Page 18 of A Stable Daddy

That’s not good.

It’s a three-hour drive back to Denham and driving our country roads at night is bad enough when you’ve got your wits about you. Being sleepy is basically begging for trouble.

“You okay there, Doc?” Jim asks, and it takes far too much effort to turn my head to face him. He’s still eating, mopping up a puddle of gravy with a home-baked bread roll. He furrows his eyebrows in concern. “You look dead tired, mate.”

“Mmm,” I agree, patting my belly. “I think I ate too much. Should probably have some coffee before I hit the road.”

Jim glances over me momentarily before he meets my gaze and shakes his head. He’s still holding his sopping roll over his plate. “Yeah, nah. You’re not driving in this state. You’ll probably run off the road or something. I reckon you should crash here for the night and head out early. We’ll likely be up before you anyway.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t put you all out any more than I already have.”

My protest seems to land on deaf ears, because Jim whistles shrilly to catch his employer’s attention. “Oi, Rob. Can Doc Sharp crash in one of the guest houses tonight? He’s buggered and I don’t think he’d be safe on the roads like this.”

My cheeks burn as every set of eyes around the table lands on me. “I’m fine,” I insist, but they all shake their heads.

“’Course you’re welcome to stay the night,” Rob declares cheerfully. “Being midweek, most of the guest houses are empty right now. We operate a side-hustle as a farmstay, y’see. Get a lot of city slickers out here on weekends and school holidays.” His grin turns affectionate. “It’s good to see the kids getting into all the farm stuff. They like feeding the animals, collecting eggs…better than seeing them all glued to screens. Gives me hope that some’ll keep the stations going when we’re all gone, y’know?”

“Dear God, who gave him the Bundy? He’s off on his ‘we’ll all be dust’ rant again.” Another guy jokes from the other end of the table, holding up his half-empty glass, giving it a little shake. “Also, can I have some?”

“Get your own,” Rob sasses back at him, reaching for the bottle in question. “It’s a work night anyway.”

The guy snorts. “You my Boss or my Daddy, Rob?”

“Either way, I’ll tan your hide if you drink my rum.”

“Jesus,” I exhale in surprise and sit back in my seat again, shaking my head. “You lot really are a different breed, aren’t you?”

Oscar laughs and rubs my back, which wakes me up more than a cup of coffee possibly could have. “I told you,” he all but croons into my ear, his honeyed accent doing all sorts of things to my nerve-endings, “it’s the most progressive, accepting, half-queer bunch of ranchers I ever worked with.”

“Stationhands,” Jim huffs. “We don’t do ranches here.”

“Whatever,” Oscar dismisses him lazily. “It’s all the same thing.”

Instead of taking the bait, Jim leans forward and winks at me. “Want me to show you to your room for the night, Doc?”

“Hell no,” Oscar answers for me, and he snakes a possessive arm around my shoulders to match his tone. “I’ll be showin’ the nice doctor to his room.”

“Uh-huh. His room or yours?”

“Well,” Dusty cuts in, his eyes darting between all three of us much like they had earlier, his brow furrowed and chapped pink lips pinched with displeasure, “seeing as Ozzy’s bunking with me, I think he’d be better off showing Doc to his own room.”

In this moment, Dusty reminds me of a little terrier. He’s short in stature, but he’s territorial and yappy. I like him a lot. I can’t help grinning at him. “Or maybe you can show me where I’m staying?”

“Now, hang on, darlin’…” Oscar starts, and I don’t have to look at him to know that he’s frowning. “I’m more than capable of gettin’ you home safe for the night.”

Jim says something teasing in response, but my mind has already flashed back to that night at The Vault. “I know,” I reply softly, knowing that he gets my meaning as soon as the words are out.

His arm tenses around my shoulder, and he leans into my personal space again. I brace myself for whatever sweet, charming thing he’s about to say, when the moment is interrupted.

“Oz, the keys for cabin three are on the hook in the kitchen,” Rob’s voice cuts in from down the table. “Figure Doc Sharp might enjoy a room with a view.” I look down the length of the table and the station owner grins at me. “Consider it thanks for saving Jemima and Little Ted.”

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “You named the foal Little Ted? And its mother is Jemima?” Narrowing my gaze, I lean forward a little. “Do you have a chicken named Henny Penny and a cow named Daisy? A cat named Diddle, even?”

Rob’s lips twitch, but Dusty’s awed “How’d you know that?” is what sets off my guffaws.

Dusty, who is probably only in his early twenties, should probably remember Play School better than I do. I’m not ashamed to admit that a lot of my memories come from watching it while high or drunk during my uni days.

Don’t judge me: I was at uni before we had such things as wifi or streaming services. And when you’re high or drunk as fuck, nothing is more amusing than Spike Milligan’sOn The Ning Nang Nongsung by underpaid NIDA graduates on low-budget community television.

---