Page 155 of Crossed Wires: The Complete Series

Marc repositioned his hat farther back on his head. “That I am, Blue. And thank you for noticing.”

Keith threw his grooming brush across the aisle at the smirking jackaroo, who snatched it out of the air. “Jesus, how big is your ego?”

Marc lobbed the brush back at him. “As big as my dick, mate. As big as my?—”

Without finishing the sentence, Marc dropped behind Kilowatt’s side, disappearing from sight.

Keith frowned. “What the bloody hell are you doing now?”

“I would suggest,” a soft but supremely authoritarian female voice uttered to Keith’s left, “wasting time in the stables gloating when he should be collecting an American from Cobar.”

Keith started, swinging his head toward Hazel Sullivan, his gut knotting.

The matriarch and owner of Farpoint Creek Cattle Station stood at the mouth of Whippet’s pen, her expression set in a disarming mix of curiosity and disappointment. Keith fought the urge to fidget.

Since Dylan and Monet—Hazel’s son and his new wife—were in Paris on their honeymoon, Hazel had taken over the job of keeping the hired hands and jackaroos in line. Dylan was a hard but fair boss who demanded perfection from the men and women who worked on Farpoint. Hazel was equally tough. However, whereas the hands and jackaroos knew if they slacked off with Dylan, he’d make their lives hell with a grueling workload,no onewanted to let down his mum. She was just so bloody warm and caring.

Except when she caught someone being a bludger. If that happened, if she came upon one of the hands or jackaroos not working when they should be, no matter how long they’d been at Farpoint, well…suffice to say, Keith had seen grown men sobbing after Hazel was done with them.

It was a bloody good thing she had a soft spot for Marc.

“You can come out now, Mr. Thompson,” she called, a twinkle in her faded-green eyes. “I can see you hiding behind your horse.”

Keith bit back a chuckle as his friend—who’d grown up on Farpoint, just like Keith himself—slowly straightened.

“Mrs. Sullivan,” Marc murmured, tipping the brim of his hat.

Hazel threw a quick smile at Keith, so quick he wasn’t sure if itwasa smile. “Mr. Thompson. Do you mind telling me why you and Mr. Munroe are here and the American is not?”

Marc flicked a look at Keith. “Big Mac sent us out to rescue a cow stuck in the old eastern billabong, Mrs. Sullivan.”

“And did you rescue the cow?”

Keith stepped forward, running his palm over Whippet’s flank. “There wasn’t one, Mrs. Sullivan.”

Hazel Sullivan had changed his nappy as a baby, bandaged his knees as a snot-nosed kid learning to ride, and hosed him down more than once as a teenager when he’d come home drunk as a skunk from the local Bachelor and Spinster balls in town. Keith’s mum and dad had passed away years ago, but Hazel had filled the void. That didn’t mean she wasn’t likely to chew his arse off for not doing the job she’d given him.

“Mr. McNamara sent you to rescue a cow,” she repeated, her unwavering gaze sliding between Keith and Marc. “A cow that wasn’t there.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Marc answered, still standing behind his horse.

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with the YouTube clip, would it?”

Keith couldn’t stop his snort at Hazel’s mild question.

Marc stared at the grandmotherly woman waiting patiently for his answer. “Ummm…”

Hazel let out a sigh. “Okay, boys, let me make this clear. While Dylan is away, Hunter is the boss of the hands. Not Ronnie. He may think he is because he’s older than most of you, but he’s not. The chain of command here at Farpoint during moments of crisis—such as Dylan being out of town, it seems—goes me, Hunter,youKeith, andthenRonald McNamara.”

Keith started again. “Me?”

Hazel nodded. “Ronnie was trucking the south paddock mob to Darwin when Dylan was in New York, so he didn’t get the memo.”

“There’s a memo?” Marc asked, his eyebrows so high Keith couldn’t see them behind the shaggy strands of his dark-brown fringe.

Hazel’s lips twitched. “There will be when I get back to the house and tell Hunter to write one.” Her attention returned to Keith. “And of course, Mr. Munroe, when you’re not acting the goat and fooling around with Mr. Thompson, you’re a pretty decent stockman. One of these days you’ll figure that out and we’ll all be bereft of your company when you start up your own station.”

For the first time in his twenty-eight years, Keith blushed. “I don’t…”