Stockman’s Stormcloud (Stockmen #3)

Eight

Eigh t

Dex did not want to be here. But he really had no choice. Like a child who’d been grounded for getting suspended from school for the umpteenth time, he was now being sent to the naughty corner of Elsie Creek Station—the caretaker’s cottage.

It was the first time he’d been inside the large open room with its low ceiling and walls made of river rock that kept the place cool. Assorted shiny rodeo belt buckles sat on a bookshelf, while vintage pictures of the station, rodeos, and stockmen hung on the wall. The only furniture they had was the long leather couch near the stout leather armchair.

A solid wooden table made up the dining area, and the kitchen ran along the back wall with its thick island bench made from one solid piece of timber. There were bunches of herbs drying over the kitchen window, and jars of assorted colourful concoctions filled the cupboards that had no doors. It reminded him of Dr Frankenstein’s lab of bottled body parts, but Bree said they were pickled vegetables and preserved fruits. Yeah, right. Since when were carrots purple?

‘You’ve got the soft couch there.’ Bree pointed to the long leather couch where he was going to be held captive until he stopped breathing like Darth Vader behind his oxygen mask.

‘I don’t like a soft couch.’

‘I can get you some planks of wood and hammer it up with a few nails if that’ll make you feel more comfortable.’

This was going to kill him.

‘Fine, this’ll do.’ He dragged the stupid oxygen trolley behind him the way Nurse Kitty dragged that orange cat down the hospital’s corridor to get it to walk.

He slowly lowered himself onto the couch, which cocooned his body. Aww, hell yeah. ‘I’m never getting up.’

‘Can you, is the question?’ She grinned at him, with those evil green eyes. What’s worse was that Bree had the kind of look that could crack you open to peer at your deepest, darkest secrets. And Dex didn’t share his secrets with anyone.

‘So, this couch will be yours for the next…’

He glared at her.

The wicked thing defiantly glared back. It obviously wasn’t her choice to have him crash on the couch, either.

‘We put the TV on the trolley, so you can position it however you want.’ Bree passed him the remote control.

‘We only get one channel out here, if we’re lucky.’

She plonked a hand on one hip and gave him a look as if he were a complete moron. ‘Listen, Stormcloud, I have satellite television. How else am I going to watch the ice hockey?’

‘Sweet. Got any boxing?’

‘Probably.’

He flicked through the channels. ‘Why can’t I hear anything?’

‘Because I got you some headphones.’ She pointed to where they sat on the side table, along with notepaper and pens, a box of tissues, a small rubbish bin, an enormous bottle of water and a glass. She’d set him up better than the hospital. ‘That way, you can watch your punchy-boxing porn all night long and not bother us.’

‘Well, okay then.’ He leaned back deeper into the couch that rested near the front door and faced the large open living area. ‘Where are your bedrooms?’

‘Charlie’s bedroom is on the left. I’m on the other side. Just so you know, I keep a loaded shotgun under my pillow.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not my type.’ Bree never had been. Sure, she was pretty in her own way, and he enjoyed their banter, but they were friends who liked to fight.

‘And that’s a big fat ditto, dumpling.’ Her eyes glistened as her lips barely curled. She strolled past black door number three, the room next to hers, and tapped on another door. ‘This is the bathroom and toilet. Let me know if you want a bath, I have some herbs—’

‘Nope. I want none of your witchy woo-woo while I’m here.’

‘It’s just herbal remedies.’

‘Don’t care.’

‘Says the man walking around with a chemically produced oxygen tank.’

‘I’m leaving.’

‘You’re staying.’ She crossed the room fast to push him down so easily, it sucked.

He was normally a lot stronger than Bree—even though she was plenty strong, from swinging hammers and bending steel as a blacksmith.

‘Sit.’ She glared at him as if daring him to move.

He had no choice, nor the energy to move. ‘I’m not happy.’

‘Who said you had to be. Or that I care. Just so you know, the couch does this.’ She pulled on a handle and out came a leg rest, as the back inclined, practically pinning him to the couch. He was truly trapped now.

And the witch knew it.

‘Besides no beer, you look comfortable.’

Crossing his legs over at the ankles, with the television remote in hand, he could do with a beer. ‘How long will I stay here?’

‘I don’t know.’ Bree scooped up a towel and a plastic container from the edge of the kitchen bench. ‘But as you are Charlie’s guest, here are some towels.’

‘You know, I don’t want to do this either.’

Typically, she ignored him. ‘I’ve made these snacks for you.’ She put the plastic container down on the couch.

He hesitated. ‘Suppose it’s some vegan-ese-crab-grass-weed-and-seed concoction.’

‘Beef jerky on the top tray, and the bottom is sea-salted popcorn, and there’s some nuts and pretzels in there, too.’

‘Now I really could do with a beer.’ He opened the lid of the man-sized lunchbox filled with stackable trays. The salty beef aroma was heavenly to this cattleman.

‘I don’t mind your cooking.’ As a muster cook, Bree made magic over a simple camp fire. Even if she looked like a red-headed witch stirring a cauldron under the stars, her meals were mouth-wateringly magnificent. He was already salivating at the thought of what she might create with an entire kitchen behind her. ‘When’s dinner?’

‘Five-thirty.’

‘Why so early?’

‘Because Charlie is in bed by seven. But he’s up at five to bake his bread.’

‘Will I get some of that, too?’ Most mornings the aroma of baking bread wafted across to the farmhouse—it was torture, like being stuck on the couch with Bree as his master.

‘Of course. Guests get the best.’

‘ Really? ’ Oh, the possibilities had his mind running.

‘Don’t push it, buddy.’ From the small desk pushed into the corner, Bree scooped up a UHF radio, slid it into one of the radio holsters they wore while mustering, and hung it off the TV trolley. ‘If you need anything, you can radio for it.’

‘Where will you be?’

‘Out in the smithy’s shed.’

She swiped over her tablet, then held up the screen to show an image of some stranger’s lounge room. ‘Which one do you like?’ She swiped through a set of different rooms.

‘Why?’

‘I want to know what you like in a house.’

He pushed the tablet away. ‘Don’t do it, Bree. It’s my home.’ The home he’d fought for.

The redhead gave him a know-it-all grin. ‘Your mother said I could decorate it.’

‘It’s my house.’ He gritted his teeth. So what if it was a run-down dump, it was his . And the roof was solid .

‘Yes, I’m aware that it’s your house, which is why I’m asking what you want done to the inside.’ Again, she held up that tablet.

Dex wanted to hurl it across the room. ‘I said no. Stop pushing it.’

With hands on hips, the evil thing got right in his face. ‘Listen up, Stormcloud. In case you hadn’t realised it—the sooner we get your house to pass muster, the sooner you can get the hell off my couch.’

Breathe, mate.

He sat back, scowling at the witch. ‘No girlie stuff.’

‘Duh, that was a no-brainer. I’m thinking dark browns, blacks, and industrial greys to suit your personality as the dark underlord. Something like a demonic man cave in a deserted factory.’

‘You should call this place hell, or the torture palace.’ He gripped the mask to breathe.

Bree grinned as she scrolled through the tablet. ‘Here, how’s this?’ She turned it to show him an image of a living room suitable for some fancy rich bachelor.

He didn’t mind it. Tugging the tablet from her fingers, he scrolled through the images of strangers’ homes. ‘You don’t have to do this.’

‘If you haven’t noticed, I enjoy doing makeovers on both humans and houses.’

The last makeover Bree did was on Cap’s place. The old dogbox looked amazing with its new deck and outdoor kitchen, complete with retractable shade sails. Cap and Mia were keen to finish building before the wet season.

Cap had also mentioned that Bree had the uncanny knack for knowing exactly what he wanted when she renovated Cap’s dogbox.

But Dex wasn’t convinced of the witch’s work.

‘What do you want in your dream house?’ She angled her head to look at the images he flicked through on Pinterest.

‘A bed. A beer fridge. Something to cook on. And a shower. ’

‘That’s it?’

‘I’ve got my boxing ring.’ It was the only thing he’d built at the stockman’s shack—an undercover workout area in what used to be the carport.

He peered out the window, missing his morning workouts, and the simple ability to punch the bag daily, let alone walk the distance from the cottage to the farmhouse.

From Bree’s couch, through the open stained-glass windows, he couldn’t see anything, except for the blue sky and the mass of assorted blooming flowers that Charlie tended to in the front garden. He couldn’t see the sheds’ roofs or the farmhouse. He didn’t even hear the dogs barking from Cap’s kennels. It was surprisingly quiet, as if they were on a separate farm.

‘Hey, if you rest up, and do as you’re told, it won’t be long and you’ll get back out there.’

He narrowed his eyes at Bree. He hated being told what to do, and he hated being treated like an invalid. ‘I’m meant to be testing my cattle cradle.’

‘And I’m willing to bet you’ll be there in a few days to annoy everyone again.’

Hope flared in his chest, because Bree won most of their bets.

‘But only if you sit there, drink water, take your pills and watch TV.’

‘I’m used to doing stuff.’ Dex was a hands-on kind of guy, who’d rather play with tools than play couch potato. He only did that when hungover, or while working towards his next hangover, generally around Christmas time.

‘I can get you shelling peas later, if you want?’

He arched an eyebrow at the woman enjoying herself at his expense.

‘Do you want me to pinch one of Ash’s computer games?’

Dex wanted to play another board game with Sophie.

No, he didn’t. Shaking his head to forcefully push away any memory, or need, of someone like Nurse Kitty in his life. No siree. He had a station to work on—not sit in the caretaker’s cottage and watch cable all day.

‘Where are you going?’ He inhaled, then exhaled through the mask. It sucked that he couldn’t shout.

Bree scooped up the house phone, which she tucked into the lower leg pocket of her welder’s cargo pants, then slid on her steel capped workboots. ‘I’m going to call Harper to collect the paint on her way home from work. Then I’m going to finish my own jobs.’

He then noticed the three striking, hand-forged iron brands, made by master brand makers, hanging high along the wall like trophies.

Charlie’s family had been making cattle brands for generations. They were particularly known for creating the rare legacy brands that were handed down from generation to generation. More importantly, it was the type of brand rustlers couldn’t tamper with, making them instantly recognisable to anyone.

But it was the Elsie Creek Station cattle brand that had his attention, sitting high on the wall like a trophy sword, along with the other two.

‘Don’t think about pinching that brand. It’s busy spending its days as a dust collector—just like you are taking up space on my couch.’

He huffed. Huffing he could do—not puff like some powder puff as Nurse Kitty wanted him to do with his breathing exercise. And he sure as hell could snort with a huff, especially while clenching his teeth at the redhead who had the power to push his buttons. ‘It’s our brand, Bree. My brothers and I own the station now, we should have that brand hanging on our wall.’

‘Why? Don’t you have enough pearls to clutch, princess?’

If only he could, he’d drag his oxygen trolley out of here. But he didn’t think he’d get off this couch. And the redhead knew it.

‘Don’t take your frustrations out on me, Stormcloud. If you want the brand, you have to talk to Charlie.’

She was right. He ran his hands through his hair, letting out a frustrated breath—a short one before his ribs reminded him of their pitiful condition. Breathe, brother. ‘What are the other two brands for?’

‘That’s the Splint family brand and the Wilde family brand.’

‘Wilde? For you?’ Wilde was Bree’s surname.

‘Charlie made it for his grandson.’

‘Liam.’ Bree’s son.

She didn’t even look at them, sorting through a small pile of cloth skullcaps on the other side of the room.

‘I recognise the Splint brand. That’s the one we found in the car.’

‘Pandora.’ Bree frowned.

‘Why are you so against Charlie finding his brother?’ It was such an effort to hold a conversation that didn’t render him breathless.

‘Because I don’t want Charlie to be disappointed.’

‘Are you worried about Charlie sending his brother, Harry, to prison for murder?’

‘The guilt would hurt Charlie more.’ Bree plaited her hair into a thick rope that trailed down her back. ‘His brother bolted without saying goodbye, over half a century ago. In that time, Pop had learned to let go, where he was happy. But ever since they found that stupid car, Charlie is now obsessed with his search.’ She pointed to the stacks of old photo albums and rolls of maps, piled on the end of the dining table.

‘You know you could sell that car to me, and I’d turn it into a muscle car. But I’ll keep the name Pandora.’ Where were his priorities? ‘Hey, where is my car?’

‘Well, Charlie and I had this bet to see who could make the biggest dust cloud doing burnouts in the back block—’

‘You didn’t?’ Not his baby.

Bree giggled. ‘No. Ryder drove it home after your first night in the hospital. ’

‘Um…’ He swallowed hard, pushing down his pride, as he took a few short, sharp breaths. ‘Thank you for doing that. Keeping your promise to not leave.’

‘I rarely make promises, so when I make them, I try like hell to keep them. Which reminds me.’ She juggled a set of keys in her hands, unlocked a steel cabinet and removed his wallet and the fat envelope of cash.

It was his winnings from the fight.

‘It’s all there.’

‘You know what…’ He couldn’t believe he was saying this. ‘I believe you.’

‘Be sure to count it. I would. Don’t worry, you won’t offend me. We’ve both got thick skins, as one of the many things we have in common.’

That was true.

He flicked open his wallet. Everything was there. ‘Guess that’s why you’re the only one who gets my humour.’

‘And the only one who is smart enough to give it back to you.’ She playfully ruffled his hair. ‘Now, sit back and chill. Radio us if you need anything—which of course, I’ll ignore.’

Witch. He chuckled. It’d have to be the first time he’d laughed this week.

At the hat racks by the back screen door, Bree slid on her leather work apron, tucking her hair into a skullcap and picked up her thick welding gloves. Along with her welding pants and steel capped boots, this was the Bree he knew. The kick-arse blacksmithing Bree.

‘Oh, I almost forget.’ She grabbed an old clock from one of the kitchen shelves and wound it up before placing it on his side table.

‘What is the cooking timer for?’

‘The alarm will remind you to do your breathing exercises.’

‘Whatever.’ He rolled his eyes, leaning back on the couch that was the comfiest couch he’d ever sat on .

‘Dex, I can’t make you do it. Only you can. But I know you’ve got the willpower to shake off this injury in no time.’

‘How much are you willing to bet on me?’

‘No bets.’ Her face solemn, with her green eyes reflecting the window’s sunshine. ‘It’s not a game, this is your health. But I do know you’ll fight this and win.’