horse studs in the States, but getting that first job after vet school is difficult. If I do a decent job for you, it may well give me the edge over other graduates.
He’d expected a fresh-faced kid straight out of vet school, possibly not understanding just how tough it was out here, but ready to make a few sacrifices in order to get the job. Despite the conditions, Werarra produced horses with an international reputation. This would be a good career step.
He’d never have employed a woman.
He hadn’t wanted to employ anyone, but sense had decreed he had no choice. This place had deteriorated to the point of being a ruin. The horses took all his attention. The house was derelict and the manager’s cottage even more so. Brian, the guy who’d managed the place for his grandfather, preferred to live a half a mile down the road on the second of the farm’s holdings. Jack had expected him to keep on working, but the moment Jack arrived he’d lit out, abandoning his wife and kids, disappearing without trace.
The letter from Cedric Patterson, addressed to Jack Connor, had come when he was overwhelmed. Despite his misgivings he’d thought, a vet … plus someone who could help with the heavy manual work like getting the fences back in order … The manager’s house was unlivable, but maybe a kid could cope with sharing the big house with him.
He’d written back to Cedric explaining that the Jack he was writing to, the Jack he’d gone to school with, was dead. Cedric had visited Werarra, had stayed here, when he and his grandfather were young men, when his grandmother was alive and making the place a home. The house had deteriorated, he’d told him. There were no separate living quarters, but if Alex was happy to do it tough …
Alex himself … herself … had emailed back saying tough was fine.
What now? He didn’t even have a working bathroom. Asking a guy to use the outhouse was a stretch, but a woman?
He could fix the bathroom. Maybe. But not tonight.
And he still didn’t want a woman. The women in his life had caused him nothing but grief and anguish. To have another, sharing his house, sharing his life …
Stop it with the dramatisation, he told himself harshly. She wouldn’t want to stay even if he wanted her to. She obviously had a romantic view of what an outback Australian horse stud would be. One look at the outside privy and she’d run.
He didn’t blame her.
Meanwhile …
Meanwhile he needed to feed her. He hurled sausages into the pan, sliced onions as if he could get rid of his anger on the chopping board, tossed them on top of the sausages and fumed. At himself more than her. He shouldn’t have tried to employ anyone until he had this place decent, but a woman?
She took one look at the outside privy and wanted to die.
There was an inside bathroom, but … ‘Plumbing’s blocked,’ Jack had said curtly, as he showed her her bedroom. ‘Tree roots. Use the outhouse. There’s a torch.’
The outhouse was fifty yards from the back door. A massive, overgrown rose almost hid it from view, and she had to make her way through a tunnel of vine to reach it.
A couple of hefty beef cattle were hanging their heads over the fence, dripping water in the rain, looking at her as if she was an alien.
That’s how she felt. Alien.
She locked the outhouse door, and something scrabbled over the outhouse’s tin roof. What?
She wanted to go home.
‘You’re a big girl,’ she told herself, out loud so whatever it was on the roof would get the picture. ‘You need to get in there, front Jack Sexist Connor, find something to eat, get some sleep and then find a way out of this mess.’
The rain had eased for a minute, which was why she’d taken the chance and run out here. It started again, sheeting in under the door.
‘I want to go home,’ she wailed, and the thing on the roof stilled and listened.
And didn’t answer.
He was cooking sausages. Eight fat sausages, Wombat Siding butcher’s finest. He cooked mashed potato and boiled up some frozen peas to go with them.
He set the table with two knives, two forks, a ketchup bottle and two mugs. What more could a man want?
A woman might want more, he conceded, but she wasn’t getting more.
What did he know about what a woman would want? A woman who was supposed to be a man.
She pushed open the door, and his thoughts stopped dead.
She’d been wearing black pants and a tailored wool jacket when she arrived. Her hair had been twisted into a knot. She’d been wearing red ankle boots, with old-fashioned buttons. She’d looked straight out of New York.
Now …
He’d left a pitcher and basin in her bedroom and she’d obviously made use of it. She’d washed—the tendrils of blond curls around her face were damp—and her face was shiny clean with no hint of make-up. She was wearing jeans and an oversize sweater. Her curls hung free to her shoulders.
She was wearing thick, pink socks.
The résumé she’d sent said she was twenty-five years old. Right now she looked about sixteen. Pretty. Really pretty. Also … scared?
Daniel in the lion’s den.
Or woman in Werarra.
Same thing, only he wasn’t a lion. But she couldn’t stay here.
‘Sit down and wrap yourself round something to eat,’ he said roughly, trying to hold to anger.
‘Thank you.’ She sidled into a chair on the far side of the table to him, still looking scared.
‘Three sausages?’
‘One.’
‘Suit yourself.’ He put one sausage onto a chipped plate, added a pile of mash and a heap of peas and put it in front of her. He ladled himself more.
He sat and started eating.
She sat and stared at her plate.
‘What?’ he said.
‘I didn’t lie,’ she said in a small voice.
‘I have the documentation,’ he said, pointing to the pile of papers he’d left on the end of the table. ‘My son. That would be a male.’
‘Nothing in any of my emails to you said I was a guy.’
‘They didn’t have to. I already knew. Your father’s letter. The visa application. My son, the letter said. Plus Alexander. It’s a guy’s name.’
‘Yes,’ she said, and shoved her plate back. ‘It is.’
‘So?’
‘My
