Christmas at Waratah Bay (6 page)

She was asking him to pull up her t-shirt? “Um . . . no.” Not wise on so many levels.

“I don’t bite.”

“I’m not pulling up your t-shirt.”

She frowned. “You must be the only male in the known universe who won’t,” she told him. “If you knew how many men want to undress me . . . ” Her face clouded still more, but then she caught herself. “Sorry. It’s not appropriate to whine to you. I’m not an international model here, thanks be, and thank
you
for not wanting to undress me. But, please check my knot. I’m not exactly a champion knot tier.”

And she turned her back to him and tugged up her t-shirt herself.

She’d made a sling, with two corners of the shawl going over her shoulders, the other two around her waist. He had no choice. He checked. It was a pretty poor knot.

“Tie it again,” she said cheerfully. “I’ve got him safe. Go for it.”

He untied her knot. The scarf was twisted. He needed to untwist it across her bare shoulder and then tug the four ends together.

As a farmer he used knots every day of his working life. There was no reason for this to be any different.

Her skin was silk smooth. The straps of her bra were wisps of white lace. Every time his hands came into contact with her skin he . . .

No. Don’t even think about it, he told himself as he tied a very sensible knot that would hold a puppy ten times the size of Gerome.

But he was starting to see why this woman was a model. He was starting to see why she had trouble . . .

And for the first time he thought: she trusts me. This is one extraordinarily beautiful woman, and yet she’d tossed her hold-all into his car and come to stay.

“Has anyone told you that you should be more careful?” he demanded as she shrugged her t-shirt down and that glorious expanse of creamy skin was lost to view.

“What of?”

“Me, for instance. If you say every man in the known universe wants to undress you . . . ”

“I suspect I’m exaggerating,” she admitted. “It’s just . . .sometimes it feels like it. But, of course I trust you. You’re Harold’s Max, and according to Harold you’re the most dependable man on the planet. Did you know he’s been trying to get me out here ever since you moved in? He’s matchmaking.”

“He’s
what
?”

“Well, not now,” Sarah admitted. “But he did think it was a good idea early on. I split up with a very unsatisfactory boyfriend just as I finished nursing, and Harold wrote that he had just the cure living next door.” She hesitated again. “I guess I shouldn’t have mentioned it, but he may. He’s a bit . . . one eyed about you.”

“So, he’d like one of his daughters . . . ”

“Who knows what he’d like?” she said, a little too fast. “He’s so unwell now it can’t matter, and you don’t need to worry. I’m contracted to be in New York again by New Year, so unless this is a whirlwind courtship you’re safe. Meanwhile, Puppy. Tree. Christmas.”

“Yes, ma’am.” There didn’t seem anything else to say.

“I do like a man with a bit of deference,” she said and she smiled, and there was that grin again. “Maybe Harold has a point. But there’s no time, we’re late, we’re late, like the White Rabbit. Christmas is coming. Decorations, stat!”

She had him fascinated. Okay, she had him more than fascinated. She was like a wound up toy, full of energy, ready to go.

“You’ve fed Gerome?” he asked and was extraordinarily pleased when his voice sounded almost normal.

“Of course I have. The poor baby was starving. I’ve checked the internet and found what’s safe for him to eat, though to be honest I reckon if I’d offered him a horse he would have eaten it. Your fridge produced the goods—thank you very much—and now he’s gone to sleep.’

“Do you need a basket?’

“He stays with me. You’ve made my pouch awesome.” She was moving on from puppy-worrying and was walking round the massive Christmas tree. “Wow,” she breathed. “It never looked this big in the paddock.”

It hadn’t. He should have measured. This sitting room was opulent, built in a time when landowners built their homesteads on a scale to impress, but even in this high vaulted room, the tree almost touched the ceiling.

“We need a truly awesome angel.”

“As you say, there’s stuff in the attic. Sarah, I need to check the cattle.”

“Of course. Go.”

“I’ll help when I get back.”

“There’s no need. Gerome and I make a cool decorating team. I have some things in my car. I’ll bring them in and then, if you don’t mind me delving in your attic, I’ll find the rest. You go do what you have to do, Max Ramsey, and leave Christmas decorating to me. And, what comes next. Can I use your kitchen?”

“Of course, but . . . ”

“There’s no but about it,” she said soundly. “From where I’m standing Christmas is looking as big as this Christmas tree, and I’m loving it. For now, though, I’m fine by myself. Max, scoot. You of all people know that alone is fine. But actually, I don’t need to be alone. Christmas this year is all about Harold, and all about Gerome—and all about you. It’s practically an enormous Christmas and it’s just what I want.”

*

Practically an enormous
Christmas? She had no idea what she was talking about. He headed off down the paddocks with the dogs, and he thought . . .

Actually, he was thinking of Sarah and creamy skin and a smile that lit the room.

He’d better think of something else.

Like the truly enormous Christmases of times past.

They still had them, some of his siblings. Three of them were married now, and a couple had kids. He had invitations to Christmas whenever he wanted, but having fought for years to provide a semblance of celebration, Christmas had lost its gloss. Now, he loved the feeling that no one was dependent on him. No one would turn to him with disappointed faces when once again Santa had failed to deliver. He was responsible for no one.

He’d share this Christmas, grudgingly, with Sarah and with Harold, but out here with his cattle he could concede that he’d be glad when Christmas was over.

He’d be glad to be on his own again.

*

She decorated the
tree while Gerome slept. The big house was whisper quiet. The dogs had gone with Max. There was no wind, no sounds, except for a couple of plovers calling to each other in the paddocks outside. If she was back in Manhattan right now she’d be listening to music, using earphones to block out the street noise. But there was no need for earphones here and she didn’t want to listen to music. This place felt right.

This place felt like home.

She’d fought so hard to get back. Max was accusatory—why hadn’t she been here sooner?—but, in truth getting here had been impossible. And now, her contract still hung over her head. She had to be back in the States by New Year.

Leaving Harold.

If only . . . If only . . .

Regrets, regrets, regrets. She found she was blinking back tears and gave her face an angry swipe. Gerome stirred against her and she sank back on her knees and cuddled him.

It was going to be hard—really hard—to keep this little guy, she conceded, but some things were worth fighting for.

Like giving Harold this last Christmas.

Like giving Max a Christmas he’d remember as well?

He didn’t want one.

“Well, he’s having one,” she said, fiercely, and Gerome stirred some more. She hitched up her t-shirt and looked at the little guy. He gazed back, his huge eyes full of . . . what? Fear? Hope?

“That’s pretty much how I’m feeling,” she told him. “You and me, both. I reckon what we need to do now is cook. How are you at mince pies?”

He snuffled a little, wriggled down in his pouch again and relaxed. His eyes closed in blissful sleep. He was fed. He was warm. He was safe.

“You agree? Excellent. Mince pies it is.”

Except cooking was hardly her forte, she conceded as she headed to the kitchen. In fact, being honest, she sucked at cooking.

Still, mince pies should be fine. She’d bought frozen slabs of pre-rolled pastry and gourmet mince. She’d bought trays and cutters. She’d found an awesome website that gave instructions for the most basic of cooks—their hint was to stir a little lemon juice, a few fresh sultanas and a good dollop of brandy into the bought mince and it’d taste homemade.

Even she could do that.

She checked Max’s oven and found it had satisfactory knobs with temperature dials. What a relief. Harold’s fire stove had looked incredibly threatening.

She set up her laptop, re-read the directions, found flour in the pantry, put everything she needed on the bench.

Right. Sarah Carlton, nurse turned supermodel, was about to transform again—this time into a cook.

“Mince pies here we come,” she said in satisfaction. “Christmas, ready or not.”

*

One of his
cows was in trouble—again. The lower dam was muddy on the far side and a fat cow had stayed too long on a soft spot and sunk. She was lowing mournfully as he reached the dam. He swore.

“That’s the third time. Gloria, once more and you’re mince meat, I swear.”

She gave him a look that said she knew she was in calf and she was a great breeding cow, and she was in no danger at all.

“Dimwit,” he told her as he hauled the spade from the back of the truck and started digging. “Don’t push your luck.” And he glowered.

Normally, digging Gloria out of bogs was something he didn’t mind. It was hard physical labor, but it was quietly satisfying.

But tonight . . . logic aside, the longer he stayed out the more he really wanted to be back at the house.

Why?

Because a Christmas tree was going up without him.

Because Sarah was cuddling a puppy.

Because . . .

*

She was making
bulk mince pies and they were excellent. “There’s nothing to this cooking caper,” she told Gerome as the second tray came out of the oven, looking exactly like the picture on the website. “I think I’m a natural.” The house was filled with the house with the smell of Christmas—pine tree and freshly baked mince pies. Immensely satisfying. “Yes, it’s overkill,” she said as she surveyed her second tray. “But it feels right.”