The Goodbye Ride (5 page)

Two Border Collies shot from a
big Colorbond shed to one side of the driveway and darted at her car, barking,
as if they thought the Hyundai was a lost sheep that needed rounding up. The
sound of chickens and roosters joined the barking dogs and the scent of wood
smoke swirled into the car.

Liv slowed. Squashing the farm
animals would not be the best way to start the weekend.

Parking near the shed, she was
unbuckling her seatbelt when her eyes lit on the Ducati in the left bay, fuel
tank gleaming red against the white of an old beer fridge. At the sight of it,
a big happy bubble expanded in her chest, only to pop when a dog batted its
paws at the driver’s window.

“Get down you crazy hound,”
she scolded it with a pat.

Liv buzzed the window up and
grabbed her beanie, gloves and sunglasses from the passenger seat then climbed
from the car.

Glancing up at the house, she
saw Owen push through the front door. His short hair was spiked and tousled,
like he’d leapt from his sheets when he heard the dogs bark, and a smile
crinkled the corner of his mouth. Their eyes locked. Something Liv couldn’t
define tumbled through her chest and her step hitched mid-stride.

Why can’t he wear proper
clothes?

Owen wore a black tee-shirt,
one with a logo on the front she didn’t recognise, and khaki work shorts that
clung to his thighs. It left
way
too much skin on display for this hour
of the morning. Way too much beautiful, smooth, skin.

Liv’s entire body slowly
warmed, like sunrise radiating from inside her, out.

How a girl was supposed to
prune a vineyard alongside a body like
that
was anybody’s guess. She’d
slice her damn thumb off.

A second man, taller but not
so broad, followed. This guy was propped on a pair of crutches, one of which he
poked through the door before it could swing shut
.

“Morning,” she called to the
two men, willing her voice to sound normal, batting away hyper dogs that were
determined to sniff her crotch and trip her up, both at the same time.

“Morning,” Owen answered,
sitting on a fabric couch on the front veranda, jamming his foot into a boot. A
work belt snaked beside him.

Liv stopped just shy of the
pink camellia and tried not to ogle his arms.

“Didn’t anyone tell you it’s
winter? It’s five degrees outside.” She pulled her work beanie over her ears, a
knitted no-nonsense brown one made in Nepal, and snapped her sunglasses in
place.

Before Owen could answer, the
man on crutches offered: “Owen doesn’t feel the cold.” He put the end of a
crutch in Owen’s boot and jigged it so that Owen had to grab for the boot
before it bobbled beyond reach.

“I’m Mark,” he said to Liv. He
had brown eyes and hair at least six months overdue for a cut. His left leg was
encased in a moon boot and he’d cut a slit in the leg of his tracksuit pants to
make them fit over the splint.

“Meet my cousin,” Owen said to
Liv. “Mark, this is Olivia.”

“Liv,” she said, distracted by
the way the tendons in Owen’s forearms slid as he tugged at the second boot.
Then, because this visit was purely business and at some stage, she needed to
get that through her thick head, she added: “I didn’t know what you had by way
of tools, Owen, so I brought some things from home. They’re in the car.”

“Great. Let’s get started,”
Owen leapt down the steps and clipped the workbelt around his hips.

Liv baulked. “You don’t want a
jacket?”

“I’m fine like this.”

Good golly Miss Molly.

“Have fun,” Mark called,
turning back into the house.

Liv recrossed the yard and
opened the Hyundai’s boot. Owen, a step behind her, peered in the back.

“Wow. Check that out.” He
reached around her for the orange and black Felcotronic, bumping her shoulder
as he took the tool’s weight.

Liv grabbed his wrist. “Hands-off,
Junior.”

The shock of his skin fizzed
through her palm and made her drop his arm like it burned. Silvery thrills ran
up and down her spine and thank God she could lean her thighs against the car,
she needed the support.

Liv picked up the Felcotronic
and reminded herself she was a businesswoman—a level-headed one—and this was
just a lapse.

“These are for you.” She
slapped secateurs and a big pair of tree loppers in Owen hands before leaning
back into the trunk. “So is this.”

He examined the fluorescent
green vest she handed him.

“It’s a safety vest, so I’ll
know where you are all the time,” she blurted.

“You’ll always know where I
am.” His eyes did that midnight tango move with hers and she was first to look
away.

Grabbing her own safety vest
plus an uber-practical navy raincoat, Liv shut the boot. “Are you sure you
don’t want to get a coat or something?”
A big ugly yellow raincoat,
preferably. Cover those arms up.

“Nah. If it rains I’ll borrow
yours.”

“You’ll…? I beg your pardon?”

“I’ll borrow yours. We can
stretch it over our incredibly safety-conscious heads. You don’t take up much
space.” Owen indicated the vineyard with a sweep of his arm. “Shall we?”

Liv cast her eye to the sky.
The grey mush wasn’t ominous. The worst thing was, now she didn’t know if she
wanted sunshine, or rain. Her head filled with cosy images of being tucked up
with Owen under her coat.

She walked with him across the
gravel, stepping off into lush grass high enough to lick at the top of her
boots. The dogs came too, black and white balls of energy, sniffing at every
post.

“So where do you want to
start?”

Liv shrugged an arm into the
strap of the Felco carrypack. “This is as good a spot as any.”

The unit wasn’t heavy. The
batteries were full and she knew from experience she’d get close to two days
before they’d need recharging. Two days should be plenty of time to finish the
job.

Where is the other strap?
She flailed for it with her right arm.

Then Owen was by her side. He
guided her arm into the strap and tugged lightly to make sure it was secure.
Liv could feel his strength with every jostle, only he didn’t stop at her
shoulders, he followed the line of each strap down the front of her chest,
pulling to test the strain.

“Those straps shouldn’t pinch,
Liv. You had them too tight.” His voice was rough, and it came from a place way
too close to her temple for comfort. She didn’t dare look up. If he saw the
expression in her eyes, he’d know the slide of his knuckles was…
Oh God,
how it was turning her on.

What’s wrong with me?
It was a hysterical squeak inside her
head.

“Thanks.” Liv swallowed hard
and stepped away. “Your aunt’s had this vineyard pre-pruned. See? The canes are
trimmed back. We pick the healthy vines and clean them up. Okay?”

He saluted.

She ignored him. “Watch and
learn.”

She switched the Felcotronic
on and moved to the start of the vine row. As she talked, she demonstrated.
“These vines are about twenty years old, I’d reckon. So they’re still
teenagers, but they’ve been around a while and some need taking down a peg or
two. See?” She indicated a spot near the end post where there was a cluster of
crossed canes.

“It’s a bit like pruning a
rose bush. We want to clean everything out to let air circulate. Cut out any
dead wood and make lots of room for the new buds to grow. Grapevines fruit on
new wood.”

Owen’s boot nudged hers as he
leaned around her to watch and the contact sent butterflies cartwheeling
through her stomach.

Focus, Liv.

“We want to pick the
healthiest spurs and cut them back to two buds. Here,” Liv moved the electric
pruners into place and touched the trigger. Shining blades sliced through the
vine as if it were a stick of soft cheese. She moved to the next spur,
squeezed: “And here.”

Canes swished to the ground.

“When do I get a go with that
thing?” Owen asked.

“You don’t.” Liv moved down
the row, snipping as she went. “If you come across knotty bits like this where
there are no new spurs growing at all, you can cut that section back
completely. That’s where those loppers come in to it.”

“Okay. It looks simple enough.
I’ll give it a go.”

She pointed him to the row of
vines behind her so that they would be working back to back. It was safer that
way. He couldn’t accidentally chop her finger off, vest or no safety vest.

See? Level headed.
Liv gave herself a silent cheer.

Owen cut into the vine. The
secateurs cleaved easily in his capable hands. Liv watched for a minute, made a
couple of observations and let him go. She pulled on black wool gloves with the
fingers cut out and began work in earnest.

It was quiet in the vineyard,
there was no wind to rustle the canes and they were a long way from the main
roads. The only sound was the snip of blades and the gentle sigh of sticks
falling to the ground. The dogs huffed around them for a while, but when they
were convinced their humans would do nothing more exciting, they returned to
the shed.

Grudgingly, the thermometer
rose and the fog lifted.

“What did your cousin mean
about you not feeling the cold?” She asked once, readjusting her beanie over
her ears.

Owen counted two buds and
pruned back his spur, then stood straight. He swapped the secateurs from his
right hand to his left and flexed his fingers. When their eyes met, Liv felt
the contact shimmer between them.

“I spent last summer in
Antarctica. I only got back to Hobart in early May. It was minus twelve degrees
at Wilson the week I left, so I kind of have a whole new perspective on cold.”

His penchant for tee-shirts
and shorts suddenly made more sense.
“Antarctica? Wow. What were you
doing? Are you a scientist?”

“Nah, a mechanic.”

She shivered. “I can’t imagine
doing something like that. What’s it like?”

“White. Dry. Freezing most of
the time.”

“Good people?”

“Yeah. Some really good
people. Some idiots too. And there’s no getting away from them. It’s not like
you can get on a bike and ride off if you need to clear your head.”

“I guess not.” Liv turned her
attention back to the vine. Spur. Bud. Slice. She finished her row first, moved
across two, and started up the next one.

“Why Antarctica?” She asked,
once she’d worked back close enough that she didn’t have to shout.

“I needed to get away for a
while.” His face clouded and she thought he’d been about to say something else,
then he shrugged: “If you want to earn good money these days it’s either do it
in the mines, or go somewhere else remote. I didn’t really like the idea of
working fly in, fly out, and in the mines I’d probably just drink whatever I
made. I looked into spending a season in Antarctica and talked to a few people
who’d spent time down there and it sounded good. I’m glad I did it.”

“Was it lonely?”

“Not lonely. Not exactly. I
took my guitar and a couple of instructional DVDs and I promised myself that by
the time April rolled around I’d have some John Renbourn arrangements down pat.
There’s nothing like trying to learn Renbourn to teach a guy like me patience.”

He played guitar? It didn’t
fit with the Owen she was trying her hardest not to like. “Who’s John
Renbourn?”

“He’s a guitarist’s guitarist.
Take it from me.”

“I’ll have to. I’ve never
heard of him.” Then after a beat: “So are you going back?”

“I’m not sure. I haven’t
decided.”
Snip.
His cane fell cleanly and he looked up.
“It’s
complicated.”

“Because?”

“There’s a few reasons,” he said. “One is
my grandfather. He isn’t well.”

“Where is he?”

“Usually he lives here, with Aunt Margaret
and Mark. But my aunt needs to get the vineyard ready for winter and now that
Mark’s hurt his leg, she can’t have two invalids to look after. That’s why I
offered to come up here and help out. She’s registered Granddad for respite
care this week at the centre in Hahndorf.”

Owen made another cut. “He’s not happy
about that either. He reckons all they do all day is sit in their chairs and
dribble until someone turns on the TV. If there are more men in the room than
women, he reckons he might get some football to watch. Otherwise, it’s
Bold
and the Beautiful.
”

Liv giggled. “The centre in Hahndorf has a
good reputation. I don’t think it’s like that there.”

“That’s what we told Granddad, but he’s a
stubborn old bugger.”

She was moving steadily up the hill away
from him and had to raise her voice to ask her next question. “What about your
parents? Couldn’t your Pop have stayed with them for a week?”