Page 184 of Crossed Wires: The Complete Series

It didn’t come.

Ten minutes later, it still hadn’t come.

Ten minutes after that, when she laid out Amy’s yoga matt and attempted to stretch the expectant tension from her body, itstillhadn’t come.

It wasn’t until she was watching her small class enjoy their morning tea in the sun, two hours later, that her phone dinged.

She stood frozen under a shady tree, a Granny Smith apple half raised to her mouth.

Lowering the apple, she slipped her hand into her back pocket and withdrew her cell. Heart racing, she read the messages Andrew had sent her.

Fine. Have it your way. I won’t keep hassling you about where you are. But I won’t stop worrying. I can’t. It’s what I do, right?

A tight lump filled Harper’s throat and she blinked, the sting of hot tears at the back of her eyes taking her by surprise.

“Goddamn, Andy,” she muttered, “how can you do this to me on the other side of the goddamn planet?”

Her cell dinged in her hand, making her jump.

She swiped at her eyes, glaring at the phone.

Just remember when you get home, YOU told me to be nice to Amy.

Harper frowned, reading the message again. What the hell did that mean?

What the hell does that mean?

The only answer she got was…

:)

Biting back a curse, Harper shoved the offending cell back into her pocket. “I’m going to punch him when I get home,” she muttered. “And I’m going to make sure it hurts.”

* * *

The day had been a stinker. The south mob hadn’t behaved at all, more than one steer running amuck as Keith and Marc tried to round them up. Keith had resorted to not only using his dog, Jett—a tough-as-nails kelpie—but Dylan’s dog, Mutt, as well. Both dogs were amazing, running the herd of Angus down until the cattle finally went where Marc and Keith wanted them. However, two hours out from penning the lot, a bloody eight-foot brown snake in the grass got them riled and he and Marc spent the next three hours rounding the bellowing bloody things up again. Six hours on horseback, in the blazing Outback sun, after fuck-all sleep made for a very agitated Keith.

Especially when, despite all the shit from the cattle, his mind constantly kept wandering back to Harper Shaw.

The day would have gone much smoother if he could have kept his focus on the job rather than fantasizing about the gorgeous American teacher. The trouble was, every time his mind turned to her, the pit of his stomach clenched in a warm knot he knew damn well was happiness.

Checking Whippet’s hooves one last time, Keith walked out of his horse’s pen and removed his hat from his head. “Thank bloody God that’s done.”

Marc grinned at him over Kilowatt’s back, his hand working the scraper over the stallion’s rump. “You getting too old for this shit, Blue?”

Keith snorted, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Think I am, mate. Maybe it’s time to cash in and buy one of those swank apartments overlooking the harbor in Sydney?”

Marc snorted, returning his attention to his horse’s coat. “Yeah, yeah. You’ll live in the city the day hell has snow lifts and pay-to-rent ice skates.”

Keith returned his hat to his head. Marc was right. He’d rather hack off his left nut with a blunt pocketknife than live in the big smoke.

“Reckon we should have taken Legs out with us today? Given the young bloke a run at controlling the mob?”

Keith shook his head, picturing the seventeen-year-old jackaroo Dylan had hired before heading off on his honeymoon. “Not yet. He’s still dodgy on a horse. He may have come first in his class at Tocal and know his Black Angus from his red blindfolded, but throwing him into a muster when he still can’t stay seated in a saddle isn’t smart.”

Marc chuckled. “And leaving him with Big Mac was? Poor bugger’s probably quit by now.”

Keith leaned his shoulder against the entrance to Whippet’s pen and shoved his hands in his pockets, watching his best mate scrape the sweat and dirt from his own horse. “Big Mac may be a tosser, but he can teach Legs how to get the drenching pit ready better than you or me.” He adjusted his weight on the metal threshold. “As much as I hate to admit it, the bloke knows his way around a chemical mix.”