Home to Hope Mountain. Joan Kilby
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I hate plain chops. Is there at least ketchup?”
“I didn’t see any. I could go to the grocery store.” He was so relieved at hearing normal, kid-type complaining he was willing to make the trip for one item.
“It closes at five on Monday.”
He glanced at the clock—ten to five. Living out in the boonies was nuts. If he was at his Melbourne apartment an elevator ride would take him to street level and a twenty-four-hour convenience store ten yards away.
“In that case, it looks like another night of Diet Turkey Delight....”
Summer made a face, and he had to agree: the thought was unappetizing.
Unless he became a terrible cliché and borrowed a cup of sugar from their neighbor. Ordinarily he wouldn’t hesitate, but Hayley hadn’t exactly put out the welcome mat. She wasn’t bad-looking with all that honey-blond hair and those big blue eyes. Her long legs were shapely even in dusty blue jeans. But she was extremely prickly.
Mind you, she had serious problems, like the fact that she was living in her garage. Maybe he’d simply caught her at a bad time. Yes, that could be it. If he gave her another opportunity to treat Summer, she might accept. He’d learned in his long career of negotiating not to give up—if at first you don’t get the outcome you want, give your opponent another chance to say yes.
Not that Hayley was his opponent. But she did have something he needed—the ability to heal his daughter. If she got to know him and saw he wasn’t the bad guy, she might relent.
He looked through the kitchen window, past the manicured lawn and the gum trees ringing the gravel parking area to the horse paddock. He had something Hayley needed, too. The grass hadn’t been grazed for nearly twelve months and was knee-high. Sure, she’d said her program was full, but she could no doubt find another hour in her week—if she wanted to.
Hayley didn’t seem like the kind of woman he could charm into acceding to his wishes, which suited him fine. This was business. He prefered straight dealing. He had the sense that she did, too. Even though he’d been disappointed and frustrated by her refusal to take Summer as a client, he liked that she’d told him no straight up, without apology.
The rain had stopped, and there was still an hour of daylight. On the way home Summer had pointed out a track through the woods from their driveway to the Sorensen property. It should take only five or ten minutes by bicycle, assuming Summer’s mountain bike could handle the muddy terrain. He missed his weekly thirty-mile cycle along the beach road in Melbourne. So rather than drive the short distance to Hayley’s, he might as well get some fresh air and exercise.
He turned off the heat under the pot and covered the lamb chops. “I’m going next door for a cup of sugar. How good is that track you showed me? Will I be okay on your bike?”
“I’ve never been down there. Mom told me about it.”
“I’m going to try.” He turned to go, then paused. “Maybe you should come with me.”
“I have homework.”
Now she had homework. Half an hour ago she was just laying around listening to music. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”
Her cheeks tinged with pink. “I’m not gonna do anything dumb. I was just getting at you before.”
“Well, stop it. I worry about you.”
She met his gaze, her normal self. “I’ll be fine, honest.”
Satisfied she was telling the truth, he went through the door into the garage and wheeled Summer’s mountain bike outside. He raised the seat as high as it could go, took an experimental lap around the parking area then pedaled down the gravel driveway. When he saw the old fence post and the parallel dirt ruts, he turned and headed into the woods.
* * *
HAYLEY RESTED HER hand on Bo’s withers, reins slack, as the big horse plodded quietly along a wildlife trail. The woods here were untouched by fire, full of the resinous scent of gum trees. Late afternoon was her time for riding, and she loved going bareback, her legs dangling and her thoughts drifting. Working with trauma victims was rewarding but it was also emotionally taxing. She needed this time to de-stress.
Today, though, her thoughts refused to drift. Should she take the job with Molly? She was barely skimping by on her income from the Horses for Hope program. What would Leif have wanted? Working in town felt like selling out on their dream, but on the other hand, she had the horses to consider. Blaze was due to foal in a few weeks. There might be vet bills. And all the horses needed to eat. Hay wasn’t cheap.
Maybe she shouldn’t have refused Adam’s request to treat his daughter as a private patient. But he unsettled her. Partly because of his association with the bushfires and Leif’s death. Partly because he was a stranger. Every man in Hope Mountain was as familiar to her as her Akubra hat. Adam was attractive and sophisticated. Rich. She didn’t know how to act around him.
A muffled curse on the vehicle track to her right broke into her thoughts. She reined in Bo and peered around a bush. Speak of the devil. Adam Banks had his knees up around his ears as he made wobbly progress on the muddy track. He didn’t look quite so intimidating now.
He lost his balance and thrust out a leg to brace himself only to end up ankle-deep in mud. Hayley stifled a smile. Bo shifted one of his enormous hooves and a twig broke.
Adam glanced around. “Hello? Is somebody there?”
“You need a horse, not a bike,” Hayley called out. She squeezed her thighs around Bo’s barrel-shaped stomach and the horse picked his way through the undergrowth. “Where do you think you’re going, anyway?”
He was heading in the direction of her property. She didn’t care if people strayed over property lines while hiking or riding. But she didn’t want Adam Banks becoming free with the track between their places. Didn’t want him popping over anytime he felt like it.
He reached into the saddlebag behind his seat and pulled out an empty plastic container. “I’m coming to beg a cup of sugar off you. Demerara would be ideal, but I’ll settle for plain brown. Or even white, in a pinch.”
“Sugar.” She looked him over, at the designer jeans, black polo shirt and expensive white running shoes splattered with mud. “Are you making cookies?”
Was this sugar quest a ploy to talk to her again? He seemed a determined type, used to getting his own way. She wouldn’t put it past him to have another go at convincing her to work with his daughter.
“Barbecue sauce. So, do you have any sugar? It would be nice to know now before I destroy my clothes and Summer’s bike. I promise to repay it tomorrow.”
Was that a subtle dig at her obviously straitened circumstances? The other day when she’d turned down a free movie ticket Molly had told her she was too defensive and too proud. It was hard to know anymore where to draw the line.
“I’ve got sugar. But you’re not going to be able to ride much farther. There’s a creek up ahead and the banks are a quagmire. What on earth possessed you to try to come through here on a bike?”
“I do a lot of cycling at home.” Hands on hips, he surveyed the dense forest and muddy track as if wondering how he’d come to be there. “Admittedly this wasn’t the brightest move.”
“Are you one of those MAMILs we get up here on the weekend?” She smirked. “They come through town in packs of twenty to thirty.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Middle-Aged Men In Lycra.”
“I confess to Lycra, but thirty-six is hardly middle-aged.”
She’d been joking, of course, calling him a MAMIL. He was nothing like the pot-bellied weekend warriors who puffed up the mountain, red-faced and sweaty, to collapse in the café with a piece of cake. And now that she knew