Chapter 34
Thirty-four
Once upon a time, Amara had imagined that wearing a tiara and a ballgown would make her feel like a princess. Not some sweaty, red-faced idiot lost in the dust.
It was red. Hot. Itchy. Dust that settled like sandpaper across her skin, burrowing beneath the once-soft edges of her strapless powder-blue gown—now stained a grimy, defeated shade of red.
Her hair? A mess.
Her make-up? Melted.
Her pride? Long gone.
Right now, she’d kill for a glass of water. Even a muddy puddle would do.
She’d never been this lost. Not just geographically—but completely lost. And for once, she didn’t know how to fix it. Especially when it was all her fault they’d ended up in a place where there was nothing but endless red dirt tracks, and the dull ache of dehydration.
At least the horse’s hooves offered a rhythm. Her horse stolen, now found, with its steady, grounding beat against the cracked earth. With every plod, more dust lifted into the air, catching in the folds of her gown and the worn layers of her spirit.
‘You can climb on, Porter. Tempest is strong enough to carry us both.’
‘Nope. And stop asking.’
Was that because he’d never ridden a horse before?
Porter trudged ahead, one hand holding the makeshift lead—the necktie fastened like reins around Tempest’s neck—while the other gripped the old rifle.
Porter’s suit was in worse shape than her dress.
The jacket, she wore over her head and shoulders to hide from the sun, it’s lining sacrificed for bandages.
His sweat-soaked shirt, with its sleeves rolled to the elbows, clung to his broad back, where dirt and dust coated everything. Boots. Hair. And hope.
But he never stopped. Not once.
She’d offered, again and again, but Porter just kept moving. Focused and determined, step after step through the outback.
They’d crossed bulldust pockets like deathtraps, where Porter had used the old rifle like a walking stick, like she imagined Tilly would use her long cane to test the ground ahead. Amara had learnt her harsh lesson earlier about bulldust holes—to never go there again.
When there was a flicker of movement ahead, low, fast, and silent. A snake slithered across the sand, right in their path.
‘Montrose, hold on!’ Porter used the rifle again to ward off the snake.
But it was too late. Tempest had reared beneath her, his muscles surging like a coiled spring.
Riding bareback without any reins, Amara gripped the stallion’s mane. Her bare legs clinging tight to his sides, ignoring the shooting pain from her ankle as she held on. The waves of her ballgown’s heavy folds dragged against his flanks to billow and shift with the sudden movement.
‘Easy now…’ Porter kept calm, and didn’t flinch. More importantly, Porter did not let go of the necktie firmly wrapped around his hand.
Hooves struck the dirt, as the horse snorted and tossed his head—but Porter held his ground, his voice like a quiet anchor in the storm. ‘Come on, boy, you’re a bigger beast than he was.’
Slowly, the horse settled.
And so did she.
‘You okay, Montrose?’
‘Yeah… could do with a drink.’
‘Couldn’t we all?’ Porter turned, and continued to lead the way, while she sat on the back of the horse like a roasting prima donna in her ballgown.
As the sun reached its brutal height and their shadows shrank into nothing, she swore she could hear something.
A beat. A thrum.
Something faint, but familiar.
It grew louder.
She sat taller, peering around her. ‘Porter? Can you hear that?’
He stopped mid-step as the sound intensified. It was coming from overhead. Somewhere close.
Porter looked up, scanning the blue expanse. ‘I can’t see any helicopters.’
‘It’s closer, something…’ And then there was a glint of light, something moving fast, reflecting the sunshine.
It was a drone.
‘It’s Romy’s drone.’ She recognised it as one of the filmmaker’s drones they’d used in past investigations.
A sharp bark of laughter broke from her throat—half joy, half disbelief. Even with her cracked sunburnt lips, she smiled, waving her arms in the air.
Porter grinned, lifting the rifle over his head.
The drone hovered before them, rising up and dropping down as if waving at them, but the horse pawed the ground, unsure of the drone.
‘Easy now, boy…’ Amara stroked the horse’s mane. ‘Tempest doesn’t like the drone.’
‘He’s probably never seen one.’ Porter tightened his grip on the horse. ‘I’ve got you, mate. I’m not letting you go now.’
Romy must have noticed the horse’s response, that the drone zoomed higher. Keeping its distance, the buzzing drone did wide circles around them as if filming their location.
Soon came a low, thunderous rumble rose from the horizon.
It came from a helicopter sweeping low over the escarpment. It was Stone’s chopper. Dust exploded beneath its blades as it circled wide, lining up for a landing.
Porter covered the horse’s eyes as he gave her a tired grin. ‘Do you think Stone’s earned his right to call you Duchess now?’
Amara let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding.
They may be sunburnt and somewhat broken, but they’d made it. Even though she’d probably lose her job over this—they’d survived.
This Duchess of Dust was a survivor.