The House at the Bottom of the Hill (3 page)

C
harlotte locked the front door, slid the bolts into place top and bottom and hooked the chain into its lopsided brass slot. The red paint had chipped where her old screwdriver had slipped. She wasn’t an expert handywoman but she knew how to put chains and bolts on doors—when she had the right tools. A new screwdriver was on her shopping list.

It was silent outside. Dark.

She turned to the hallway, fighting fatigue and the dreaded sense of claustrophobia the darkness gave her. She switched the hall light off and the upstairs light on. The large peonies on the flocked wallpaper looked like splashes of raspberry cordial in the evening shadows.

‘Goodnight, Lucy.’ The dog lay in her basket in the laundry area off the kitchen.

Charlotte held her breath, counted to five and released it, putting more than usual mental effort into ignoring the shadows around her as she made her way to her ground-floor bedroom.

It had been years since the panic overwhelmed her to the point where she wanted to hide beneath her bedcovers, but tension after the death of her gran nine months ago and the loss of the world she’d loved had nudged the fear again. Two weeks in Swallow’s Fall and the angsts were back with a regularity more worrying than the bodily incapacities that came with them: clouded vision and nausea that played a skipping game in her stomach; that terrible closed-in sensation. And the dream.

She closed her bedroom door, holding on to the tarnished brass knob as she turned the old-fashioned key in the lock. She moved to the window, slipped her hand between the closed drapes and checked that the window lock was hooked properly. She shuffled the heavy brocade fabric, folding one width over the other; locking out the night.

She got into bed and switched off her table lamp. A light was on in the house; she didn’t need one in her bedroom. She’d taught herself to sleep without it.
There’s no monster now
, she reminded herself.
He’s gone
.

She turned her mind to the jobs on her list. The hall carpet had seen better days and her kitchen could do with an overhaul worthy of two rubbish skips—and she had a pink house to be repainted yellow. Not that she wanted to go overboard with renovations, but the quicker she got the B&B ready for resale, the faster she’d be out of this town. It was nothing like the village in England she’d grown to love. She treasured wide open spaces but there was too much landmass in Australia. Too much country to become too damned lonely in.

She’d go for a run tomorrow. That would help relieve the sense of the townspeople not liking her, not wanting her, disturbing her normally happy-to-be-alone attitude. Mrs Tam was helpful but Mr and Mrs Tillman were troublesome. Mrs Johnson was probably more bluff than bite … and Sammy Granger. She was on the committee and had been welcoming the few times Charlotte had met her but it would be a colossal mistake to befriend the woman who was married to the man she’d come to town to meet.

She scrunched her eyes closed and ran a hand over her face. Why should she care what anyone thought about her? She wouldn’t be here long enough for any of it to matter.

She saw an image of Daniel Bradford resting against the doorframe of his Bar & Grill, arms folded, one leg bent, his weight on his hip. She surprised herself by smiling as she shrugged her shoulders beneath the eiderdown and shuffled her head into the pillow. At least she’d removed the fear of the dream, although she hadn’t expected to fall asleep with a picture of Daniel Bradford’s firm backside in her mind. Still … if that’s what it took. She yawned, snuggled further. The man had a fabulous bum.

Neither had she expected to get a first-rate view of it so soon, but here it was in daytime, right in front of her in superb display. Clothed, of course—encased in washed denim so soft looking she could imagine the smoothness of it on the palm of her hand.

The farming aromas of cracked feed and chicken pellets stifled her breath as they did every time she came into the stock feeders’ establishment. The smell of hay and sheep wafted through the open barn doors at the back along with the sound of the twins’ laughter, but she couldn’t take her focus off Daniel Bradford’s tight, two-hundred-squats-a-day backside. He must work out. A lot.

Ted Tillman had his head bent over a brochure and Daniel was leaning on the counter, nodding at whatever he was being shown. He had his left foot on an upended crate so the denim of his jeans creased where the top of his leg met his hip. The length of his back and legs said six-foot-two, and the firmness of his thighs said runner, or football player. The jeans were what might be called a comfortable fit on an exceptionally taut body. The white shirt he wore, tucked into the waistband of his jeans, showed off a torso that tapered from wide shoulders to trim waist. His brown belt looked old; a scratched leather favourite, or perhaps the only one he owned.

Her consideration slid downwards again and her focus got snagged on a small rip in his jeans below the left back pocket. About three centimetres long, it was only slightly frayed, suggesting it hadn’t been torn for long. He might not even know it was there.

‘Good morning.’

She shot her gaze up to his face and didn’t know what feature to look at first. His short brown hair should be ordinary by anyone’s description, but it was thick and glossy. His eyes were the colour of sable and his tanned skin suggested he liked being outdoors.

Charlotte gathered herself.
Stay calm. He’s just a guy
. So why did she feel like panting the way Lucy did on warm afternoons?

‘Something wrong?’ he asked with a quizzical half-smile.

‘There’s a queue,’ Ted said, both hands flat on the counter as he leaned forward, his frown meant to scare.

‘It’s okay,’ Daniel said to Ted, taking his foot off the crate and turning to face Charlotte. He hooked his fingers into the back pockets of his jeans, and thrust his left leg forwards.

Alright, so he wasn’t just any male specimen.
Hot farmhand on hay stack
, the caption said, as a vision of Daniel Bradford standing on the baler of his John Deere tractor erupted in her head. Wearing only his jeans, with fifty-five hay bales he’d hefted at his booted feet, he ran a long-fingered hand down his bare chest where rivulets of dirty sweat trailed down to his … Charlotte looked down at his—For God’s sake. This was not the dream she should be having. Not in daylight.

‘Looking for something particular?’ Daniel asked, amusement in his tone.

The flame of embarrassment singed her cheeks. He’d caught her looking.

‘I wanted some screws,’ she said in a breathy little voice. Where had
that
come from?

‘You’re in the wrong place. You need Morelly’s hardware across the street.’

Did the man have any idea what havoc that shirt wrought with a woman’s imagination? Strong neck, toughened shoulders, an expanse of iron-hard chest and a firmed abdomen—all barely concealed by his thin cotton shirt. Given her reaction to him so far, all this masculinity spelled trouble.

‘Screwdriver,’ she managed. ‘I need a Phillips head for the screw-in type of screws.’

He grinned the sort of grin obviously meant to please anyone who wanted to catch it. Charlotte did her best not to be knocked sideways by the sexual vibrancy of it.

‘Screwing?’ he said, his voice lowered to a soft, deep vibrato. ‘I think I know just what you need.’

Oh, trouble alright. Hotshot-charm-boy trouble. ‘Screw
in
,’ she said firmly.

Ted Tillman coughed. ‘So, shall I order the charcoal briquettes for you, Dan?’

‘Yeah, please, Ted. One ton.’

‘One t–ton?’ Ted stuttered. ‘What are you going to do with a t–ton of charcoal?’

Daniel spoke softly. ‘Thinking of throwing a barbecue at Kookaburra’s on Friday nights throughout summer. Something different for the punters.’

Ted closed the brochure and puckered his mouth and brow.

Daniel turned a confident-looking smile on the stock feeders’ proprietor. ‘First night I do it, you and Grace get a free feed. Put the charcoal on my tab, would you, Ted?’

Ted’s brow relaxed. ‘That’s very generous—a free feed, eh?’ He slapped the brochure. ‘Not sure how this will go down, but I’ll order the briquettes for you. Can always send them back if we decide we don’t like Friday night barbecues.’ Ted looked around Daniel’s shoulder at Charlotte. ‘You wanted something?’

‘Dog biscuits.’ Charlotte turned, picked up a fifteen-kilo plastic sack and nearly dropped it—it was heavier than anticipated. She’d intended to buy the five-kilo bag but couldn’t bring herself to look weak and fainthearted in front of these men. She had an unflinching public image to maintain. She hoisted the bag under her arm and turned to the counter.

‘Cash for smaller purchases,’ Ted said. ‘EFTPOS for others but I don’t accept American Express.’

‘I know, you’ve told me before.’ No tab for Charlotte. She deposited the sack onto the counter and dug into the pocket of her A-line skirt for her purse.

‘Where’s your dog?’ Daniel asked.

‘Outside.’ She inhaled the aroma of coffee coming off him in waves. Freshly ground beans. Strong and sweet.

‘
Ted!
’

Mr Tillman moved towards the sound of his wife’s voice, his footsteps shuffling on the grainy floorboards. ‘Coming, honey. Guess what’s happening at Kookaburra’s on a Friday from now on—and we’re getting it free!’

‘I’ve left the correct money on the counter,’ Charlotte called. Didn’t want him creating a fuss in the street, saying she’d left without paying. That would only give him another reason to bang his gavel. Whatever the emotional problems Mrs Tam had been referring to, Ted didn’t appear to be having any trouble with them today.

Hotshot held his hand out. ‘Dan Bradford. Good to meet you at last.’

She grabbed the sack and dragged it to the end of the counter. ‘At last? I’ve been in town a fortnight.’

‘Been meaning to call. Thought I’d let you settle in first. Didn’t want to crowd you.’

‘Very kind of you. Especially as I have a gathering over at my place most days.’

He grinned. ‘I did wave.’ He thrust his hand further forwards.

Churlish not to take it, but she kept her hand on the sack of dog biscuits. ‘Charlotte Simmons,’ she said, much preferring the prim tone to the breathy voice.

He leaned closer. ‘We have a custom in Swallow’s Fall, Charlotte.’ His expression looked more amused than perturbed by her discourteous manner. Those coffee beans must be expensive because the unexpectedly rich aroma teased her nostrils and made her mouth water. ‘We shake hands and we help each other out whenever we can.’

Charlotte bit back the retort on the tip of her tongue. Not wise to bring up her thoughts about how
helpful
the townspeople were while Ted was still in earshot. She slid her hand into Daniel’s, where it was immediately engulfed. ‘Nice to meet you. At last.’

He cocked an eyebrow. ‘You been waiting for an introduction?’

Charlotte tilted her head. ‘Is there a queue?’

His smile broke. Clusters of lights danced in the depths of his eyes. She drew a steadying breath. Could he do that on purpose?

‘Seriously,’ he said, breaking the spell and releasing her hand as he stepped back. ‘I’m happy to meet you. I was going to pop into the B&B and introduce myself later this morning.’

‘Glad to have saved you a chore.’

‘Now I’ve seen you close up, I guarantee it wouldn’t have been a chore, and I apologise for not having introduced myself before now. Will you forgive me?’

Fabulous looking, great physique—good job she wouldn’t be in town long enough to consider how she’d react if he threw his bounty of masculine charms her way. There hadn’t been time for relationships or love affairs these last two years and she certainly wouldn’t be looking for any in the antiquated, backward town of Swallow’s Fall.

She grabbed the sack of dog biscuits, settled its bulk on her hip and tugged at her skirt, which had ridden too far above her knees. She thrust her purse into her pocket, and headed for the door.

‘Can I give you a hand with that?’ he asked, following her out.

‘I’m fine, thanks.’ The plastic was slippery and the biscuits inside shifted with each step. She stopped by Lucy and resettled the sack.

‘Here, give it to me.’

She angled away. ‘I’m
fine
.’

He let his arm drop and produced another smile. ‘Stubborn, huh?’

‘Capable.’

‘It’s that red hair,’ he said with a grin.

‘Titian.’

‘Highball red. Not quite ginger.’

Highball? Was he referring to her as a cocktail? And it was hard to ignore the ‘ginger’ remark, but Charlotte found the willpower.

Daniel glanced at Lucy as the dog unfurled, yawned and shuffled closer to Charlotte’s feet. ‘Will she bite?’

Charlotte shrugged. ‘Don’t know.’
Hopefully
.

He hunched down, elbows resting on his knees and checked the name tag on the dog’s collar. ‘Hi, Lucy. How’s your day?’

Lucy gave him a dog smile, mouth open, tongue lolling, eyes bright with curiosity.

Flirt. Charlotte would have to give her dog some lessons on dealing with certain types of men. ‘Come on, Lucy.’ She checked for traffic. Nothing coming. She stepped off the pavement with Lucy at her heels and headed for the wooden walkway on the other side of Main Street. She needed milk and coffee from the grocer’s. They didn’t stock expensive coffee beans and she’d pay a hundred dollars for a real coffee right now, but granules would have to do.

Lucy padded after Charlotte, Hotshot Bradford right behind the dog.

Charlotte halted outside the beauty parlour, next door to the toy shop. Both were closed. Cuddly Bear Toy Shop was only open a few hours each day but the beauty parlour hadn’t had its doors open once since she’d arrived. Why the town had a place like this, she had no idea. She’d wanted to stop and peer inside any number of times but never spent time dawdling on Main Street in case someone cornered her and asked more questions about colour schemes, but the sack of biscuits was heavy so she took the opportunity while she had it.

She slid the sack down her leg, plopped it on the ground and looked up at the creamy facade, the bronzed trim, and the curly signage on the window. ‘
La Crème Parfaite. Cherishing the woman within
,’ she read aloud, wondering how much cherishing the women of Swallow’s Fall demanded. Obviously not much, since the place was locked up. She stepped closer to see what was written beneath. The font, a small italic, read,
For women passing through and those stuck here.