Chapter 3
Three
For the third time this week, Amara drove her boss home with a police escort.
Was Porter waiting for her or something?
As she left the pub she’d spotted the annoying Senior Constable Porter—who never ironed his uniform—slacking off, as per usual. Leaning against his police car watching the stockmen behave like boys.
If it was her shift, she would have written a dozen tickets, then arrested them for drunk and disorderly.
But not Porter.
Nooo, he just told them to sleep it off.
‘Was that Porter?’ Finn sat higher in the passenger seat, as if jerking himself awake.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘He’s a good cop.’
‘Is he?’ Amara didn’t see it. The only policing she’d ever seen from Porter was the Stock Squad’s prisoner transports, or lurking around the coffee machine in the police station. Porter had to be the laziest policeman she’d ever met. He was a disgrace to the uniform.
‘Porter just got his detective’s ticket.’
‘I heard he cheated on the exams.’ The detective exam was a future goal for her own policing career.
‘Porter recently solved a sixty-year-old local cold case that made a lot of people in this town happy.’
‘Local hero, huh? Like Cowboy Craig and Stone?’ And you, sir?
Thankfully, no one knew the Montrose name, as this area was as far removed from sheep country as you could ever get.
Even so, in a town this small you’d think they’d bother to notice her—excluding the stockmen full of booze and bad manners daring to annoy her in the pub.
But then again, playing shadow to the big man, Finn Wilde, and the rest of the superstars in the Stock Squad, was it any wonder she was nothing more than their secretary.
But it beat playing a glorified stablehand like she was in her last job.
‘The livestock auctions are on tomorrow, sir. Do you want me to pick you up?’ With coffee and, no doubt, a handful of painkillers for the impending hangover.
‘No. I’ll meet you there.’
‘Will Craig and Stone be there?’ Their part-time consultants.
‘Craig will be. Not sure on Stone. If he does come, it’ll be to tease you.’ Finn chuckled. ‘You can give it back, Constable. You have my permission to put Stone in his place, if that’s what you’re waiting for.’
‘Stone doesn’t bother me.’ He was like that annoying big brother who would pull at your pigtails and mess up your desk just for the hell of it.
‘Good.’ A nod. That’s all he ever gave her, the nod.
Then he sighed, a sign Finn was lost in his thoughts again.
She’d never met a man who was such a heavy thinker as Finn. A cop who thought in motion, always moving, pacing, and thinking. And lately drinking.
The spotlights met with swirls of red dust that made up the road. Along the sides, the lights caught the tops of fluffy leafed eucalyptus trees as they drove deeper into the outback under the black night sky. While Porter’s car lights remained steady in the rear-view mirror.
‘I went through the auction lists for tomorrow.’
‘Hmm.’ Finn’s eyes cautiously flashed her way, as if trying to keep himself awake.
‘There’s a horse, sir…’
‘Stockhorse?’
‘No, sir. A Thoroughbred cross Criollo.’
Finn shrugged. ‘Not a stockhorse then.’
‘Definitely not.’ She shook her head as she gripped the steering wheel. ‘That’s an elite Argentine polo bloodline. And for a horse like that, it’s going cheap.’
‘Have you got a horse?’
‘I used to.’
‘Can’t keep a horse at the pub, unless you use the stables next door.’
Those weren’t stables, they were more of a holding yard for rugged stockhorses, not pedigrees. ‘Do you have a horse?’
‘I did. Now I have lots of horsepower made of steel.’ He leaned his head back, giving a lazy grin.
Of course, he was talking about his Harleys. And Finn had a few.
‘You like this horse, huh?’
She shrugged, desperate to keep her breath even, her grip loose, and her posture straight. But Finn was a smart man who could pick up the teeniest of clues from one glance at a person. She’d learned so much in the short time she’d been working for him, and did not want to mess this job up.
‘You should buy it then,’ he said with his eyes shut.
She swung her head fast to gawk at him. How did he know? Was he suddenly telepathic?
‘Hit up Craig for agistment, until you find somewhere else to live.’
‘But—’
‘You can’t live at the pub forever, Constable.’
You can’t drink at the pub like this every night either, sir!
But she bit her tongue.
Only to defend herself. ‘Living at the pub is handy for work. It’d be even better if there were officer’s quarters at the station.’
‘Hmph. Don’t make my mistakes, Constable. Get a life outside the job. And if this horse has your attention…’ He inhaled deeply, as if dropping off to sleep.
She drove the rest of the way in silence, cruising down the dirt driveway to the small house with a side verandah that doubled as a carport.
Porter lit up the front door with his police wagon’s roof-mounted spotlights, so Amara could open it—while Porter had the pleasure of dragging the behemoth inside.
‘Typical.’ A massive Harley motorcycle, in various stages of repair, sat on a tarp in the middle of the living room.
The Stock Squad had been stationed in Elsie Creek for nine months now, and Finn still had no furniture—just a crate and a set of large speakers for the record player sitting beside a pile of records stashed in the corner.
The bedroom only held a bed, while his clothes sat in piles around a simple duffel bag. At least it had an air conditioner.
Seeing inside someone’s house really gave you an insight into that person’s mind. And this, for Finn, was only temporary.
Which made this posting only temporary for Amara, too.
It was no secret the Stock Squad was on a trial run, but Finn had never said when the clock would run out. Surely they’d earned their shot at a permanent post by now.
Which meant it was the wrong time to buy a horse.
‘There you go, Finn. Nighty-night.’ Porter rolled Finn onto the bed.
Amara took off Finn’s boots. ‘Goodnight, sir.’
Back in the kitchen, she found Porter peering inside the massive silver fridge that held only beer and bread.
‘Not much, huh?’
‘Sure it is. It’s your average stockman’s staples.’ Porter closed the fridge door. ‘I’ve seen worse. Cowboy Craig used to have stuff growing in his pickle jars.’
From the near-empty cupboard, she pulled out a packet of painkillers and placed them next to a water bottle on the kitchen counter for Finn to find in the morning.
Porter paused in the doorway, the spotlights outside catching the lines of his uniform—broad shoulders, powerful arms, and that steady stance she was starting to rely on more than she should.
She’d never realised how built he was.
And she really didn’t need to notice that now. Or ever.
‘Are you driving Finn’s car back to the pub, or do you want me to take you?’
Her boss was right—she did need to do something for herself.
So, she left Finn’s car keys on the kitchen counter. ‘Porter, can I ask you a question?’