MisplacedCowboy (12 page)

He’d gently removed Monet’s hands from his belt buckle when
she’d finished climaxing, shaking his head with a small smile on his lips.
“Later,” was all he’d said.

She’d given him a curious look, almost a cautious one, but
he hadn’t relented. He couldn’t. He knew then, just as he knew now, if he’d let
Monet unzip his fly and withdraw his hard-on from his jeans they’d still be in
her apartment making love. And while that was the only thing he wanted to
do—make love to her, worship her, give her pleasure over and over again as she
gave him pleasure in return—he couldn’t let himself.

Not until he figured out what he was going to do next.

Not until he knew where he was going to be tomorrow. The
next day. And the day after that.

Here in New York? Or back home?

Back at Farpoint Creek.

Dylan’s gut clenched at the thought. He’d never been so
bloody conflicted. Had he thought he was messed up a day ago? When he was under
the impression Annie was meant to be his future? Fuck, that was nothing to how
he was feeling now. Now it wasn’t a woman messing with his head, it was a whole
bloody country. Two of them.

No matter how hard he tried, every time he imagined himself
somewhere apart from Farpoint, he failed. But every time he tried to imagine a
life without Monet, he failed that too. If he didn’t have an ego the size of
Ayres Rock he’d be worried about his sense of self-esteem. But it wasn’t his
self-esteem taking a pounding from his current situation, it was his sanity.

Now he had to do something about it.

That something was to be outside, be in the city. Exist in
the city. Try to picture himself there for a long time.

And he thought dragging snakes out of the main billabong
back home was tricky.

“This is beautiful, isn’t it?”

Monet’s question drew his gaze to her face and he found her
smiling at the sights around them. After breakfast in a crowded restaurant,
where the staff seemed determined his coffee mug never come close to emptying,
they’d wandered the SoHo district, Monet buying supplies for their picnic,
pointing out quirky little facts about the area only a local would know.

When the lady behind the counter at one store realized he
was Australian, she asked him to say “g’day”. He did, and she laughed and
commented how different New York must be from his home. He agreed. It was. Very
different.

Chatting about art and movies and Australia and America,
they’d finally made their way to the Great Lawn at Central Park, the large
expanse of lush grass the perfect place for a picnic. All around them children
in scarves and beanies laughed as they flew kites. Lovers necked on blankets,
uncaring of those around them. Businessmen in expensive suits and ties scarfed
down street-vendor hotdogs as they consulted tablet computers and talked the
mobile phones plastered to their ears.

It was, as far as Dylan could work out from his mother’s
addiction to Woody Allen movies, the quintessential New York scene. And yet the
movies never conveyed just how loud the traffic was, rising over the park’s
serenity. Nor how dank the air was, nor how gray the skyline. At least to
Dylan’s senses.

There wasn’t a moment of quiet peace, even in an area of
parkland roughly the size of Farpoint Creek’s main homestead yard. Hell, he was
even finding it hard to hear the leaves rustling in the wind. Leaves no longer
green but copper-red and brown from the chilly weather. With this much breeze
at home, the leaves would be singing their soft song and he’d be able to hear
it. He’d be able to hear the magpies call to each other on the wind instead of
dueling car horns trying to out-blast each other in the nearby streets.

He walked beside Monet, his arm encircling her back, her
warmth seeping into his body, and looked at her world. The world he’d been
trying to place himself in since the moment he’d accepted he was in love with
her.

He took it all in, his pulse growing fast. The people, the
grass—greener than any blade back home—the concrete sidewalks that designated where
you should walk and were you shouldn’t, all so different from the home he knew.
He looked up at the massive monoliths stabbing into the sky, building after
building of metal and concrete and glass so high their shadows seemed to reach
for everything around them.

He saw it all, recognized it as beautiful, but he couldn’t
feel
it. The only beauty he could feel in this place was the woman who’d asked,
“This is beautiful, isn’t it?”

And there was the answer to the question threatening his
sanity. If the only thing that moved him here, the only thing that he found
truly beautiful was Monet, he didn’t belong here.

Dylan’s feet stumbled beneath him. He stopped, drew in a
deep breath and stared at the New York skyline, the inescapable buildings
looming over him, blocking far too much of the sky. He stared up at it and
thought of his home, of Farpoint. Of the never-ending blue sky that reached
from one flat horizon to the other. The paddocks that unfurled before him as he
rode his horse across them, Mutt yapping at the cattle, tail wagging, tongue
lolling. He thought of the sweet scent of eucalyptus on the air after a rain.
He thought of his brother, his mother. He thought of the sweeping plains that,
to a stranger, would look empty and devoid of life but was really teeming with
it.

He thought of his home.

He thought of Farpoint Creek.

He thought of Australia.

And was unable to avoid the answer he’d been so desperately
trying to refuse.

His heart slammed into his throat. Blood roared in his ears.
Tearing his stare from the famous metropolis, he turned his gaze to the woman
he was irrevocably, completely, one hundred percent in love with.

“Monet?”

She swung her gaze to his, and his soul died a little as he
watched the smile she’d been wearing fade from her lips. It was the fact he’d
called her Monet, maybe, instead of love? Or the expression on his face?
Something told her.

You never were any good at poker, Sullivan. Guess you
know now why Hunter kicks your butt every time.

“Monet,” he said, sliding his arms around her, pulling her
closer. Needing to feel her against his body. “I need—”

She shook her head. “Please don’t say it, Dylan.” She caught
her bottom lip with her teeth and shook her head again. “Please?”

His gut clenched. His chest tightened. “I have to, love.”
His voice left him on a whisper, his throat too tight to speak. “It’ll only
hurt us both if I don’t.”

She closed her eyes, pressed her forehead to his chest and
shook her head once again. “Don’t.”

“I love you, Monet,” he said, holding her, aching for her.
“I can’t even find the words to tell you how much, and I know my heart is with
you, only you, but my
place
…” He paused, his chest crushed by an
invisible vice, his whole body in agony.

Don’t say it, Sullivan. ’Cause once you do, you can’t
take it back.

“My place is back home. In Australia. I don’t belong here.
And I have to go.”

Chapter Eleven

Monet stared at the Australian stockman before her, his
square jaw untouched by a razor for at least four days, his hat hiding the
expressive laughter in his eyes. She let her gaze roam over his face, a face
she would never forget.

And smashed her balled fist into his strong, hawkish nose.

The clay—still soft despite being manipulated for the better
part of the day—flattened under her knuckles, mashing the stockman’s nose until
it was nothing but a knuckle-shaped indent.

She studied the new shape of her artwork’s face and let out
a frustrated sigh. It was the third one she’d created and destroyed since she’d
started sculpting on Black Friday The third savaged by her fist since Dylan
left, four hours after he’d told her he had to return to Australia.

Each time she punched the lump of clay she’d shaped, carved,
pinched and molded to look like a typical hardworking stockman, a wave of hot
satisfaction rolled over her. Followed by an emptiness so total and complete
she wanted to sob.

Try as she might, she couldn’t convince herself the
sculptures were anyone else but Dylan.

Art had always been therapeutic for her. She’d exorcised her
parental demons through her first New York exhibition, a collection of
sculptures and lithographs depicting a deranged family in various situations.
As her career had flourished and her reputation grew as an artist not afraid to
unsettle as well as charm with her creations, she’d worked through many issues.
Her last exhibition,
Lust is Love is Lust
, had indeed been partly
influenced by Phillip Montinari, just as he’d boasted. But only those works
capturing the distorted egotism of sexual power. Phillip and guys like him.
Guys who used their sexual prowess to define themselves.

The works depicting romantic fulfillment and love, however,
were the embodiment of what Monet one day hoped to find—true love and
happiness.

And she had, briefly. With Dylan.

She looked at the mashed-in face of the sculpture. What was
this work about? Was her punching the sculpture
part
of the work? Part
of the work’s meaning? Or was she just being pathetic?

Brushing hair from her face with the back of her hand, she
turned and glared at her studio sofa where Dylan had slept for four nights of
his life with her. The sofa where he’d brought her to climax again and again
with his fingers and mouth. It was a childish act to be angry at a piece of
furniture she knew, but she had no more sculptures to destroy and she’d run out
of clay.

“Oh for god’s sake, Monet. Stop being so ridiculous.”

She stormed away from the sofa and the beaten-up artwork. If
art
was
her therapy it was doing a fuck-all job. All she’d done since
the night Dylan had flown out of JFK was draw sketch after sketch of the man
and sculpt bust after bust. There was nothing in them but Dylan. No underlining
meaning to the works, no subversive subtext. Just drawings of a laughing, sexy
man in an Akubra hat. Just sculptures of a man she couldn’t bring herself to
finish because it made her hurt too much.

Staring through the window at the snow-dusted city beyond,
she blew out a wobbly sigh. She felt like shit. If this was how Annie felt
every time she had her heart ripped out, Monet was going to drown her best
friend in chocolate and suffocate her with hugs when she was back in New York.

But Annie wasn’t coming back. Not for at least another week.
And now Dylan was heading back to Farpoint.

The reality struck Monet like a fist. Her chest grew tight.
Annie and Dylan were going to be in the same country, face-to-face. What
happened if they took one look at each other and realized they really
were
meant to be?

“For fuck’s sake, stop it!”

Her shout echoed around her empty apartment.

She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to the cold
glass. Outside, snow continued to swirl and dance on the wind. It had begun
Friday night, growing heavier with each hour Dylan’s plane flew farther away
from New York. The rational part of her knew it was just weather patterns,
winter coming a few days early. The drama queen inside her, the one all
creative people lived with whether they wanted to admit it or not,
knew
it was symbolic. The man she loved had left her, and her world would forever be
cold and bleak.

After his revelation in Central Park, they’d returned to her
apartment. He’d called the airline and exchanged his ticket for the first
flight back to Sydney, one that had a six-hour layover in Denver and a two-hour
pit stop in Hawaii. One that departed JFK exactly four hours after Dylan made
the call.

Which had given her no time at all to convince him to change
his mind.

Why had she let him go? Why hadn’t she fought harder?

The memory of Dylan’s goodbye assaulted her. The touch of
his lips as he kissed her at her apartment door, the kiss that tore out her
heart. He wouldn’t let her go with him to the airport. He wouldn’t make love to
her again.

“It will hurt too much, love,” he’d said, his hand cupping
her cheek, his eyes—those laughing, mischievous green eyes—so cut with grief it
was all she could do not to cry. “If I make love to you again, I’ll never
leave.”

She’d taken his hand from her face and placed it fully on
her breast. “Then make love to me. Now. I don’t want you to go.”

He’d smiled a slow, sad smile that sheared through her like
a knife and removed his hand from her breast. “If I stay, we’ll only grow to
hate each other, Monet. I don’t belong here. And I can’t ask you to move to
Farpoint.”

Monet opened her eyes, watching the snow dance in the wind
beyond the glass. Move to Farpoint. It was an insane idea. She was an artist. A
New York artist. A damn
successful
New York artist. She couldn’t move to
a cattle station on the other side of the world.

Why not?

“Because…”

The rest of the answer didn’t come.

Heart thumping fast, she ran her gaze over the gray clouds
hugging the buildings on the other side of Central Park. What was the sky like
in Farpoint now? Was it blue? Cloudless? Was it hot there? Would she walk about
the homestead, a place she felt she already knew thanks to Dylan’s descriptions,
in shorts and a tank top? Would the sun warm her skin as much as Dylan’s arms
and love warmed her heart?

Was that what she was trying to do with her art now? Capture
that possibility?

She twisted a look over her shoulder at the abused bust of
the Australian stockman. Until she’d smashed her fist into it, it had been more
realistic than any sculpture she’d created. In fact, there was nothing in all
the works she’d furiously sketched or sculpted even remotely distorted or
abstract. They were nothing but pure, honest representations of a man in a hat
who lived in a different world than hers.

What did that mean?

A sharp knock on her apartment door made her jump. She
frowned, staring at it from across the room. Who the hell would be knocking on
her door on a Sunday afternoon? And for that matter, why hadn’t Tommy buzzed
the apartment?

Wiping her clay-crusted hands on her thighs, she crossed the
room, refusing to look at mashed-in Dylan again. Even with his face punched in
it was too damn painful.

Too damn confusing.

Whoever was on the other side of the door knocked again.
Harder this time. Sharper.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Monet muttered, releasing the locks and
yanking the door open. “Keep your shirt—”

The rest of what she was going to say faded away, lost to sinking
guilt at the sight of the man on the other side of her threshold.

“Hello, Ms. Carmichael,” Joseph Prince said, looking every
bit the all-powerful, all-crushing billionaire businessman he was. “Would you
mind telling me where my missing daughter is?”

* * * * *

Dylan took one look at his brother standing amongst the
International Arrivals crowd at Sydney airport and shook his head. “Don’t say a
bloody word.”

Hunter held up his hands. “Okay.”

Nearly thirty hours of travel time hadn’t lightened Dylan’s mood.
Every damn second of that time had been spent cursing himself. Cursing the fact
he was a bloody Australian stockman, not an American city slicker.

The Down Under Wonder. That was him.

And now here he was, back in Australia, looking at his
brother—a man he loved more than anyone would ever truly understand—and what
did he feel?

Miserable.

He’d expected to feel relieved stepping foot on Australian
soil again, even if that “soil” was the lino-covered floor of Sydney
International Airport. Instead he felt bloody miserable. And angry.

Climbing into the Farpoint Creek helicopter, he tossed his
duffel bag in the back and threw his hat on top of it. He let out a low grunt,
glad to have the damn hat off his head. Every time he touched it or looked at
it he thought of Monet.

Hell, everything made him think of Monet. He’d spent six
bloody hours in the Denver airport reading an art magazine, comparing the works
in it to hers. Convinced she was more talented than any of the artists featured
in its pages.

Six bloody hours reading an art magazine as he wondered if
it was too late to fly back to New York.

He’d forced himself onto the plane from Denver to Hawaii.
He’d forced himself onto the plane from Hawaii to Sydney.

And, if he was being truthful with himself, he was forcing
himself to buckle into the Farpoint Creek chopper.

“You going to tell me what’s going on?” Hunter asked an hour
into the trip.

Dylan pulled his stare from the carpet of eucalyptus trees
twelve thousand feet below. Sydney was long behind them, the helicopter now
flying over the expanse of country between the coast and the Outback. Miles of
populated regional cities giving way to rural farmland. Farmland surrounded by
bush and scrub. Dylan watched it all whisk by and still he waited for that
sense of serenity he’d thrown away his heart for.

“Well?” Hunter’s voice rose over the constant thrum of the
chopper, his frown part worried, part irritation. If Dylan had been in a better
state of mind he would have laughed. “Are you?”

Dylan shook his head. “Nope.”

His brother studied him for a long moment, speculation
pulling at his expression.

Dylan rolled his eyes. “Just watch the bloody air, dickhead,
or you’ll get us both killed.”

“What do you think I’m going to do?” Hunter raised his
eyebrows. “Fly into the side of a low-flying 747?”

Dylan snorted. “If anyone was going to, it’d be you. Just
wait until I’m not in the chopper with you, okay?”

Hunter rolled his eyes this time. “Baby.”

Dylan grinned. “Moron.”

Hunter returned his attention to the chopper’s flight path,
a smile pulling at his lips. “Missed you, brother. Although I’ll punch the shit
out of you if you tell anyone I said that.”

Dylan laughed. For the first time since walking away from
Monet, he actually felt…okay. Not good. He didn’t think he’d feel good ever
again. Not deep down in his soul. But okay. If nothing else, it was good to be
back with his brother. Perhaps it wouldn’t take long at all to get over Monet.
To get back into the swing of things at home.

To forget all about the American artist.

Yeah. Right. Now who’s the moron?

Shoving the sarcastic thought aside, he raised his left leg,
plunked his foot on the chopper’s dash and threaded his hands behind his head.
“So tell me. Did you get the new herd down into the south paddock?”

Hunter threw him a sideways glare. “Get your bloody foot off
my dashboard.”

They spent the next four hours discussing the workings of
Farpoint, Hunter bringing him up-to-date on the business end of things. Dylan
could tell he was trying to avoid any mention of Annie, an uncharacteristic
tension falling over Hunter every time her name was uttered. Dylan had to
admit, he was nervous about seeing her. Not because of what he’d thought they
were going to be—a couple. But because the second he laid eyes on her, he’d be
reminded again that he’d left her best friend in New York. He’d remember the
hours lost in passion with Monet. Remember every minute.

Fuck a bloody duck. Had he done the right thing? Was any
place worth this?

“Mum’s got dinner cooking already.”

Hunter’s voice jerked Dylan back from his unsettling
thoughts.

“She said you’d need a good and proper feed after almost a
week eating American tucker.”

Dylan shrugged. “It wasn’t that bad. Except the hotdogs you
get at those street vendors. I don’t know how the Yanks can eat those things.
Especially with yellow mustard.”

Hunter laughed as he adjusted the chopper’s flight path, and
it was only when Dylan’s stomach began to feel a shift in equilibrium that he
realized where they were.

He looked out the side window, watching the Farpoint Creek
airstrip rise up below them, the never-ending expanse of the Outback
surrounding the red-dirt covered tarmac like a loving embrace.

The chopper touched down with a gentle thud, Hunter’s
piloting skill infinitely better than his skill at picking a prize stud bull.
Dylan let his gaze roam over the wide brown land beyond the air-conditioned
cabin, feeling the stirring in his soul he’d expected to feel much earlier.

His chest squeezed tight, his heart thumped hard and he
closed his eyes, the sense of being home, where he was meant to be, a
bittersweet sensation.

“Before we get out, Dylan,” Hunter began, “I need to say
something.”

Dylan opened his eyes and turned to his brother, unable to
miss the apprehension in each word. “What’s that?”

“I missed the hell out of you. Farpoint hasn’t been the same
without you. But I’m glad you took off for the States. I’m glad you thought
you’d find your soul mate on an internet dating site. And I’m glad the airline
lost your luggage.”