Chapter 3
Cassidy
When we burst out of the back of the Rusty Swagman into hot, night air, someone yelled that they were coming after us.
That surprised me.
Not the chasing part—that was a given—but the fact that someone inside had cared enough to warn me.
"Move!" I shoved the American between the shoulder blades, and we tore around the side of the pub toward the front car park.
My boots hammered against the rough gravel, but his white joggers barely made a sound. Keys and coins jingled in his pockets like he was running late for a lunch meeting instead of fleeing a pack of violent rednecks.
We were halfway to my Yamaha when reality slapped me. I skidded to a stop.
"What?" he snapped, nearly colliding with me. Those blue eyes hit mine, shimmering in the pub verandah lights like one of the jewels Mitch had found in the cave.
"We won't fit on my motorbike."
"You ride a motorbike?"
I stared at him. Of all the stupid questions. "Bloody hell. Where's your car?"
He fished keys from his pocket and pointed across the car park. Headlights flashed on a shiny black BMW that sat so low to the ground that the stupid thing would rip its own guts out on the first cattle grid it rattled over.
I groaned. "You've got to be kidding me."
"What? It's a rental."
"You planning on driving that on gravel?" I threw my hands out in frustration. "That thing won't survive a pothole, let alone a paddock."
A roar erupted from the side of the pub, and a mob of men rounded the corner. Bruce Henderson led them, blood streaming down his face, shards of glass still clinging to his beard. He scanned the parking lot with eyes radiating pure murder.
"Shit," I breathed.
"There!" someone bellowed. "They're out front."
The American's jaw tightened, but he didn't panic. At least he had that going for him. "I assume they're not here to apologize?"
“Nope. Run.” I spun on my heel and took off up the main street, the American keeping pace beside me.
The town was barely a blink-and-you-miss-it strip of asphalt bordered by red dirt and nothing else.
No trees. No fences. Just wide, empty outback paddocks with heat still rising from the pockmarked blacktop and the stench of roadkill nearby.
I aimed for the freight train stalled across the tracks ahead of us, carriages stretching to the left like a steel wall.
I glanced over my shoulder just as the Hendersons piled into Bruce's ute.
"Shit. Run!" I pushed harder.
Engines roared, headlights flared, and gravel sprayed as they swung the truck onto the road.
My boots thudded against pavement. The Yank’s quiet shoes ate up ground beside me. A dead kangaroo lay bloated near the edge of the road, and as we veered around it, the damn stench shot right into my throat.
The ute thundered closer, and I heard Bruce yelling through the open window, “Run ’em over.”
“Surely he doesn’t mean that?” the American asked.
“Yep, he does.”
“Who are they?”
"Who the hell are you?" I hissed.
"I was about to ask you the same thing," he hissed right back.
Stubborn bastard.
"Answer me," I snapped.
"I'm looking for Frank Branson."
"Yeah, I heard that part."
"Then why did you intervene?"
"Because you're an idiot," I shot back. "And those fucking brothers don't fight fair."
He shot his gaze at me. "I was handling it."
"You were seconds from getting your skull cracked open."
He didn't respond to that.
The freight train loomed closer, at least two hundred carriages of rusted metal and graffiti stretching endlessly into the distance.
"This way." I grabbed his arm and yanked him toward the gap beneath a tanker carriage.
"Get down!" I dropped to my belly and wriggled under. Sharp rocks bit into my elbows, and the stench of diesel choked the air.
He followed without question—points for that.
We rolled out the other side just as boots thudded onto gravel. "They went under!” Bruce bellowed. “Spread out."
I yanked the American up, and we sprinted along the tracks, stones crunching too loudly beneath our feet.
I sprinted toward a pair of shipping containers a few carriages ahead, and the American matched my strides.
“In here.” I jumped into the gap between the carriages, and our shoulders scraped the metal. Heat radiated off the steel, wrapping around us like a suffocating blanket. Sweat dripped down my spine.
"Why are we stopping?" he whispered.
"We're not." I pointed up at the ladder rungs welded to the container's side. "Climb."
He stared at the ladder, then at me. "You're kidding."
"Goddammit." I jumped onto the rungs and scrambled up, the metal still hot enough to burn my palms.
"Okay, so not kidding," he muttered below me.
I hauled myself onto the roof and flattened against the scorching surface. The heat seared through my shirt, but I didn't move.
He climbed fast and dropped beside me, his breath controlled. "What now?"
"Shush." I glared at him. Why is he so calm?
Footsteps crunched below. "Where'd they go?" That nasally whine belonged to Lyle, the runt of the Henderson family. Being the youngest didn't stop him from being a mean bastard. If anything, he was worse than the other two, unpredictable and bat-shit crazy, always needing to prove something.
"How the hell should I know? Keep looking," Bruce snarled.
A torch beam swept across the gravel below, too closely.
I held my breath. The American did, too, his shoulder pressed against mine as we baked on that metal roof like meat on a barbecue.
Their footsteps faded as they moved forward along the train, but there was no sign of Wayne.
That big bastard had been wanting to kill me for years, ever since I’d beat him in a bidding war on a Brahman stud at the auctions a decade ago.
The stupid idiot had taken it personally.
Then again, it could've been because I was a woman.
Wayne Henderson wasn't exactly progressive.
"There they are!" a voice boomed behind us.
"Shit!" I twisted around. Wayne stood on a container roof two carriages back, his massive frame silhouetted against the night sky.
"Move!" I jumped to my feet.
We sprinted across the scorching metal and launched ourselves onto the next carriage. This one was open-topped and packed with hay bales. I landed hard, stumbling into the scratchy bundles. The American hit the deck beside me, smoother than I expected.
"Through here." I shoved between the bales, and the dried stalks clawed at my arms and caught in my hair.
"Bruce, come back this way. Trap them between us," Wayne's voice thundered across the train yard.
"Shit. They're circling back," I hissed.
We burst out of the far end, and I pressed against the carriage wall, scanning the length of the train.
Lyle ran along the gravel outside, his flashlight swinging wildly as he stumbled over the uneven ground.
He paused to shine the beam under a carriage, then kept moving.
Bruce had to be doing the same on the other side.
A string of empty cattle carriages stretched ahead, their slatted sides crusted with dried shit and swarming with flies. The stench slammed into me.
"Jesus," the American muttered.
"Welcome to the Outback, city boy." I grabbed the gate handle and wrenched it open. "In."
He climbed through without questioning me, and I followed. I yanked the gate shut and hooked the latch, locking us in.
Inside was worse. Manure squelched under my boots. Flies buzzed against my face and arms. But the shadows were thick here, and the slatted walls let us see anyone approaching while keeping us hidden.
I pressed against the far wall and forced myself to breathe through my mouth.
"They're still out there," he whispered.
"No shit."
"Where'd they go?" Bruce's voice echoed somewhere close.
"Check the cattle cars!" Wayne bellowed.
My pulse hammered. I scanned the filthy carriage, but there was nowhere else to hide. We were trapped if they opened that gate.
"Come on." I sprinted to the opposite end, unlatched the gate, and dropped down onto a flatbed carriage loaded with farm equipment.
My boots hit metal with a clang that made me wince.
The American landed beside me, and we scrambled behind a rusted harrow with buckled teeth curling in every direction.
I grabbed his wrist and pulled him deeper into the shadows between a stack of steel fence posts and the scattered pieces of a disassembled windmill. The blade nearest us was taller than both of us, offering decent cover if we stayed low.
He shifted beside me, his breathing controlled, but tension radiating off him. Those blue eyes found mine in the moonlight. "What now?"
"We wait."
"For how long?"
"Until they give up." I leaned forward and peered around the windmill blade. Bruce moved along the tracks about thirty meters away, a torch bobbing in one hand. But it was what he held in his other hand that made my heart drop into my boots.
"Oh shit," I breathed.
"What?" He started to lean across me.
I yanked him back hard. "Don't."
"What is it?" he insisted, his voice going all gravelly.
I met his eyes. "Bruce has a gun."
His jaw dropped. "What? You think he's going to shoot us?"
"Well, he's not here to shoot rabbits."
"Shit." He ran a hand through his hair. "You're serious."
"Hey, calm down, cupcake."
He scowled at me. "I'm calm, but those assholes aren't. They're not going to give up, are they?"
"Probably not. But they're dumb as dog shit, so if we keep our cool and don't panic, we'll get out of this."
He exhaled slowly. "Tell me your name."
I glanced at him. "Tell me yours."
"Christ almighty, will you just tell me?"
"Why?"
"Because I'd like to know who's trying to save my life."
My mouth twitched. The genuine gratitude in his voice surprised me. Men didn't usually thank me for saving them. They were too busy being pissed off that they'd needed saving in the first place.
"Cassidy," I tipped my hat.
"Nice to meet you, Cassidy." He said it carefully as if he were committing it to memory. "I'm?—"
"Shush." I held up a hand.