The Shearing Gun Read Free Page B

didn’t matter to me. I went home and completed my chores the best I could. The only time he crossed my mind was when my arm hurt really bad. Most of the time, I cursed Big D and his family, though some of the time it was Elliot, even if it wasn’t his fault at all.
    So I was bumming around, cursing certain members of the MacDonald clan while I heaved some tools into the back of my farm vehicle, when Buck started barking his head off. There is no relationship more sacred on the land than that between a man and his dog. Buck was a good one too. He rarely left my side, never disobeyed, and could read the stock’s mind like they were talking to him. He wasn’t a trained sheepdog or cattle dog like some blokes had; he was just a dog who did as he was told. He hadn’t been taught to herd, but if I whistled and yelled, “Buck! Get that damn ewe over there!” he would tear across the paddock and push the wayward animal back into the flock.
    I immediately stopped what I was doing to see what had my dog riled up. There was an unfamiliar white vehicle making its way up the winding driveway, avoiding the bigger puddles by pressing up the grassed edges. Smoothing the driveway was a job I’d planned to do that week—damn this stupid arm! The minute I spotted the vehicle, Buck stopped his racket. He might be part boxer, part kelpie, and a bit of greyhound somewhere along the way. But whatever was his breeding, they’d got it right with him. He knew my body language, and now that I was alert to the danger, he sat his butt on the ground, ears pricked forward, and waited for my reaction.
    I finished packing up my tools and chucked the water bottle in the car before the vehicle made it to the top of the driveway and parked neatly under the gum tree near the house. When I saw Elliot’s long legs swing out of the vehicle and the guy emerge in his citified trousers, I stepped into the shadows and tried to analyze my feelings at seeing him on my property. Of course, I could recognize the feelings of surprise and curiosity. I never expected a personal visit from the Doc and wondered why he had sought me out. I was also a little uncomfortable and guilty, because he’d told me to take it easy, and here I was up the shed blatantly disobeying. But I think mixed in the emotions was a little bit of apprehension. Had he somehow worked out I was gay and come to confront me? Had I given myself away? Was he looking for some booty?
    Obviously, I would never find out by lingering in the corner of the shed. When the Doc made for the house to go in search of me, I gave a strong whistle and waved broadly over my head so he could see me. It was a good one hundred meters from the house to the shed, and he had to go through a gate to reach me. My dad may’ve cocked me one over the head and told me it was bad manners to make a visitor tramp across the paddock in his poncy shoes, but if this was a booty call, I didn’t want to be anywhere near the house.
    “Stay,” I commanded Buck and he obeyed, wriggling in excitement on the spot. His brown tail swished through the dirt as he held still, instead of going to greet the strange person who may have a pat or two for him. My body language gave off no vibes of fear, so he wasn’t afraid of the Doc.
    I returned to the shed and grabbed an extra pair of pliers and a hammer I didn’t really need, so it looked like I was doing something and not just watching him make his way toward me. He fumbled a bit with the opening of the gate, and I rolled my eyes where he couldn’t see. A bloke from the bush would’ve scaled the gate with a single jump or made through the fence to one side. I checked carefully to make sure he latched the gate again. One of the Golden Rules in the bush is—if you open a gate, you close it behind you. Wherever Doc Elliot was from—I wasn’t sure if they had taught him that.
    From the corner of my eye, I watched him head toward me. He had a sexy walk, I had to admit—this kind of