Chapter 3
Three
The office door creaked open, alerting Taryn to someone entering the Batcave.
‘You’re still here?’ It was Finn’s deep gravelly drawl.
She lifted her heavy head like she was gracing the schmuck with her presence.
‘Wow, great to see you too, Sergeant. You just missed a thrilling hour of me reading cattle transfer permits, dissecting fuel dockets, and decoding coffee-stained invoices from someone named Cowboy Craig. Real edge-of-your-seat stuff.’ She nodded at the paperwork spread across the table that had taken hours to arrange into some sort of logical order.
‘Careful. That coffee-stained invoice probably saved a hundred head last month.’ Finn stepped into the room with a presence of an unseen power. ‘And here I thought you’d be halfway back to Canberra by now.’
‘Tempting.’ And so were those tattooed forearms and how the office lights hit just right. ‘But someone’s got to make sure this squad isn’t running on barbecue sauce and dodgy branding irons.’
He grunted, clearly amused. ‘Come on. Pub’s waiting. You’re staying there, remember?’
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘Not unless you like sleeping in a cell.’
‘Fine.’ Taryn slid her notebook and laptop into her workbag, then gathered her suitcase and her suit jacket. ‘But if this is some hazing, just know that I’ve lived through basic drills and a Christmas lunch with six colonels and a rogue goat.’
Finn shot her a sideways glance, the corner of his mouth twitching like he didn’t want to smile. ‘Six colonels and a goat? For lunch or…?’
Taryn realised too late how that had sounded. ‘Not on the menu,’ she blurted out. ‘Though Uncle Ray tried to smoke it once—’
‘What? The goat? Or the colonels?’
She narrowed her eyes at the cretin having fun at her expense. ‘Let’s just say the goat survived. Uncle Ray’s eyebrows, not so much. Turns out the most stubborn one always wins, and it’s rarely the one in uniform.’
Finn’s smirk deepened, all dangerously calm as he stepped closer—close enough that the heat rolling off him rivalled the Territory sun.
He grabbed her suitcase like it weighed nothing, then leaned in, just enough for her to feel the low rasp of his voice brush intimately over her ear and the skin of her neck.
‘Good to know, Fed,’ he murmured. ‘I can see you’re going to be trouble. ’
Then he walked away, leaving her standing there with a racing pulse and no comeback. Which was rare.
Worse, she was left with no choice but to follow him down the dark corridor to head for the light outside.
The large troop carrier waited like a dust-coated beast. Beefy tyres, with a bull bar that looked like it had won more fights than Finn.
He opened the back and effortlessly tossed her suitcase inside.
While she struggled to lift her workbag, then hiked up the hem of her fitted skirt just enough to clamber into the passenger seat.
As she clipped on her seat belt, the scents hit her—red dust, sun-warmed leather, and him.
The kind of scent no department store could ever sell. Tough, unpolished, and unbothered. Solid as a boulder and twice as immovable, along with a double dose of raw testosterone, that should’ve been bottled and labelled as: Unapologetic Masculinity—The Finn Edition.
As he started the monster truck, she glanced at the airport and noticed the back gate, directly to the tarmac, where that grey-overalled old man was whizzing around in an oversized golf cart.
‘That arsehole.’
‘Who?’
‘There’s a gate.’
‘So, the gate is the arsehole?’
‘No. I mean, I could’ve used that gate and skipped the whole outback trek where I had the pleasure of a heavy-breathing buffalo on my heels, walking kilometres in a blazer, choking on dust—thanks to a passing truck on steroids—after I got snubbed by that airport mechanic who probably just needs glasses to fix his suspicious squint.
’ She pointed at the man who’d made her walk, waving at them through the fence.
Finn nodded at the guy. ‘Mickey’s got standards. Obviously, you didn’t meet ’em. And Cecil probably liked your perfume.’
She laughed before she could stop herself as Finn drove out of the yard.
On the map, the town appeared like a speck swallowed by the outback. Google hadn’t offered much either, just a vague dot in the middle of nowhere.
Curiosity had Taryn sitting a little taller as they rolled along the main street, lined with low shopfronts on either side.
There was an assortment of stores, a small supermarket, a post office next to a craft shop, and a hardware store that looked more like a big shed with a drive-thru feed store sign out front.
There was even a zebra crossing waiting patiently for pedestrians that didn’t materialise.
At the far end came the real centrepiece: a two-storey pub that rose above everything else, like a king’s castle.
‘What makes Elsie Creek a town?’ she asked, breaking the silence. ‘Why build here?’
Finn kept his eyes on the road like he was talking to the town itself. ‘Originally, it was just a piss stop on the rail line.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘A place to stretch your legs before heading further into nowhere. Then the Yanks came through in the war and set up camp for a bit.’ Finn rested his hand loosely on the steering wheel as he nodded at the railway station on the left.
‘With the railway, the cattle stations shifted their stock routes to meet the train, to feed the Army during the war. Soon, the stockyards were built, and the trains kept coming. Beef headed east and south, and the exports go north to Darwin Harbour.’
‘Didn’t peg you for a tour guide, Sergeant.’ Through her passenger window, the town seemed small, weathered, and a little stubborn-looking—like it had refused to disappear.
But there was something about it. A sense of place, surrounded by all this space. Maybe it was the stockyards, or the way the shops faced the road like old friends. Maybe it was the way people waved at each other, even if they didn’t stop. She couldn’t help but admire it.
The troopy rolled to a stop out front of the pub.
Finn cut the engine and nodded at the building that seemed to tower over the town. ‘The pub is run by Samantha. The locals call her God.’
‘Is that a nickname or a spiritual warning?’ Taryn raised an eyebrow.
Finn smirked. ‘Bit of both. She controls the only cold beer for five hundred k’s. And you never get between a stockman and his beer.’
He leaned on the steering wheel, his voice low and matter-of-fact. ‘Samantha was born in that pub. It was built by her great-grandmother—the original Elsie, the town was named after. And she might just be the youngest publican in the country.’
‘Why so young?’
‘Her dad got sick. Rumour has it, she was running the place before she even got her driver’s licence or was legally allowed to drink. But she’s whip smart for business and politics.’
‘Why are you so invested in the publican’s story? Do you do that with the shopkeepers too?’
‘The woman has power in this town. Not that you’d know it to look at her.
But she’s well respected. So, if you value a roof over your head, and don’t fancy your swag tossed into the scrub, play nice.
’ Finn climbed out and went to the back of the troopy.
He slung her suitcase over one shoulder like it was filled with feathers, and grabbed her workbag before she could protest.
‘Seriously, I can carry—’
‘And I can do it without breaking a heel.’
‘Rude much,’ she muttered, only to be surprised when he held the door open for her.
‘Ladies first.’
Through the glass door, the whoosh of cool air and the scents of ale greeted her. A rustic long bar ran along the left side, and the back wall of windows led to a beer garden and pool tables. On the right, stood clusters of tables and chairs, while ceiling fans spun with zero enthusiasm.
Yet it felt like she’d entered the Northern Territory’s version of Parliament House. There was no mistaking it. This was where decisions got made. Where reputations were built—or torn down with a single round of beer and a raised brow.
This small town pub was exactly what she’d expected, with its wall of glass door fridges behind the long bar, the brass rail running along the bottom, and bar mats advertising beer brands covering the top.
Behind the counter, a woman with a full sleeve of tattoos and black lipstick, wiped down the bar with the casual air of someone who’d break noses and not spill her drink while doing it. Her leather vest looked like it belonged in a biker’s bar. Was that the boss?
The tattooed warrior nodded at Finn, who replied with a curt nod. Without a word she flipped over a glass and started pouring a beer.
At the far end of the bar, an elderly man, wearing suspenders and a felt fedora, was perched on a stool. Beside him, leaning against the bar, was a young woman, wearing jeans and a simple T-shirt, her blonde hair pulled into a no-fuss ponytail. Pretty. And surprisingly young.
That had to be her. God.
Finn dropped Taryn’s bags by the side door and nodded at the woman with the ponytail. ‘Samantha. Billy…’ Finn dug around in his pocket, dropped some cash on the bar, and scooped up the beer glass. ‘Thanks, Mean-Rene.’
‘Figured you’d drag the Fed in, eventually.’ Mean-Rene wiped her hands on a towel, blatantly sizing up Taryn like she was a slab of meat at the butcher’s.
Sooo… Everyone in this town knew Taryn’s business.
Finn didn’t bother with an introduction—and he’d clearly perfected the art of letting the silence do the heavy lifting.
‘You must be Taryn.’ The blonde with steady eyes watched her carefully.
Taryn smiled, grateful someone was offering her any kind of warmth. ‘You must be God.’
‘Anyone who’s lived in the outback and drinks hard enough reckons they’ve seen God at least once in their life.’ She pushed off the bar and walked over, extending a hand. Her grip was firm, like someone used to shaking hands with men. ‘I’m Samantha. Welcome to Elsie Creek.’