Chapter 6
Six
This was such a bad idea. Yet, it was too late for Porter to call it off—not when Amara was already here, pretending like this wasn’t going to be awkward as hell.
‘Do you want to see your room?’
Amara opened the back of her car. It was one of those older Land Rover models, the Freelander. The kind of box-on-wheels that’d be more at home doing lunch runs in Toorak than rolling over a cattle grid.
He’d bet good money it still had some pony club show ribbons, or a stray bobby pin jammed in the glovebox.
She slid on a wide-brimmed blue hat, tidy as ever.
The dash, however, held a bright pink stockman’s hat—bold, blinding, and clashing with everything.
Deadset, he wanted to say something about that hat. But he’d promised Tanisha that he’d behave, no smart-arse remarks…
Welcome to cohabitation.
So he gave the Freelander messing up his yard another once-over.
Deadset, it was like parking a pony in a bull paddock.
It just didn’t fit. And he just couldn’t help himself…
‘Does this model come with heated seats, a yoga mat, and a playlist called Coastal Cowgirl? Or are you planning on hauling hay with it for a photo shoot?’
She didn’t rise to the bait. Just lifted her chin again. ‘I’d like to see the stables first.’
Of course she would.
‘I heard you bought a horse.’
‘It’s why I’m here, Porter.’
‘When do you get it?’
‘That depends on the stables.’
‘Eh?’ Typical. She hadn’t set foot past the gate and had already written her inspection report.
‘I’ve allocated two to three days to prepare and stock up provisions.’
Porter gave a slow nod. ‘Right. Because nothing says welcome home like colour-coded feed bins for organic hay, to match the laminated checklists, and the time needed to create the perfect playlist to really settle the inner beast.’
She huffed, wiping off some imaginary dust from her impeccably ironed shirt. ‘Craig will be bringing him in his horse truck, and the vet will visit him in the stockyards. And Brodie promised to keep him close.’
‘Brodie’s a good kid. He’ll baby that horse, you watch.’
‘Were you at the auctions?’
‘Yep.’ And he’d seen her laser focus when her horse stepped into the auction arena.
By then, most of the crowd had shifted to the pub for the festivities, or the office to collect their livestock.
And that grey, it was one of the last through on a long day of swirling dust, smelly cattle and horse flies.
Only a few onlookers leaned over the rails to watch Amara hesitate in her bid for it. He could tell she wanted it. Craig and Finn had been standing beside her and one of them must have said something, because she finally put in a bid.
The only bid.
But when the auctioneer dropped the hammer and yelled, Sold, Amara’s smile shone brighter than anything he’d ever seen. Damn, she shone like a star. But not at him—at a horse that needed a home.
‘Stable’s this way…’ Porter walked towards the shed. ‘It’s got yards and stuff.’
‘You don’t have horses?’
‘Nope. Don’t know how to ride them either, but I can drive.
Will my bikes and buggy be an issue for this horse?
’ He shoved the stable doors open, allowing the sunlight to highlight his car trailer that sat dead centre, piled with gear like someone had packed in the dark during a cyclone—quad bike, fuel drums, a few spare tyres, and a dirt bike laid sideways like a cherry on top.
Tarps and tie-downs did their best to keep it all civil, yet somewhere beneath the mess, his favourite toy was hiding among this museum of mischief and motor oil, all mashed together.
‘Is all that stuff yours—or did a bush mechanic throw a tantrum and leave his toys behind?’ Amara wrinkled her nose like the place had personally offended her.
What was wrong with the smell of oil and fuel? That was the scent of freedom for Porter. ‘I like to go hunting and fishing on my days off.’ As if the mechanical pile-up of his fuel-powered toys wasn’t obvious enough.
And because he had to poke the pony-club princess he said, ‘It’s called a hobby. You know, for fun. You should try it sometime.’
‘You hunt for what? Bunny rabbits and wallabies.’
Look out, there might be a personality under all that starch. ‘Ferals. My mate Luke and I just cleared out the wild pigs ripping up Stone’s fence line.’
‘Stone doesn’t keep livestock.’
‘Stone is trying to protect the crocodiles and water birds in his billabongs for Romy to film her documentary. Sadly, the pigs are making a mess of the waterways. They’re a dangerous pest out here.’
‘Wouldn’t the buffaloes be worse?’
‘Buffaloes are lawnmowers. But pigs? They’re feral, fast, and full of attitude—they’ll eat the mower, the grass, and the bloke pushing it, then charge you for fun. They’re worse than crocodiles.’
‘You don’t like them. Not with that tone.’ She wandered around the shed with that sneer as if afraid of dust or something. ‘Where do you keep your guns?’
‘Why? Do you want to inspect the gun safe, Constable?’
She scowled at him over her shoulder. ‘I think we have a bigger issue with these things. I’m sure this lot breaks at least three dozen local bylaws?’ She gestured at the quad, the dirt bike, and his favourite toy tucked under the tarp like it hated sunshine—the beast that wrote its own rules.
Porter fought the urge to roll his eyes, tempted to repark her over-priced Freelander by a pig trough—just to see her reaction.
But then he let out a sigh, heavy with the weight of knowing he’d have to compromise.
Tanisha, the station’s receptionist, had warned him already. Loudly. And repeatedly. That a horse as fancy as the one Amara had bought wasn’t a stockhorse. It wouldn’t be used to noisy quad bikes, bull catchers, and muster choppers like a stockhorse on a station would be.
It wasn’t no paddock puppy, either. Whatever breed Amara’s horse was, it came with paperwork and a pampered ego—perfect match for the posh princess inspecting his stables.
‘I’ll move my gear to the other shed. You can have this one.’ She probably needed the space just for the horse’s hair accessories.
‘This whole shed?’ Amara’s eyes widened like he’d just offered her the deed to the place.
He scratched the back of his neck. ‘Storing all this here was only temporary. I’ve been working on the man cave—just got the concrete poured the other week. Few trips with the trailer, and it’ll be outta here. Easy as.’
‘Does this mean I’m to expect a motorbike in the lounge room, too?’
‘No.’ He hesitated, trying to remember what exactly he’d left on the kitchen table. ‘You don’t mind guns and fishing reels, do you?’
She gave him a look. ‘I don’t fish. Or hunt.’
He shrugged. ‘No one’s perfect.’
She blinked at that, as if unsure if it was a dig or a joke.
Porter didn’t clarify. But it was hard not to notice the perfectly ironed creases in her shirt’s sleeves, no doubt with the rules stitched into her shirt’s cuffs.
Her boots had a mirror shine, and not a hair dared fall from her tight bun.
It had to be pulling her face as tight as her ramrod-straight spine.
Hell, even a rod had some give in it.
If anyone needed a shed, a horse, and a weekend away from rules to breathe—like he did—it was her.
Amara marched deeper into the so-called stable, which was little more than a weathered shed with a patchy tin roof and walls that had seen better days.
A few half-doors lined one side, opening into narrow stalls, and at the far end stood a set of sturdy double doors that led to a couple of round pens, their fences sun-bleached and probably in need of repair.
Good thing she’d allocated those days to prepare.
Come on, Porter didn’t know the first thing about what a horse needed, but he figured it’d be some sort of walls, a roof, and doors to store stuff—surely this would count as a stable, right?
But he couldn’t stop admiring Amara’s slender figure as she inspected the place, his eyes glued to her arse in those jeans.
And the way she nibbled on those pillowy lips of hers—like she had no idea what that did to a bloke? It was outright illegal.
Deadset.
This was a bad idea.
Not only had it been a long time since he’d shared a house with someone, but having a pretty, single female under his roof made him think of Tess. The woman he’d once truly believed was the one for him, who he’d hoped would help him make this place a home.
Except that lady with the long legs had kicked his heart into a million pieces.
Now here he was, copping the cold shoulder from the picky princess, who was well above his pay grade, even if he technically outranked her.
Different departments. Same police station. And now, both working and living in the same damn postcode.
Giving her this shed made sense, right? It’d give them room to escape each other.
Or maybe he should just call it quits? The smart thing would be to stop this. That way he’d skip the whole new-housemate routine—learning each other’s boundaries, figuring out who used the last of the milk, and trying not to lose it over someone reorganising his fridge like it was a crime scene.
He didn’t care about swanky smelling candles or the three dozen cushions to match the fancy blankets you couldn’t use—but letting Little Miss Judgey into his house? Well, she’d probably alphabetise his spice rack and have the pantry colour-coded by Tuesday.
Yeah, this had trouble written all over it.
‘Listen, if the horse can’t handle the noise—’
‘I’ll take it. And I’ll pay you extra for this space.’ She spun on her boot heels like she’d just signed a lease. ‘Don’t worry about the noise. I’ll train the horse.’ She marched past him, heading for her car. ‘Where is my room?’