Chapter 1 #3
I put my hat into my carrier, jammed on my helmet, jumped on my bike, and kicked the motorbike to life. As it snarled beneath me, Kayden came out onto the verandah, raising his hands in a "what the hell" gesture. I indicated with my hands that I needed a drink.
He indicated with his hips that I was going for something else. I gave him the thumbs-up signal and shot away so fast that rocks kicked up behind me.
The road to the Rusty Swagman stretched long and empty, with dust curling behind me like a rooster's tail. The wind tore at my hair braids and dried the sweat on my skin. I leaned into the ride, letting the engine's growl drown out my thoughts.
But it didn't quiet that unease sitting low in my chest or the sour feeling I'd been pushing down for days that coiled tighter in my gut with every mile I crossed.
It had been sixteen days since Frank vanished.
My dad had never missed a cattle drive. Not once.
Mitch was convinced he must be dead. I’d been holding out hope, but not because I loved him.
No, I'd stopped loving him when I was fourteen, when the vile comments he'd made during a conversation I wasn't supposed to hear had changed everything.
If he were dead, then Koolaroo would be changed forever.
Two catastrophic events had already changed the course of my life, and I had a rotten feeling that I was headed for a third one.
The Rusty Swagman was in what Aussies called a one-pub town.
The eighty-year-old pub was the only place serving food or drink for a hundred miles.
A few houses sat nearby, situated way too close to the road for my liking.
Queensland Rail had a few buildings that held parts for the freight trains that rumbled through town twice a week.
It was a place for drivers to stay when the train needed to stop, like the one now stationary on the tracks.
I was desperate for a pee by the time I pulled into a parking space out front an hour later. I killed the engine and scanned the cars to see who else was here.
I groaned.
Just my damn luck. Bruce Henderson's rusty old ute was there, parked like he'd driven in drunk, which wouldn’t surprise me.
Maybe I should turn around.
No. Screw that. I'd ridden a hundred miles. I deserved one damn drink without having to answer to anyone.
I put my helmet on the seat, settled my cowboy hat on my head, climbed the steps, and walked through the open door.
As usual, the air was thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of spilled beer.
And the crowd was loud. Typical pool playing, dart playing, football watching, drunk men.
I groaned. Every time I walked into this place, it was like my very own Groundhog Day.
After using the restroom, I took my usual seat at the bar, and Pete strolled over, swinging a dish towel over his shoulder. "Hey, Cass, good to see you. What'll I get ya?"
"Thanks, Pete. Beer please. Anything cold."
"Coming right up."
The Hendersons were on the other side of the bar at the pool table, being loud dickheads as usual.
I glanced over, and my gut twisted. Bloody hell.
Bevan was playing pool with them. How the hell had he gotten here so quickly?
Maybe that bastard had stolen a motorbike.
I made a mental note to watch him when he left.
Pete placed the beer in front of me. He didn't ask questions. That's why I liked this place.
I took a long drink and put my head down.
If I was lucky, I might find a decent man to take me home for one night and save me from this place.
Maybe one of the tourists who came to the surrounding farms for a country stay would work.
No names. No promises. Just enough distraction to burn off the edge and remind myself I was still alive. Nothing complicated.
The conversations paused, and I glanced up despite myself. A man had strolled into the bar.
He was tall and clean. Not a speck of red dust on him. His dark hair was styled and his fancy clothes probably cost more than most of the trucks parked outside.
He was wrong for this place in every possible way. He was mighty handsome, though. Like, movie star material. Maybe I could get lucky after all. I could give this sexy stranger a ride he’d never forget.
He removed his gold-rimmed sunglasses and stepped up to the bar.
Pete's curious expression said everything I was thinking. "G’day. What’ll it be, mate?"
His gold watch flashed under the harsh bar lights. "Actually, I hoped you could help me." His fancy tone and American accent didn't belong this far west of anywhere.
"Oh, yeah? How?" Pete moved a used glass from the counter in front of the stranger and placed it in the sink.
The bloke probably had a flat tire. I took a sip of my beer, curious to see how Pete would handle that.
He ran his hand through his thick black hair, and the shiny waves fell back into place. "I’m trying to find a man named Frank Branson.”
I swallowed hard before the beer shot out of my mouth and nose.
Every muscle in my body went tight.
Bruce Henderson froze mid-shot.
Bloody hell. Could this day get any worse?