Page 22 of Stockman's Stormcloud

‘Because I got you some headphones.’ She pointed to where they sat on the side table, along with notepaper and pens, a box of tissues, a small rubbish bin, an enormous bottle of water and a glass. She’d set him up better than the hospital. ‘That way, you can watch your punchy-boxing porn all night long and not bother us.’

‘Well, okay then.’ He leaned back deeper into the couch that rested near the front door and faced the large open living area. ‘Where are your bedrooms?’

‘Charlie’s bedroom is on the left. I’m on the other side. Just so you know, I keep a loaded shotgun under my pillow.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not my type.’ Bree never had been. Sure, she was pretty in her own way, and he enjoyed their banter, but they were friends who liked to fight.

‘Andthat’s a big fat ditto, dumpling.’ Her eyes glistened as her lips barely curled. She strolled past black door number three, the room next to hers, and tapped on another door. ‘This is the bathroom and toilet. Let me know if you want a bath, I have some herbs—’

‘Nope. I want none of your witchy woo-woo while I’m here.’

‘It’s just herbal remedies.’

‘Don’t care.’

‘Says the man walking around with a chemically produced oxygen tank.’

‘I’m leaving.’

‘You’re staying.’ She crossed the room fast to push him down so easily, it sucked.

He was normally a lot stronger than Bree—even though she was plenty strong, from swinging hammers and bending steel as a blacksmith.

‘Sit.’ She glared at him as if daring him to move.

He had no choice, nor the energy to move. ‘I’m not happy.’

‘Who said you had to be. Or that I care. Just so you know, the couch does this.’ She pulled on a handle and out came a leg rest, as the back inclined, practically pinning him to the couch. He was truly trapped now.

And the witch knew it.

‘Besides no beer, you look comfortable.’

Crossing his legs over at the ankles, with the television remote in hand, he could do with a beer. ‘How long will I stay here?’

‘I don’t know.’ Bree scooped up a towel and a plastic container from the edge of the kitchen bench. ‘But as you are Charlie’s guest, here are some towels.’

‘You know, I don’t want to do this either.’

Typically, she ignored him. ‘I’ve made these snacks for you.’ She put the plastic container down on the couch.

He hesitated. ‘Suppose it’s some vegan-ese-crab-grass-weed-and-seed concoction.’

‘Beefjerky on the top tray, and the bottom is sea-salted popcorn, and there’s some nuts and pretzels in there, too.’

‘Now I really could do with a beer.’ He opened the lid of the man-sized lunchbox filled with stackable trays. The salty beef aroma was heavenly to this cattleman.

‘I don’t mind your cooking.’ As a muster cook, Bree made magic over a simple camp fire. Even if she looked like a red-headed witch stirring a cauldron under the stars, her meals were mouth-wateringly magnificent. He was already salivating at the thought of what she might create with an entire kitchen behind her. ‘When’s dinner?’

‘Five-thirty.’

‘Why so early?’

‘Because Charlie is in bed by seven. But he’s up at five to bake his bread.’

‘Will I get some of that, too?’ Most mornings the aroma of baking bread wafted across to the farmhouse—it was torture, like being stuck on the couch with Bree as his master.

‘Of course. Guests get the best.’

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