Misplaced Hands: 4 (Foreign Affairs) (2 page)

“Err…”

Before she could formulate anything more intelligent than that, something slammed into the ute.

A deafening crunch filled the cabin as Harper and Ronnie were thrown forward against their seat belts. Ronnie let out a “Shit!” and then they were motionless.

“What the hell was that?” Harper burst out, swiping her hair from her eyes before snaring her sunglasses where they’d tumbled to her feet.

“Bloody hell.” Ronnie shoved opened his door and scrambled out of the ute. “Think we hit a ’roo.”

Harper’s stomach lurched. A ‘roo?
Kangaroo?

She struggled with her seat belt then pushed open her door and tumbled out, dirt puffing up around her wrists in tiny clouds as her hands hit the road. Damn, her head swam.

“Nope.” The cowboy’s voice came from the front of the ute. “It’s gone. Must have only clipped the bugger.”

Harper pushed herself to her feet, massaging her neck where the seat belt had rubbed against it. Moving to where Ronnie stood scratching the back of his head, she turned her attention to the front of the ute. “Holy crap!”

Ronnie chuckled. “Yeah, they’ll do some damage, the big reds. I’m guessin’ that’s what we hit.”

Harper gaped at the twisted bull bar and crumpled right fender. “It got away? The truck looks like that and it got away? How big
is
a big red?” She swung around to stare at him, her stomach rolling. “Is it going to be okay?”

Ronnie took off his hat, swiped at his forehead with his arm and returned his hat to his head. “It’s nowhere around, which means it’s fine. I’ll let one of the hands know when we get back to Farpoint to come take a look, just in case.”

Harper’s stomach rolled some more. “In case what?”

The cowboy shrugged. “In case it hasn’t got as far as we think and needs to be put down.”

“Oh God.”

“Welcome to the Outback, miss. Let’s go. Mrs. Sullivan is waitin’ for you and she’ll have my arse if I take too long gettin’ you there.”

He turned and climbed back into the driver’s seat, giving her an expectant look from behind the wheel.

Harper ran a slow inspection over the arid, flat terrain surrounding them; red dirt, a few ash-gray eucalyptus trees, red dirt, some kind of spiky straw grass and red dirt. Not a kangaroo to be seen.

She frowned, unable to comprehend it. What kind of animal got up and bounced away from being hit by a goddamn pickup? Sorry,
ute
? What kind of animals did they breed in this part of the world?

Big ones, apparently.

With one last futile scan for a wounded kangaroo of
any
color, she made her way back to the passenger seat.

“Wrong side, miss.” Ronnie looked up at her from behind the steering wheel.

Biting back a sigh, Harper stomped her way from the right side of the ute to the left, yanked open the door and dropped into the seat, choking on the cloud of dust that billowed up around her the second her butt hit the vinyl. This was
so
not what she had expected when booking her flight.

Welcome to Oz, Harper Kirsten Shaw. Are you ready to live in Opposite Land?

* * * * *

Keith Munroe climbed down from his horse, wiped his hands on his arse and fixed his hat. He was hot, sweaty, stinky and in a bad mood. Not good for the beginning of the weekend.

“I’m going to bloody well thump the shit out of Big Mac when he gets back here.”

Marc Thompson climbed down from his own horse, a young stallion called Kilowatt. “Why? ’Cause you were stupid enough to believe him when he told you a cow was stuck in the old eastern-side billabong? Or because
he
collected the American instead of us?”

Keith snorted, giving Whippet a pat on her neck before walking her into the stable. “Both. But mainly the first. Bloody bastard.”

“Yeah, well, he pulled the wool over my eyes too.” Marc followed, leading Kilowatt into his pen. The stallion snorted, nudging Marc in the shoulder before giving Whippet a baleful glare.

Settling Whippet in her pen, Keith began to hose her down. “You think Big Mac sent us off on a wild goose chase to get back at us for the YouTube clip?”

Marc raised his head from Kilowatt’s saddle. “Yeah, reckon so. You think he’s going to develop a sense of humor one of these days?”

Keith stroked Whippet’s neck. “Nope. Although this one, I kinda understand. There’s not many blokes who want footage on the ’net for the whole world to see of them singing the national anthem while pissed as a fart, wearing nothing but an Australian flag around their shoulders. He might have a point this time.”

Marc’s face—deeply tanned by a lifetime working in the Outback sun—twisted into a mask of mock dismay. “Oi, there’s footage of me doing the exact same thing and you don’t see
me
pitching a fit about it, do you?”

Keith rolled his eyes as he hung up Whippet’s bridle. “That’s because you were the one who uploaded it, dickhead. And, unlike Ronnie, you’re hung like a bloody horse.”

Marc repositioned his hat farther back on his head. “That I am, Blue. And thank you for noticing.”

Keith threw his grooming brush across the aisle at the smirking jackaroo, who snatched it out of the air. “Jesus, how big is your ego?”

Marc lobbed the brush back at him. “As big as my dick, mate. As big as my—”

Without finishing the sentence, Marc dropped behind Kilowatt’s side, disappearing from sight.

Keith frowned. “What the bloody hell are you doing now?”

“I would suggest,” a soft but supremely authoritarian female voice uttered to Keith’s left, “wasting time in the stables gloating when he should be collecting an American from Cobar.”

Keith started, swinging his head toward Hazel Sullivan, his gut knotting.

The matriarch and owner of Farpoint Creek Cattle Station stood at the mouth of Whippet’s pen, her expression set in a disarming mix of curiosity and disappointment. Keith fought the urge to fidget.

Since Dylan and Monet—Hazel’s son and his new wife—were in Paris on their honeymoon, Hazel had taken over the job of keeping the hired hands and jackaroos in line. Dylan was a hard but fair boss who demanded perfection from the men and women who worked on Farpoint. Hazel was equally tough. However, whereas the hands and jackaroos knew if they slacked off with Dylan, he’d make their lives hell with a grueling workload,
no one
wanted to let down his mum. She was just so bloody warm and caring.

Except when she caught someone being a bludger. If that happened, if she came upon one of the hands or jackaroos not working when they should be, no matter how long they’d been at Farpoint, well…suffice to say, Keith had seen grown men sobbing after Hazel was done with them.

It was a bloody good thing she had a soft spot for Marc.

“You can come out now, Mr. Thompson,” she called, a twinkle in her faded-green eyes. “I can see you hiding behind your horse.”

Keith bit back a chuckle as his friend—who’d grown up on Farpoint, just like Keith himself—slowly straightened.

“Mrs. Sullivan,” Marc murmured, tipping the brim of his hat.

Hazel threw a quick smile at Keith, so quick he wasn’t sure if it
was
a smile. “Mr. Thompson. Do you mind telling me why you and Mr. Munroe are here and the American is not?”

Marc flicked a look at Keith. “Big Mac sent us out to rescue a cow stuck in the old eastern billabong, Mrs. Sullivan.”

“And did you rescue the cow?”

Keith stepped forward, running his palm over Whippet’s flank. “There wasn’t one, Mrs. Sullivan.”

Hazel Sullivan had changed his nappy as a baby, bandaged his knees as a snot-nosed kid learning to ride, and hosed him down more than once as a teenager when he’d come home drunk as a skunk from the local Bachelor and Spinster balls in town. Keith’s mum and dad had passed away years ago, but Hazel had filled the void. That didn’t mean she wasn’t likely to chew his arse off for not doing the job she’d given him.

“Mr. McNamara sent you to rescue a cow,” she repeated, her unwavering gaze sliding between Keith and Marc. “A cow that wasn’t there.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Marc answered, still standing behind his horse.

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with the YouTube clip, would it?”

Keith couldn’t stop his snort at Hazel’s mild question.

Marc stared at the grandmotherly woman waiting patiently for his answer. “Ummm…”

Hazel let out a sigh. “Okay, boys, let me make this clear. While Dylan is away, Hunter is the boss of the hands. Not Ronnie. He may think he is because he’s older than most of you, but he’s not. The chain of command here at Farpoint during moments of crisis—such as Dylan being out of town, it seems—goes me, Hunter,
you
Keith, and
then
Ronald McNamara.”

Keith started again. “Me?”

Hazel nodded. “Ronnie was trucking the south paddock mob to Darwin when Dylan was in New York, so he didn’t get the memo.”

“There’s a memo?” Marc asked, his eyebrows so high Keith couldn’t see them behind the shaggy strands of his dark-brown fringe.

Hazel’s lips twitched. “There will be when I get back to the house and tell Hunter to write one.” Her attention returned to Keith. “And of course, Mr. Munroe, when you’re not acting the goat and fooling around with Mr. Thompson, you’re a pretty decent stockman. One of these days you’ll figure that out and we’ll all be bereft of your company when you start up your own station.”

For the first time in his twenty-eight years, Keith blushed. “I don’t…”

“
And
,” Hazel turned her direct green gaze back to Marc, “you’ll be next on that list, Mr. Thompson, instead of Ronnie, if you keep pleasing my sons. Of course, beating Dylan at poker the night before his wedding probably wasn’t wise. Nor was causing havoc in town when Hunter sent you to Cobar last week for a supply run. I know you two lads have a very close relationship and get up to some rather…
dubious
carrying-on at times, but you both forget I know everything that has anything to do with Farpoint. Do I make myself clear?”

Marc nodded.

“Now,” the steely edge in Hazel’s voice made Keith want to fidget once again, “as for the American, or lack thereof, I’m assuming Ronnie collected her himself, is that correct?”

Marc nodded again. “Yes, ma’am.”

“How long ago?”

“’Bout four and a half hours,” Keith supplied.

“And they’re not back yet?”

Keith shook his head. “Not that I know of.”

Hazel pursed her lips. “Hmmm, this is not good. I’m going to try to track them down on the satellite phone. If I’m not successful, or they’re not here in fifteen minutes, I’ll need you two boys to go out and find them.”

“In the chopper?” Keith’s heart thumped fast. As much as he was bellyaching about Big Mac, he didn’t really want anything to happen to the man, and a lot
could
happen to a person in the Outback when things went askew. Death by snakebite, death by spider bite, death by dehydration. Hell, even death by sun exposure. Added to the fact Ronnie was driving back with the teacher from America, a woman who, according to Amy Wesson, rarely set foot outside of Chicago, and Keith began to worry. Big-time.

“In the chopper,” Hazel echoed. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to let Hunter know what’s going on.” A scowl pulled at her softly seamed face. “He’s not going to be happy.”

She turned on her heel and strode from the stables, heading in the direction of the main homestead. Keith watched her go for a second, his hand resting on Whippet’s shoulder, before turning back to Marc. “What’s your gut telling you?”

Marc walked out from behind his horse, removed his hat, dragged his fingers through his shaggy hair and stuck it back on his head. If it weren’t for the sudden foreboding turn of the afternoon, Keith would have given him a hard time about getting a haircut. “Could be anything,” the jackaroo said. “Ronnie’s a shit driver though. Knowing him, he’s hit a ’roo and flipped the bloody ute.”

“Christ. What are we going to tell Amy if something happened to her best friend? She’s already had a gutful of living out whoop whoop. She’ll never come back to Australia if the American gets—”

The sound of a door slamming outside the stable brought Keith to a halt. He exchanged a look with Marc then spun on his heel and strode outside.

Only to stop two steps out in the scorching midday sun, his stare locked on the woman alighting from the station’s communal work ute. A woman who looked so damn out of place in the Outback, Keith’s mind couldn’t comprehend it.

A woman dressed in black leather knee-high stiletto boots, leg-hugging black jeans, a black long-sleeve shirt so snug it could almost be a second skin, black sunglasses, and a black scarf that wrapped her creamy neck, its feathered ends brushing the tops of her thighs.

A woman with full lips glossed a deep plum-red, long waves of thick honey-blonde hair and a body most men would give their left nut just to gaze at.

A woman, Keith suspected—by the way she was dressed, the way she scanned the immediate area around her, the way her lips parted when her hidden gaze fell on him and Marc—who was just dying to be kissed by a sexy Aussie cowboy.