The House On Burra Burra Lane (10 page)

He blinked, looked at her mouth, then away. ‘I like peppermint crisp.’

‘You look more like a steak sandwich man than an ice-cream guy.’

‘If you need help with the art materials, I’m happy to donate money.’

‘Now that’s lover’s talk, to my mind,’ said a low voice behind them.

Sammy turned at the same time as Ethan.

‘When a man proposes to give his hard earned cash to a young woman eating an ice-cream, there’s no debate. He’s a goner.’ Mrs Johnson came between them and angled her face up to Ethan, a sly-looking grin on her mouth and a twinkle in her narrowed gaze. ‘Nothing like watching a pretty girl licking an ice-cream cone, is there, Ethan?’

Ethan’s tan faded for a moment. ‘Mrs Johnson,’ he said, narrowing his own gaze. ‘There are kids around.’

She slapped him on the arm. ‘They’ve had their fill of fun and games today. It’s the adults’ turn now. Are you going to ring a bell for a lady?’

Ethan moved his weight from one foot to the other and slid his fingers into the pockets of his jeans. ‘The High Striker? I haven’t done that in years.’ His gaze skipped a jig between Mrs Johnson, Sammy, and the field.

Mrs J shoved him. ‘Go on. We need to see a man do some thrilling.’

‘Not sure what people would say about you and I ringing any bells together.’

Mrs J pulled the hem of her crewneck jumper over the waistband of her tweed trews. ‘Not me, you big idiot. Take Sammy.’

Before Sammy had time to settle the surprise on her face, Mrs J had pulled her, pushed her and shoved her against Ethan.

He took hold of her elbow and steadied her.

‘What are we supposed to do?’ she asked him.

His gaze was solely on the field in front of him. ‘All you have to do is stand by my side, then I have to hit the High Striker with a hammer and ring the bell.’

‘Get out of our way,’ Mrs J called, shooing people as though she were herding lambs as she pushed Sammy and Ethan before her. ‘We’ve got a couple here want to ring a bell.’

Ethan took a breath and sighed it out.

‘Are you okay?’ Sammy asked. ‘I could say I don’t want to do it.’

‘You wouldn’t stand a chance. It’s just a tradition for the men and women of the town. There’s nothing to it.’

Sammy stood next to Ethan in the queue, patiently in line, two couples back. Swamped by his presence. Trying not to sway closer. Most days the sensual reaction to him was easy to cover, other times the thrill washed through her, unable to be shaken away quickly. They must look like a couple, standing in this line.

The first man struck the plate. The puck flew up the tower. People gasped. The puck slid down, the bell un-rung.

The woman at the striker’s side hugged her man. ‘I don’t need a bell rung for me anyway,’ she cried. ‘I’ve been married to him fifteen years—he’s given me more ding-dongs than I’ve given him hot dinners.’

The crowd laughed, cheered, and applauded.

The next couple were younger. Boyfriend-girlfriend younger. The young boy solidly built. He swung the hammer from one hand to the other in a swaggering display; the big grin and the fluffy stubble on his chin showing his age. His girlfriend clapped and jumped up and down, her high heels studding the grass with golf-tee holes.

He pushed her back, making a show of his gallantry. He rested the hammer head on the ground, spat on both hands, rubbed them, and flexed his shoulders.

The crowd ooh’d and aah’d.

Sammy looked up. The tower had to be twenty foot high. The metal plate at the base solid and square. The little puck painted a bright yellow, with a red heart in the middle. ‘He looks strong enough to do it,’ she said.

‘He’ll get about two-thirds of the way up.’

‘How do you know?’

Ethan lifted his chin. ‘Watch.’

The hammer high above his head and shoulder, the young man struck the plate with a mighty thud, but the puck only got over halfway up.

‘Didn’t use his hips,’ Ethan said. ‘Need to steady your weight between your hips, then use your back, and your shoulders.’

Their turn. The families roared approval when Ethan stepped forwards, Sammy behind him.

Someone passed Ethan the hammer. He took it in one hand, tossed it as though getting a better grip as he looked up at the bell, then let the thick axe handle hang alongside his thigh, the hammer on the end about the size of Sammy’s head.

‘Go on, Ethan, get it done, man—there’s a pretty woman waiting for it,’ someone cried from the back of the crowd.

‘Do I need to do anything?’ Sammy asked in a whisper.

‘I’ll hit the bell, Sammy.’ He had a look of inflexibility on his face as he stared up at the tower.

‘You know that?’

He fixed his gaze on hers. ‘I’ll hit the plate so hard the bell will ring.’

She grinned, smugness and the camaraderie of the crowd easing her down. ‘Are you trying to impress me?’

‘No,’ he said, turning to the High Striker. ‘I’m just telling you I won’t have any trouble ringing the bell.’ He stepped forwards, taking the hammer in both his hands. ‘Just so you know.’

It only took him a second to settle his weight where he seemed to want it. The shirt stretched across his back when he lifted the hammer. The blue cotton twisted across his shoulder blades and came out of the waistband of his jeans a little as he raised the hammer above his head. The colours on the High Striker were vibrant but it was Ethan that dazzled. His muscles were ribbed beneath his shirt, like a sculptured piece of art. He appeared as tall as a tree. Broader than the branches of the biggest snow gum. More powerful than a whole field of bulls.

The hammer came down—a resounding
thwack
on the metal plate. The yellow puck flew up, the red heart spinning like a top. It moved so fast Sammy was startled when the puck hit the bell. A crashing tinkle of metal. Lights flashing blue, green and yellow on the top of the High Striker and the crowd going wild, calling out to Ethan.

Sammy stumbled back, bumped into Mrs Johnson.

‘What’s this for?’ she asked, as Mrs J placed a headpiece of woven spring flowers on her head. ‘I didn’t do anything—Ethan did.’

‘It’s your laurel crown, Sammy. Your man rang your bell.’

Ethan handed the hammer to the man who was operating the High Striker.

Sammy repositioned her crown of flowers, the petals soft on her fingers.

‘Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!’

Ethan’s discomfort was immediate. She felt it as her own. His mouth flexed, almost a bear-grimace, not quite. Nothing like a smile.

Her own smile faltered. ‘It’s all right, Ethan,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to kiss me.’

‘I
t’s tradition,’ he said, looking as though she were a hot brick someone had tossed him. ‘We have to.’

Heat flushed beneath Sammy’s skin.

He leaned down.

Sammy tilted up. Should she open her mouth slightly, or keep her lips sealed? Ethan had his mouth open, a little.

He planted a soft kiss on her cheek, straightened almost immediately. ‘Sorry about this,’ he murmured.

The crowd cheered, and some jeered, demanding more.

A
kiss on the cheek.

She smiled. A big purposeful smile. She widened her eyes hoping it brightened the look and hid the disappointment as she followed Ethan.

He accepted handshakes and slaps on his back with a polite nod.

What had she expected, in front of everyone? Loneliness flooded her. She wasn’t even at his side, just tagging along at his heels.

‘I’ll take a bigger kiss than that from you, Ethan,’ Mary Munroe called. ‘If you’d like to offer me one.’

Ethan paused, seemed to settle at last as he turned to Mary. Maybe because his performance for the crowd was over and he was already moving towards some other distraction. One that wouldn’t push him into something he didn’t want to do. ‘Been a long time since I had such a fancy offer, Mrs Munroe. What do you think your husband would say to it?’

Sammy kept her gaze averted. Her forced smile was hurting now.

Mary laughed. ‘I reckon he won’t know about it, since he’s not here.’

Ethan pushed through, and the crowd turned their attention to the next would-be bell striker.

Sammy touched Ethan lightly on the arm. He jolted slightly, as though he’d forgotten she was behind him. ‘I promised to do a turn at the ladies’ table. I’d better go do it now.’ She stepped back so he wouldn’t sense the rejection that must be radiating from her.

His eyes darkened to the colour of an ocean at night. He studied her, then nodded, lips pressed together. No words, but at least he didn’t turn from her, was gentlemanly enough to let her leave first.

Sammy shuffled the shiny brochures and pamphlets in her hands, her hip against the CWA table and her concentration on Ethan, standing in the field across the street. No buildings blocked the space between the stock feeder’s and the B&B at the northern end of Main Street. She had a bird’s-eye view.

He was the man they’d call on if something immensely physical was required, like pulling drowning cattle out of the river, or holding up a tractor as rescue workers saved a man trapped beneath it. Such strength in his broad shoulders, skill in his hands … and such quiet contemplation all the time.

Dogs barked and nipped at his feet. His judging role was over and his four-legged friends off their leads. Occasionally, he reached down and rubbed an ear or patted a rump.

His hair was messy, as usual, but he was outdoors most of the time, and what wind wouldn’t be tempted to run its fingers through the strands of barley?

Why hadn’t some woman undone the mystery of Ethan Granger and captured him? Whisking him off forever as hers. Warding off other women who even dared to glance at him with a hint of interest in their eye.

If she could think of him only as a friend, she would tell him how much she liked and admired him. But she’d be crossing a dangerous boundary now. They hadn’t reached a safe point of companionship where they sat around swapping life stories. They almost had, but their friendship had been swung to no-man’s land because he’d kissed her. Once on her mouth, although he’d said he was aiming for her cheek. Today on her cheek. And he’d apologised for each kiss.

‘They say I look just like his wife,’ Julia said behind her.

Time to stop dwelling on Ethan and everything she couldn’t have, because she lost all sense every time she remembered his first warm kiss in the stables. The one on her mouth.

‘Whose wife?’

‘She’s dead,’ Julia said, resting her floaty-skirted hip against the table. She leaned over, her face close to Sammy’s ear, her sweet breath brushing Sammy’s cheek. ‘Which makes him available,’ she whispered.

‘Who?’

Julia straightened, and smiled at the field. ‘Might go pat a few dogs.’

‘Ethan?’ Sammy asked. ‘Are you talking about
Ethan’s
wife?’

‘Yeah.’ Julia pushed from the table. ‘See you later.’ She sauntered down the steps and across the street to the fence line. She held onto the top rung, arms stretched wide, chest thrust forwards, hipbones pressed against the crossbeam.

Sammy stared, her thoughts tumbling one over the other— had Julia said ‘wife’?

‘What was Julia just saying?’ a voice questioned behind her.

Sammy turned.

‘Patricia Rutherford, nice to meet you.’ The woman held her hand out, the other rested on the arm of a wheelchair. ‘I’m Josh’s mother. Josh—the one who helped with the art prizes at Cuddly Bear.’

Sammy took her hand. ‘How do you do, Mrs Rutherford? Sammy Walker. Josh was very helpful, he’s a nice boy.’

‘There’s no Mrs needed,’ Patricia said warmly. ‘Please call me Patricia. I hope I can call you Sammy.’

‘Please do.’ Sammy kept her focus on the woman’s warmth, and willed herself to concentrate. She’d heard Josh was looking after his mum, due to some illness, but she hadn’t expected a wheelchair.

Patricia was in her early thirties. She must have had Josh young, he was seventeen. He didn’t have a father, Sammy knew that, but no-one had told her anything about why.

‘Was Julia talking about Ethan just then?’

Sammy nodded but couldn’t speak. Disbelief still had a firm hold of her.

‘Got her eye on him,’ Patricia said.

Sammy’s throat thickened. She’d seen Julia’s eye wandering to Ethan the first time she’d met her, but she’d been more troubled with Julia’s urban-glamour looks than with how she looked at Ethan.

‘Julia said something about Ethan’s wife,’ she said, hoping she didn’t sound like a gossiper, but desperate for more information if it was there to be taken.

‘That was a long time ago. He doesn’t talk about it.’

What a newsflash. ‘What happened?’ A
wife
. He’d been a married man and she’d just been wondering why he hadn’t been snapped up. What an idiot.

‘She’s long gone,’ Patricia said. ‘Ran off with her unborn child half grown in her belly. Went back to his brother, and that was that. Don’t know what Ethan expected, but it hit him bad.’

Sammy leaned her bottom against the table, and swallowed hard. ‘I imagine it did.’ Her voice was hardly above a whisper. ‘She left him for his brother?’

‘He should have known she wouldn’t stay with him, married or not. Pretty thing though, underneath the shadowed eyes and the sunken cheekbones. She wasn’t liked, and Ethan had a lot to contend with, bringing her back to town after the way he’d left.’

This was Ethan’s
town? He hadn’t grown up in the city then.

‘She died in a car accident a little while later, along with the baby.’

God. He’d lost a child too. ‘How long ago was this?’

‘Twelve years.’ Patricia turned her wheelchair towards the shops. ‘It’ll be nice to see him settled. He’s a good man.’

‘Let me do that for you.’ Sammy took the wheelchair handles, pushed it over a rickety bit of the walkway. ‘Settled?’ she asked.

‘Yes, I’d like that for him. Thank you, Sammy. I should be out of this contraption in another month or so.’

Sammy hadn’t heard anything definite about Patricia’s illness, something to do with muscle spasms. She was having tests. Josh drove her to the hospital in Canberra regularly, with his learner’s plates on his mother’s car. ‘Josh helps you, doesn’t he?’