I told Blake we didn’t have to bring my animals home so soon, but he insisted that was what we should do. Eeyore, in the float behind us, stamps a foot. Juniper, Bonny and Merrylegs are already settled in the paddock with the jacaranda tree. Harry tugs at the longer lengths of grass near the old foundations while Darcy flops on the ground in the shade of a chimney stack. When Eeyore brays, Merrylegs lifts her head from the grass. Head high and tail swishing, she trots to the gate and nickers.
‘Hello, little one.’
After twenty minutes, Eeyore finally agrees to back down the ramp of the float. His coat is dark and straggly from the rain. His mane is fuzzy, his ears droopy.
‘You have a paddock all to yourself.’ I smooth the damp scruffy hair above his eyes. ‘It has a gum tree and lots of grass.’
‘I’ll unhitch the float.’ Blake favours his good arm; he’s pale.
‘That can wait.’ I roll up his sleeves. ‘I packed an overnight bag and your case is still in your car. Can … we stay here tonight?’
‘I only have tinned food.’
‘There’s a water tank, isn’t there? And power? What I want most is a shower.’ I scuff my boots on the gravel, scrape away the worst of the mud. ‘Go to the cabin. I’ll settle Eeyore.’
Three shallow steps lead to the cabin’s simple porch. I sit on the top step to take off my boots and socks. The red door is newly painted. I open it wide.
‘Blake?’
No answer.
There are floorboards in the sitting room and a pale blue rug. The furnishings are grey and cream. I back out immediately and take off my jeans. I brush horse, goat and donkey hair from my T-shirt and wipe my hands down my front.
The kitchen is small but serviceable—a narrow fridge, a stove and hotplate, and a sink with a window above it. Merrylegs, grazing near the gate, is silver. The sky is burnished copper, the trees are smoky green. A door on the far side of the sitting room leads to a prefabricated bathroom. The shower screen is wet and a towel is draped on a hook. Another towel is neatly folded on top of my overnight bag. There’s only one other door, which must lead to—
Blake, draped in a sheet, is lying on his side on the snowy white linen of the queen-sized bed. His hair is dark and wet. His breaths are slow and deep. He looks younger when he sleeps. Boyish. Was he carefree with his nannies and teachers? When he was walking to the park, reading in the dorm? Was he carefree with his grandfather in the Highlands? When he was minding sheep in the sleet with a dog? Here in Ballimore, he can work hard, but he can rest too. This will be his home. He’s naked and beautiful and vulnerable and strong. He rolls onto his back and—
The left side of his chest, shoulder and arm are covered in bruises. Some are dark, others faded. Black and blue and purple.
By the time I’ve showered and looked through the cupboards—canned beans, coffee beans and twenty varieties of loose leaf tea—Blake is sitting on the bed and leaning on the headboard. Smiling sleepily, he considers my shorty pyjamas, pink and white stripes like a candy cane. He holds out a hand.
‘You’re beautiful.’
I sit on the side of the bed and study his bruises up close. ‘You didn’t … want to fight.’
When he takes my hand, I clamber over the sheets and lean against the headboard next to him.
‘I wasn’t going to tell you about this property until I had your trust.’
‘You wanted me to be certain.’
‘Yes, but the thought of you being hurt …’ He turns to face me, winds his fingers through my hair, pushes it back. ‘I couldn’t wait any longer.’
‘Nate said I was a curve ball.’
‘At the Holdens’ farm, I pulled back because I knew. You didn’t like me, let alone trust me. I had no idea what would happen between us, but I had to tell you I was seeing someone. I had to start our relationship in the right place.’
‘I didn’t like you, but I … wanted you to hold me.’
He’s smiling as we lie on our sides. He kisses my mouth, hard and possessive. He runs his hands down my body. He touches my breasts through my shirt. I want him like he wants me, but …
I have to start our relationship in the right place.
‘Blake?’
‘You knew Merrylegs’s name came from Black Beauty. Did your nanny read it to you?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I would have been eight when I borrowed Black Beauty from the library. Knowing what I know now, I shouldn’t have read it alone. Ginger dies and …’ My eyes sting. ‘It’s a very … sad book.’
He rolls me onto my back and comes up on an elbow. He kisses one eye, then the other. ‘Is this another book we should read together?’
‘I’m … supposed to share my pain.’ I put a hand on the side of his face and brush his mouth with my thumb. ‘I hope that’s okay … with you.’
‘I love you, Primrose Cartwright. I love everything about you.’
I smile. ‘Everything?’
‘Everything.’
‘What about children? Assuming … w …’
‘I want children,’ he says firmly.
‘But what … will … we call them?’
He blinks. ‘Do we have to decide names now?’
I laugh. ‘Their last name. ‘S… stuttering can be hereditary. Not that it’ll necessarily be “S”.’
He trails kisses from my dimple to my mouth and back to my dimple. ‘Our children can be Cartwrights.’
‘Your grandfather would want to carry on the … Sinclair name.’
‘My father wouldn’t care.’ He looks up, smiles into my eyes. ‘You decide.’
‘You’ll let your parents visit, won’t you? We could go there too. I’d like to see Primrose Hill.’
‘We’ll plant primroses in our garden.’
‘Maybe.’
He frowns. ‘I want primroses.’
Another frown. ‘We don’t have a dog.’
‘If you have Highland cattle, or even if you don’t, you’ll need a dog. A working dog like your grandfather had.’
He traps me with his leg as he studiously unfastens my buttons. ‘I’ll train my dog not to eat perennials.’
When I kiss his smiling mouth, he kisses me right back. He touches my breasts with wonder, presses open-mouthed kisses on my stomach. He nudges my navel with his nose. Runs his teeth across my hip.
‘If you go lower …’ My breaths are short. ‘You might hurt your shoulder.’
‘I know what I’m doing.’
He mutters a lot of words but all I say is yes. Again and again and again. My heart races, my skin heats and my body thrums and tingles as he teases and taunts and tempts before crawling back up the bed.
I wrap my leg around him like a vice.
And, as we move together, I remember everything. The needing and wanting and craving. The finding and keeping and sharing. The sunshine through the rain. If I stumble, if I fall—he’ll catch me.
We tip over the precipice together.
Later, when he’s sweaty and sleepy and draped on my body, I run a gentle hand across his shoulder. I brush hair from his forehead. I stroke around his ear, find the bristles on his jaw. I rest my fingers on his pulse and count the solemn beats.
Darkness falls. A golden moon. A scatter of stars.
A chorus of cicadas. A breeze of eucalyptus.
A floating dance of blossoms on the jacaranda tree.