Page 65 of Stockman's Showdown

Ryder took the phone and zoomed on the image of Ghost, who looked like a soldier of the hardcore, specialised military variety.

‘You know…’ Ash tilted his head at Ryder. ‘Ghost is a hardened, no-nonsense soldier, who’s fiercely loyal to those he cares about. He reminds me of someone I know, like a big brother who acts like he’s got ice in his veins.’

Ryder grunted, passing Ash’s phone back.

‘You and Ghost share the same build. Any reason why Bree mentioned Ghost to you?’

‘Hmph.’ Ryder ignored him as he climbed the steps.

Ash skipped up the steps beating Ryder to the front door where he held it, wearing the boyish grin that his son Mason had inherited. ‘Did you wear any of those scary masks like Ghost, when you were in the Army?’

‘No. Face paint or black masks to not reflect any light.’ But he was going to research more on this Ghost character if Bree had not only likened him to Ryder, but if she had some mask fetish. It’d be something to occupy his time while watching the surveillance cameras later. Dex had told him that Bree made swords and lances in the smithy’s forge for customers who did live-action role-playing, and Bree had also mentioned cosplay. For a man who didn’t know how to play, he was keen to learn more—especially after that kiss last night.

Twenty-six

After feeding the horses and checking over her list of orders that were packaged ready for delivery today, Bree headed back to the cottage for breakfast, keen to hit the road before Ryder showed up. The early morning air was still crisp enough for her to wrap Ryder’s blanket around her shoulders.

‘Was there anything else you wanted to take, Pop?’ The warm scent of eggs and bacon greeted her as she cleaned her boots on the back doormat.

‘Look who showed up for brekkie.’ Pop served a fried egg from the heavy cast-iron frypan onto a plate filled with steak, bacon and greens.

‘Morning, Bree.’ It was Ryder, seated on the other side of the island bench, freshly showered, beard trimmed, in that tight black T-shirt that showed off every muscle in his torso. When did the guy work out?

‘You’re early.’Bugger!

‘Didn’t want to miss you.’ His eyes shone with amusement over the lip of his tea mug.

‘Dig in, son. We grew all that produce, except the mushrooms and the smoked bacon. It’s what I call the stockman’s breakfast.’

‘Beats a drover’s brekkie that was just a smoke and a sip of billy tea with an eye on the sunrise,’ replied Ryder.

Charlie’s face lit up with joy that someone else understood his lingo. ‘And that’s much better than a dingo’s brekkie, which is just a drink of water and a look-see.’

The two men shared a grin and a nod on opposite sides of the kitchen counter.

‘You look nice, Bree.’ The timbre of Ryder’s voice did something to her, as did the way his eyes travelled down her body, then back up again.

‘Thank you.’ She self-consciously brushed down her favourite dress—flowy, playful, and flattering for her full figure—which usually put her in a good mood.

After last night’s escapade, she needed something to lift her mood and to stop worrying about Leo, her neighbour, who was a drug lord! She always knew he had that mobster vibe.

‘I like that you’re wearing that blanket.’ Ryder gave her an intense stare, before attacking his breakfast with gusto.

What was the deal over this blanket? ‘It was cool this morning…’ Not now. The heat was creeping up her skin, that she removed the blanket as she took her seat at the bench. Charlie served up her plate. ‘Did you get any sleep?’

‘I rarely do… You?’

She shrugged. ‘You timed that well.’ She nodded at him, eating.

‘I did, didn’t I?’ He grinned, loading up his fork. ‘Best breakfast, Charlie, except for Bree’s campfire brekkies. Your stockman’s brekkie is worth the visit.’

‘My beautiful Bea was never much of a morning person, so she made me promise to cook brekkie for her and our future children every morning—or she wasn’t going to marry me.’

‘You’re kidding?’ Ryder’s chuckle was deep and short.

‘Hey, I never complained, because I got to marry the most wonderful woman in the world. And my beautiful Bea got to sleep-in that little bit longer, and never complained about mycooking none either—even when the bread got burnt or the eggs were runny at first.’ Charlie sighed, gazing at the wedding picture he proudly kept on the bookshelf among his many rodeo trophies.

‘But I always made sure brekkie was better than what I got fed as a little tacker,’ continued Charlie. ‘My old man’s version of a stockman’s brekkie was freshly made damper dipped into the tin of golden syrup, washed down with some billy tea, while sitting around a campfire. I remember carting water in canteens, living off salty beef, and carrying carbide lamps. Every day, my father had us doing school by correspondence before sunrise. Spelling and maths we did in the saddle while droving, or in the truck driving to the next blacksmithing job, or some fencing contract we had to fill. If we were lucky, we’d have the radio to listen to at night. If not, we’d make up stories.’

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