‘Honestly, Pa. The nerve of him.’
Tash was in the vegetable garden, digging over a wet bed. Much-needed rain had fallen overnight, plunging the temperature and finally granting relief from the onslaught of dry heat. With the change, the dull crumbly soil of the beds had taken on a dark, fertile glossiness, promising future abundance. Smoke was fragrant in the air from the backyard incinerator. For once the day hadn’t been declared a total fire ban and Pa was making the most of it by burning the wilted remains of the diseased plants, weeds unsuitable for composting, and other offcuts.
Pa was sitting on a stump, Coco lazing at his feet with her soggy tennis ball, sharpening a pair of secateurs with a whetstone as he tended the fire and supervised Tash. Later, when the soil was raked and ready, they would sow radishes.
‘Don’t be too hard on the lad, he’s had a tough time.’
Tash rolled her eyes. People had been saying that about Patrick for the last two years. Yes, Maddy’s accident was a terrible tragedy and Tash felt horribly sorry for him, but that didn’t give him the right to come barging onto Castlereagh to abuse her. It had been two days since his visit but still her anger festered. Lack of riding talent? Pfft.
As for his warning not to defy him, she’d demonstrated exactly what she thought of that.
The day before, as the sky turned ashy and sullen with the incoming weather, Tash had snuck out for another thinking session on Khan. With the turbulent wind lifting a hundred different scents into the air and the atmosphere charged with the coming change, the horse had been restless. It had given her a moment’s pause but she bounced aboard anyway. The gentlemanly manners Maddy had drilled into Khan remained strong and, despite Patrick’s scorn, Tash trusted in her own ability, a tad rusty though it might be. She might not have had Maddy’s talent but her balance had always been excellent.
And she would not let Patrick ruin this small joy for her. She would not.
Instead of spending half an hour in deep thought, dreaming up ways to keep her audience entertained and growing, Tash’s mind remained as unsettled as the wind, constantly attuned to her surrounds for the flat chug of an approaching diesel engine. After fifteen minutes she’d given up, patted Khan and slid off. She’d stalked back to the flat in an almighty temper, throwing silent curses towards Wiruna.
Tash grumbled another quiet curse as she turned another sod and used the spade’s sharp edge to break it into even pieces. Bloody Patrick.
‘Lad needs to blame someone for what happened,’ said Pa, spitting on his whetstone and running a blade expertly over its surface. ‘Just so happens his someone is a horse.’
‘I get the blame bit, Pa. But wanting to shoot Khan? What happened to Maddy was a freak accident made worse by the fact she wasn’t found for hours. That was hardly Khan’s fault.’ In fact, it was the empty paddock that had alarmed the Handrecks in the first place. Khan had stayed close to his mistress as she lay helpless, as if he’d sensed her need for protection. Only when he heard them calling did Khan trot from her side. It was his arrival, fully saddled but with reins broken and a front boot missing, that brought them rushing to Maddy.
‘No doubt he knows that, but all that anger has to go somewhere.’
‘Well, he can bugger off,’ said Tash with such vehemency that her pa stopped his honing and eyed her with deep speculation.
‘Good-looking lad.’
Tash’s palm shot out. ‘No. Don’t even think it.’
Pa lowered his gaze and resumed his strokes but not before she caught the mischievous tilt of his mouth.
The spade hit the dirt with a savage thud. Patrick Lawson could kiss her sweet butt. So could Pa with his sly inference. Tash had made enough mistakes with good-looking men for one lifetime, and Patrick belonged to Maddy. Always had. Two beautiful people drawn together by forces that mere mortals like Tash and Thom had never felt.
There were some things in this world you could happily borrow from friends—clothes, books, horses. But men? Nope. No happiness would ever come from doing that.
With her radish crop sown and another successful shoot in hand, Tash hugged her pa farewell and, after a shower to wash the morning’s sweat and grime away, settled down to update her social media accounts and edit the morning’s footage.
She had a routine now: mornings in the garden, along with chores for her parents, followed by a couple of hours of computer work. The early afternoon was designated food time—either poring over old recipes and thinking up new ones, trial runs and experiments or, twice a week, filming. By the time she’d cleaned up from that, it was usually late afternoon. Before Khan, Tash would fill in the remainder of the day on the computer, pottering near the house, wandering the farm with Coco, or tripping into Emu Springs. The horse had ignited a hunger inside Tash she’d believed long quashed. She wanted to ride, feel the wind in her hair, travel the landscape from above, carried by fleet feet.
The Handrecks had kept all Maddy’s gear. Thousands of dollars’ worth of saddlery was growing cracked and dusty in her old tack room. Tash’s jaw had dropped when she’d seen it. When she turned to ask Grant why they hadn’t sold it, his face had revealed the answer. He’d shrugged, his mouth turning down. Tash had pressed her hand briefly on his upper arm in understanding. No one could blame him for his hope.
The moment had set something thick and heavy in her heart, and she’d almost reneged on their agreement, but Grant had recovered quickly and was removing dust cloths and covers from saddles, pointing out the different models: straight-flapped versions for dressage; round, high-flapped saddles for jumping; general-purpose saddles for fitness training and fun.
In the end, Tash chose an all-purpose saddle and a plain bridle with a snaffle bit. She borrowed a webbing halter and brushes too, along with a hoof pick and other paraphernalia that made up a typical horse-care kit.
That afternoon she planned to take Khan for a proper ride—nothing fancy, just a walk or perhaps trot around the farm. Tash wasn’t sure her inner thighs could take much more. It was one thing to laze on a grazing horse’s back, quite another to ride it properly. All the former took was balance; the latter required effort and the use of muscles that hadn’t had an outing in years. The little trot away from Patrick had been bad enough. Her legs were still protesting. God knows what they’d feel like after a longer session in the saddle.
She closed the lid of her laptop and leaned back, gnawing her lip as she contemplated the enormous bag of bright red capsicums Pa had brought that morning from his own over-productive patch. There were hundreds of things she could do with them, from stuffing them whole to breaking them down into sweet, spicy, slow-cooked relishes. She narrowed her gaze, flicking through a mental index of casseroles and pasta sauces, but there was really only one answer.
Minutes later, Tash was outside, poking the incinerator’s coals, video camera attached by its flexible legs to a crowbar she’d jammed into the ground nearby and focused to capture both Tash and the fire. When she was satisfied that the coals were evenly layered, she topped them with the capsicums, maintaining a running commentary the entire time about the myriad uses for preserved char-grilled capsicum. She grinned as the vibrant skins blistered and blackened, thinking of the mouth-watering smoky flavour to come.
Tash had her head lowered and was humming happily as she turned the capsicums to ensure even charring. ‘Not too much longer,’ she announced. ‘Then we’ll leave them to steam for a while to loosen the—’
‘First sign of madness, talking to yourself.’
The frightened squawk Tash released wasn’t flattering. Neither, she suspected, was the furious look she speared at Patrick. ‘Do you mind? I’m filming.’
He glanced at the camera and shrugged. ‘I’m sure you can edit me out.’
Did Patrick think editing footage was easy? That he could interrupt her carefully designed tableau on a whim because it was a simple matter to just cut? Tash seethed. Nothing made her more furious than people dismissing what she did as easy, or worse, as some sort of cute hobby. This was her career.
‘Move,’ she said, snapping her long tongs viciously at him before pointing to the paved area in front of the flat. ‘Over there, out of shot.’ When he remained still her eyes turned to slits. ‘Now, Patrick.’
He moved, unhurriedly, the plastic bag he carried swinging from his fingers.
A spit from the capsicums had Tash turning back to inspect them. Calming herself with a few deep breaths, she snared one with the tongs and held it up to the camera, twisting it left and right to show all of the flesh. ‘As you can see, you need a good degree of charring, not only to get the skins off, but all that,’ she nodded towards a particularly black section, ‘creates flavour. So don’t be scared. Burn those babies. As long as you don’t turn them into charcoal, you’ll be right.’
One by one, the blistered peppers went into an enamelware bowl that Tash hastily covered with a good layer of plastic wrap. Immediately the film misted with condensation from the steaming capsicums.
‘We’ll leave that a while to properly steam and cool, and then peel them. Which gives us plenty of time to enjoy a cuppa and indulge in one of those delicious little ricotta cheesecakes that I showed you last episode.’ She grinned and winked. ‘Go on. You know you deserve it.’
Maintaining her smile, she waited a few seconds before setting aside the bowl and hitting stop on the camera. Ignoring Patrick, who was killing his minutes in purgatory with a game of kick-and-fetch with Coco, Tash replaced the front cover on the incinerator and returned the crowbar to the shed. Finally, she loaded all her goodies under her arms and carried them to the flat.
‘You need one of those outdoor wood-fired ovens,’ said Patrick as she neared.
Tash had been thinking the same thing earlier. Searching the internet for ideas was on her evening to-do list. ‘What I need is for people to stop interrupting me while I’m filming.’
Though she hadn’t offered, he followed her inside, piquing her temper even further. ‘No, please,’ she said in her archest tone, ‘come on in, why don’t you?’
Patrick grinned. Tash wished he hadn’t. She preferred him bad-tempered. Grinning showed off his dark-haired handsomeness, sparkling blue eyes and straight teeth. And the sod hadn’t shaved today, leaving his jaw sexily stubble-flecked. Worse, he was wearing a pair of jeans that clung to his thighs and showed off his long legs. As for the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt, on Pa it looked agricultural and competent. Patrick made it both those things, and hot.
She didn’t trust any of it. Smiling and looking sexy was one of those things that beautiful people did when they were determined to get their own way and were being thwarted. Tash’s friendships with both Maddy and Ceci had taught her that.
‘You know,’ said Patrick, ‘you’re nothing like your online persona. That Tash laughs all the time and doesn’t use sarcasm.’
‘That Tash doesn’t have to deal with you.’
She set the bowl on the bench and placed the camera next to the sink where she’d need it for filming the messy business of peeling skins. She was curious about the plastic bag he was carrying but Tash was stuffed if she was going to ask what was in it. Probably the food containers she’d foisted on him, although given the odd shape warping the plastic that didn’t seem right.
She frowned to herself as she bent to stow the plastic wrap in its drawer. She had always gotten on fine with Patrick. They weren’t close, admittedly—if anything, Patrick tended towards standoffishness—but they’d been friendly. This animosity was new and, if she was truthful, a little saddening.
His fault. He was the one who’d been mean and dismissive, forcing her to retaliate.
She straightened and glared at him. ‘What do you want, anyway?’
He held up the bag. ‘I bought you a present.’
‘Really.’
The corner of Patrick’s mouth lifted at her dry response. He placed the bag on the bench and nodded at it. ‘Open it.’
Tash wasn’t sure she wanted to but there was no way she was going to show cowardice. Snatching up the bag she peeled apart the sides and peered inside. She snapped it closed again and pushed it at him. ‘Kind of you, but I don’t need it.’
It was like watching a gentle fire get hit by a wind gust—warm flame then whoosh. Fury splotched Patrick’s cheeks. He shoved the bag back at her. ‘Don’t be a dickhead. You need this.’
Tash turned away and began rifling through the pantry. Dickhead? Dickhead! There was only one of those around here and it sure as hell wasn’t her. She slammed a container of salt on the bench, followed by vinegar and oil. The clunks echoed loudly in the curdled silence.
She didn’t need his rotten present, or anything else from him. Tash had bought her own helmet the day she’d brought Khan to Castlereagh. It was sitting in her bedroom, along with a pair of new riding boots and suede-seated breeches.
Patrick watched her with a gaze as acid as the vinegar. ‘Do you think this is funny?’
‘Oh, far from it.’
‘Then take the helmet.’
‘No thanks. And just so you know, I won’t be called a dickhead in my own home.’ She hefted the bottle of vinegar, enjoying the weight of the solid glass in her hand, and lifted her chin. ‘The door’s over there. Use it.’
‘Come on, Tash.’
‘Don’t “come on” me, Patrick. You’ve done nothing but be a butthead both times you’ve set foot here and I’m not going to take it.’ She tilted the bottle neck at him. ‘Out.’
The fury he’d been spurting seemed to wane with every passing second as it gave way to despair. Tash wished she could feel bad about it but she couldn’t.
‘Your skull is just as fragile as hers.’
‘I’m well aware of that.’
‘I—’ He held up his hands in a pleading motion and Tash’s throat caught at the pain etched over his face like a thousand cuts. He breathed out. ‘You don’t know what it’s been like.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Then you understand?’
‘I don’t know about understand, but I sympathise. I get that Maddy’s accident has been horrible for you and the Handrecks, and for everyone else who loves her, but you also need to see I’m my own person. This is my life. I take and accept my own risks.’
‘Not wearing a helmet on Khan isn’t a risk, it’s suicide.’
‘Patrick,’ said Tash, relenting. ‘I already bought a helmet.’
‘Oh.’ He looked everywhere but at her, like an embarrassed child.
‘Anyway, I thought you didn’t want me to ride him at all.’
‘I didn’t. I don’t.’ He huffed a breath. ‘But knowing how stubborn you are I figured you were going to do it anyway. The least I could do was make sure you had protection.’
‘Thank you. It was a nice thought, but I have my own.’ Tash picked up the bag and placed it into his hands. ‘I’m sure the saddlery will give you a refund.’
‘Yeah.’ He rubbed his jaw, the sound scratchy. ‘So … when were you planning on riding?’
‘That,’ said Tash, reading the intention behind his seemingly innocent question, ‘is for me to know and you to find out. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have filming to complete and you have a refund to collect.’