TWENTY-TWENTY-NINE
TWENTY-NINE
The ute rattles as we drive, and I lean out of the window, watching the world blur into gold and red. We stop at each trough, and Luke hops out to check the levels, topping them up from the water tank on the back of the tray.
At the third trough, he stops and frowns.
‘What’s up?’
‘There’s a leak,’ he mutters, crouching down. Water is trickling from a small crack in the base.
‘How bad?’
‘Not catastrophic.’ He rummages in the tray and pulls out something that looks like blue Play-Doh.
‘You’re fixing it with Blu Tack?’
‘Waterproof sealant. Dries rock hard.’
I watch him smear it over the crack; he’s capable and unfazed.
‘Where’d you learn all this?’
Luke shrugs. ‘My parents taught me a lot. The rest was trial and error.’
‘Huh. See, back home, if I don’t know how to do something, I pay someone to do it for me.’
He snorts. ‘That’s why you’d be the first to die in a zombie apocalypse.’
‘Sorry? I would be extremely valuable.’
‘Oh yeah? How?’
I open my mouth. Pause. I have nothing. Zero marketable survival skills.
He grins. ‘Exactly.’
‘Okay, fine,’ I say and narrow my eyes. ‘Maybe I’d be the zombie that keeps coming back. Feral. Unkillable. Weirdly hot.’
He laughs and we drive on.
We’re almost home when a horse comes tearing across the paddock.
Luke swears and slams on the brakes, already out of the ute and running when he yells over his shoulder, ‘Get behind the wheel.’
I’ve barely swapped seats when he intercepts the brown and white horse, holding out his hand and whispering something low and calm. The horse huffs and settles. Then, without ceremony, Luke swings onto its back – no saddle or reins, just hands gripping the horse’s mane.
‘Meet me at the stables!’
When I pull up as directed, he’s already tying the horse down, whispering more of those calm, private words.
‘What happened?’
Luke is silent for a minute, still patting the horse. I start to think he didn’t hear me when he says, ‘Skip was my dad’s horse. He gets angry if he doesn’t get out enough.’
‘Why?’
Luke runs a hand along Skip’s flank. ‘It’s just the way he is. Always has been. It’s my fault – I haven’t given him any attention with everything that’s happened …’ His voice fades as if stuck in the memory of his father’s funeral. Abruptly, he turns his head to me. ‘You ever ride?’
‘Once.’ I grimace. ‘Fell off a pony at a birthday party. Cried into cake. Never again.’
‘I’ll teach you.’
‘Is this going to be similar to your driving lesson?’
He gives me a wounded look.
I sigh. ‘Fine. But I’m not getting on that one.’
He grins. ‘Banjo’s yours. He’s an old man.’
Quietly and efficiently, Luke saddles up both horses. I stand beside Banjo, eyeing the stirrup before I try to haul myself up. Naturally, I fail with flying colours. My leg flails, my balance abandons ship, and I let out a dramatic sigh.
Luke steps up behind me, close enough that I feel the heat of him through my shirt.
‘Need a boost?’ he murmurs, amused.
Before I can answer – or lie – his hands are on my waist, strong and steady, lifting me as if I weigh absolutely nothing, which is both flattering and deeply rude.
I land in the saddle with a jolt and try to act like his hands didn’t short-circuit my nervous system. Like I didn’t immediately imagine what else those hands could do – and have done.
‘Be nice to me,’ I whisper to Banjo, mostly to distract myself. ‘I have a very fragile ego.’
Luke mounts Skip and walks us slowly across the paddock, holding both reins. My spine is ramrod straight. Every creak of the saddle makes me flinch.
‘Relax,’ he says. ‘Banjo can feel you panicking.’
‘That’s because I am panicking.’
‘Then talk to him,’ he says. ‘Tell him a story. Distract yourself.’
‘I don’t have any horse-friendly material.’
Luke clicks his tongue, then grins. ‘All right. I’ll go first.’ He shifts slightly in his saddle and says, ‘So, I was fifteen, and there was this girl – Samantha Brent. A bunch of us were at a rodeo in Darwin.’
I glance at him warily. ‘This already feels like it ends in a concussion.’
‘It does,’ he says, cheerful. ‘I was trying to impress her, obviously. So, I decided to ride one of the bulls. Thought I looked pretty cool.’
‘Oh no.’
‘Oh yes. It was going great – for about 2.7 seconds, until the bull launched me like an arrow straight into the fence.’
I laugh, the image too vivid.
‘When I came to,’ he continues, ‘Samantha asked if my arm was supposed to bend that way.’
‘Oh my god.’ I’m actually wheezing now. Even Banjo snorts beneath me – he’s entertained too.
‘Mum was pissed when she arrived at the hospital.’ Luke grins. ‘So, there you go. Now you’re relaxed. Banjo’s relaxed. Everyone’s happy.’
I blink and realise he’s right. My shoulders aren’t locked. My grip has softened. I’m breathing again. And Banjo’s walking, solid beneath me, ears twitching, calm as can be.
Luke hands me the reins. ‘You’ve got this.’
I give him a look. ‘You say that as if you’re not seconds away from watching me eat dirt.’
He winks. ‘I believe in you.’
‘Tell my enemies I died brave and spiteful.’
He chuckles. ‘Just get on with it.’
We carry on at a walk – slow, steady, full of awkward thigh muscles and trust issues. Banjo’s hooves fall into a relaxed rhythm. Yet every creak of the saddle still makes me wince. Every sway feels as if I might topple over the edge.
Luke keeps pace beside me on Skip, cool as ever, one hand resting casually on the reins like he’s taking his car out for a Sunday cruise instead of sitting on half a ton of raw horse energy.
‘Loosen your grip,’ he calls. ‘You’re holding the reins too tight. Ease into your seat. Let your hips move with Banjo.’
I start singing about how my hips don’t lie, and Luke shakes his head as if I’m not taking this seriously.
But I do it – I try. And slowly, Banjo and I start syncing up – ish.
Luke clicks his tongue, and we move to a trot.
Immediately, my spine tries to exit my body.
‘Oh god,’ I groan, bouncing in the saddle.
Luke laughs. ‘Use your thighs to hold steady. Don’t hold on to the saddle.’
I try to adjust. It’s awkward. It’s bumpy. My butt might never forgive me. But after a few painful strides I find a rhythm. My legs remember how to work. My brain stops screaming quite so loudly.
We ride for a while – me trotting ahead, Luke trailing slightly behind, calling out tips and praise and the occasional sarcastic jab.
Skip’s itching to move faster, his hooves tapping on the ground.
Luke keeps him in check with minimal effort, all smooth lines and subtle pressure. It’s annoyingly hot.
‘You’re doing better than I expected,’ he says eventually.
I glance at him. ‘That sounds dangerously close to a compliment.’
He shrugs. Then, right as I’m starting to believe that maybe I can do this, that I might not break my neck falling off a horse, Luke says, ‘That’s enough,’ and he slaps Banjo on the rear.
The effect is instant.
Banjo surges forward, clearly done waiting all day for permission to absolutely ruin me. My body jolts. My hands scramble for control.
I scream, ‘LUKE!’ as the world blurs and I cling to the reins.
‘Relax!’ he shouts back, laughing as Skip bursts into motion beside me. ‘Let him run – don’t fight it!’
‘EASY FOR YOU TO SAY!’
Banjo’s hooves thunder against the ground, each stride a full- body event. The wind blasts my face, yanking tears from the corners of my eyes. My t-shirt flaps behind me like a cape. My bones are vibrating.
Then – somewhere between blind panic and complete surrender – something cracks.
I stop gripping the reins as if death’s coming for me. I stop trying to control the animal beneath me. I let go. Not of the reins – of the fear.
And then, I feel it.
The wind in my face.
The sun on my back.
The power of the horse’s breath, the thrill in my chest, the fire in my veins.
I open my mouth and scream – not fear this time, only joy. Pure, electric, unfiltered joy. It bursts out of me before I can think.
Luke whoops beside me, his voice raw and exhilarated. Skip gallops at full throttle, muscles coiled and flying, mane whipping behind him.
I glance over.
Luke’s face is lit with something fierce and unguarded and entirely him. Wild, full-bodied happiness.
It hits me like a punch and a hug at the same time.
This is how he looks when he’s not holding anything back.
Free. Fast. Untouchable.
He looks at me – and he smiles.
Not the small, smug curve of his lips I’m used to. A huge, real smile. The kind that makes me want to forget I ever lived anywhere else.
We ride for what feels like hours – or maybe just a few stolen seconds – our horses running as one, our laughter tangled in the wind.
A terrifying thought takes root in my head: I don’t want the moment to end.
One second, we’re under an open sky, soft wind curling through the dry grass, Banjo’s gait rhythmic and easy beneath me. The next, the light shifts. Greys and purples churn above the tree line. The air goes still in that eerie way that says something’s coming.
Luke notices it too. He slows Skip and glances up, frowning. ‘The forecast didn’t mention clouds.’
‘Clouds are a good thing though, right?’
Luke nods but doesn’t seem convinced. ‘Only if they carry rain with them.’
‘What else could they carry?’
He shrugs. ‘We’ve had plenty of lightning and thunder, but no rain.’
‘Should we turn back?’
‘Not yet. We’ve got time.’ He doesn’t seem worried.
But I am.
Not about the weather.
About the weight I’ve been carrying on my shoulders.
‘I should’ve told you,’ I confess. ‘About the pregnancy. It was selfish not to.’
He doesn’t move.
‘I knew it would hurt you. I knew that. And I did it anyway.