Her Knight in the Outback (2 page)

Two hours, she'd said. He could be up on his feet with her little home fully restored before she even made it from the front of the bus back to the rear doors. As if no one had ever been there.

Two hours to rest. Recover. And enjoy the roads he loved from a more horizontal perspective.

* * *

‘Who's been sleeping in my bed?' Eve muttered as she stood looking at the bear of a man fast asleep on her little sofa.

What was this—some kind of reverse Goldilocks thing?

She cleared her throat. Nothing. He didn't even shift in his sleep.

‘Mr Sullivan?'

Nada.

For the first time, it occurred to her that maybe this wasn't sleep; maybe this was coma. Maybe he'd been injured more than either of them had realised. She hauled herself up into the back of the bus and crossed straight to his side, all thoughts of dangerous tattooed men cast aside. Her fingertips brushed below the hairy tangle of his jaw.

Steady and strong. And warm.

Phew.

‘Mr Sullivan,' she said, louder. Those dark blond brows twitched just slightly and something moved briefly behind his eyelids, so she pressed her advantage. ‘We're here.'

Her gaze went to his elevated foot and then back up to where his hands lay, folded, across the T-shirt over his midsection. Rather nice hands. Soft and manicured despite the patches of bike grease from his on-road repairs.

The sort of hands you'd see in a magazine.

Which was ridiculous. How many members of motorcycle clubs sidelined in a bit of casual hand modelling?

She forced her focus back up to his face and opened her lips to call his name a little louder, but, where before there was only the barest movement behind his lids, now they were wide open and staring straight at her. This close, with the light streaming in from the open curtains, she saw they weren't grey at all—or not
just
grey, at least. The pewter irises were flecked with rust that neatly matched the tarnished blond of his hair and beard, particularly concentrated around his pupils.

She'd never seen eyes like them. She immediately thought of the burnt umber coastal rocks of the far north, where they slid down to pale, clean ocean. And where she'd started her journey eight months ago.

‘We're here,' she said, irritated at her own breathlessness. And at being caught checking him out.

He didn't move, but maybe that was because she was leaning so awkwardly over him from all the pulse-taking.

‘Where's here?' he croaked.

She pushed back onto her heels and dragged her hands back from the heat of his body. ‘The border. You'll have to get up while they inspect the bus.'

They took border security seriously here on the invisible line between South Australia and Western Australia. Less about gun-running and drug-trafficking and more about fruit flies and honey. Quarantine was king when agriculture was your primary industry.

Sullivan twisted gingerly into an upright position, then carefully pulled himself to his feet and did his best to put the cushions back where they'd started. Not right, but he got points for the effort.

So he hadn't been raised by leather-clad wolves, then.

He bundled up his belongings, tossed them to the ground outside the bus and lowered himself carefully down.

‘How is your leg?' Eve asked.

‘I'll live.'

Okay. Man of few words. Clearly, he'd spent too much time in his own company.

The inspection team made quick work of hunting over every inch of her converted bus and Sullivan's saddlebags. She'd become proficient at dumping or eating anything that was likely to get picked up at the border and so, this time, the team only found one item to protest—a couple of walnuts not yet consumed.

Into the bin they went.

She lifted her eyes towards Sullivan, deep in discussion with one of the border staff who had him in one ear and their phone on the other. Arranging assistance for his crippled bike, presumably. As soon as they were done, he limped back towards her and hiked his bags up over his shoulder.

‘Thanks for the ride,' he said as though the effort half choked him.

‘You don't need to go into Eucla?' Just as she'd grown used to him.

‘They're sending someone out to grab me and retrieve my bike.'

‘Oh. Great that they can do it straight away.'

‘Country courtesy.'

As opposed to her lack of...?
‘Well, good luck with your—'

It was then she realised she had absolutely no idea what he was doing out here, other than hitting random emus. In all her angsting out on the deserted highway, she really hadn't stopped to wonder, let alone ask.

‘—with your travels.'

His nod was brisk and businesslike. ‘Cheers.'

And then he was gone, back towards the border security office and the little café that catered for people delayed while crossing. Marshall Sullivan didn't seem half so scary here in a bustling border stop, though his beard was no less bushy and the ink dagger under his skin no less menacing. All the what-ifs she'd felt two hours ago on that long empty road hobbled away from her as he did.

And she wondered how she'd possibly missed the first time how well his riding leathers fitted him.

CHAPTER TWO

I
T
WAS
THE
raised voices that first got Marshall's attention. Female, anxious and angry, almost swallowed up by drunk, male and belligerent.

‘Stop!'

The fact a gaggle of passers-by had formed a wide, unconscious circle around the spectacle in the middle of town was the only reason he sauntered closer instead of running on his nearly healed leg. If something bad was happening, he had to assume someone in the handful of people assembled would have intervened. Or at least cried out. Him busting in to an unknown situation, half-cocked, was no way to defuse what was clearly an escalating situation.

Instead, he insinuated himself neatly into the heart of the onlookers and nudged his way through to the front until he could get his eyeballs on things. A flutter of paper pieces rained down around them as the biggest of the men tore something up.

‘You put another one up, I'm just going to rip it down,' he sneered.

The next thing he saw was the back of a woman's head. Dark, travel-messy ponytail. Dwarfed by the men she was facing but not backing down.

And all too familiar.

Little Miss Hostile
. Winning friends and influencing people—as usual.

‘This is a public noticeboard,' she asserted up at the human mountain, foolishly undeterred by his size.

‘For Norseman residents,' he spat. ‘Not for blow-ins from the east.'

‘Public,' she challenged. ‘Do I need to spell it out for you?'

Wow. Someone really needed to give her some basic training in conflict resolution. The guy was clearly a xenophobe and drunk. Calling him stupid in front of a crowd full of locals wasn't the fastest way out of her predicament.

She shoved past him and used a staple gun to pin up another flier.

He'd seen the same poster peppering posts and walls in Madura, Cocklebiddy and Balladonia. Every point along the remote desert highway that could conceivably hold a person. And a sign. Crisp and new against all the bleached, frayed ones from years past.

‘Stop!'

Yeah, that guy wasn't going to stop. And now the McTanked Twins were also getting in on the act.

Goddammit.

Marshall pushed out into the centre of the circle. He raised his voice the way he used to in office meetings when they became unruly. Calm but intractable. ‘Okay, show's over, people.'

The crowd turned their attention to him, like a bunch of cattle. So did the three drunks. But they weren't so intoxicated they didn't pause at the sight of his beard and tattoos. Just for a moment.

The moment he needed.

‘Howzabout we find somewhere else for those?' he suggested straight to Little Miss Hostile, neatly relieving her of the pile of posters with one hand and the staple gun with his other. ‘There are probably better locations in town.'

She spun around and glared at him in the heartbeat before she recognised him. ‘Give me those.'

He ignored her and spoke to the crowd. ‘All done, people. Let's get moving.'

They parted for him as he pushed back through, his hands full of her property. She had little choice but to pursue him.

‘Those are mine!'

‘Let's have this conversation around the corner,' he gritted back and down towards her.

But just as they'd cleared the crowd, the big guy couldn't help himself.

‘Maybe he's gone missing to get away from you!' he called.

A shocked gasp covered the sound of small female feet pivoting on the pavement and she marched straight back towards the jeering threesome.

Marshall shoved the papers under his arm and sprinted after her, catching her just before she re-entered the eye of the storm. All three men had lined up in it, ready. Eager. He curled his arms around her and dragged her back, off her feet, and barked just one word in her ear.

‘Don't!'

She twisted and lurched and swore the whole way but he didn't loosen his hold until the crowd and the jeering laughter of the drunks were well behind them.

‘Put me down,' she struggled. ‘Ass!'

‘The only ass around here is the one I just saved.'

‘I've dealt with rednecks before.'

‘Yeah, you were doing a bang-up job.'

‘I have every right to put my posters up.'

‘No argument. But you could have just walked away and then come back and done it in ten minutes when the drunks were gone.'

‘But there were thirty people there.'

‘None of whom were making much of an effort to help you.' In case she hadn't noticed.

‘I didn't want their help,' she spat, spinning back to face him. ‘I wanted their attention.'

What was this—some kind of performance art thing? ‘Come again?'

‘Thirty people would have read my poster, remembered it. The same people that probably would have passed it by without noticing, otherwise.'

‘Are you serious?'

She snatched the papers and staple gun back from him and clutched them to her heaving chest. ‘Perfectly. You think I'm new to this?'

‘I really don't know what to think. You treated me like a pariah because of a bit of leather and ink, but you were quite happy to face off against the Beer Gut Brothers, back there.'

‘It got
attention
.'

‘So does armed robbery. Are you telling me the bank is on your to-do list in town?'

She glared at him. ‘You don't understand.'

And then he was looking at the back of her head again as she turned and marched away from him without so much as a goodbye. Let alone a thankyou.

He cursed under his breath.

‘Enlighten me,' he said, catching up with her and ignoring the protest of his aching leg.

‘Why should I?'

‘Because I just risked my neck entering that fray to help you and that means you owe me one.'

‘I rescued you out on the highway. I'd say that makes us even.'

Infuriating woman. He slammed on the brakes. ‘Fine. Whatever.'

Her momentum carried her a few metres further but then she spun back. ‘Did you look at the poster?'

‘I've been looking at them since the border.'

‘And?'

‘And what?'

‘What's on it?'

His brows forked. What the hell
was
on it? ‘Guy's face. Bunch of words.' And a particularly big one in red. MISSING. ‘It's a missing-person poster.'

‘Bingo. And you've been looking at them since the border but can't tell me what he looked like or what his name was or what it was about.' She took two steps closer. ‘That's why getting their attention was so valuable.'

Realisation washed through him and he felt like a schmuck for parachuting in and rescuing her like some damsel in distress. ‘Because they'll remember it. You.'

‘Him!' But her anger didn't last long. It seemed to desert her like the adrenaline in both their bodies, leaving her flat and exhausted. ‘Maybe.'

‘What do you do—start a fight in every town you go to?'

‘Whatever it takes.'

Cars went by with stereos thumping.

‘Listen...' Suddenly, Little Miss Hostile had all new layers. And most of them were laden with sadness. ‘I'm sorry if you had that under control. Where I come from you don't walk past a woman crying out in the street.'

Actually, that wasn't strictly true because he came from a pretty rough area and sometimes the best thing to do was keep walking. But while his mother might have raised her kids like that, his grandparents certainly hadn't. And he, at least, had learned from their example even if his brother, Rick, hadn't.

Dark eyes studied him. ‘That must get you into a lot of trouble,' she eventually said.

True enough.

‘Let me buy you a drink. Give those guys some time to clear out and then I'll help you put the posters up.'

‘I don't need your help. Or your protection.'

‘Okay, but I'd like to take a proper look at that poster.'

He regarded her steadily as uncertainty flooded her expression. The same that he'd seen out on the highway. ‘Or is the leather still bothering you?'

Indecision flooded her face and her eyes flicked from his beard to his eyes, then down to his lips and back again.

‘No. You haven't robbed or murdered me yet. I think a few minutes together in a public place will be fine.'

She turned and glanced down the street where a slight
doof-doof
issued from an architecturally classic Aussie hotel. Then her voice filled with warning. ‘Just one.'

It was hard not to smile. Her stern little face was like a daisy facing up to a cyclone.

‘If I was going to hurt you I've had plenty of opportunity. I don't really need to get you liquored up.'

‘Encouraging start to the conversation.'

‘You know my name,' he said, moving his feet in a pubward direction. ‘I don't know yours.'

She regarded him steadily. Then stuck out the hand with the staple gun clutched in it. ‘Evelyn Read. Eve.'

He shook half her hand and half the tool. ‘What do you like to drink, Eve?'

‘I don't. Not in public. But you go ahead.'

A teetotaller in an outback pub.

Well, this should be fun.

* * *

Eve trusted Marshall Sullivan with her posters while she used the facilities. When she came back, he'd smoothed out all the crinkles in the top one and was studying it.

‘Brother?' he said as she slid into her seat.

‘What makes you say that?'

He tapped the surname on the poster where it had
Travis James Read
in big letters.

‘He could be my husband.' She shrugged.

His eyes narrowed. ‘Same dark hair. Same shape eyes. He looks like you.'

Yeah, he did. Everyone thought so. ‘Trav is my little brother.'

‘And he's missing?'

God, she hated this bit. The pity. The automatic assumption that something bad had happened. Hard enough not letting herself think it every single day without having the thought planted back in her mind by strangers at every turn.

Virtual strangers.

Though, at least this one did her the courtesy of not referring to Travis in the past tense. Points for that.

‘Missing a year next week, actually.'

‘Tough anniversary. Is that why you're out here? Is this where he was last seen?'

She lifted her gaze back to his. ‘No. In Melbourne.'

‘So what brings you out west?'

‘I ran out of towns on the east coast.'

Blond brows lowered. ‘You've lost me.'

‘I'm visiting every town in the country. Looking for him. Putting up notices. Doing the legwork.'

‘I assumed you were just on holidays or something.'

‘No. This is my job.'

Now. Before that she'd been a pretty decent graphic designer for a pretty decent marketing firm. Until she'd handed in her notice.

‘Putting up posters is your job?'

‘Finding my brother.' The old defensiveness washed through her. ‘Is anything more important?'

His confusion wasn't new. He wasn't the first person not to understand what she was doing. By far. Her own father didn't even get it; he just wanted to grieve Travis's absence as though he were dead. To accept he was gone.

She was light-years and half a country away from being ready to accept such a thing. She and Trav had been so close. If he was dead, wouldn't she feel it?

‘So...what, you just drive every highway in the country pinning up notices?'

‘Pretty much. Trying to trigger a memory in someone's mind.'

‘And it's taken you a year to do the east coast?'

‘About eight months. Though I started up north.' And that was where she'd finish.

‘What happened before that?'

Guilt hammered low in her gut for those missing couple of months before she'd realised how things really were. How she'd played nice and sat on her hands while the police seemed to achieve less and less. Maybe if she'd started sooner—

‘I trusted the system.'

‘But the authorities didn't find him?'

‘There are tens of thousands of missing people every year. I just figured that the only people who could make Trav priority number one were his family.'

‘That many? Really?'

‘Teens. Kids. Women. Most are located pretty quickly.'

But ten per cent weren't.

His eyes tracked down to the birthdate on the poster. ‘Healthy eighteen-year-old males don't really make it high up the priority list?'

A small fist formed in her throat. ‘Not when there's no immediate evidence of foul play.'

And even if they maybe weren't entirely healthy, psychologically. But Travis's depression was hardly unique amongst
The Missing
and his anxiety attacks were longstanding enough that the authorities dismissed them as irrelevant. As if a bathroom cabinet awash with mental health medicines wasn't relevant.

A young woman with bright pink hair badly in need of a recolour brought Marshall's beer and Eve's lime and bittes and sloshed them on the table.

‘That explains the bus,' he said. ‘It's very...homey.'

‘It is my home. Mine went to pay for the trip.'

‘You sold your house?'

Her chin kicked up. ‘And resigned from my job. I can't afford to be distracted by having to earn an income while I cover the country.'

She waited for the inevitable judgment.

‘That's quite a commitment. But it makes sense.'

Such unconditional acceptance threw her. Everyone else she'd told thought she was foolish. Or plain crazy. Implication: like her brother. No one just...nodded.

‘That's it? No opinion? No words of wisdom?'

His eyes lifted to hers. ‘You're a grown woman. You did what you needed to do. And I assume it was your asset to dispose of.'