“Doesn’t your mother require a month’s notice?” Alana put up a hand and pinched his cheek, something she’d been doing since the First Grade.
“What about fish and chips down by the river?”
“My very favourite place! Down by the river it is.”
She reached up to kiss his cheek, before sending him on his way, only Simon decided it was his moment to act. The light of battle was in his sky-blue eyes.
“Simon!” she gave a warning wail, not wanting to hurt him, her dearest friend, yet at the same time possessed of a fierce urge to push him away.
But Simon wasn’t about to be put off. He was all buoyed up. “Lainie, I love you,” he declared. “I’ll kill myself if you don’t let me kiss you. You’re the most beautiful girl in the entire world!” He was almost choking with emotion. “Please … please … a proper goodnight kiss.” He placed his hands on her shoulders—she could feel his arms trembling as he gripped her—and dipped his dark head.
What followed was actually quite sweet. In fact Alana nearly thanked him. She’d had a lot of kisses worse than Simon’s. He could easily find a girl to love him, she thought, but no way were they on the cusp of a grand passion.
“I think I hear Dad,” she whispered, thinking that was a sure-fire way to get Simon mobile. Simon was marginally terrified of her father.
“I’d better go, then,” Simon whispered back. “Promise me I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I’ll ring you.” Inside the darkened house there was a noise, as if something fairly light had toppled over. Alana latched on to it. “Could be Dad!” she warned, knowing full well it was most likely their cat.
“Night, then!” Simon took off down the short flight of front steps, then broke into a run.
CHAPTER THREE
BRIAR’S Ridge was into its first week of shearing. For most of the preceding week the brunt of getting the barracks ready for the shearing team had fallen on Alana. The men brought their own cook, and there was a kitchen, bathrooms, and a large communal shower room, but it all had to be cleaned, swept and dusted, mattresses aired, then beds made up with fresh sheets. Alana had had to dig deep to get through it all, but the last sheep was expected to be shorn by the end of the following week.
Wangaree, by far the biggest property in the valley, was already underway, with its shearing expected to go on for weeks.
Alana had loved shearing time from when she was a little girl, and the itinerant shearers—all regulars to Briar’s Ridge—had made a little mascot of her. An extra bonus for this week was the gratifying way her father had managed to remain sober and on the job.
When Alana wasn’t droving sheep to the shed, or taking shorn sheep back to the paddocks, part of her time was spent with the shearers—much to the delight of the men, in particular a newcomer to their ranks, with an excellent reference from a big Western Queensland station.
Even dressed in unisex jeans and a cotton shirt, there was no mistaking Alana for anything else but a beautiful, vibrant young woman with a powerful sex appeal that was entirely natural. Admiring glances came her way aplenty, but no man was fool enough to look at her directly with lust in his eyes. Alan Callaghan was still a daunting presence in the sheds and around the yards. There was her brother Kieran too, a great bloke, but fiercely protective of his sister. And then there were Alana’s dogs, a formidable pair. The upshot was that Alana went where she pleased without a moment’s hassle.
Apart from her golden beauty, the men admired her for her proven abilities and capacity for hard work. Alana could shear a sheep with the best of them. Maybe she didn’t have their strength and endurance, and she couldn’t keep up the count or the pace—she was a woman after all, very fit and in splendid shape but at the end of the day no match for a man—but she came into her own instructing her dogs to draft the sheep through the yards. It was fascinating to watch the dogs in action. Up, under, around, running along the sheeps’ backs. In the shed Alana worked hard, picking up the shorn white fleece the instant it was ready, then throwing it in a smooth arc onto a long slatted table.
That particular day when the men were more than ready for their mid-morning break—although there were no smokers any more, like in the old days, no pollution of human lungs let alone the wool—Thommo, their best and fastest shearer, even if he was the oldest, let her have a go finishing off the last sheep. Thommo had given her and Kieran lots of tips about shearing over the years, which they had taken on board.
“Come on, love. Your go,” Thommo said encouragingly.
“Thanks, Thommo.” There was still plenty to learn.
Beneath her blue shirt Alana was wearing a sports bra and a yellow singlet. All the exterior doors and windows were open, but it had grown very hot in the shed. Without a thought, unselfconsciously she ripped off her cotton shirt.
“Sheep-o!” Thommo yelled as he pulled a fairly hefty ewe from the pen. “You’re on the clock, love.”
And this, then, was how Kieran and Guy found her, when they walked down to the shed to check on how the wool was coming.
“Well under four minutes!” Thommo congratulated her, well pleased.
He took a closer look. She had freed the wool cleanly in one piece, nice and close to the loose kinky skin. He threw her a clean towel and she moved forward to catch it. Sweat was running down the side of her face from her temples, trickling into her cleavage. She was positively glowing.
Guy gave no indication of it, but he was deeply rattled. This wasn’t the Alana he had seen a few weeks back, at the party for the Hartmanns. She had been so beautiful then, in her golden-green dress, hair and make-up immaculate. This was the tomboy Alana Callaghan Guy remembered from only a handful of years before, but the luminosity she had inherited from her mother was a thousand times more potent. She didn’t seem at all uncomfortable, yet the tight yellow singlet drew attention to her small, beautifully shaped breasts, her taut midriff, tiny waist, and the slender strength of her arms. Her lovely, glossier-than-satin skin was dewed with sweat, the ponytail at her nape a damp honey-gold tangle. She looked incredibly erotic.
Guy felt a hard knot tightening in his chest. He felt a powerful impulse to strip off his own shirt and cover her up. His eyes whipped around the shed. Most of the men he knew. They were regulars on the circuit. One fellow he didn’t: young, heavy build, heavy wrists and shoulders, good-looking in a rough sort of way, dark overnight growth on his face. His response to Alana was showing only too starkly.
Guy found himself jamming his hands so they came together like fists. He loathed violence. He’d never had to employ it—he knew he commanded a lot of respect that precluded it—but he had a driving urge to run the shearer not only out of the shed but off a property that wasn’t even his. He had to force himself to calm. If he had his way, Alana would be barred from the shed.
His sister Alex had been treated like a princess from birth. Alex had never been allowed to wander at will around the shearing sheds when the men were there working. She certainly didn’t know how to shear a sheep and class the wool, much less work energetic sheep dogs. Alex’s place had been at the homestead with their mother. She had gone on to university, after which, armed with an arts degree majoring in Fine Art, she had been offered a job at arguably the best art gallery in the country, owned and run by a family friend. A smooth ride—as Alex would be the first one to admit.
Alana too had had her chance at university, but when her mother had been killed there had been nothing else for it but for her to come home. For the past three years she had been a full-time, hard-working farm girl, coping valiantly with a guilt-ridden father with a potentially fatal drinking problem. No easy life for a twenty-two-year-old girl. It came to Guy, not for the first time, that he was powerfully protective of her.
The shearers’cook, a wiry little