Chapter 9 #2
He gave that cheeky smile over his shoulder as he headed inside the shed. She had to follow as he strolled around the inner perimeter. ‘I got a hard lesson when I almost lost my job once.’
‘How?’
‘By not doing my job.’
‘I can’t even tell if you ever do your job.’ When she’d assumed he was just a slacker.
He frowned at her.
‘Hey, you said housemates with no BS. You’re a patrol officer—’
‘With an exceptionally large area to cover, Montrose.’
‘That night you told me you had a stable, you could’ve booked those drunk stockmen mucking up in the pub’s car park for drunk and disorderly. But you let it slide as if to skip the paperwork.’
‘They weren’t hurting anyone, just themselves.’
‘They were a public nuisance. You should’ve been doing your job.’
‘My job is to make sure those people are okay.’
‘They were a danger to themselves falling off that ute, and to everyone around them.’
‘You don’t get it, do you?’
‘Well, why don’t you write me a list?’
Instead, he turned and towered over her. ‘The reason those yahoos were drinking hard at the pub that night was they hadn’t had a drink in months, working their arses off, and had only come into town to celebrate.’
‘And to play car park games.’
‘The Hold-My-Beer game.’ He grinned for just a second before the seriousness took over, and it was a good look on the casual cop.
‘That crew were celebrating the fact that Blu’s baby sister had just beat cancer.
She was coming back home, and Wingnut and Showbag had been helping Blu pay towards the extra medical costs like mates do.
Heck, we all put cash into the hat to help pay for Blu’s folks to stay down south and be there for his sister while she was getting treatment in the hospital. That’s why I let them slide, Montrose.’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘How could you not? When you were living in the pub, that’s the hub of everything in this town. And those three stockmen were telling everyone, who’d then shout cheers with every round.’
She shrugged, almost ashamed of her need to distance herself. ‘Cops can’t be friends with the people they may have to arrest.’
‘That’s a load of bulldust, and you know it.’ He turned away from her and began walking around the shed.
She went the other way, with that need for distance. Yet it niggled at her.
Only to turn around and follow him. Again.
‘What did you do with your job, the hard lesson you had?’ When he was handing out the harsh lessons her way today.
Porter sighed, his boot dragging over the dusty concrete. ‘I was supposed to watch over my boss’s wife, instead she got kidnapped on my watch.’
‘No way.’ Amara’s eyes widened. ‘Is she okay?’
‘Not at the time, no. When Marcus found her, Wren was a mess. It took her months to recover, and I still can’t face her without feeling full of guilt. I was lucky Marcus didn’t fire me… Not my finest moment.’ Dragging off his police cap, he raked a hand through his hair, then it put back on.
‘What did your boss do? Demote you?’
‘No. Marcus promoted me.’ He chuckled.
‘He what?’ Did she hear that right?
‘Marcus dropped me in the deep end and made me run the station for months while he went on an extended honeymoon.’
‘No other officer—’
‘No senior would bother to come out here. We’re only allocated a certain amount of resources, and then we’re mostly forgotten. It was only when I sat in Marcus’s chair, the responsibility of the job hit me, and I knew I was mucking it up.’
Which made Porter a lot smarter than she’d realised. Even if she’d tried to resist it, the respect was building for the slacker who had a knack for bending the rules.
‘So that’s why you did the detective’s exam and decided to work on this cold case.’ She waved her hand at the empty shed on the deserted cattle station. While she was here to escape Finn and Porter.
‘I do it to give back to the community, and to help Marcus. We’re a team. Like you have with the Stock Squad.’
‘I dunno—’
He spun around and gently grabbed her arm. ‘It’s there, Montrose. You just need to lighten up a bit.’
‘But…’
‘From what you’ve just told me, it sounds like you’ve been on the defensive for a long time. And I’m not judging,’ he said, holding up his open palms as if to keep the peace. ‘I now get why. But you should let go and have some fun and find your wild side.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘I don’t do fishing.’
‘Well, that’s a strike against you on my list. Must love fishing and hunting is number two.’
‘Number three should be knows how to iron uniforms.’ She expected him to frown as she playfully flicked at his shirt.
Instead, he winked at her.
A wink.
But that wink made her feel warm on the inside, alive even, that it was a struggle to not smile.
‘No, Montrose, number three for my list is: anyone who can’t handle a little dust on their boots can hit the highway.’
She glared. ‘Number four: can’t be too easygoing. That’s a red flag, buddy. If they’re too easygoing it means they’re unreliable. And that’s a biiig strike.’
He chuckled. Not the reaction she’d expected, but it somehow simmered her temper, swapping it for something else. Was it an attraction? To Porter.
No. That’s impossible.
She had to stop this.
And yet she just couldn’t help herself. ‘Number five: no feral pig hunting.’
‘Hey, I keep the ecosystem balanced. And aren’t we working on my list, Montrose?’
‘Well, excuse me when I thought you were working on a cold case, and I was…’ Here to tie up loose ends, but it only brought up more questions.
She paused as the breeze flirted over the sunburnt soils and scrublands.
Why was Dixby Downs left as a deserted cattle station—in the heart of cattle country? And why was this shed built and ready to go, to become the perfect place to hide a stash of stolen crocodiles?
And how is it that the fences were still in good condition, and the water tanks were full, with the nearby windmill and pumps oiled as if resting between uses?
She removed her hat and smoothed down her hair, ensuring her tight hair-bun was in place, yet something was amiss with this place.
‘Are we working on the same case?’ Because it was a station that had involved stolen livestock.
Porter rolled his eyes. ‘Took you long enough to realise that’s something amiss in this place.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Would you have listened?’
‘I’m listening now.’ Because Porter was proving to be nothing like she’d expected.
Porter tilted his head to study her. Not like a cop, and not like someone amused by her temper—but as if he saw something in her she wasn’t ready to see in herself.
‘Good,’ he murmured, stepping closer, their hat brims barely millimetres apart. ‘Because I was starting to think I’d have to write that on your list too—rule number six: must actually listen.’
She rolled her eyes, but her pulse kicked up, betraying her.
‘I listen just fine.’ Ha! When she’d lost count of where they were with the rules.
‘Do you?’ His voice dropped lower, rougher even. ‘Because I’ve been saying something for a while now. Just not out loud.’
Her breath caught as the air between them suddenly changed, thickened and somehow became electric.
They were close—too close. She could feel his body heat, mingling with his spicy herbaceous scent that had such an earthy undertone, loaded with masculinity. It was unmistakably him and sensationally delicious. It was a freaking turn-on.
She should’ve stepped back and shut this down before it spiralled into something she couldn’t control.
Instead, her feet stayed planted, her chin tipped up defiantly as his gaze flicked to her lips. It may have been just for a second, but she felt it like a touch. That tender caress of a lover’s kiss, that had her toes curling in her shoes.
‘Tell me to stop.’ His voice was softer, tender, yet unreadable.
Hell’s bells. It only made her mouth water, and her throat tighten. She opened her mouth to tell him to stop. But nothing came out.
Only for the smug slacker to remove his cap and smirk—just enough to make her want to wipe it off his face—so she did it.
Or maybe he did.
She wasn’t sure who moved first, but their lips met.
Holy hotcakes and caramel sauce—she’d never expected Porter to kiss her. Especially the way he kissed, with confidence, heat, and a little too much enjoyment at getting under her skin.
He had to be teasing her.
It had to be a test.
One where she should pull away and walk back to her car. Not crush her lips over his, as his tongue traced the seam to part for him. There he took full advantage, with a sweep of his tongue deepening the kiss that was bold, unhurried, and thorough.
Amara let out a soft hum that shot straight to her core, melting against him, as her hands slid over the cool material covering his muscular chest, to fist his shirt, pulling him closer, lips to lips, and kept on kissing.
He gave a grunt of approval, as he let her take what she wanted, before deepening their kiss even further, making her lips tingle from the pressure, along with every slide of his tongue.
Her teeth grazed his bottom lip—accidental, or not—and he groaned into her like it broke something loose inside him. His fingers brushed the side of her jaw, then slid into her hair, anchoring her there, while her bun came loose.
For someone who claimed to be easygoing, the power in his kiss was anything but—it was signed, sealed, and saddle-tight, like a contract she hadn’t realised she was agreeing to, all with the power of their lips.
This was a kiss that had her heart pounding uncontrollably, making her entire body buzz like she’d just charged headfirst into something dangerous and exhilarating.
What made it worse… She didn’t want to stop.
Not yet.
But then a screech from Porter’s radio interrupted them: ‘Porter, you there?’
Porter walked backwards to his car, his eyes never leaving hers as he wiped at his lips, his hair messy, his shirt pulled free from his utility belt. She’d done that.
‘I’m here, Tanisha. What’s up?’ He spoke over the radio, still watching her.
Amara had nowhere to hide, brushing down her hair, her shirt, while the heat pounded with her pulse as her lips throbbed with pleasure.
‘Can you swing by Meeker’s Road? Apparently, another tourist is having issues with some livestock.’ There was a pause over the speakers as if Tanisha was squinting at her notes. ‘A cow is wearing a rubbish bin? They’re German, so maybe they meant a bin lid, or a feed bin?’
Static crackled. A beat. Then Porter spoke over the radio, flat as always. ‘Right. Livestock wearing household appliances. Must be Tuesday.’
Amara sighed, rubbing her temple, trying not to laugh, or frown—so muddled from that kiss that she barely remembered what day it was.
‘Just check it out, please. And try not to end up on someone’s travel blog.’
‘On my way. Over.’ Slipping his cap back on, Porter opened the driver’s door and peered back at Amara. ‘If you want to know about Dixby Downs, I’ll share the file with you.’
‘No more kissing.’ She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand as if to rid herself of his flavour.
‘You liked that kiss.’
‘You surprised me.’ And what did he do with her hair tie?
‘Good.’ His smirk irritated her.
‘No, not good. We work in the same space. It’s messy.’ And now her hair was all messy, too. ‘I’m only living at your place for the horse. Got it?’
‘Whatever you reckon, Montrose.’ He climbed into his twin cab and started the engine. ‘I’ll have the file at the station when you’re ready to talk, unless you want another kiss.’
‘See this.’ She scooped up her hat and used it to wave over her body, her temper flaring and her hat dusty. ‘This is the kissing-free zone. There are rules, you know.’
‘Good thing I enjoy bending the rules, Montrose.’ And he drove away, typically having the last word.
‘Rule number seven: let the lady leave first or let her have the last word… Arsehole.’ Her words echoed in the vacant shed, that felt emptier now he was gone.
Digging out her spare hair tie from her jeans pocket, she scraped her hair back into its usual bun—tight, practical, no-nonsense. Like maybe if she looked put together, the rest of her might follow.
Yet, slamming her hat back on, she suddenly felt smaller the way the clear sky was almost crushing under the heavy silence.
But she also had the spooky sensation of being watched.
Hand on her side holster, she peered defiantly into the scrublands.
She’d never been afraid of the country. Or the dark. Growing up on a station did that.
But now Porter had left, the hair on the back of her neck tingled, like something wasn’t right.
Looking for answers, she peered into the shed again, taking the last of her photos, ensuring all evidence was gone from the Cold Stock Case, when she noticed another set of boot prints.
They weren’t hers. Finn had steel caps. Craig typically preferred cowboy boots. Stone wore something in between. Even Porter had his own style of boots she recognised.
The tread on these boots was different.
And it wasn’t one. There were a few. With lots of fresh tracks and scuff marks all around the back of the water tank, which was freshly filled.
Porter wouldn’t have done that. As a city boy, surely he’d have limited knowledge about bores, tanks, and wells, and no reason to do it in any case.
Someone else had been out here.