Page 25 of Stockman's Stormcloud

‘Are you worried about Charlie sending his brother, Harry, to prison for murder?’

‘The guilt would hurt Charlie more.’ Bree plaited her hair into a thick rope that trailed down her back. ‘His brother bolted without saying goodbye, over half a century ago. In that time, Pop had learned to let go, where he was happy. But ever since they found that stupid car, Charlie is now obsessed with his search.’ She pointed to the stacks of old photo albums and rolls of maps, piled on the end of the dining table.

‘You know you could sell that car to me, and I’d turn it into a muscle car. But I’ll keep the name Pandora.’ Where were his priorities? ‘Hey, where is my car?’

‘Well, Charlie and I had this bet to see who could make the biggest dust cloud doing burnouts in the back block—’

‘You didn’t?’ Not his baby.

Bree giggled. ‘No. Ryder drove it home after your first night in the hospital.’

‘Um…’ He swallowed hard, pushing down his pride, as he took a few short, sharp breaths. ‘Thank you for doing that. Keeping your promise to not leave.’

‘I rarely make promises, so when I make them, I try like hell to keep them. Which reminds me.’ She juggled a set of keys in her hands, unlocked a steel cabinet and removed his wallet and the fat envelope of cash.

It was his winnings from the fight.

‘It’s all there.’

‘You know what…’ He couldn’t believe he was saying this. ‘I believe you.’

‘Be sure to count it. I would. Don’t worry, you won’t offend me. We’ve both got thick skins, as one of the many things we have in common.’

That was true.

He flicked open his wallet. Everything was there. ‘Guess that’s why you’re the only one who gets my humour.’

‘And the only one who is smart enough to give it back to you.’ She playfully ruffled his hair. ‘Now, sit back and chill. Radio us if you need anything—which of course, I’ll ignore.’

Witch.He chuckled. It’d have to be the first time he’d laughed this week.

At the hat racks by the back screen door, Bree slid on her leather work apron, tucking her hair into a skullcap and picked up her thick welding gloves. Along with her welding pants and steel capped boots, this was the Bree he knew. The kick-arse blacksmithing Bree.

‘Oh, I almost forget.’ She grabbed an old clock from one of the kitchen shelves and wound it up before placing it on his side table.

‘What is the cooking timer for?’

‘The alarm will remind you to do your breathing exercises.’

‘Whatever.’ He rolled his eyes, leaning back on the couch that was the comfiest couch he’d ever sat on.

‘Dex, I can’t make you do it. Only you can. But I know you’ve got the willpower to shake off this injury in no time.’

‘How much are you willing to bet on me?’

‘No bets.’ Her face solemn, with her green eyes reflecting the window’s sunshine. ‘It’s not a game, this is your health. But I do know you’ll fight this and win.’

Nine

Dexlooked so beautiful, and at peace, asleep on the large couch inside the stone-walled cottage.

‘Hey, twinkle toes, you’ve got a visitor.’ Bree tickled Dex’s ear.

He angrily swiped it away. ‘Rack off. I’m doing what you told me to do.’ He went to roll over, but his sore rib must have rubbed him the wrong way. ‘Son of a—’ He opened those dark eyes to face Sophie. ‘Nurse Kitty?’

‘What did he call you?’ Bree arched her eyebrows at Sophie.

He did not just say that!

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