Page 40 of Stockman's Sandstorm

‘I can keep secrets, too.’ She sipped on her coffee. Then reached for another shortbread, pushing the packet across the table as if to stop the temptation. ‘I don’t know what it’s like growing up with siblings. Must have been nice.’

‘It was chaotic. I used to idolise my oldest brothers, Dex and Ryder. They were like the cool kids at school, and I’d chase after them, wanting to be like them. But now, as adults, the only thing we have in common is the station and that we’re stockmen with a different set of skills.’ He had no idea why he’d confessed that to her.

But the look she gave him wasn’t a snobby, judgy one. It was a look of concern.

Or was he confusing that with care?

‘If you want to share …’ He shrugged. ‘Like that nightmare?’

She sipped on her coffee, her dainty fingers toying with the handle of her mug. ‘It’s the same one … I, um …’ She inhaled heavily.

Ash didn’t move. He wanted to hear this story.

‘I’d survived this car bombing—’

‘Where?’ He sat straighter, leaning towards her, his stomach twisted in worry for her.

‘Belgium. Just before I came out here …’ She looked so frail, so vulnerable, staring at her fingers. ‘My nightmare keeps replaying those final few moments. I hear my heels on the pavement, passing this small store, and through the window I spotted these biscuits on the shelf.’ She tapped the red packet of shortbread. ‘My work colleagues teased me for wasting time when they climbed into the car to wait for me. I told them I’d only be a quick minute, ducking into the store to buy a packet of this shortbread.’ She held up her half-eaten, creamy-coloured biscuit in her slender fingers.

Ash reached over and gently covered her other hand with his. His thumb brushed over the back of her hand, as he gave her a nod to continue.

‘The bell over the shop door tinkles. A guy whizzes past on his pushbike. A motorbike starts. Our work car’s back door is open, my work colleague scoots across the seat to give me room to climb inside. And then …’ Her voice dropped as her bottom lip trembled. He squeezed her hand to help soothe her. ‘The driver turns the key, and there’s this click, and it’s like time stops …’

Her voice became a whisper, ‘I feel this invisible wave of power hitting me, it lifts me out of my shoes from the blast. I never heard the explosion, just this ringing in my ears. But then the wind slams me against the shop’s wall as dust and glass rains down on me … And that’s when I wake up.’ She bit on the biscuit, staring at her cup of black coffee, thoughtfully chewing.

‘Were you hurt?’

‘Concussion, stitches, and this ugly bald patch …’ She tapped the back of her head. ‘I don’t know if it’s PTSD, or shell shock, but ever since I woke up in the hospital, the nightmares began.’

‘Do you get them every night?’

She peered past him to the open kitchen screen door with a view of the soft, shell-pink skyline, announcing sunrise. ‘Coming out here, they slowed down. Time, right? Heals all wounds.’

‘You would mention time, being a clock-watcher.’ He winked at her and was rewarded with a soft smile, the heavy mood lifting. ‘Talking about time, have you got a minute? I’d really like to run something past you.’

‘About what?’

‘This way.’ He led her to his bedroom, then thought twice about it. His crap was everywhere. ‘Excuse the mess.’ Shifting one pile of clothes to the other.

She giggled, and it was such a sweet sound. ‘Maid’s day off, huh?’

‘We hired a nanny, hoping she’d do that.’

‘This nanny would willingly chip in to pay for a maid. Cleaning is so brutal.’ She held up her small hands, bleached clean. ‘Wow, is this your sugar stash?’

Ash must have kicked the drawer too hard because it stood open. ‘I play games late.’

‘I had one too.’

‘For what?’

‘Work. Chasing deadlines, sometimes we couldn’t go home. This is impressive. Oh, I love those.’ She pulled out the caramel chews.

She had a taste for such old things, like shortbread and caramels, dressing in a timeless wardrobe, but one of quality, that made her look polished but pretty, too.

‘Help yourself, any time.’

‘No. Shortbread is enough.’ She pushed the drawer shut. ‘What do you want to ask me?’

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