Chapter 1
One
Two weeks earlier…
Amara leaned in closer to her tablet’s screen.
Was she seeing right?
The image of the perfect horse.
Lot number 728.
Breed: Thoroughbred x Criollo. Check.
Size: 16hh (hands high) a tall, commanding build. Check.
Deep chest, strong hindquarters. Elegant but muscular stance, hinting at the possibility of a refined athleticism and brute power. Biiig check.
Long, arched neck, both commanding and noble. Nice.
And a beautiful steel-grey coat that was on the right end of glossy and gorgeous. Very nice indeed.
‘What are you doing out here, my fine friend?’ Taking up space at the corner table in the pub’s dining room, with only an empty coffee mug for company, Amara zoomed in to examine the photo more closely.
Dinner had finished hours ago, and as a guest with a constant need of the coffee urn, they let her use this area like an office. It was this or hide in her tiny room that only held a bed and a cupboard.
She’d learned the hard way that if she sat in the front bar she’d have to suffer some swaggering stockman doing his best at chatting her up.
Not interested.
Bad enough she worked with two cowboys. Thanks to them, the rule No cowboys, stockmen, or rodeo riders, had made number six on her Not-to-Love List. The list that would save her from the chaos that came with falling in love and eventual heartbreak.
But here was something she could fall in love with. She couldn’t help but sigh at the horse on the small screen. He was perfect.
And a long way from home.
For this was sturdy stockhorse country, where horses and dogs had to earn their keep. Certainly not a place for pretty poodles and ponies.
So why would a horse like lot number 728 end up at the local Elsie Creek Livestock Auction, in outback Northern Territory?
One forearm rested on the table as she peered closer. It was in her price range. And it checked her dream list of wants.
Not that Amara believed in dreams, when she was all about being practical.
Besides, she was living in the pub and had nowhere to put the thing.
Still…
Her heart kicked a little harder, the desire making her lick her lips. This horse was a rarity. A prize. A horse of pure prestige.
‘Hey, Amara?’ Samantha, the publican, poked her head around the doorway. ‘We’ve called last drinks, and I think your boss needs a lift home.’
‘Not again!’ Slumping back into her seat, she rubbed at an eyebrow.
‘I could give him a room, but I doubt we’ll get him up the stairs. Has he got a swag in the back of his vehicle?’
‘No. I’ll drive him home.’ Amara pushed up from her chair, sliding it back under the table.
She tucked her ever-trusty tablet under her arm without thinking—same way she carried it every day.
Turning off the coffee urn and the dining room light, she left her dirty cup on the bench in the pub’s kitchen next door, then paused at the end of the corridor that led to the front bar and the stairs.
She could skip the drama and go up those stairs to her room.
But no, dutifully, she headed for the front bar.
The music was gone and so were the customers. Most of the chairs were already on the tables, with the barmaid wiping down the bar. And her boss, Detective Sergeant Finn Wilde, was crumpled over a table, cradling a beer. Again.
‘Sir?’ She tapped his shoulder of solid muscle.
Nothing.
‘Sir.’ She was tempted to flick his ear, like she used to do to another drunk in her past. Instead, she shook him harder. ‘It’s time to go home, sir.’
‘Hmph.’ Finn raised his heavy head. His eyes were nothing but bloodshot slits. ‘Leave me alone, Constable. Can’t a man have a beer in peace?’
‘Come on, Finn. Time to go.’ Samantha swapped his beer glass for a cold stubby. ‘Take that for the road.’
Finn knocked back his hat to scrub nails over his short hair. ‘I got money.’ He dragged some bills out of his pocket, including the keys.
‘Keep your cash, Finn.’ Samantha passed the car keys to Amara, the concern clear in her eyes. ‘The constable will drive you home.’
‘I always do.’ Amara mumbled as she took the keys. ‘Come on, sir.’
It was a struggle to get him to his feet, when Finn was an easy six-two, built like a freight train, and full of muscles that were covered in some serious tattoos. Izzy always said Finn looked more like he ran a cartel than oversaw the Federal Stock Squad of misfits.
Even though Amara respected Finn, and had learned a lot from him, but lately he’d been drinking too hard. Unlike the other drunk she’d given up on, she wasn’t giving up on Finn.
‘Let’s get you to the car, sir. I’ll take you home.’ This was not part of her job description, but then Finn did say in his Stock Squad there was no such thing as a job description. And this was just another day on the job.
No wonder she had no time for a horse, a husband, a home, or a life.