Ringer (6 page)

Chapter Ten

Miranda

Fighting against
him was useless.

No matter how I had resisted, or how much I
tried to dig my heels in, Ringer yanked me forward like a ragdoll.

What had been an annoying accident of kicking
the bucket that sat in my room near the door soon reminded me of a memory from
long ago. I had picked up the silver tin bucket that had a frayed working of
thin rope attached. A smile spread thin and devious.

I couldn’t, could I?

Of course it wasn’t exactly an original
idea; it was an old classic prank that Bluey had masterminded back in the day.
I didn’t know if it was boredom that plagued the shearers or living away from
home months at a time. But it usually had them scheming and setting up pranks
on one another that would result in a chorus of riotous laughter thundering
from the huts. Bluey had rigged up the bucket above the door for the
unsuspecting target. If there wasn’t a yabby in your drink bottle, your beds
would be short sheeted. And seeing as I didn’t have a spare yabby on me, and
there would be no chance I would be going anywhere near Ringer’s bed, I looked
over the bucket and up to the door, grinning like the Cheshire cat. Of course,
it may not have worked at all, and boy did I have to put on some Academy
Award-winning skills. There had been a point when I thought he wouldn’t come or
call out. Maybe he was taking great joy in me being upset?

Bastard.

But sensing movement in the room next door
gave me hope and I amped up my performance. Before I knew it, I heard his
footsteps and the tap on the door. My heart had leapt into my throat.

Oh shit!

My eyes darted up to the precarious bucket
over the door. I bit my lip, feeling a moment of regret until he started
speaking. It sounded forced, uncomfortable, as if he just wanted me to shut up
already. My brows lowered; I would give him something to shut up about, I
thought, and as I got myself ready to stand on my bed with great satisfaction
as he announced he was coming in, I waited for my moment of glory.

And, oh, don’t get me wrong: it had been
glorious, for about ten seconds. The one lesson I never thought to learn from
the shearers’ practical jokes was, were the ten seconds of joy really worth the
torture of what may come?

And I knew what was coming; I could as good
as read Ringer’s mind as he pulled me towards the large water trough that
caught the overflow of the shearers’ quarters. Cold, murky and usually had some
animal slurping out of it: my mind froze with horror thinking of my four-hundred-dollar
Italian leather boots.

“Ringer, don’t. I mean it,” I pleaded
quickly.

He spun me around, catching me by my wrists
and leaning me precariously back as my butt rested on the trough.

I put on my best sad, pleading eyes of
mercy. “Please, don’t,” I said.

Of course, I was talking to the one person
I had almost ran over, flipped off, told to fuck off, woken up, accused of
being a pervert, all before drenching him with water, and stomping my heel into
his foot. Yeah, I’m sure batting my eyelashes would get me out of this one.

Ringer just smiled, slow and wicked, as he
shook his head—as good as saying not a chance. He went to loosen his grip, but
I hooked my legs around his thighs.

“Hang on, hang on, wait a minute, will you
just wait a minute?” I blurted out, his brow cocking with interest.

My breathing was shallow; I felt like I was
on borrowed time as I nervously glanced backwards. He probably wouldn’t listen
but I still had to plead my case.

“Look, you can turf me in as many times as
you want, but my boots are really expensive, and …”

“Your boots?” He laughed.

“Yes.”

“The ones that have their heel imprinted on
my foot?”

I grimaced. “Yes.”

Ringer looked down at me for a long, broody
moment, before a smile pinched the corner of his mouth.

“Chicks and their shoes,” he said, shaking
his head. “All right then, it’s more notice than you gave me, but you can keep
your bloody boots dry.”

My body visibly sagged. Until he moved my
hands to his shoulders.

“Hold on,” he said.

Seeing as the grip on his shoulders was the
only thing that was preventing me from tumbling backwards, I did so without
argument. I dug my fingers in, finding purchase in the corded muscular sinew.

A dimple creased on his right cheek when he
smirked, and I wondered how I had never seen it before. He lifted my leg up and
without breaking from my eyes once, he unwrapped my laces, roughly yanking at
them one by one; it seemed oddly sexual, the way his eyes burned into mine, how
each tug and unravel of his fingers felt like he was undressing me. I blinked,
probably for the first time when my boot fell to the floor; he then worked on
the other. I swallowed, trying not to think about the strength in his broad
shoulders, the way they felt under my fingers that were white from the
intensity of their hold. My other boot thudded to the floor and I blinked out
of my daze, met once again with his hazel eyes. Okay, the boots would live to
see another day, and my eyes dipped to my black sheer top; that had not been
cheap either, I remembered, biting my lip as I took in the silken fabric.

Ringer reached out and bunched the fabric
in his hand at my rib cage; my head snapped up in alarm.

“Do you want this off too?” he said, with a
wicked glimmer in his eyes.

“NO,” I said quickly.

Ringer sighed, letting go of my top.
“Shame,” he said, before, without even a moment’s warning, grabbing my legs and
flipping me backwards. I plunged into the gritty depths, clawing at the water
that was turning into white foam as I coughed and spluttered, trying to find
purchase on the bottom with my now bare feet.

I wanted to yell obscenities at him, to
call him every name under the sun, but as I wiped the water from my eyes and
locked onto him, I thought better of it as he stood by holding my boots.

I couldn’t control myself not to glower at
him.

Ringer laughed. “Might want to dry off
before you put these back on.” He placed them neatly on the deck, grinning up
at me; the bastard was enjoying every minute of this.

“Night, Miranda.” He saluted his brow and
made his way back towards his room, pausing near my door. I looked on with
annoyed interest as I fumbled my way out of the trough.

Ringer bent down and picked up the black
cardi he had pulled off me earlier.

“Hey, put that back,” I yelled, stumbling
onto the decking. My bare feet padded a long determined line towards him,
reaching out for my cardi that he lifted above my head out of reach.

Such a fucking child.

I took a calming breath, and held my hand
out.

“Give me back my cardi.”

“Actually,” he said, thumbing the fabric
and looking over it, as if it was a rare diamond. “I thought I might keep it as
a trophy.”

My hand dropped to my side in frustration.
“Goddamn it, Ringer, give me it back.”

Every time I lost my shit, it only served
to entertain him to no end; his slow, wicked smile was not lost on me even as
he turned and leant by his opened door. He made sure he was looking at me as he
lazily turfed my cardi into his room, landing in a pile on his unmade bed. “You
want it?” He tilted his head. “Go and get it.”

My mouth gaped. He had thrown it expecting
me to fetch it like a dog; furthermore, I would never step inside Ringer’s
room, not in a million years.

“We’re even now,” I bit out, my hands
balled into fists as my eyes burned into his.

Ringer let out a blast of laughter, causing
me to flinch at the unexpectedness of it. He shook his head at me. “Oh,
sweetheart, we’re not even anywhere near close to even.” And with that, he
turned and closed his door behind him, leaving me on the verandah barefoot, and
in a puddle of water.

***

Yep! Ten seconds’ bliss was
not
worth this amount of torture.

As the sun crept its way up to tinge the
sky with colour, I tiptoed my way past Ringer’s closed door, not without
resisting the urge to mumble insults under my breath. I headed towards the main
house past the Mazda, God rest her soul; I couldn’t bring myself to even look
at her. It was solely because of her I was heading to the kitchen at this
ungodly hour on a Sunday morning. I decided to partake in the usual Henry
tradition of a cooked breakfast, plus I had some major sucking up to do with my
parents if I wanted to get this car fixed. It took every ounce of my being to
clamp down the rage I had for my mother from last night as I pushed the wire door
wide open.

“Good morning!” I beamed.

My mum stood frozen, hovering a spoonful of
eggs between the plate and pan; she looked like she had seen a ghost, and even
Dad paused from his newspaper, a line pinching between his brow as he wearily
looked at me as if seeing a stranger.

“You feeling all right, luv?” My dad folded
his paper, pushing it aside as he watched me with guarded interest.

My smile dipped slightly. “Of course, why
wouldn’t I be?” I half laughed as I pulled a stool next to him at the island bench.

“Moira still snoozing?” I asked innocently,
plucking a grape from the fruit bowl. Mum double blinked, unfreezing from her
stance as she quickly started dishing out the eggs before they went cold.

“Ha! You won’t see sleeping beauty before
noon,” said Dad.

“Sounds about right.” I scoffed.

“From memory, you’re not exactly a morning
person either,” said Mum, looking at me sceptically.

And she was right, I wasn’t a morning
person at all; still I hadn’t exactly fancied running into Ringer this morning
and I had planned to butter up my parents while I had the chance to have them
to myself.

Mum sat a plate of bacon and eggs down in
front of Dad. “Miranda, can you go knock on Ringer’s door and see if he would
like some breakfast?”

My grape caught in my throat causing a
coughing fit; my eyes watering, I grabbed at Dad’s orange juice to wash it
down.

“What?” I croaked.

“I’ll go,” said Dad getting up from his
stool, only to be quickly swatted back down with Mum’s tea towel.

“No, Steve, your breakfast will get cold.
Miranda, please duck out, I am putting more eggs on now,” she said to me in a
no-nonsense tone that always got my back up.

“All right, all right. I have to get some
clean clothes anyway,” I said, sliding off my stool.

“Where are your clothes?” Dad frowned as he
cut into his buttered bread.

I paused. “Um, I camped in the shearers’
huts last night.”

Both my parents looked at me now, their
eyes alarmed with speculation.

“In the second room,” I shouted. “On my
own.”

Unbelievable.

Dad squirmed in his seat. “Well just so
long as …”

“Oh yeah, Dad, as if I am going to bunk in
with Ringer,” I said, turning only to slam straight into the chest of the devil
himself, the devil and his taut, muscled chest, and damn him if he didn’t smell
amazing. Whatever cologne he was wearing was fresh and sharp, simple, yet very
masculine. I double blinked, snapping myself away from the effect it had over
me, as I clutched my shoulder, rubbing at the dull ache from having run into
him at full force.

“Whoa, look out!” He laughed, stepping
back.

I didn’t have much time to show my
annoyance as my eyes flicked down to his hands.

Oh dear God!

Ringer followed my eye line. “Oh yeah, you
must have left these …”

“Thank you!” I cut him off, snatching them
from his grasp.
I laughed nervously. “I must have left them on the verandah.” I tried not to
meet the judgmental stares of my parents, because I had known from the moment
the words left my mouth, they wouldn’t buy it for a second. Miranda Henry would
never leave her shoes outside … Period!

Chapter Eleven

Ringer

I admit it.

When it came to Miranda Henry, I had this
sick pleasure in pushing her buttons. Watching the cogs turn in her pretty
little head, seeing the rage that burned in her eyes, the incredulous gapes of
her mouth, and the thunderous steps she took as anger swirled inside of her.

Yeah, it was kinda hot.

I turned to meet the glacial stares of
Miranda’s parents in the kitchen; shit. It appeared I was also a dead man, and
inwardly cursed myself for watching Miranda storm across the driveway towards
the shearers’ huts with an air of amusement; I also realised that I had
probably watched her for far too long than was acceptable, especially with her
parents watching on. I may have got the last laugh, but she had left me in the
lion’s den, so to speak. Lucky I was a charming bastard when I wanted to be.

I smiled. “Something smells good in here,”
I said, as I casually approached the kitchen bench, taking a seat.

I could feel Steve Henry’s eyes boring into
my profile as he spoke to me. “Make sure you eat up, son, because you and I are
going to go for a little drive.”

Fuck! Ringer meet lion’s den.

***

I had thought that I may have been driven
out to a remote part of his property where Steve Henry had a shallow grave
waiting for me, the sentence had bore enough weight behind it for it to feel
like I was about to be murdered by an over-protective father. But in typical
Steve Henry style, he was upbeat and animated while we really did go for a
drive. And it wasn’t to an abandoned field; it was to his best mate, Bluey
Sheehan’s house, on the neighbouring property.

“If you need anything while we’re gone,
Bluey is your man,” Steve said.

We spent the afternoon in Bluey’s man cave,
a refrigerated, air-conditioned shed with mismatched seventies-style lounges, a
pool table, a dart board and a fridge full of cold beer.

He chucked a VB can towards me that I
caught close to my chest.

“It’s gotta be five o’clock somewhere in
the world, right?” he said with a devious wink.

Steve sighed. “Penny will kill me,” he
said, looking longingly down at the cold beer.

“Penny can’t expect you to have a business
meeting without a beer,” Bluey exclaimed, as he sat back down on the couch
turning the volume of the cricket down a bit.

“Every meeting I have with you, Blue, is a
business meeting.” Steve smiled wryly.

Bluey shrugged. “I am a business man.”

There were no two ways about it. I liked
Bluey and when I grew up, I wanted to be exactly like him. My own man, doing my
own thing, answering to no man. Or in Steve’s case, woman.

Steve walked over to the fridge and placed
it back inside. “Nah, better not, it’s not worth the hassle.”

Bluey shook his head. “Mate, you’re under
the thumb,” he said as took a sip from his beer.

“Oh, piss off,” said Steve.

“You have a big enough thumbprint on the
back of your head it would be like driving over a corrugated road.”

“Get stuffed, I’m going to use your loo,”
Steve said, walking out of the shed. The loo being the lemon tree out back.

“So, you reckon you can handle taking care
of the place for a bit?” Blue asked me in all sincerity, his steel-blue eyes
unwavering from me as he took a long draw from his can.

“Yeah, no worries, I did some jackaroo work
on my uncle’s property in Druin.”

Bluey shook his head in recognition. “But
did your uncle’s property have a Miranda Henry to deal with?”

My eyes snapped up to meet his. What did
she have to do with this? With anything?

“No,” I said, wearily.

Bluey shifted, leaning his elbows on his
knees, staring me down with such an intent look it could probably strip paint.

“Just let it be known that if you touch her
or hurt her in any way, I will staple gun your genitals to the wall, do you
understand me?”

Holy shit!

Striking the memory from the kitchen, now I
really was IN the lion’s den.

I swallowed thickly, not tearing my eyes
away for a moment. I nodded firmly, causing him to mirror my image as he sat
back. “Good,” he said, melting back into the couch.

“Is this where Steve takes all the young
men around town? To have a none-too-subtle word from you?”

A smile creased the corner of Bluey's
mouth. “Not entirely, just looking out for a mate. Miranda doesn’t exactly come
without … issues.”

My look would have said it all, a look of
intrigue, because Bluey merely laughed. “And no, I won’t tell you.”

Steve Henry walked back into Bluey’s shed
and surveyed the scene before him. “What’s going on? It’s colder than a
mother-in-law’s kiss in here.”

“I was, ah, just given some advice about
how to best take care of things at Moira,” I said quickly.

“I just told him to keep his eyes on the
job at hand.” Bluey winked at Steve.

It took a moment for Steve to catch on
before reading the sullen look on my face. Before bursting into laughter.

“You mean Miranda?” he asked.

I squirmed in my seat, looking down into my
beer before taking a sip. “It was not the most subtle advice,” I said.

Steve continued to laugh. “Oh leave him
alone, Bluey, this one’s all right. I can’t see him being any threat to
Miranda’s affections.”

I did a double take, not entirely knowing
if I should be honoured by his faith in me or offended with the fact Miranda
would not give me a second thought. I had desperately wanted to call him out on
it, but luckily Bluey did it for me.

“What makes you so sure, Steve-O?” Bluey
asked sceptically.

“Because there is no way in hell Miranda
would have any interest in a country boy.”

A country boy? I was hardly a Ballan breed;
I was an Onslowian through and through. And although it was hardly the
cobblestone streets of Paris, we did have some substance. More alarmingly, though,
why should I give a shit? So Miranda had a taste for European, Vespa-driving
blokes that looked like they belonged in a Gucci catalogue. It seemed totally
fitting to the stick-up-her-arse attitude. Good! Fine, who cares? I sure
didn’t.

I crushed my empty can in my hand and
turfed it into the wool bale that was being used as a recycling bin.

“Don’t think you need to worry, lads, as
soon as that car is fixed I am pretty certain Miranda will be leaving Moira
station in a trail of dust and burning rubber,” I said matter-of-factly.

My words fell upon a silence, a silence I
had created with my words.

Fuck! What have I done now?

Thinking I had majorly put my foot in it, I
thought I might be met with some pissed-off expressions. Instead, to my
surprise, Steve glanced sheepishly towards Bluey and then back to me.

“What?” I frowned.

Steve sighed, running his hands through his
hair.

Bluey got up, wiping the barely contained
smile from his face, chucking his crushed can in the wool bale. “Want a drink,
Steve-O?” He ambled towards the fridge to get his long-time friend a
well-needed beer.

Steve just nodded, his face a mixture of
troubled emotions that wrestled under the surface. He rubbed the back of his
neck in deep thought, before meeting my eyes. “Can you keep a secret?”

***

Some things you just didn’t want to know.

I didn’t necessarily need to hear all about
Miranda’s troubled past in Ballan, and about the low-life French boyfriend that
had broken her heart a year ago. I didn’t need to know that she had a temper and
was generally untrusting and difficult to deal with. That her mum and dad
constantly worried about her and feared she was destined to be a lost soul. And
I certainly didn’t need to hear that her dad had deliberately tampered with her
car so it wouldn’t start.

I’m sure, based on my reaction, that Steve
regretted telling me the things that he had, but as the knowledge had slowly
seeped in, and I swore that his secret was safe with me, he seemed to visibly
relax, which must have been nice for him, because as it stood after his
confession, I felt like I had a massive fucking weight on my chest.

Still, it did make one thing clear. Miranda
had demons, raw ones, and I thought it best to leave well enough alone. No more
smart-arse innuendoes, no more chasing in the dark. Aside from not wanting to
get my testicles staple gunned to Bluey's wall, I had, after all, come here to
escape everything complicated, and she was mega complicated.

They say it’s the quiet ones you have to
worry about, and she was quiet, very quiet—when she wasn’t busy despising me
with a burning passion.