you. The worst thing in the world is to want to kick and all you have to kick is yourself.’
She blinked. Laughter and empathy too? ‘S...sorry.’
‘That’s okay. Horace gets tetchy when he gets stuck, so I’d imagine you’re the same. Hands—put ’em in mine and hold.’
‘They’re covered in mud. You won’t be able to hold me.’
‘Try me,’ he said and held out his hands and waited for her to put hers in his.
It felt wrong. To hold this guy’s hands and let her pull... Jo Conaill spent her life avoiding dependence on anyone or anything.
What choice did she have? She put out her hands and held.
His hands were broad and toughened from manual work. She’d guessed he was a farmer, and his hands said she was right. He manoeuvred his fingers to gain maximum hold and she could feel the strength of him. But he was wincing.
‘You’re icy. How long have you been here?’
‘About an hour.’
‘Is that right?’ He was shifting his grip, trying for maximum hold. ‘Am I the first to come along? Is this road so deserted, then?’
‘You’re not a local?’
‘I’m not.’ He was starting to take her weight, sitting back on his heels and leaning backward. Edging back as the planks started to tilt.
The temptation to struggle was almost irresistible but she knew it wouldn’t help. She forced herself to stay limp.
Channel Horace, she told herself.
‘Good girl,’ Finn said approvingly and she thought: What—did the guy have the capacity to read minds?
He wasn’t pulling hard. He was simply letting his weight tug her forward, shifting only to ease the balance of the planks. But his hold was implacable, a steady, relentless pull, and finally she felt the squelch as the mud eased its grip. She felt her feet start to lift. At last.
He still wasn’t moving fast. His tug was slow and steady, an inch at a time. He was acting as if he had all the time in the world.
‘So I’m not a local,’ he said idly, as if they were engaged in casual chat, not part of a chain where half the chain was stuck in mud. ‘But I’m closer to home than you are.’
He manoeuvred himself back a little without lessening his grip. He was trying not to lurch back, she realised. If he pulled hard, they both risked being sprawled off the planks, with every chance of being stuck again.
He had had experience in this. With Horace.
‘Horace is heavier than you,’ he said.
‘Thanks. Did you say...two hundred pounds?’
‘I did, and I’m thinking you’re not a sliver over a hundred and ninety. That’s with mud attached,’ he added kindly. ‘What part of Australia do you come from?’
‘S... Sydney.’ Sometimes.
‘I’ve seen pictures.’ Once more he stopped and readjusted. ‘Nice Opera House.’
‘Yeah.’ It was hard to get her voice to work. He’d released her hands so he could shift forward and hold her under her arms. Once more he was squatting and tugging but now she was closer to him. Much closer. She could feel the strength of him, the size. She could feel the warmth of his chest against her face. The feeling was...weird. She wanted to sink against him. She wanted to struggle.
Sinking won.
‘We...we have great beaches too,’ she managed and was inordinately proud of herself for getting the words out.
‘What, no mud?’
‘No mud.’
‘Excellent. Okay, sweetheart, we’re nearly there. Just relax and let me do the work.’
He had her firmly under the arms and he was leaning back as she forced herself to relax against him. To let him hold her...
The feeling was indescribable—and it worked!
For finally the mud released its grip. Even then, though, he was still in control. He had her tight, hauling her up and back so that she was kneeling on the planks with him, but she wasn’t released. He was holding her hard against him, and for a moment she had no choice but to stay exactly where she was.
She’d been stuck in mud for an hour. She was bone-chillingly cold, and she’d been badly frightened. Almost as soon as the mud released her she started to shake.
If he didn’t hold her she could have fallen right off the planks. No, she would have fallen. She felt light-headed and a bit sick.
He held and she had to let him hold. She needed him.
Which was crazy. She didn’t need anyone. She’d made that vow as a ten-year-old, in the fourth or fifth of her endless succession of foster homes. She’d yelled it as her foster mother had tried to explain why she had to move on yet again.
‘It’s okay,’ she’d yelled. ‘I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone.’
Her foster mother had cried but Jo hadn’t. She’d learned to never let herself close enough to cry.
But now she was close, whether she willed it or not. Her rescuer was holding her in a grip so strong she couldn’t break it even if she tried. He must be feeling her shaking, she thought, and part of her was despising herself for being weak but most of her was just letting him hold.
He was big and warm and solid, and he wasn’t letting her go. Her face was hard against his chest. She could feel the beating of his heart.
His hand was stroking her head, as he’d stroke an injured animal. ‘Hey there. You’re safe. The nasty bog’s let you go. A nice hot bath and you’ll be right back to yourself again. You’re safe, girl. Safe.’
She hadn’t been unsafe, she thought almost hysterically, and then she thought maybe she had been. If he hadn’t come... Hypothermia was a killer. She could have become one of those bog bodies she’d read about, found immaculately preserved from a thousand years ago. They’d have put her in a museum and marvelled at her beloved bike leathers...
‘There was never a chance of it,’ Finn murmured into her hair and his words shocked her into reaction.
‘What?’
‘Freezing to your death out here. There’s sheep wandering these bogs. I’m thinking a farmer’ll come out and check them morn and night. If I hadn’t come along, he would have.’
‘But if you’re not...if you’re not local, how do you know?’ she demanded.
‘Because the sheep I passed a way back look well cared for, and you don’t get healthy sheep without a decent shepherd. You were never in real danger.’ He released her a little, but his hands still held her shoulders in case she
