was a car in the middle of the creek.
A pink car. A tiny sports car. Cute.
Wet. Getting closer to being swept away by the minute.
Of all the dumb...
There was a woman heaving boxes from some sort of luggage rack she’d rigged onto the back. She was hauling them to safety.
A little dog was watching from the riverbank, yapping with anxiety.
Matt reined to a halt and stared incredulously. Reg and Bluey stopped too, quivering with shock, and then hurled themselves down towards what Matt thought must surely be a hallucination. A poodle? They’d never seen such a thing.
The woman in the water turned and saw the two dogs, then ran, trying to launch herself between the killer dogs and her pooch.
She was little and blonde, and her curls twisted to her shoulders. She was wearing a short denim skirt, a bright pink blouse and oversized pink earrings. She was nicely curved—very nicely curved.
Her sunglasses were propped on her head. She looked as if she was dressed for sipping Chardonnay at some beachside café.
She reached the bank, slipped in the soft sand and her crate fell out of her hands.
A teapot fell out and rolled into the water.
‘Samson!’ She hauled herself to her feet, yelling to her poodle, but Reg and Bluey had reached their target.
Matt was too stunned to call them off, but there was no need. His dogs weren’t vicious. This small mutt must look like a lone sheep, needing to be returned to the flock. Rounding up stray sheep was what his dogs did best.
But Matt could almost see what they were thinking as they reached the white bit of fluff, skidded to a halt and started the universal sniffing of both ends. It looks like a sheep but...what...?
He grinned. The troubles of the day took a back seat for the moment and he nudged Nugget forward.
There wasn’t a thing he could do about his shearing problems. What he needed was distraction, and this looked just what the doctor ordered.
* * *
She needed a knight on a white charger. This was no white charger, though. The horse was huge and black as night. And the guy on it?
Instead of armour, he wore the almost universal uniform of the farmer. Moleskin pants. A khaki shirt, open at the throat, sleeves rolled to the elbows. A wide Akubra hat. As he edged his horse carefully down the embankment she had the impression of a weathered face, lean, dark, strong. Not so old. In his thirties?
His mouth was curving into a smile. He was laughing? At her?
‘In a spot of bother, ma’am?’
What she would have given to be able to say: No bother—everything’s under control, thank you.
But her car was sinking and Samson was somewhere under his dogs.
‘Yeah,’ she said grimly. ‘I tried to cross but the creek doesn’t have stones in it.’
His lips twitched. ‘How inconsiderate.’
‘The last creek did.’
He put his hands up, as if in surrender. ‘I cannot tell a lie,’ he told her. ‘I dropped stones in the first crossing but not this one. The first floods all the time. This one not so much. There’s a lot of water coming down. I doubt you’d get back over the first crossing now.’
‘You put the stones in...’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
She stood and thought about it. She had bare feet—a pair of bright pink sandals had been tossed onto the bank on this side. Obviously she’d waded through first, which was intelligent. Driving into a flooded creek with a sandy base was the opposite.
But now wasn’t the time for judging. The water was rising by the minute. ‘Would you like me to help you get your car out?’
And any hint of belligerence died. ‘Could you? Do you know how?’
‘You have cushions on your passenger seat,’ he said. He’d been checking out the car while they talked. A big car might be a problem but this looked small enough to push, and with the traction of cushions... ‘We could use those.’
‘They’re Samson’s.’
‘Samson?’
‘My poodle.’
‘I see.’ He was still having trouble keeping a straight face. ‘Is he likely to bite my arm off if I use his cushions?’
She glanced to where Reg and Bluey were still warily circling Samson. Samson was wisely standing still. Very still.
‘Your dogs...’
‘Are meeting a poodle for the very first time. They won’t take a piece out of him, if that’s what you’re worried about. So Samson won’t take a piece out of me if I borrow his cushion?’
‘No. Please... If you could...’
‘My pleasure, ma’am. I haven’t pushed a pink car out of floodwaters for a very long time.’
* * *
And then he got bossy.
He swung himself down from his horse. He didn’t bother tying it up—the assumption, she guessed, was that it’d stay where he left it and the assumption seemed correct. Then he strode out into the water to her car. He removed the cushions, then stooped and wedged them underwater, in front of the back wheels.
‘Rear-wheel drive is useful,’ he told her. ‘Four-wheel drive is better—it’s pretty much essential out here. You didn’t think to borrow something a little more useful before driving off-road?’
‘This is a road.’
‘This is a track,’ he told her.
He was standing almost thigh-deep in water and he was soaked from pushing the cushions into place.
‘I should push,’ she offered.
The lips twitched again. ‘I’m thinking I might just have a bit more muscle. Could you hop in and switch on the ignition? When I tell you to accelerate, go for it. Straight forward, and as soon as you feel the car get a grip, keep going.’
She thought about it for a moment and saw a problem. A big one. ‘Um...’
He paused. ‘Um?’
‘Are there any more creeks?’ she asked, her voice filled with trepidation.
‘Any more creeks where?’
‘Between here and Malley’s Corner.’
‘You’re
