Page 7 of Sugarloaf Ridge Lies

“I don’t want you to go to any trouble.”

“A simple phone call is no trouble. Besides, the bloke owes me a favour.”

“Okay, thanks.”

For a while we don’t speak, simply enjoying the country music filling the cabin. Songs about some things lasting forever and strangers slow dancing.

“Can I ask you something?” My curiosity always gets the better of me.

He shrugs one shoulder. “Sure thing, sugar.”

Goosebumps ripple over my skin at the sweet sentiment of the name he’s given me.

“Where did you learn to dance like that?” My voice is small, even though I don’t want it to be.

“Why? You plannin’ on asking me to dance?”

I swallow, my throat now thick, and lift my chin. “I haven’t decided yet.” It’s the truth, although I’m erring more on the side of wanting to spend more time with him, aside from Principal Young’s warning.

Jericho’s rough chuckle fills the small space in the cabin. “Probably wise.”

What does that mean? Is he trying to ward me off, or is he not interested in me like that? I need to know before thoughts of another dance carry me away.

“I mean, maybe you already have someone to dance with.” Is that too cryptic or should I simply come out and ask him if he has a girlfriend?

“Currently without a dance partner. Girlfriend. Other half.”

“Oh.”

“It’s just me and Pirate.”

“Pirate?”

“My little three-legged Jack Russell.”

“Oh. Did he have an accident?”

He shakes his head. “Nah, he was born that way. I found ’im in a plastic bag on the side of the highway.”

“What?” I grip his bicep. It flexes under my touch. “Who would do that to an animal?”

He growls under his breath and meets my eyes. “Someone fucked up.” He clears his throat. “Sorry, someone effed up.”

“Don’t apologise. Swearing is totally warranted when it comes to animal cruelty.”

His gaze softens. “Yeah. Pirate could’ve come from a backyard puppy farm, who knows, but whoever bred him didn’t give him a chance. After I found ’im I took ’im to the vet. He amputated his dodgy leg and he’s been the best damn dog I’ve ever had.”

He saved a pup from certain death.

Would another dance with Jericho be such a terrible idea?

We talk about childhood pets until we pass patchy purple fields on the outskirts of The Falls. Jerry quietens as if in deep thought. A part of me wants to fill the void in the conversation, but I’m grateful for the quiet. When you hear your name called a thousand plus times a day, silence is golden.

As we turn the corner onto Grevillia Street, Jerry slows the vehicle and pulls up to the curve in front of the old terraces, the one on the end I call home. He reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a white business card that’s worn around the edges.

Out West Fencing

Jerry McAllister

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