Page 73 of A Home Among the Snow Gums
The time had come to reclaim his stolen bride and the bairn that she carried.
Crap, not again. Why did bloody fertility signs have to be everywhere she looked? She was having a break from obsessing about a baby. Trying to, at any rate. She’d made a decision the other night after crying all over Kylie that she was doing things the right way from now on.
What was Kylie’s definition of the right way? Something about meeting and time passing, and a lot of senseless shagging before the nitty gritty of family was brought up. So that’s what Hannah’s decision had been: stop. Take stock. Pretend she and Tom were two people who happened to bump into each other a lot and liked each other, and see what flared from there.
When he’d reminded her she’d said she’d work with him on his campdraft committee, she’d seen the lightbulb of opportunity flicker on. They’d just be two people who liked each other, getting along, talking about low drama stuff … and at the end of all those meetings and when all those driving adventures they’d agreed to were done and dusted, maybe he’d see the truth: she was absolutely positively perfect for him.
If he had to hang, draw and quarter a dozen Spaniards to get her safely home and in his arms … well. He’d done worse.
The difference this time would be that he’d be doing it for that noblest of motives: love.
Love.Aww. A voice at the door had Hannah looking up into a face that was not rugged or windswept.
But those arms … oh, yes, she thought dreamily, they could clasp a woman as manfully as a vengeful Scotsman, she was sure they could. Her eyes dropped to the snug, well-filled denim before she could remind them she was in her place of work. She was a professional woman with a successful small business. She certainly shouldn’t be scanning Tom’s thighs to see if they qualified for the adjective burly.
Huh.
Turns out, they certainly did.
Remembering where she was, she slammed shut the large-print edition ofThe Laird’s Legacythat she’d borrowed with her new library card, and shoved it under a pile of histology reports.
‘Tom. Sorry, I didn’t hear you, this—um—fatty lymphoma specimen had my attention one hundred per cent.’ She dropped her face to the microscope and had a quick look so her words weren’t totally a lie. Then she picked up a pen and made a tick on some random piece of paper (probably a pizza receipt) on the desk. When she was done she turned to face him.
‘Couple of things. We’re having a volunteers meeting for the campdraft in the pub next week. Five o’clockish on Thursday, can you make it?’
‘If I’m not out on an emergency call, I can. Do I need to bring anything?’
‘Pen and paper. Ideas. I’ve asked Roger Kettering, one of the blokes who ran the Dalgety one, to come and speak, and I’ll try to take notes of what he says, but best to have a second set in case I miss anything.’
‘Sure. Your popping in is actually perfect timing.’
‘Really. What for?’
She had it here somewhere. She turned to the counter and rifled through the mess. Not the histology book, not the blister pack of worming tablets, not the— ‘Aha. Here it is.’ She flipped open theSnowy River Starand turned through the pages until she reached the community section at the back.
‘Don’t tell me Maureen Plover’s been including the Krauss family in the Chatter again.’
‘No, next page, here we go: the Adaminaby Picnic Races are on, and guess who’s running?’
‘Um … I don’t know?’
‘You’re slipping, Tom. I thought you bossy, aloof types knew everything. There’s a mare running that has the same sire as Buttercup! We should go. Make a day of it.’
He grinned. ‘For real? How on earth did you find that out?’
‘There’s a write-up about the trainer because he’s having a successful year so far, and they mentioned the provenance of the horses he has running and one of the names rang a bell. I looked up Buttercup’s file and spotted the connection.’
‘What time’s the race?’
‘Sunday. Ten am. Adaminaby is ninety-six kilometres north of here, population 301.’
He cocked his head. ‘Did you look that up?’
She could feel herself flushing, so frowned to cover it. ‘Maybe. Can we go in your car?’
‘Sure. I’ll pick you up at nine.’
‘Don’t forget the sandwiches,’ she called as he disappeared.
