High-Stakes Bride. Fiona Brand
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it for cracks and rinsed it. “Don’t worry, we’ll manage—one way or another.”
“What if he finds out?”
Susan’s jaw tightened. “I don’t want to hear you mention him again—it’s finished. He hasn’t found us for four years. He won’t find us now.”
The snort of a horse drew Dani’s attention. She stared at the scene unfolding in the paddock immediately adjacent to the house.
Carter was outside with Galbraith and two tall bay horses. She watched as Carter swung smoothly into the saddle. Dust plumed from restless hooves as the animals paced out of an open stock gate, hard-packed muscle rippling beneath satiny skin. Two dogs trotted alongside, tongues lolling. Dani blinked, spellbound. The scene was idyllic—like everything on Galbraith—and, like the endless rhythm of the sea dragging the sand from beneath her feet, it was steadily undermining her resolve. She was used to cutting ties, the idea of holding on made her dizzy.
Dazed, Dani realized that, like Susan, she didn’t want to leave. She wanted to stay so badly it hurt.
Susan tugged at her plait. “You just wait, you’ll change your mind about boys one day.”
For a heartthrob like Carter Rawlings? She’d rather live in a soap opera.
She might be young, but ever since she was six years old and he had broken into their house for the first time, she had known that men spelled more trouble than she ever wanted to take.
In her limited experience, if you could lose them you were lucky.
Chapter 2
Present day, Jackson’s Ridge, New Zealand
The sun was high, the air rippling with heat, the breeze hot and dry as it rustled through native manuka trees and flipped a strand of hair loose from Dani Marlow’s plait. As she slid from the seat of her tractor, she noted the direction of the breeze—a southerly—not the drought-breaking northerly she and every other farmer on the East Coast needed. They’d had a dry year, followed by an even drier summer, and the disastrous weather had desiccated the soil, killed most of the grass and undermined Galbraith Station’s already shaky financial position.
Properties all up and down the coast were selling at rock-bottom prices, and the sharks were queuing—most notably a fancy out-of-town syndicate that, rumor had it, was determined to turn the small farming community of Jackson’s Ridge into an upmarket golf course and beach resort.
The Barclays, who owned a block just up the coast, were contemplating selling after a fire burnt down their barn and decimated their maize crop. Another neighbour, old Mr. Stoddard, had rung just last night to let her know that instead of the extension on his mortgage he’d requested, the bank had sent him a letter advising him that his interest rate was going up. He was hanging on, but at seventy years of age, he had better things to do than watch his cows die of thirst and fight a bank that no longer had any confidence in his ability to service his loan.
Dust whirled, peppering Dani’s eyes as she crouched down to check the underside of the tractor. It didn’t take a diesel mechanic to diagnose what was wrong with the ancient Ferguson—affectionately labeled the Dinosaur. The oil sump was leaking.
Muttering beneath her breath, she straightened and walked to the small trailer coupled to the rear of the tractor and extracted a new bolt with its accompanying nut and washer from the “breakdown” toolbox. Shoving the wisp of hair behind her ear, she grabbed a wrench, a socket and a rag streaked with oil from the last breakdown, crawled beneath the Dinosaur and turned on her back.
For the third time in a month the same bolt had worked loose, jolted out by the bone-shaking ruts and potholes of Galbraith Station’s fast-disintegrating stock roads. Each time she’d gone into town and bought a slightly larger bolt, the metal of the sump, warped with constant flexing and worn thin by extreme age, had disintegrated enough that the bolt had shaken loose. The sump itself was about to expire, but because the tractor was so old, obtaining another part would be close to impossible. She had two options: get an engineer to manufacture a part, which would cost a small fortune, or buy a new tractor, which would cost more money than she could raise this year—or the next.
Oil slid down the backs of her hands and her wrists as she pushed the sump back into place and lined up the bolt holes. With a deft movement, she slipped the bolt through and held it in place as she awkwardly reached around the solid-steel chassis to slide the washer and the nut onto the shaft of the bolt, straining until the thread caught and the nut wound smoothly on.
Clamping the wrench around the nut to hold it still, she began the delicate process of tightening the bolt, a quarter turn at a time with the socket in the confined space, careful not to stress the tired metal by screwing the bolt in too tightly. Long seconds later, arms aching, she loosened off the wrench and the socket, set the tools down in the dust and simply lay in the shadows beneath the tractor, the tautness of her muscles turning to liquid as she let herself go boneless.
She was hot, sweaty and tired, and every part of her ached. The summer had been the driest on record, and she’d been up since before dawn moving stock and checking water troughs. When she’d finished her morning round, she’d showered, changed and opened her physiotherapy practice, which occupied the old shearers’ quarters. Her last appointment had been at three, after which she’d started loading hay onto the trailer and feeding out.
Even moving the cattle every day, rotating them from field to field, and grazing what was known as the “long acre”—the roadside grass—didn’t allow her paddocks time to recover. Without rain, the grass couldn’t grow, and there simply wasn’t enough feed. She was already using her winter supply; when that was gone she would have to either start buying in feed she couldn’t afford, or sell the entire herd, including the breeding cows.
She’d done the figures for selling early, and they weren’t good. The cattle would be underweight, and the market would be low. The worst-case scenario was that she wouldn’t make enough to cover the balloon payment that was due on the mortgage. If that happened, her half-brother, David, would lose the farm and his home.
The drought had already done its damage, and every day it continued the damage increased. Now, regardless of when it rained, they had already sustained a loss; it was only the magnitude of the loss that was in question.
Letting out a breath, she let her lids drift closed. She wouldn’t sleep, but she was tired enough that the iron-hard dirt felt as soft as a feather bed. Slowly, inner tension seeped away, and her breathing evened out.
A small sound disturbed the silence. Liquid trickled down her arm. Her lids flickered.
Oil.
The Dinosaur was still leaking, this time from somewhere else, which meant the sump and the bolt could be side issues.
“Oh yeah, you’re going to die on me soon,” she muttered sleepily. “Just not yet.”
Give me a couple more weeks, then it won’t matter.
“If this rust heap is terminal,” a low male voice murmured, “it better not be in my driveway.”
Dani’s heart jolted in her chest. She hadn’t heard a vehicle, but that wasn’t surprising. The rising wind hitting the tall line of poplar trees along the roadside was loud enough to muffle most sounds and, despite her resolve, she had fallen asleep. If she’d been fully conscious there was no way her closest neighbour, Carter Rawlings, would have sneaked up on her.
Grabbing the tools, she crawled out from beneath the Dinosaur and blinked into the afternoon sun. Of course he would be standing with the sun at his back, putting her at even more of a disadvantage—as if she wasn’t utterly disadvantaged anyway in faded jeans and a T-shirt, leather boots that were crusted with dirt, and her hair scraped back in a plait.
Rising to her feet, Dani studied her neighbour and ex-ex-ex-boyfriend who, evidently, had finally decided to return to Jackson’s Ridge after yet another extended absence.
“Well,