cast iron, the kind you’d expect in your grandmother’s attic with a chamberpot underneath.
There was no chamberpot. There was a tiny bathroom right through the door. Lush towels hung from antique towel rails. Her patchwork quilt was gorgeous. The thick lemon carpet meshed beautifully with the soft blue walls.
This was no garret. This whole wee house was beautiful.
Had it been furnished by Hannah? Certainly there was a woman’s touch—this was a far cry from the cool greys of Luke’s city apartment.
She’d gone to sleep listening to mopokes and night owls.
Now there were kookaburras right by her window, their raucous laughter making her smile. How come they hadn’t woken her until now?
She rolled over and reached for her watch. And practically yelped.
Ten o’clock in the morning? What the …?
Where was Luke?
She glared at her watch like it had betrayed her. What sort of guest was she? He’d think … he’d think …
Why worry? He already thought she was loose and fast; why not let him think she was a total slob? The damage had been done. She could sleep until midday.
Or not. Kookaburras. Sunlight on her coverlet. Smells, pure country.
It was Friday. She was here until Sunday; three whole days of farm.
She was out of bed, heading for the shower before she finished the thought.
They needed to be independent. Luke decided this at dawn, when he woke, headed to the kitchen for his standard eggs and bacon, and then hesitated and thought he should wait for Lily to wake.
No. She needed to sleep. Independence was the go. He needed to ride the boundaries, head over to the big house, spend a bit of time with Tom, do what he normally did on his first day here.
Lily needed to sleep for as long as her body required.
So he headed for Tom’s but he made a phone call first. There was enough in what Lily had told him to think maybe some intervention might be needed. Without pushing the thought further, he called a lawyer mate in Adelaide. Then he left a note directing Lily to breakfast and headed out.
He found Tom, out with his dogs, eager to be doing things. Even though Tom was fiercely independent, he usually greeted Luke with a list of jobs the length of his arm. Today was fencing.
Excellent, Luke thought. Building fences, a man could get his thoughts together. Building fences, a man could forget about a woman with shadows, who’d melted into his arms and who’d …
No. Concentrate on fencing. He’d made the call to the lawyer. His conscience didn’t require he worry any further.
Funny things, consciences. They had a will of their own.
The horse was young, Lily thought, watching him skittering toward her. Full grown. A gelding—he wasn’t big enough, tough enough to be a stallion. He didn’t look tough but he looked … bad? He pranced toward her and she could almost see challenge.
‘Oh, you’re beautiful,’ she breathed as he came closer. She stood motionless against the fence, letting him assess her.
He was wearing a halter of tooled leather with a metal name-plate attached.
Glenfiddich.
He’d have been called Glenfiddich because he was pure spirit, she thought, and couldn’t resist reaching to touch.
Or not. The contact had him skittering back, rearing, then tearing round the paddock at full gallop. His coat gleamed in the morning sun, every muscle clearly delineated. He was glorying in his strength, in the morning, in the sheer joy of being alive.
Which was exactly how Lily was feeling. The sun was on her face. She was out of the city. For now her mother was the vicar’s responsibility. She felt like she’d shed a too-tight skin.
‘Did he rescue you as well?’ she whispered, and the big horse dashed past her once, twice, and then paused. Slowed.
Decided to investigate.
She stayed absolutely still. He reached her and touched her cheek with his nose. He blew against her hair.
She swung onto the fence-rail, slowly, but he didn’t shy away. He nuzzled her again, pushing his nose into her armpit.
She scratched him behind his ears and he threw back his head, backed away again, then tossed his head and came back for more.
He was a wild, beautiful thing.
She looked at the halter. Maybe not so wild.
Wildish.
He looked at the gate. So did she.
Dared she?
This was Luke’s horse.
What had he said to Ginnie? All my horses are her horses.
There was soft rope by the gate; rope that could be looped as makeshift reins.
At twelve there wasn’t a horse she couldn’t ride. She’d helped her father break them. He’d taught her well.
She hadn’t been on a horse since.
Oh, he was beautiful.
She slipped down from the rail and he started nudging her toward the gate.
She giggled and he shoved her in the chest. Hard. Like, hurry up, there’s a world out there. Let’s go.
Let’s go …
They might find Luke. He had to be somewhere. On this horse she could go anywhere.
Not since she was twelve …
‘Don’t you dare throw me,’ she told the nose shoving her toward the gate. ‘My pride’s at stake.’
Luke spent four hours with Tom. Thirty satisfactory fence posts later he decided he needed to check on his guest.
He swung himself up back onto Checkers, his favourite horse, elderly, big, black and docile, with the gorgeous white blaze that had given him his name. He needed to head back to the house and make some lunch. He’d take Lily for a gentle stroll over the more accessible places on the farm.
Or not. For suddenly he saw her, over the ridge, cantering down along the track toward them. And she was riding … Glenfiddich.
His breath caught in his throat. Glenfiddich was a half-broken yearling, as spirited as his namesake. Lily was riding him without a saddle, with the halter he always wore but no bridle or reins. She was using rope as reins.
The last time Luke had ridden Glenfiddich it had taken him an hour to settle him; to make him trustworthy. But here was Lily, her canter turning to gallop.
Was
