She thought about her father and what sorts of things he must have seen in his time in active service, what that might do to a man. How it must take extra strength even to do the day-to-day things, never mind the horrendous things they were tasked with. Had her father done any of that? She thought about how there was no weapon on this earth strong enough to fight the infection which took her mother, and how a control freak like the Colonel must have felt about being powerless. About the baby whose birth caused the deadly, aggressive infection.
She frowned.
Clint had been ripped out of his unit, away from the men he was closest to, and look how it had affected him. The Colonel was recalled unexpectedly from active duty to come home and raise a motherless infant single-handed and assigned forever after to passive training and admin roles. It didn’t change one moment of the misery that was her childhood, but it did make her appreciate, a tiny bit, how it must have been for the Colonel twenty-six years ago.
And why he might have viewed her as the enemy her whole life.
LEAVING Romy alone, injured and patently conflicted, on her front verandah last night had been one of the hardest things Clint had done since coming to WildSprings. Every part of him wanted to scoop her up and carry her inside. Tuck her into bed. Bind her ankle. Spoil her. Instead, he’d locked her car up and footed the mile home in the dark, walking off some of his tension.
It had helped. A little.
The morning coffee was helping more. He sipped the battery-acid-strength brew.
Romy had a way of bringing out the caveman in him and then making him feel ridiculous for it. And he didn’t feel like overtures of kindness would be welcomed from him. Not after he’d near mauled her back at the fundraiser. Thanks to her father, she was highly sensitised to being dominated. She saw it at every turn. He didn’t want her connecting him with those feelings. Ever.
He didn’t want to be responsible for shadows in her eyes. Or her son’s.
A sudden knock at the door had him leaping for the Browning nine-millmetre sidearm he didn’t carry any more. The fact someone got all the way to his door without being detected…He was losing his touch. He pulled it open.
‘Hi, Clint. Can I come in?’
Justin seemed distracted, and this was the first time in months his brother had visited the tree house. Something was up. Clint stood aside and waved him in.
Justin shuffled nervously in the doorway. ‘I need to talk to you. About last night.’
Clint’s heart kicked into gear. Had someone seen him and Romy? Probably. Not exactly his most covert operation. He steeled himself for the inevitable attack.
He crossed to the kitchen and held up his mug. ‘Coffee?’
Justin winced and shook his head. ‘I won’t say no to a hair of the dog, though.’
Clint reached into the fridge for a beer, then glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was barely 9:00 a.m. Concern had him frowning but he passed the bottle to his brother. They moved out to the balcony—still haunted by the ghost of Romy’s recent visit. Being alone out here was no longer the refuge it once was.
‘Spit it out,’ Clint growled.
Justin lifted red-flecked eyes. ‘It’s about Romy…’
Thump, thump, thump…The pulsing was hard and fast in his chest. ‘What about her?’
‘I…’ Justin swore and slumped down onto the nearest seat, taking a big swig of beer. ‘I hit on her.’
The thumping stopped. For near on five painful seconds. When it returned, Clint forced it to be slow and steady. The same heartbeat he regulated when his finger was hovering over the hair-trigger. But it was a battle he almost lost.
Justin met his eyes but couldn’t hold them. He pushed up off his seat and crossed to the balustrade. ‘I was drunk, mate. I wasn’t thinking.’
Silence was Clint’s only option. If he spoke he’d say too much. Justin babbled on, filling the tense vacuum.
‘She looked hot, Clint. She was playing up to every man there. Even you.’
Breathe…breathe…‘What did you do, exactly?’
Justin swung around to look at him. Suspicion and disbelief in his eyes. ‘She really hasn’t told you?’
‘She didn’t. No. Did you expect her to?’
He swore again. ‘I’m sure she’s just picking her moment.’
Clint kept his voice even. ‘I’m sure she’s not. She likes to fight her own battles.’
‘Tell me about it. She nearly broke my shoulder when I touched her.’
Clint would normally have grinned at his brother’s petulant complaint, and the image of Romy strongarming all six feet of him. He pressed his lips together. ‘Why are you telling me?’
Justin sighed, waved his hands dramatically. ‘Harassment laws. She’s our employee.’
Something I should have thought about last night. And the night they’d stood out here on the balcony.
‘Then shouldn’t you be apologising to her right now instead of confessing your sins to me?’ Clint suggested, and then his chest tightened almost painfully. No. He didn’t want Justin anywhere near Romy’s place.
His brother rolled his eyes and Clint was reminded of a much younger version, the excitable young Justin he didn’t see a lot of any more. He frowned. Time had changed them both.
‘She’s a woman.’ Justin shrugged. ‘She’ll find some insidious way to get her revenge. Warn every chick in the district off me. Put salt in the sugar shaker. Start spreading rumours.’
Clint stared. Shook his head. ‘You really are still sixteen, aren’t you?’
‘Mate, I give her two days before she starts turning everyone against me.’
Clint reached over and confiscated the beer bottle from his hands. ‘You’re paranoid. Take the day to dry out. If you hit on her last night, then you’re going to have to wear the consequences like a man, even if that means drinking your coffee salted.’
Justin stood to go. At the door, Clint stopped him. ‘Oh, and, mate…?’
Justin turned back, a satisfied smile on his face. It faded as he took in his big brother’s expression.
‘Touch her again and I’ll do a hell of a lot worse than break your shoulder.’
Romy had nearly forgotten what Leighton’s scowl looked like. But this one was a pearler and it was all for her.
He’d been a changed boy since coming to WildSprings. Happier, more open…huggier. Not today. Today he was a tiny black thundercloud glaring at her whenever she made eye contact, his heart well and truly plastered on his sleeve. His breakfast entirely untouched.
‘Leighton, if you’re done eating, scrape your eggs into the compost and put the plate on the sink, please.’ Given everything that had gone on these past few days, her own mood wasn’t the best.
He slid off his seat like a blob of the green slime he’d used to love to play with, mumbling, ‘Yes, ma’am.’ One hundred and ten percent surly.
Her hands stilled on what she was doing. She took a small breath. ‘That’s “Yes, Mum” to you, mister.’
His glare compounded. ‘Soldiers say ma’am. It’s polite.’
She