Secret Confessions: Down & Dusty — Skye (2 page)

‘Skye Mad Dog Malone.’ Tall and rangy, he towered over her as she avoided looking too directly at the gleaming body built for hard work that he was practically shoving in her face. Instead she focused on his gaze, a complex wash of blue, brown, grey and green so deep that she could practically do backstroke in it, the unparalleled amazingness of his eyes fringed by dark, thick lashes that were still a source of envy to her after all these years.

He might set her time bomb ticking dangerously loud, but her heart still felt a whole lot less dusty and dry after taking a dip in that deep gaze of his and hearing his bottomless voice wrapped around the ridiculous nickname he’d bestowed upon her.

Yes, she was mad, but ‘Mad Dog’, really?

‘I thought you were back next week, Mad Dog. Did I fuck up?’

‘Nah, I came home a little early to check on you and Miss Molly.’ She registered the wag of the kelpie’s tail at her name.

‘She’s missed you, so have I.’ The corners of Bret’s eyes crinkled before he swept his hat off to run it and a brawny forearm across his dripping brow.

She frowned—not at the way his hard-packed, stripped-down torso rippled with the movement, his taut muscles flexing in a purely unintentional tease, but at his hair, his once thick, beautiful midnight hair hacked brutally short.

‘Jeepers, what happened to your hair, Rapunzel?’

He grimaced. ‘Ticks. From a dead roo I pulled out of the dam. Had to remove one from my head, but couldn’t find it without cutting most of my hair off first. Stupid, hey?’

She shook her head, kept her tone playful, though the thought of him trying to remove a tick from his head on his own stabbed her right through the heart. Were there even tweezers in the world big enough for his enormous paws to operate? She could imagine him fumbling and swearing. She forced a sassy grin. ‘So you’re wearing ticks as hair accessories now? I must say, it’s a real wonder some girl hasn’t snapped you up yet.’

He smirked. ‘Like you can talk. You still dabbing cow poop behind your ears to attract all the young farmers?’

She scowled. Damn her short arms so very unsuited to pregnancy testing cows. ‘That was
one
time. Plus, I meant to do that.’

‘Oh. You
meant
to put it there.’ He pointed a long, tanned finger at her. ‘Liar.’

Lifting her nose, she folded her arms. ‘Yes, just to see if you would notice.’

‘Notice?’ He raised dark brows.

No-o-o-o, why did she have to say that? There was nothing for him to notice about her except the time bomb of lust ticking so loudly it was a wonder he couldn’t hear it. Though sometimes it felt like he might figure it out, her crush, just by the way she blinked or blew her nose.

To cover her gaffe, she flapped a hand at the half unloaded ute. ‘Do you want me to help you finish up here?’

‘It’ll keep. Come in for a coffee.’

She nodded and nearly sagged with relief when he picked his t-shirt off the side of the utility truck and pulled it on.

Thank goodness, now there was at least a millimetre of fabric between her and disaster. But as she sailed towards the house, buoyed by relief, his next words struck like an iceberg.

‘Got a hug for me?’

Like the
Titanic
, she foundered. Hugs were dangerous. A hug could turn into a kiss, stroke or caress as quickly as airline cutlery could turn into a weapon, all it took was a slight lapse in coordination and a hand could slide to a buttock instead of staying on the safe territory of a back. Or what if her face got pressed against his chest and she just had to kiss or nuzzle it? That would never do.

What she really needed was a guidebook called
How to Hug Without Accidentally or Intentionally Groping Your Gorgeous Friend
.

Not that she
wanted
to grope him. Just her stupid body did. Her brain was totally above that sort of thing.

Bret waited, eyes patient, and it occurred to her how it would look if she
didn’t
hug him. Like she was the worst friend in the world.

She could survive a short visit to Hug Land, a sojourn into enemy territory as far as her war on lust was concerned, but an essential part of her Be A Good Friend campaign. Throat dry and lumpy, as if she’d swallowed a moccasin, she held out her arms. ‘Sure.’

In a heartbeat his powerful arms enfolded her, the force with which he pressed her against his hard chest taking her by surprise. Seemed like he’d needed a hug. And it was all working out fine rather than setting off sex time bombs and lust landmines like she’d expected. Though probably because their hug was the chastest kind in the world, the nothing-touching-below-the-waist kind that you gave your granny or your sister.

Or it seemed that way at first.

But as it went on, and the heat of his big body penetrated hers, she realised her mistake. Now she didn’t want to let go, didn’t see why she should have to, given that his body felt amazing and his t-shirt smelled like lemon fabric softener and something she couldn’t quite put her finger on, something sharp, even a little coarse, that dissolved her knees to broth.

Just as the tension of waiting for him to order her to detach herself grew unbearable, his stomach growled, and he released her with a laugh. ‘Sorry.’

She blinked and recalibrated, sutured on a happy smile. ‘That long since breakfast, huh?’

His lips curled into a rueful grin. ‘I haven’t managed breakfast yet. Got carried away with moving the hay before it got too hot.’

She shook her head. ‘And I thought
I
was absent-minded.’

He grinned. ‘No comment, Mad Dog. Let’s go eat. You wait here, Molly.’ He filled the kelpie’s water bowl with fresh water from his drink bottle and Skye was proud of herself for resisting the urge to ogle his rear when he bent to pour it. See, her brain was in control, not her knuckle-dragging body with its low-IQ hormones, or her even dimmer heart.

He led the way to the house, and as she followed him up the stairs she was unable to ignore the generous way time had dealt with his body, adding in some places and subtracting in others. His shoulders had somehow broadened, as if not already ridiculously wide before, and hard work had scooped out his waist and flanks so that his jeans rested loosely over what was no doubt a most spectacularly sculpted behind.

His lean form told her exactly what he’d been doing since she’d last seen him—working hard, perhaps too hard. She would have to keep an eye on him.

Rather than focusing on the fireworks of lust, what she needed to do was focus on the quiet satisfaction of friendship—of being there to help out, of knowing that she knew him better than anyone else. Who, besides her, knew that his first pet had been a duck and that he still loved ducks with a passion entirely unbefitting a grown-ass cowboy? Knew how much he’d hated boarding school and that he’d run away at least once, hitchhiking hundreds of kilometres just to be with his horses. Knew that his mum had died when he was six, and that while everyone else saw a ruggedly handsome, hard-working horse breeder, beneath that surface lay a vulnerable and sometimes lonely man. One so terrified of losing a single farm animal that he sometimes woke in the middle of the night and had to go check on the horses—and the ducks—before tucking the kelpie and himself back into bed.

He thought she didn’t know, but his dad had told her.

And why else had he always been so interested in the wildlife she’d rescued?

Because he was soft, soft as ice-cream left on the counter in summer.

Hell, he made her look almost armour-plated in comparison. She accepted death as part of the natural cycle, part of life, just as she accepted that Bret and she couldn’t be more than friends.

She could even see the positive side of having an unrequited crush the size of Queensland on her friend. It had protected her. If she’d seriously dated anyone before going to university in Brisbane she might have had her heart broken, or ended up a farmer’s wife with just a high school diploma instead of what she now was—a qualified vet with a five-year degree under her belt.

And that counted for something, didn’t it?

It had to.

Inside the kitchen, a room as warm and wholesome as the man before her, Bret paused to stick his nose in the armpit of his t-shirt. ‘I kind of stink. Do you mind waiting while I take a quick shower?’

Shower? Now she had to think about him
in the shower
? Slick, soapy bubbles sliding across his muscular chest and—in her imagination—stone-hard nipples. Her mouth grew thick with things she couldn’t say.
Actually, I’d like to get lost inside your pants and then jump into the shower with you once you found me.

The wayward thought almost had her covering her mouth like some bystander witnessing a car crash.

Though her thoughts sometimes resembled a car crash—ugly, messy and out of control. Was it any wonder that some folk called her nuts and Bret called her Mad Dog?

Get yourself under control, Skye.
She pictured all the un-sexiest things she could think of—washing the dishes, the mountain of un-ironed clothes waiting for her at home, cleaning the microwave oven of all those icky, sticky little bits of crap that got encrusted inside it. ‘How about I cook you breakfast while you shower?’ She gave him a big smile full of pure, domestic intentions.

He heaved a big happy sigh. ‘Sounds great.’

She stuck her head in the fridge, thinking he’d disappeared, only to almost give herself a concussion when his deep voice from the doorway snuck up on her. ‘I just wanted to say how good it is you’re back. Like,
really
good.’

She froze in the middle of taking stock of the contents of his fridge, unable to reply. After all, how good was ‘really good’? As good as winning the lottery or just good as in having a hot shower after a hard day’s work?

Before she could remove her head from his fridge he’d disappeared.

She laid out all the possibilities, the different scales and implications of ‘really good’, as she made scrambled eggs and toast with Vegemite, plus two cups of coffee. Black with one sugar for him, a splash of full-cream milk for her.

But by the time he returned in clean jeans and grey t-shirt, hair damp and smelling of citrusy shampoo and minty toothpaste, she still had no precise meaning for ‘really good’.

She gave up on trying to figure out his words. Stuff it, why not just enjoy the view? Him clean, crisp and fresh—ready to get dirty all over again. And oh how she loved the smell of fresh coffee and cowboy in the morning.

He raised his nose, sniffed the air. ‘They teach you how to cook at vet school?’

‘Sure, it’d be a shame to waste all those testicles. I’ve halved my grocery bill.’

He gave a soft snort and slid her a look as he took a seat. ‘I’m really sorry I missed your graduation. I wanted to come but couldn’t find anyone to take care of the horses, and I needed to keep an eye on Abilene.’

Guessing Abilene was one of his mares, she sat up straight. ‘Why?’

He frowned.

Dammit if her ovaries didn’t ping like a submarine sound pulse when he frowned like that. The man could out-scowl Heathcliff or Mr Rochester any day.

‘She has a lump.’

Folliculitis, a sarcoid, and a dozen other possibilities leapt to mind. ‘I’ll take a look.’

Lips that she’d never kissed curved up. ‘That would be great. I mean, so long as you don’t mind?’

She almost groaned at how considerate he was. That meant he’d probably be even more horrified if he knew she had thoughts about getting lost in his pants and suchlike. ‘Don’t be a muppet.’

‘Thanks, Mad Dog.’ The corners of his eyes crinkled as he sipped his coffee. He swallowed and she was unable to keep her eyes from following the way his throat worked, Adam’s apple sliding up and back down, his nine-in-the-morning five o’clock shadow creeping all the way down from his chiselled jaw to hug said Adam’s apple. Imagining running her hands all over that prickly stubble, or kissing it until her lips were swollen. Imagining what that would be like.

She jumped to her feet. ‘Ready to go?’

He raised his brows. ‘You’re not going to finish your toast?’

‘You can have it.’ All she could taste was stubble under her tongue, skin gritty and salty and seasoned with cowboy.

He downed her toast, the last of his coffee, and stood—shrinking the room. ‘Okay, let’s go then. Thanks for the grub.’

She paused as he held the screen door open for her. Nice to know he still did that. ‘Where’re we headed?’

‘Abilene is in the paddock by Redclaw River, but if you wait at the corral I’ll bring her up to you.’

‘Sounds good.’

‘You do still remember what a corral is, right?’ He slid her a sly, sideways look as he grabbed his hat from the rack by the door.

Cheeky sod. ‘I think so. Thanks for asking.’

He gave her a grin as he planted the Akubra on his head.

The familiar curled felt brim reassured her. She could do this, be his friend. After all, she’d been that for how long? Twenty-three years?

At her lengthy inspection he smiled. ‘What?’

Stop staring at him like a love-sick groupie.

She raised her foot in its cheap running shoe. ‘Got some boots I can borrow?’ She shifted her gaze to the elastic-sided leather boots lined up beside the ancient sofa, all of them the size of small cars.

As he retrieved a pair of boots from between the scarred wooden legs of the sofa he glanced at her feet. He pointed at a pair of old Wellingtons. ‘How about those? They were dad’s, so they might fit you better.’

She nodded. Her feet would still swim in them, but they’d offer more protection from a stray hoof than her runners. ‘Thanks, can I borrow some socks too?’

‘Help yourself.’ He pointed at the clean laundry drying on a clothes line strung along the verandah.

‘Thanks.’ She slipped on a pair along with the oversized gumboots. Hopefully she wouldn’t stack it while trying to walk in them. ‘I’ll see you in ten.’

‘Uh-huh.’ He stood, gestured for her to take the stairs first.

She headed for the corral by the fenced paddocks, following the tiny dirt track worn by thousands of footsteps.

At the corral she climbed the smooth, almost slippery, hardwood log rails. Perched up high, she stared unseeing at the brown expanse and indulged herself by thinking about Bret in the shower. Did he ever … touch himself in there? Probably, but she had no clue who he thought about when he did so. Though she could still make a whole documentary on the subject of him in the shower despite lacking those details. She gave a start when she checked her watch and saw ten minutes had passed.