Misplaced Hands: 4 (Foreign Affairs) Read online

  Especially when, despite all the shit from the cattle, his mind constantly kept wandering back to Harper Shaw.

  The day would have gone much smoother if he could have kept his focus on the job rather than fantasizing about the gorgeous American teacher. The trouble was, every time his mind turned to her, the pit of his stomach clenched in a warm knot he knew damn well was happiness.

  Checking Whippet’s hooves one last time, Keith walked out of his horse’s pen and removed his hat from his head. “Thank bloody God that’s done.”

  Marc grinned at him over Kilowatt’s back, his hand working the scraper over the stallion’s rump. “You getting too old for this shit, Blue?”

  Keith snorted, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Think I am, mate. Maybe it’s time to cash in and buy one of those swank apartments overlooking the harbor in Sydney?”

  Marc snorted, returning his attention to his horse’s coat. “Yeah, yeah. You’ll live in the city the day hell has snow lifts and pay-to-rent ice skates.”

  Keith returned his hat to his head. Marc was right. He’d rather hack off his left nut with a blunt pocketknife than live in the big smoke.

  “Reckon we should have taken Legs out with us today? Given the young bloke a run at controlling the mob?”

  Keith shook his head, picturing the seventeen-year-old jackaroo Dylan had hired before heading off on his honeymoon. “Not yet. He’s still dodgy on a horse. He may have come first in his class at Tocal and know his Black Angus from his red blindfolded, but throwing him into a muster when he still can’t stay seated in a saddle isn’t smart.”

  Marc chuckled. “And leaving him with Big Mac was? Poor bugger’s probably quit by now.”

  Keith leaned his shoulder against the entrance to Whippet’s pen and shoved his hands in his pockets, watching his best mate scrape the sweat and dirt from his own horse. “Big Mac may be a tosser, but he can teach Legs how to get the drenching pit ready better than you or me.” He adjusted his weight on the metal threshold. “As much as I hate to admit it, the bloke knows his way around a chemical mix.”

  With a pat on Kilowatt’s rump, Marc joined Keith outside the horse’s pen. “True. So, when are we going to talk about the Harper situation?”

  At the mention of Harper’s name, Keith’s jaw clenched. “What’s the Harper situation, Thomo?” he asked, striving to keep his voice calm.

  “The one where we both spend every bloody waking minute thinking about her. That one. The one where we can’t wait to see her again and keep looking at our watches hoping it’s the end of the day and not five bloody minutes after we looked the last time. That one.” Marc folded his arms, leaned his back against the opposite frame of the pen’s opening. “The one where we start to work out how the hell to convince her not to go back to the U.S. when the fortnight finishes. That situation.”

  Keith ground his teeth, balling his fists in his pockets. It wasn’t long at all before Harper flew back to Chicago. He didn’t like that idea.

  He hadn’t figured on falling for her when they’d taken her to the billabong three days ago. He’d thought they’d all flirt a little. Maybe he’d get a look in before she decided that Thomo was the man she wanted to spend her time here with. Marc was her age, after all. He also fell firmly in the “tall, dark and handsome” category. Even a bloke as hetero as Keith could recognize that. Instead, she’d seduced them both with her innocent warmth, her brave sense of adventure and her willingness to enjoy life.

  She’d opened up a whole new world of pleasure for him—the pleasure of sharing a woman with his best mate. The trouble now was, Keith didn’t see himself sharing anyone but Harper with Marc. In fact, the very idea of having sex with anyone apart from Harper made his gut churn.

  Given those facts, Marc was correct. There was a Harper situation. Now what the fuck did they do about it?

  Marc pushed his hat back on his head and fixed Keith with a steady look. “You reckon she’s open to the idea of staying a bit longer?”

  Keith pulled a slow breath. “Dunno, mate. And if she says yes, what does that mean? We planning on spending every night in her bed together? You think the Sullivans are going to put up with that?”

  A scowl fell over Marc’s face. “It’s no one else’s business but ours who sleeps in whose bed.”

  Keith let out a dry grunt. “True, but it will be. You going to tell Hazel both of us are sleeping with Harper? You going to tell Amy?”

  The scowl on Marc’s face twisted into a grimace. “Amy’s going to kill us.”

  Keith nodded. “When she told us to look after her friend, I don’t think she meant what we’ve been doing. Speaking of Amy, what happens to Harper when she gets back? Harper is only here on a swap. When Amy comes home, Harper’s no longer the Farpoint teach. The Sullivans are bloody great bosses, but I can’t see them letting Harper hang around without contributing in some way, ignoring the fact she’d have nowhere to live.”

  “You don’t think Amy would let her stay with her?”

  Keith grunted again. “Maybe. But do you want to tell Amy she’s got to leave her home for a while every time you and I want to make love to Harper? Or do we just do it on the couch while Amy’s watching the telly or marking homework in the same room?”

  Marc’s answering sigh was exasperated. “Okay, I get the point.”

  Keith’s chest clamped tight. He hadn’t intended to illustrate how nothing permanent could come of their unorthodox situation while being the devil’s advocate, but he had.

  So why the fuck did that change nothing?

  Why the fuck did he still want to climb into the ute, drive over to Amy’s cottage, pull Harper against his body and kiss her senseless while Marc stripped her of her clothes?

  Why did he want her to straddle his face while she sucked Marc off?

  Why did he want to, in a nutshell, spend the rest of a bloody long time being with her? Being with them both? In a bloody three-sided relationship?

  What the fuck was wrong with him?

  Surely to God he wasn’t falling in love with her, was he?

  “So what do we do now?”

  Marc’s low question drew Keith’s attention back to his best friend. He shrugged. “No bloody idea, mate. But I’d suggest we start with taking a shower. We told her we’d pick her up at six and that’s only fifteen minutes away. I’d go straight there but I smell like sweat, horse and cow. Not exactly the aftershave for taking a lady out on a date.”

  Marc’s eyebrows shot up. “A date? Is that what we’re doing? All three of us? At the pub in Cobar?”

  Keith levered away from the pen’s threshold, his expression set. “Bloody oath it is. And I’m not afraid to let everyone see it. Are you?”

  “Hell no. Just wanted to make sure we’re on the same page.”

  He chuckled. “If you mean, are we going to show Harper the best night of her life in a town so small it only has one set of traffic lights, followed by the most incredible sex of her life under the stars on the way home, followed by even more incredible sex in the cottage when we get here, then yes, we’re on the same page.”

  Marc smirked. “Let’s get to it then. I’ll even let you have the first shower, seeing as you stink more than—”

  “Excuse me, Blue? Thomo?”

  A young male voice behind Keith took him by surprise. Fighting to keep his frustration at bay, he swung to face the jackaroo standing at the mouth of the stable. “What’s up, Legs?” he asked, giving the teenager an easy smile.

  The tall, lanky city boy hell-bent on becoming a stockman took a step closer to them, the pimples on his cheeks blazing red. “Ronnie asked me to let you know he and Hughsie needed your help at the Wombat Gulley gate. Apparently one of the stud bulls has knocked down a fence post and the bull’s got its leg caught in the barbed wire.”

  Keith bit back a curse.

  Marc didn’t show any such restraint. “Shit. That’s not good. Thanks, Legs. We’ll head off right now. Can you fire up
Blue’s ute for us, mate?”

  The young jackaroo nodded, a wide smile pulling at his lips as he started to turn. “You bet,” he called. “I promise I won’t crash her, Blue.”

  “Just start her up, Legs,” Keith called after the jackaroo, who was now almost running. “You don’t need to…ah fuck, he’s gone.”

  Letting out a sigh, Keith shot Marc a quick look. “We’ll swing by the cottage on the way and let Harper know we’ll be late.”

  Marc grinned at him as they both began to stride toward the stable doors. “Makes sense. Then she can smell how stinky you are before you scrub up.”

  Keith shook his head. “Shut the fuck up, Thomo.”

  * * * * *

  Harper sprang to her feet at the soft knock on the cottage door, dropping her red pen onto the haikus about the Australian bush she’d been grading. She shot her watch a quick glance, noting it was not quite quarter to six.

  They were early.

  She brushed her palms over her stomach and thighs, giving her reflection in the living area’s mirror a quick glance. She had no idea what one wore to a pub in Cobar, but based on the fifteen minutes she’d spent in its airport terminal, she figured a simple white sundress with sandals would be okay.

  She could have worn the clothes she’d flown in, but the all-black ensemble really wasn’t her. It was part of the “let’s take life by the balls” attitude she’d started this trip with. Funny how she was doing things she’d never believed she would but the thought of wearing the tight designer-label jeans, the even tighter shirt and ridiculous stiletto boots made her want to cringe.

  With a hasty rake of her fingers through the waves of her hair, and an equally quick lick of her lips, she crossed to the door, ready to greet Keith and Marc on the other side.

  She had a surprise for them tonight. One she still couldn’t believe she was going to announce.

  Belly fluttering like a horde of frantic butterflies, she gripped the knob and pulled open the door.

  Only to find Ronnie McNamara standing on the other side of the threshold, hat in hand. “Ms. Shaw,” he said with a smile, returning his hat to his head. “Thought I’d pop by and say g’day. See how you’re going.”

  Harper stared at him. She didn’t mean to. She knew it was rude, but her brain—having already decided Keith and Marc were going to be on the other side of the door—refused to process it was Ronnie.

  She hadn’t seen the cowboy since Sunday. She certainly hadn’t been expecting to see him this afternoon. “H-hi, Ronnie,” she finally replied, stammering. “How are you?”

  “Better for seeing you now, Ms. Shaw. May I come in?”

  A lifetime of being raised by Andrew to have good manners saw Harper stepping aside before she even realized it. Ronnie ducked his head, removed his hat and crossed the threshold.

  Harper caught a whiff of strong cologne and it was only then she noticed the cowboy was dressed in jeans and a shirt no man on a ranch would ever work in.

  Station, Harper. Station. And stockman. Not cowboy. Keith and Marc would spank you senseless if they knew you—

  “You look very pretty this arvo.” Ronnie’s voice jerked her away from the wholly delicious thought of Keith and Marc and their treatment of her ass. “Ms. Wesson never gets dolled up like that to teach.”

  “Thomo and Blue are taking me to the pub in Cobar,” she answered, for some reason thoroughly unsettled by the man’s compliment. She’d never been one to handle praise well. Her usual reaction was to blush and mumble something contradictory. That she’d mentioned the reason for her state of dress now, that she’d mentioned Keith’s and Marc’s names as a shield against Ronnie’s obvious interest, told her she was in uncomfortable territory.

  More than once back in Chicago she’d invoked her big brother’s name when trying to disengage from unwanted attention, especially while attending one of Andrew’s television events. Anyone who knew Andrew knew not to mess with him.

  Here at Farpoint Creek, however, the name Andrew Shaw meant nothing. The names Blue and Thomo, though…

  You trust them, Harper. And feel safe with them. It’s the first time you’ve felt safe with anyone apart from Andy.

  The significance of the realization wasn’t lost on her.

  Nor, it seemed, was it lost on Ronnie.

  At the mention of their names, his amiable smile turned to a scowl. His eyes narrowed, his top lip curling. “So the rumors are true then, are they?”

  Harper frowned, the question—and its tone—wrapping a rope of tight disquiet around her chest. “Rumors?”

  Ronnie didn’t answer. Instead, he turned back toward the door.

  Oh thank God. He’s leaving.

  The sound of the lock sliding into place chilled Harper’s blood. “Ronnie?” Her pulse pounding, she took a step back. “What are you doing?”

  Ronnie swung to face her again. With a slow rake of his stare over her body, he placed his hat on the stand beside the now closed door. “Told you.” His voice was low. Steady. “Thought I’d see how you’re going.”

  He took a step toward her. A step she mirrored backward. “I’m well.” She tried like hell to keep the apprehension out of the words. “Enjoying my time here. Looking forward to going into Cobar tonight. I’ve heard the bar, I mean pub, gets a little crazy at night. Annie says the hot weather will bring out the yobbos. She’s obviously been here too long because she’s using Aussie terms I don’t understand. I guess that’s what happens when you live in the Outback and are surrounded by Australians, don’t you think?”

  Harper was babbling. She knew that. But she was scared. She didn’t like the way Ronnie was looking at her, as if he were slowly stripping her dress off with his stare. She didn’t think he’d be stupid enough to hurt her, but she sure as shit didn’t like the way he’d locked the door before walking closer.

  She shot a quick look around her, seeking a weapon. Christ, even a vase or candlestick.

  Nothing.

  “How was work today?” She was desperate to keep the illusion of control and confidence. Andy always told her when you looked scared you became a victim. Be strong, sis. Be confident. Let your eyes tell them to fuck off or they’ll be in a world of pain.

  Whenever she’d asked him—as a painfully shy girl of eleven, then a shy teen—how she was going to put them in a world of pain, he’d always given the same answer. I’ll put them in it for you, sis.

  But Andrew wasn’t here now. And she had no doubt her eyes weren’t telling Ronnie to fuck off. Her eyes were telling him that she was scared.

  Scared like she used to feel when her stepfather came into her room.

  Scared like she used to feel when he—

  “Work was interesting.” Ronnie’s voice, so smooth it was almost a purr, made her already frantic heart slam faster in her throat. She took another step backward, all too aware of the fact she was running out of room to retreat.

  His gaze flicked over her again, lingering on her cleavage. Cleavage only half an hour ago she’d imagined Marc and Keith admiring.

  “Especially,” he went on, his stare lifting to her face, “when I heard about you and Thomo and Blue.”

  Harper’s mouth went dry. Her lips tingled. “W-what…what did you hear?”

  He stopped moving. Harper realized it was because she couldn’t go any farther without bumping into the back of the sofa.

  “I heard you and Thomo and Blue are fucking each other all over Farpoint.” The statement left him on a flat snarl.

  She stared at him, unable to move. Unable to draw breath.

  “So I figured,” Ronnie closed the minute space between them, his hot breath fanning her face, his legs pressing to hers, “seeing as you’re already giving it out to two Aussie men at the same time, you’d have no problem giving it out to a third. I promise, my dick is bigger than—”

  Her palm smacked against Ronnie’s cheek.

  A second before the door to her cottage slammed open with a splintering crash.


  Ronnie stumbled away from her, part backward, part sideways, his head swinging toward the black thundercloud charging at him.

  No, not a thundercloud. Keith, his blue eyes colder than winter ice, his face etched with deadly menace.

  Ronnie’s stumble turned to a scurry, his hands held up, head shaking. “Fucking hit me, Munroe, and I’ll make sure you—”

  Keith’s fist smashing into his jaw shut him up.

  He staggered backward, blood oozing from the corner of his mouth.

  “Make sure what, Ronald?” Keith asked, following him, his fist drawing back. “Tell me. Go on.”

  Ronald sneered, swiping at the blood on his lips. “Had your dick up her arse yet, Munroe?”

  Keith’s punched him again, a blur of brutal speed. His fist cracked against Ronald’s jaw, the sound of splintering bone unmistakable.

  Ronald stumbled once more, and again when Keith’s fist slammed into his mouth.

  Harper stared at the scene, her mind blank. Her stomach churned, nauseous with stunned horror.

  Keith hit the man again, again, driving him backward until Ronald crashed into the wall. He staggered sideways, head down, blood dripping from his mouth and nose, before—with a snarled “Fuck you, Munroe!”—he ran shoulder-first at Keith.

  Harper cried out.

  Keith’s knee punched up. Connected with Ronald’s nose.

  Ronald arced backward, blood spattering from his mashed face.

  Keith closed in on him, blood on his knuckles. Whose blood, Harper didn’t know.

  “Keith!” she cried. “He’s not—”

  “Going to kill you.” Ronald spat out a wad of blood. He stumbled forward, his glare fixed on Keith. “Going to fucking kill you, Munroe!”

  Hatred fell over Keith’s face. “Try it.”