Page 32 of Stockman's Stowaway

He shook his head.

‘Do you do anything for fun?’

‘Training my dogs is fun.’

The muster dogs were spread out across the strip of grey lawn, always keeping Cap in their line of sight, ready to eagerly follow him with their wagging tails and wide doggy smiles.

‘Aren’t your dogs meant for work?’

‘No. I mean, yeah…’ Again, he reached for the roof beams, this time to stretch his spine, exposing his stomach muscles fully. His biceps stretched the material of his shirt to its limit; they were big enough to suit some Hollywood heart-throb.

Hot. Dayum.

Cap wasn’t doing it to show off. He didn’t seem to realise how magnificently beautiful he was to look at with that raw silentmasculine energy underneath. Bree was right, his silence was a strength, a lot more than she realised.

‘My work doesn’t feel like work.’ His deep brown eyes had tiny flecks of amber that reflected the yard’s sunshine as he watched his dogs. His smile flickered, so slight, but it only softened as did his stance where he hooked his thumbs through the belt loops of his jeans. ‘You should see their smiles when the muster dogs are working. To them it’s playtime, and that’s enough for me that they get to live and enjoy another day doing what they love.’

Her heart flipped and literally rolled over like a dog in play at the obvious joy he got from rescuing those animals.

‘So there’s nothing else you’re, um, passionate about?’ She licked her dry lips, his eyes tracking her tongue’s movement. ‘Or are you all about work?’

He again turned his attention back to the dogs. ‘I get passionate about new projects, like doing the dog trials and getting your native nursery off the ground. What about you? Don’t tell me it’s just gardening.’

‘No, I have a hobby.’

‘Is it quilt making?’

She screwed her nose up. ‘No.’

‘My mother knits and one of my sisters is into scrapbooking. Her birthday cards are like works of art. Some are so good she’ll ask me to send them back to her.’ He laughed. The sound was glorious, rich, rolling and full. ‘You said your mother does show dogs as her hobby. So, what’s yours.’

She shared a half shrug. ‘It’s weird.’

‘The way I live and talk to my dogs more than humans, people would call me weird.’ He leaned in so close they were sharing the same air. ‘I know I’m weird, especially to women.’

‘No, you’re not.’

He shook his head as if unconvinced, and started clearing the empty beer bottles off the table.

‘I think it’s incredible what you do, not weird.’ Cap was amazing, and her feelings for him were starting to get far too complicated to control. ‘I make mosaics from bottle caps.’

‘You what?’ Cap arched an eyebrow at her as the glass beer bottles clinked inside the empty beer box.

Mia reached for the large coffee tin that sat in the middle of the table, filled with beer bottle caps. ‘I’m always collecting discarded bottle caps on mining sites, clearing up the rubbish. Whenever I’d see one, I’d tuck it into my pocket to toss into the bin later. Except I’d forget, and I’d empty my pockets out when I did my laundry and find them.’ She grabbed a handful of bottle caps and let them fall like water from her fingers to tinkle like coins spilling inside a treasure chest. ‘I had so many of them collecting in this old tin bucket by the washing machine, that I began making things with them. I did this cool owl for Mum for Mother’s Day. And I was working on a…’

‘On?’

Plonking back into her chair at the table, she turned a single beer cap in her fingers like a coin. ‘I was working on these sunflowers made from broken pallets. They would’ve suited Bree’s garden beds as planting stakes.’

‘Are you sure you don’t want us to collect your gear?’

‘No.’ She rolled the crimped edged metal cap across her palm, it reminded her of the circular rowel found on the end of the cattle spurs Charlie wore on his boots. ‘I’m sure there’s nothing left to collect. Gavin would’ve burnt it or dumped it by now. He doesn’t like to keep junk.’

‘It’s not junk, if you turned it into art.’ Cap wore a serious expression, as if processing her or the situation she was in. But he didn’t make fun of her, more like he was trying to understand her, with that deep patience to wait for her to react to him.

Sweet sassy malassyher body reacted to him alright. In unexpected ways, it was burying her sanity along with her common sense. She forced her attention elsewhere.

‘I could make something for Bree, to thank her.’ She looked up to meet his eyes that were so soft, so clear, where the sun-kissed crinkles born from a life in the sun softened across his face. He was the most handsome man she’d ever met, a man who didn’t hide his soft side to animals, children, and to her. He truly was a rare male unicorn.

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