was getting back to his tractor. Fast.

 

Luke returned to the barn and the relatively uncomplicated workings of his tractor. Finishing up the repairs—the tightening of that single nut—took roughly forty-five seconds.

He stowed his tools and then glared at the pile of horse dung that had so offended his ‘guest'. The look on her face when she'd stood in the stuff! He seized a spade. The last thing he needed was a repeat performance. He mucked out the horse stalls and removed all signs of horse manure from the barn and its immediate surrounds. That took half an hour.

Next he set about cleaning the tack. He rubbed leather conditioner into his saddle, all the while searching his brain for anything else she might find offensive about the farm—anything as earthy as horse manure, that was—but he came up with a blank. Since Jason's border collie had died—hit by a car eight months ago—he, Jason and the horses were the only living, breathing beings on Candlebark. As long as you didn't count snakes, spiders, lizards, the odd kangaroo or ten, possums, bees and hornets.

He let rip with an oath. What if something else spooked her? What if she just upped and left without so much as a by-your-leave after all?

He threw his cloth down. He'd planned to start clearing the western boundary paddock this afternoon. Get it ready for sowing in April. At the moment it was choked with Paterson's Curse. He sighed and admitted defeat. He wouldn't get out there today. He'd best stay close to the homestead in case anything set his ‘guest' off again.

He didn't doubt his first instinct about her—that she was trouble with a capital T—but her money was as good as the next person's, and for the next three weeks—until they had the harvest in—every penny counted.

He glanced at his watch. He'd shown her to her room roughly an hour and a half ago. At least she couldn't complain about that! Her room was big and clean. Spotless, in fact. Luke knew because he scrubbed it to within an inch of its life every week.

But if ants had invaded the pantry again or if, heaven forbid, she caught sight of a mouse…

His temples started to pound and an ache stretched behind his eyes. He wanted nothing more than to get into his ute and bolt—lose himself in the wide plains and open skies of his land. He set his mouth and strode outside. With one longing glance at the swaying fields of gold, he turned towards the house.

He found his lodger in the kitchen, waiting for the jug to boil. A box—in fact several boxes—of herbal tea snuggled up against his jar of instant coffee. A loaf of bread nestled next to the already full breadbox—one of those fancy boutique loaves that were more seed than bread. He didn't know why people bothered. If they wanted seeds, why didn't they just buy seeds?

A women's magazine and a local real-estate guide graced the table. He rolled his shoulders, stretched his neck first to the left and then to the right. He was hardly ever in the house—who cared where she put her stuff?

The jug came to the boil and Keira reached for a mug—his mug. He opened his mouth. He shut it again with a snap. What did it matter what mug she used?

She gestured to the teas and coffee, sent him one of those seemingly effortless smiles of hers. ‘Would you like one?'

‘No, thanks.'

He didn't want her thinking long, lazy afternoon teas or leisurely meals were commonplace around here. He'd stopped work to make sure she had everything she needed, that she was reasonably comfortable. End of story.

‘Is everything up to scratch?' His voice came out rusty, as if he hadn't used it in a long time. ‘Are you happy with your room?'

‘It's more than adequate, thank you.'

Adequate?

‘I cleared a shelf in the fridge and another in the pantry for my things. I hope that's okay?'

‘Perfectly.' He worked hard at keeping his tone neutral.
She was here for one week—seven days. After today they'd be lucky to spend more than five minutes in each other's company. He just wanted to make sure she hadn't gone and got spooked again.

‘Oh.' She swung around from pouring boiling water into his—her—mug. ‘You have ants in the pantry. Thought I'd best warn you.'

He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck and steeled himself for outrage.

‘My grandmother used to leave a jar of honey open for them in our pantry. They seemed to leave everything else alone after that.'

He stopped rubbing his nape and steeling himself to stare at her. She'd turned back to jiggle her teabag. ‘Let me get this straight. Ants don't faze you, but a bit of horse dung has you running for cover?'

Actually, it had frozen her to the spot and had turned her a deathly shade of green.

She stilled, but didn't turn around. She jiggled her teabag with renewed enthusiasm. ‘Haven't you ever had an irrational aversion to anything before?'

You bet! Going into town, for one, and having to endure the stares, the speculation in strangers' eyes as they were no doubt trying to assess if what his in-laws said about him was true.

She dropped her teabag into the kitchen tidy, then turned with hands on hips. He answered with a non-committal shrug. Her lips twitched, as if something funny had just occurred to her. ‘I bet I could name a few things you'd be averse to—male cologne, skin care products.'

He stiffened. Did he smell? ‘Perfume's for girls,' he growled. So was that goop they slathered on their faces. And he didn't smell of anything worse than honest sweat! ‘Right?' he demanded of Jason, who had chosen that moment to slouch into the kitchen.

‘Whatever,' Jason muttered.

Luke heaved back a sigh. Some time in the last few months Jason had turned into a moody, brooding teenager, with all the communication skills of a bad-tempered bull. ‘This is Ms Keely. She's staying here for the next week.'

Another grunt.

‘This is my son, Jason.'

Keira beamed one of those smiles at his son, and held her hand out across the table towards him. ‘It's nice to meet you, Jason. And, please, call me Keira.'

Jason stared at Keira's outstretched hand without moving. When he finally shuffled forward to shake it, Luke let out a breath he hadn't even known he'd been holding.

‘Jason's fourteen.' For the life of him, Luke didn't know why he'd parted with that particular piece of information.

‘Nearly fifteen!' Jason glared, and then he shuffled his feet. ‘I though you were clearing the boundary paddock?'

‘I'm a bit behind schedule.' Luke managed not to glance at Keira as he said it. ‘Tractor had an oil leak.'

Jason stared down at his feet. ‘Need a hand?'

‘Nah, it's all good.' It wasn't his son's responsibility to get the farm back to full running capacity—that responsibility rested on his shoulders alone. Jason should be hanging out with his friends and having fun—doing whatever teenagers did these days.