Look-Alike Fiancee

They were climbing again now, water spraying from Ginger’s hooves as the rain continued to tumble down, though at least it was no longer bucketing down in a solid, deafening sheet. The sky remained low and black, with bright flashes from time to time, and rolling thunder in the distance.

Eventually they reached a gate and came to a halt.

‘I’ll open it,’ O’Malley offered, sliding from Ginger’s rump, taking the warmth and comfort of his arms and solid frame with him. Taryn was aware of a slight chill without his sheltering presence close behind her.

As she guided Ginger through the open gate, O’Malley squinted up at her, as if he half expected her to keep on riding, leaving him to shut the gate after her and tramp the long way back to his home on foot. She muffled a sigh as she pulled up and waited for him. How little he thought of her!

She didn’t glance round at him as he mounted behind her after closing the gate. ‘Go, Ginger!’ she urged, almost before O’Malley was settled on the gelding’s back. Her face was taut. He was never going to think well of her—of a Conway—whatever she did. The sooner she was rid of him the better!

Narrowing her eyes against the rain, she saw the house and outbuildings ahead, partially masked by a row of huge cypresses. She was longing to get out of the soaking rain into clean dry clothes...longing to get back to the privacy and tranquillity of her comfortable country home. But she knew she’d have to take O’Malley to his home first, taking the short cut to his property across the old timber bridge over the river, down the hill below Fernlea.

She needn’t, she decided, take him all the way to his house, which she knew was way up on the crest of the hill. As soon as she was reasonably close, she would drop him off, turn tail, and go. They’d both be glad to see the back of each other!

But would she really be glad, deep down? She chewed on her lip. If only he weren’t so...so infuriatingly, heart-tuggingly attractive. If only her mind wasn’t seething with questions about him. Why had he come back? How long did he intend to stay? Had he changed his mind about dairy farming and decided to come home for good?

If he had, he would be her neighbour. A close neighbour.

Once he came to know her better, would he bury his prejudices and grievances against the Conways? Would his father? Or would they both remain antagonistic...persisting with this pernicious, rather puerile O’Malley-Conway feud?

Neither attempted to make conversation as Ginger ploughed on in the rain, heading towards the old timber bridge over the river now, rather than the sheltering haven of Fernlea. They needed to concentrate on where they were treading, and besides, the rain running into their eyes and mouths made normal conversation difficult.

When they finally came in sight of the oak-lined river, Taryn let out an audible groan.

‘The bridge! What’s happened to it?’

Stupid question. It was obvious that the rain—or rather, the gushing torrent—had swept away the rotting timber supports that had once spanned the river, leaving only a few straggly pieces of wood behind. If the river hadn’t been running so high, or so fiercely, it might have been possible for an athletic man to cross it by leaping from log to log, but at the moment it was impassable!

‘What are you going to do?’ she croaked, deliberately not saying ‘we’. This was O’Malley’s problem, not hers. It would take him hours to tramp back the way he’d come, along the track below the forest...and even longer by road, without a car.

‘If you’ll take me back to your house, Miss Conway,’ O’Malley suggested coolly, ‘I’ll call my father—if you’ll permit me—and ask him to come and pick me up in the ute.’

Her head snapped round. ‘You can’t expect your father to drive all the way here in this weather! It’ll be too hard to see. Too dangerous. He might run off the road.’

For a brief second their eyes met. She caught a faint gleam in the sharp blue. ‘Well...when the rain eases off a bit,’ he compromised. ‘If you won’t mind giving me shelter in the meantime.’

She turned away sharply so that he couldn’t see how appalled she was at the idea of sheltering O’Malley in her home until the rain stopped. That might be hours! It was late afternoon already.

‘I’ll run you home myself,’ she rapped out, ‘in the four-wheel drive. It’s in the garage...this way.’ Jerking at the reins, she prodded Ginger with her knees.

‘No, you won’t.’ O’Malley’s voice rumbled at her ear. ‘The roads will be awash right now...especially the unsealed sections. If it’s too dangerous for my father, it will be too dangerous for you.’

‘I’m much younger than your—’

‘Forget it. Look, let’s just get out of this rain. We’ll fight it out later.’

For the second time that afternoon, she had no choice. He was right. The sooner they were out of this lousy rain the better. She wasn’t even warm any more, despite the humidity in the air. She could feel the dampness chilling her to the bone.

With a shrug, she pointed Ginger in the direction of the stables...an old two-storey barn which had been there, she’d learned from old photographs they’d found in a cupboard, for as long as the house. The building was in need of repair, like everything else, but provided adequate shelter meantime, and the roomy loft above, when done up, would make ideal accommodation for guests or future stable hands.

Once there, she was tempted to stay put. The stables seemed safer, somehow, than the house, and at least they were under cover, out of the rain. She looked hopefully up at the sky, but there was no sign as yet of any lightening in the cloud cover, or any real slackening in the rain.

‘Are we going to make a dash for the house?’ O’Malley said finally. ‘You should get out of those wet clothes. I’ll stay out on the verandah if you don’t want to invite me in.’

You should get out of those wet clothes...

Her eyes leapt to his. What did she expect to see? A leer? Carnal intent? A lecherous glint as his imagination went haywire, evoking images of her removing her sodden shirt and jeans?

All she saw was cool, dispassionate reason. He was right. Again. As usual.

‘Right,’ she mumbled. ‘P-perhaps you’d like some coffee while we’re waiting for the rain to—’ she nearly said ‘stop’, but that might take hours ‘—to ease off,’ she said instead.

‘Thanks. Let’s make a dash, then,’ he rapped, and they both sprinted towards the house, not pausing until they reached the vine-covered verandah.

She hesitated as she thrust her key in the kitchen door. ‘Do you want me to bring your coffee out to you?’ she asked in a stilted voice. How could she invite him inside? Not only was he dripping wet, but her parents would have a fit if they found out she’d invited a virtual stranger into the house while she was down here alone. He might be the son of a neighbour, but he was still a stranger. And being an O’Malley, a hostile stranger.

‘I don’t suppose you’d have a clothes dryer?’ O’Malley enquired hopefully.

Her throat went dry. ‘Why?’ she asked warily, hoping he didn’t mean what she thought he meant. But what else could he mean?

‘Have you? I can’t imagine the Conways not having all mod cons.’

She sucked in a deep, quivering breath. Another sly dig at the Conways! He just couldn’t resist. She glowered up at him. ‘We have...as a matter of fact. But if you think—’

‘What I’d really like,’ O’Malley cut in, spreading his hands as if to say, Look at me...look at the state I’m in, ‘is a shower...if you have a spare one in a back room or outhouse somewhere. These wet clothes feel damned uncomfortable. You could throw my clothes in the dryer and they’d be dry by the time we’d finished our coffee.’

A suffocating sensation threatened to crush her, to squeeze all the air from her lungs. ‘You—you intend to get undressed?’ She stared at him. Trying not to imagine how he’d look if he did. A sight to behold, she traitorously thought, heat flaming through her.

He’s an O’Malley, she thought wildly. He despises you and everything you stand for. He won’t try anything.

Or maybe that was the very reason he would!

‘It would be difficult to dry my wet clothes without undressing first,’ he pointed out reasonably. ‘Naturally, I’d disrobe in private.’ His eyes glinted wickedly, as if he’d read her mind a second ago.

‘I should hope so!’ she hissed, thinning her lips and glaring at him to hide the burning mortification she felt inside. ‘Th-there’s a shower in the washroom...just along the verandah, second door along. You can use that. Wait here and I’ll unlock the door from inside.’

As she kicked off her muddy boots and let herself into the kitchen, he called after her. ‘I’d be grateful if you’d lend me a towel. An old one will do. And maybe...’ amused irony licked through his voice ‘...one of your father’s monogrammed smoking jackets, if that would be less likely to offend your sensibilities.’

She paused, gritting her teeth. She didn’t trust herself to turn round. She knew his eyes would be mocking her, if not openly laughing at her.

‘The chip on your shoulder’s showing again,’ she snapped. ‘Or is it envy? You have a secret longing for a monogrammed smoking jacket? I’ll see what I can find!’ She let the door slam behind her.

A few minutes later she jerked open the outer washroom door. Peeking out, she saw O’Malley patiently waiting on the verandah, lolling against one of the vineclad timber posts.

‘You can come in now.’ Avoiding his eye as he strode towards her, she thrust a bulging sports bag at him. ‘You’ll find a towel and something to wear in here.’ She kept her head down to hide the mischievous glint in her eye.

‘Thanks, ma’am. This is real neighbourly of you.’

Was that another dig? Or an apology of sorts...knowing that his father was less than neighbourly and wouldn’t even speak to them?