Captivated By The Single Dad. Barbara Hannay

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      Not a bright idea. She was here to help his children, and she was going home to America to start a fancy new job. Besides, she’d just had her heart broken by some fool of a boyfriend. Last thing she needed was her cousin’s Australian ex making a move on her. Especially as that ex was absolutely useless at making women happy—or keeping them happy, at any rate.

      For all kinds of reasons, he’d be a fool to start anything with Holly. Even if she did claim to love his Outback, he couldn’t expect her to want to stay here. Not with him. She’d soon realise her mistake, just as his wife had.

      Hell. He should wear a danger sign, warning women to keep their distance.

      ‘This country must inspire musicians and artists,’ Holly was saying. ‘Or writers. I’ve never read any literature about your Outback, but there must be novels and poetry. Do you have any—?’

      She stopped in mid-sentence and her face turned bright red, as if she realised she’d made a dreadful gaffe. ‘Sorry. I know reading’s not your thing.’

      Gray’s entire body tensed, as if the cliff had suddenly crumbled away beneath his feet. Fear knifed through him—the fear of ridicule that he’d never managed to shake off.

      His only hope was to change the subject…

      ‘I could give you a few lines of bush poetry,’ he said quickly.

      Anything, even the embarrassment of a recitation, was better than risking exposure of his incompetence.

      ‘Poetry?’ Holly sounded shocked, and already he was feeling foolish.

      She was leaning forward now, hands wrapped around bent knees. ‘Gray, I’d love to hear some bush poetry.’

      Of course he was already regretting the offer. He wasn’t a performer and he wished he could come up with an excuse—he’d forgotten the lines—anything. ‘It’s pretty basic stuff. Hardly Wordsworth or Shakespeare.’

      ‘But the simplest things are often the truest.’

      Damn. Gray knew he’d talked himself into a corner. He’d look even more foolish if he backed out now. He made a show of clearing his throat and then, keeping his gaze fixed on the gorge, he began to recite.

      ‘I’ve crossed harsh country parched and red,

      With ghost gums shining white,

      Where sand dunes choke the river bed,

      And all day I prayed for night.

      I’ve heard that country sing to me

      In the stillness of my mind,

      A Dreamtime chant from rock and tree—’

      Gray paused and he realised that Holly was staring at him, her eyes full of questions.

      ‘Sorry.’ He could feel his face burning. Why the hell had he grabbed onto the poem to get him off the hook?

      ‘Don’t apologise. I loved it, Gray.’

      He shrugged elaborately and looked away again, down the gorge to where a mob of black-tailed rock wallabies were feeding quietly on the moist vegetation at the edge of a waterhole.

      ‘When did you learn that poem?’ she asked, with the nosiness he should have expected from a teacher.

      Gray shrugged. ‘Can’t remember.’

      ‘Who wrote it?’

      The heat in his face deepened and he answered brusquely, without looking at her. ‘It’s nothing. Just something I made up.’

      He heard her shocked gasp. ‘You made it up?’

      ‘Yeah. No big deal.’

      ‘But…when did you write it?’

      He gave another big-shouldered shrug. ‘Years ago. I can’t really remember. Beside a campfire. Sitting here. Alone.’ Sure that his face was crimson now, he got to his feet and scooped up his backpack, eager to be done with this conversation.

      ‘Gray, please don’t be embarrassed, but it is a big deal that you’ve made up such a lovely poem. I’m seriously impressed.’

      ‘Thanks.’

      ‘Did Chelsea love it?’

      Chelsea? He sighed, then stared out at the deep blue of the sky and the deeper red walls.

      ‘I shared my poetry with her once, but she saw it as yet another excuse to plead with me to give up my cattle and head for the city. She wanted us to be artists together—she could be a choreographer in Sydney and I could perform my poetry.’

      ‘That doesn’t sound very…practical.’

      ‘She was convinced I’d be a great hit. She was always looking for something else for me to do besides raising cattle.’

      Holly made no comment, but she was frowning and then, as if she’d been struck by a bright idea, she flipped open her backpack and pulled out a notebook. ‘I’d like to write your poem down.’

      ‘Why?’ Still thinking about Chelsea, Gray growled the word suspiciously.

      ‘Because it’s great. I really like it. I want to be able to read it again later, when I’m back in America.’

      Already, she was sitting with her small spiral notebook in her lap, open at a blank page, her pen poised, ready to write.

      Gray forced himself to relax. There was no threat in Holly’s request. He actually liked the idea of her taking out her notebook when she was back in busy, bustling Manhattan, turning to his poem…reading it… Maybe she’d recall this moment. This peace.

      Where was the harm in that?

      Feeling self-conscious but no longer uncomfortable, he began to recite again: ‘I’ve crossed harsh country parched and red…’

      Holly’s pen flew across the page leaving a neat curving script in its wake.

      ‘With ghost gums shining white…’

      She nodded enthusiastically as he continued on to the end of the first verse, then added a second stanza.

      ‘Wow, that’s fabulous,’ she said when he’d finished. ‘Thank you.’ She spoke warmly, and her cheeks were flushed and her dark eyes were suspiciously shiny as she slipped the notebook back into the pack and closed the flap.

      ‘You’re welcome.’

      ‘Having a copy of your poem makes this trip to the gorge even more perfect.’

      He was more pleased than he should have been, but he was determined not to show it. Poker-faced, he said, ‘So…would you like to keep going all the way to the bottom of the gorge?’

      ‘Sure.’ СКАЧАТЬ