Chapter 12 HAMISH
Hamish
Hamish nursed his beer, shuttling it between his hands along the edge of the bar in the Settler’s.
The pub was Saturday-night noisy, with the regulars all in for a drink, plus a team of contract shearers yahooing it up over the pool tables.
‘It’s just hard to find the right words, you know, mate?
’ he finished up, having sketched out his problems.
Jack swivelled on the stool alongside to face him, lifting one eyebrow. ‘Seriously?’
Hamish grinned at the laconic irony. Although Jack’s stammer didn’t surface too often these days, his friend had been teased the whole way through school for his trouble getting a sentence out.
‘No, I mean what the hell am I supposed to say to Wheaty? “Hey, mate, your sis is getting a bit of a reputation”? Can’t imagine that going down too well. ’
‘To be fair, she isn’t, though, is she?’
‘She will. Like, maybe you’ve been spared because you’re with Lucie, but the rest of us single guys are fair game. She makes it pretty damn obvious who she’s set her sights on.’
‘Yeah, but remember when that was all you could think about?’ Jack took a long sip of his beer, chased it with a slow grin. ‘Oh, wait, forgot who I was talking to. Nothing’s changed for you, right?’
There was that bloody reputation again. ‘You know it’s different. Guys and girls.’
‘Shouldn’t be.’
‘Yeah. That’s pretty much where I went originally, but then Pierce’s daughter set me straight.’ The more he’d thought on it, the more it had become obvious that Jemma was dead right.
‘She’s a pretty cool chick.’ Jack raised his voice to be heard over a swell of noise as one of the shearers pocketed the black amid a round of cheers and backslapping.
‘Tara?’
‘Jemma.’
He snorted. ‘Funny how everyone seems to have a different opinion on that to me.’
Jack chuckled. ‘Reckon that’s because she gave you what for, mate. Be a novelty not to have one swooning at your feet, wouldn’t it?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with a bit of panty-dropping,’ he said absently.
But was Jack right? Although he’d frequently complained about the lack of women in the area, over the last twelve months, the same theme, a vague sense of dissatisfaction, seemed to keep resurfacing.
‘Though I guess sometimes it gets a bit boring,’ he admitted.
‘Anyway, it’s Tara we’re talking about. What do we do?
’ A problem shared was a problem halved. He hoped.
‘Well, speaking of the devil …’ Jack lifted his schooner as the door to the street opened, ushering in a blast of frigid air.
Hamish shook his head in disbelief as he turned. ‘I know we didn’t feel the cold when we were younger, but …’
The wolf-whistling shearers were obviously aware Tara was no longer a kid, even if Hamish was having trouble getting it through his skull. He was half out of his chair when Jack settled a heavy hand on his shoulder.
‘Give it a minute, mate.’
‘Yeah, but—’ He gestured toward the young woman framed in the open doorway.
She wore a flippy skirt that barely reached mid-thigh and a hacked-off shirt that revealed the lower band of a lacy bra.
There was something intensely disquieting about seeing his friend’s sister like that. ‘That’s not right, mate.’
Jack increased the pressure on his shoulder, returning him to the bar stool. ‘I’d say it’s pretty natural, though. I mean, don’t you remember those days when your every thought was basically about how to pick up, and you were a bit terrified that maybe you never would?’
‘Already forgot who you’re talking to?’
‘Well, I’m not such a dick. I remember. Tara’s just restless. She’ll chill out.’
‘That lot had better chill out,’ Hamish growled, rising again as Tara made a beeline toward the leering pool-players. She stumbled, her hip hitting one of the low tables. The occupants snatched their beers, sending up a loud outcry, but the girl didn’t seem to notice.
Hamish frowned. Tara hadn’t noticed them—hadn’t noticed him. He squinted across the room. ‘Mate, does she look a bit … off?’
‘That lot sure don’t think so,’ Jack replied lazily, flicking a finger toward the pool players. ‘Sit down, Ham, have your beer. I’ve gotta head soon. Dinner at Lucie’s mum’s tonight.’
‘Condolences,’ he said absently. Jack’s mother-in-law, Monica, was a piece of work. ‘You reckon Tara’s eyes look kind of glazed?’
Jack drained his beer and set the glass down. ‘Mate, go over and talk to her if you’re so worried.’ He stood, clapping Hamish on the shoulder. ‘But don’t blame me when she starts following you around like a lovesick cow.’
‘Cheers, mate. Catch you next week,’ he said, eyes still on Tara. The pool players had parted, allowing her into their group. One of the guys handed her a cue and a couple of others stood behind her as she bent over the green baize table.
Hamish shoved aside his stool and strode across the room. One of the guys was pressed up behind Tara, leaning over her to correct her grip on the cue.
‘I know how to do it,’ she protested, although she seemed unable to line the cue up with the ball.
‘Oh, I just bet you know how to handle a piece of wood.’ A shearer wearing a lanolin-stinking wife-beater sniggered. ‘How ’bout you wrap your hands around mine?’
Hamish yanked aside the nearest shearer, shoved the next guy into the wall. Grabbed Tara’s elbow. ‘Come on, Tars, let’s get out of here.’
Still bent over the table, Tara twisted to squint up at him. ‘But I just got here.’ She looked confused, seeming not to recognise him. ‘Didn’t I?’
‘Nope, you’ve been here long enough.’ He looped his other arm around her waist, setting her upright. Steadied her as she wobbled.
‘Hey, hands off, mate. Leave the lady alone,’ one of the shearers said. ‘If she wants to play with us, she can play.’
‘Hell, yeah.’
‘Too right.’
‘She’s with me,’ Hamish said firmly. ‘Come on, Tara, let’s go.’
Tara slammed her hands on her hips, pouting provocatively. ‘I don’t wanna. You can’t make me.’
For a split second he thought about taking her at her almost incomprehensible word, knowing the trouble he was about to buy into.
But she was clearly off her face and had no idea what she was doing.
‘Cut the bullshit, Tara. Or do you want me to call Wheaty to come get you?’ Although he wasn’t her eldest brother, Hayden had enough years on Tara to be intimidating.
‘Oh my god, don’t be so booooring,’ Tara whined, leaning her cheek against him and stroking his chest. This was definitely not the Tara he knew, who would gaze longingly at him, then blush furiously if he caught her eye.
‘I said, leave her alone,’ the beefy guy snarled.
Hamish sighed inwardly. He’d done this dance before; in fact, his left arm was still bloody sore from a similar altercation the previous year. ‘You plan to make me?’
The shearer sized him up, then ran a hand up each of his own forearms, as though pushing up his non-existent sleeves in preparation to fight. His mates cheered, shoving back stools and chairs to make room for a brawl.
‘Tara, get out,’ Hamish said quietly.
Tara used both palms to lever herself back from his chest. She stared, a little slack-jawed, her eyes once again vacant, as though she’d forgotten who he was. ‘I don’t have to do what you say,’ she finally slurred.
He pushed her behind him. ‘All right, then.’ He shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet, a slight bend in his knees, as he sized up his assailant.
It was rare he found someone bigger than him to fight with, but the other guy’s size advantage was in flab, not muscle.
More of a problem was the fact that the number of jugs and glasses on the tables showed the shearing crew had obviously been drinking the afternoon away, probably because the sheep they’d been contracted to shear would have been too wet to handle now the rain had finally come.
A boot slammed into his thigh from the side, giving him an instant dead leg, but the blow that followed only glanced off his cheekbone.
Unable to risk turning toward the sneak attacker, he dodged a sloppy blow from the ape in front of him. Dancing back on one leg as he willed the blood flow back into his thigh, he leaned in to land a satisfying uppercut on the guy’s third chin. The man went down.
There was momentary silence in their section of the pub, then the rest of the shearer’s mates closed in.
Damn, this wouldn’t end well.
Tara screamed and for a second he thought she’d finally recognised him. But as his gaze darted her way, he realised one of the men had seized her around the waist.
‘Get your fucking hands off her!’ he roared.
As he bellowed, Jack reappeared. Grabbing the shoulder of the guy holding Tara, Jack spun him around. The shearer threw up his hands, signalling his instant surrender, but the others jeered and started to muscle in toward Hamish and Jack.
‘Let’s even this up a little, shall we?’ said a familiar voice at Hamish’s shoulder.
He risked a sideways glance. Gave a nod. Maybe even a small grunt of relief.
‘Pierce.’
Jemma’s father had close to twenty years on him, but the guy kept himself fit.
‘Right, that’ll do, lads.’ Ant, the publican, appeared from behind the bar. He had an investment in stopping the brawl, yet he aligned himself on Hamish’s other side, glancing at his arm. ‘This the bad one?’
‘Yep.’
‘We’ll keep it right, don’t worry.’ Ant flipped a tea towel over his shoulder and squared up. ‘So, what’ll it be, fellas? A punch or a pint? I’ll just let you know, one of them comes with a lifetime ban.’
‘Jeez, man, we didn’t start it.’ The shearer Hamish had decked rubbed his chin as one of his mates dragged him to his feet. ‘We’ve been putting our hard-earned on your bar all afternoon.’
‘Yep,’ Ant said imperturbably. ‘And Hamish here is a local. You’re all country boys. Reckon you can work out for yourself who’s going to win any barney in here.’
Pierce reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. ‘Or we can all have a drink and calm down.’