The Australians' Brides. Lilian Darcy
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glowing coals.
Jacinda looked at her day pack a couple of times in an uneasy kind of way and he almost teased her about it. Was she checking no snakes were lurking, eager to crawl inside? Finally, she blurted out, “I brought my … Lockie’s … notebook. Would you mind if I scribbled in it for a little while?”
Of course he didn’t mind.
And he tried not to watch, because he knew that somehow it was private. She didn’t like to feel herself under the spotlight of someone else’s observation when she stared at the blank page or scratched the ballpoint pen impatiently back and forth over a wrong word—or even when she was writing smoothly and unconsciously smiling at the fact that it was going well.
Okay, so that meant he was watching. Sneaking glances, anyhow.
Even though the flames had still not died back quite right, he started cooking to distract himself, putting strips of bacon and halves of tomato into the pan and poking at them with a barbecue fork more than he needed to. He knew he shouldn’t keep spying on Jac’s tentative new relationship with written words.
He was so busy not noticing her write that he didn’t notice when she stopped. Her question sneaked up and leaped at him like an enemy ambush. “Callan, tell me what you meant the other day, that I’m not the only one it’s ever happened to.”
He whipped around, bringing the sizzling pan with him and almost losing the freshly cooked eggs over the rim. She had the notebook open in her lap and the pen still in her hand. What was she going to do? Record his answer?
She looked startled at his sudden movement. Her gaze dropped to the pan. “Careful ….”
“Sheesh, Jacinda!” he said on a hiss.
The ambush metaphor still held. He felt like a soldier, taken by surprise but on such a hair trigger that he was ready for the attack anyhow, weapon fully loaded. He bristled all over, prepared to lie under oath, stay silent under torture, neutralize the onslaught in any way he could.
He wasn’t going to talk about this!
Wrong, wrong, wrong, Jacinda realized at once, watching Callan set the pan of eggs down on a rock without looking at it.
They’d each gotten to different places during the past ten minutes of silence, she saw. She had felt increasingly peaceful, close to Callan, at home ….
And braver, because some nice snatches of language were happening on her page, and writing well always made her brave. Out of nowhere, she’d had an insight into one of the half-forgotten but very real characters in her old, unfinished novel, and suddenly that character wasn’t half-forgotten anymore, but was right here, as if sitting beside Jac, her story clamoring to be told.
When she’d looked up from her writing, she’d seen Callan crouched by the fire, his muscles pulling under his shirt as he reached to poke the coals or flip the toast on the old wire rack. He wasn’t saying anything, wasn’t looking her way, and she thought he must be feeling peaceful, too, happy about being together like this, enjoying each other’s uninterrupted company, sharing the same appreciation of nature’s gifts at this fresh hour.
The question hadn’t felt abrupt to her. It had felt right.
But it wasn’t right.
She could see it instantly in the way he turned, the way his face changed, the sharpness in his voice, the appalled expression in his eyes.
Sheesh, Jacinda! In her head, she echoed his own exclamation.
You could have led up to it better, couldn’t you, Jac? Given him some warning?
She let her notebook slide to the ground and stood up, covering the few yards of physical distance between them—and hopefully some of the miles of emotional distance—in one breath … in four heartbeats.
“Callan.” She put her hand on his arm and he flinched. “I didn’t intend for it to be such a tough question.”
“Okay …”
“I’m sorry, I’m too self-absorbed over this. You seemed to understand so much the other day. About the whole thing with my writing. The problem. The block. The incompleteness. And today it was flowing so well. I have to thank you, because I never imagined finding a place where I’d feel so safe, after what was happening with Kurt at home. And I just wanted to understand about you, in return, that’s all. I wanted to hear from you about the incompleteness that happened to you, and what you did about it. What worked for you, when you solved it.”
He froze.
Wrong again, Jac.
Hell, how could her intentions have been so good and still have led to such a mess?
He closed his eyes, gritted his teeth. When he answered, she could hardly hear. “I haven’t solved it.”
He broke roughly away from her, turning his back to her just the way he had on Saturday night.
Guarding himself.
Guarding against some power she had over him, or some threat she was unconsciously making. Either way, she didn’t understand.
But her bravery was still in place—that sizzling sense of capability and strength that good writing could give her. And that meant she wasn’t prepared to let the issue go.
“Please don’t turn your back, Callan,” she said and stepped toward him.
He didn’t move, apart from thrusting his hands down into the pockets of his shorts. He didn’t speak, either.
“You turned your back the other night, too, when we were here,” she pressed on. “You know when I mean. Looking for Lockie’s Game Boy, when we—”
“Yes, I know when you mean.”
She reached him, but his body language practically screamed at her not to touch. It created physical pain because she wanted to touch him so much.
“I would really like to talk about this, Callan. To understand it.”
He laughed, as if she was being completely naive.
Maybe she was, because the bravery was still there inside her, only she was kidding herself that it came from her good writing.
It didn’t.
It came from something else.
Desire.
She wanted Callan so much, and at some level she trusted the wanting—had to trust it because it was that powerful, and she knew, despite everything he said—and did—and didn’t do—that it reflected back at her from him with equal force. He wanted her, too.
“Okay, then we won’t talk,” she said, standing behind him and wrapping her arms around his rigid body. “For the moment, we’ll just do this….”
His torso was as hard as a board, vibrating with tension, and her touch didn’t soften him at all. If she’d been feeling even a fraction less brave, less sure, she would have let him go, her face flaming with embarrassment at his rejection.
But if it was the desire, after all, that had made her brave, it was the writing that had made her see clearly and she knew … just knew … that he wasn’t rejecting her. There was something way more complex going on here.
She slid her hands up to his shoulders and began to caress him, running from his warm, solid neck and out to his upper arms, over and over again. Soon, she let her fingers trespass farther, touching his jaw, brushing the lobes of his ears, feathering into his hair. Still, he didn’t soften or move.
“Prebreakfast massage,” she murmured. “The sun’s on my back, so I’m getting a massage, too. Whatever’s happening, Callan, don’t be angry. Don’t push me away.”
He didn’t answer, but his breath came out in a shuddering sigh.
“If you’re going to tell me to stop, then you