Back in the Soldier's Arms (25 page)

Dan leaned against the doorjamb. “How did your business meeting go?”

Jo blinked. “Couldn’t be better.”

“I hear Nan’s been diagnosed with dementia.”

Jo lost her composure. “I wish people would mind their damn business.”

“I’ll tell Mom that.”

Her expression became hopeful. “She can’t approve of this.”

“See how much you’ve already got in common?”

“Ahhh!” She walked away, came back. “Dan, you’re my escape buddy, don’t do this to us.”

“Did you ever see that Costner movie, Field of Dreams? About the guy who built a baseball field in a cornfield? It didn’t make sense even to him. He only knew he had to do it.”

“That’s the dumbest reason I ever heard.”

Barry joined him at the door and they watched Jo’s retreating figure. “What was that about?”

“Bridal nerves.”

“It didn’t actually sound like she wanted to marry you, Dan,” he ventured.

“No,” he admitted. “But I’ve got twenty-two days to change her mind.”

“So you have a Plan B, then?”

Dan snorted. “Mate, I expect to hit the end of the alphabet before the wedding day.”

JO SWEPT ALONG MAIN Street resisting the urge to barrel through pedestrians coming the other way.

Typical of Dan to think he could stroll in and change the rules on a whim.

Oncoming pedestrians started giving her a wider berth but, her eyes fixed on the pavement and her fists clenched, Jo barely noticed. All she’d suggested was one roll in the hay and he couldn’t even do her that favor. Now he was adding insult to injury by telling her she was the One … he’d settle for. And expecting her to settle, too. Her high heels wobbled, forcing her to slow down.

Admittedly she’d let him think her desperate seduction had been driven by her fear of ending up alone and childless, but, dammit, her best friend should know her better than that. She was not—and never would be—pathetic and needy! Which was precisely why she hadn’t told him the truth. Actually this would be funny if it wasn’t so bloody infuriating.

A horn tooted. The jeweler waved from his Volvo, stopped at the lights. “Congratulations, Jo,” he called through the open window. “Dan’s a great guy.”

“No, he’s not and we’re—” the light changed and the car pulled away. She jogged two or three steps in chase before the heels stopped her “—not getting married!”

The girly tap, tap, tap of her shoes exacerbated her anger. To hell with this. Jo stepped out of them, feeling the chill pavement through her stockings. Someone bumped into her from behind.

Mrs. Beasley, a crony of Nan’s, adjusted her hat. “My dear, I’ve been calling out to you for ages. I hear from the butcher that—”

“We are not getting 9;s±€†married!”

“It’s your birthday,” Mrs. B finished in confusion. “Are you … having a happy day?”

“Thanks, Mrs. B. Yes.” Jo smiled through clenched teeth. The old lady’s gaze shifted to the shoes Jo held in her hand.

Jo said nothing and Mrs. B lost her nerve. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

“I’m …” Jo trailed off. In her rage she’d walked halfway down the street instead of going upstairs to the Chronicle. “Well, nice to see you. Goodbye.” Jo started striding back in the direction she’d come.

“Who aren’t you marrying?” Mrs. B called hopefully. “I can tell people.”

Great. The biggest gossip in Beacon Bay on the case.

Somehow she had to fix this. Her steps slowed, Jo realized, because she was almost at the menswear store again. Dammit, I am not changing how I treat my best friend.

Dropping her heels onto the pavement, she stepped into them and straightened her suit jacket with a short, sharp jerk. Then with every muscle twitching to run, Jo strolled past the plate glass storefront. I will not look, I will not so much as glance in that window. I am unconcerned.

Her gaze darted left and two images were burned in her brain. Her reflected face, eyes furtive, hunted. And her would-be groom, naked to the waist, lean muscle rippling as he shrugged on a starched white shirt.

She was past. Jo tugged open the Chronicle’s door and took the stairs two at a time. Halfway up she stopped and leaned her forehead against the wall. “Why are you doing this to us now?“ she whispered. And going public was tantamount to emotional blackmail. Jo continued up the stairs.

The newsroom was empty. Tomorrow’s paper was done—Jo only had to sign off on it before delivering it to the printers—but still, 4:00 p.m. was early to close an issue. In her office, she dumped her bag on her desk then sank into her chair and leaned forward over the desk, head on her arms. Loser’s posture. She sat up straight again, staring sightlessly at the screen.

She should be strategizing. Instead all she could think about was Dan’s extraordinary behavior. Maybe she was overreacting—maybe he was simply pushing the joke to its absolute limit and everyone was in on it? Any minute now he’d appear with a grin and a gotcha. Yes, that was it. Of course it was. She relaxed in her chair. There was no other rational explanation.

The phone rang. That was probably him now. “You got me—”

“It’s Delwyn. I think I left my invoice book in the staff room. Can you check for me?”

“Sure.” Jo walked to the staff room and opened the door. Glimpsing red balloons imprinted with Happy Birthday, she closed it again.

The door burst open and her beaming staff threw their arms high. “Surprise!”

“WHERE’S MY INVITE? I had the housekeeper check the mailbox twice.”

Jo’s grip tightened on the phone, her delight at the birthday call dissipating.

“You’re on a y;Yo±€†acht in Vava’u—how the hell do you know about this?” Maybe her second-best friend wasn’t on a family holiday in Tonga for six weeks. Maybe—

“Luke was reading the Herald online and saw it in the notices.”

“Hang on a minute.” Jo pulled up New Zealand’s largest daily newspaper on the internet. “'Daniel Jansen is delighted to announce his engagement to Jocelyn Swann.’ I’ll kill him.” She was starting to mean it.

“So you’re not getting married?”

As she brought the former mayor of Beacon Bay up to speed, Jo’s cell rang. Caller ID showed it was Nan. “Liz, I’ve gotta go, love to Luke. Hi, Nan, how lovely to talk to you.”

“Darling, did I forget that you’re getting married?”

Jo rubbed her throbbing temples. “No, love, ignore the invitation. It’s one of Dan’s jokes.” “Such a nice boy, Daniel.” “That’s one word for him.”

“My wedding dress might fit you with a little adjustment I think.” A former dressmaker, Nan had always been stylish, matching gloves, bag and shoes. Jo recalled this morning’s mismatch of gardening hat and dressing gown with a pang of regret.

“Except it’s a joke, Nan,” she reminded her patiently.

“Such a nice boy, Daniel.”

It was hopeless to persist when Rosemary was in one of her loops. And it didn’t matter because in ten minutes she’d have forgotten. But other people wouldn’t. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Tell Polly I’ll explain later.” Jo hung up and hauled the production manager out of the staff room where he was enjoying his third beer and made him design a last-minute ad for tomorrow’s edition. Bold font. Big type. Dan would know there was no room for confusion on this, no room for hope. Or doubt.

“Jo Swann and Dan Jansen are not getting married. It was a joke, people!” A smiley emoticon should take the sting out of it.

Because it was so funny.

By the time Jo had deflected Kevin with an “I promise we’ll discuss the CommLink meeting tomorrow,” and made it home from her impromptu birthday celebration, she had a throbbing headache.

Conscious of Polly’s threat to check for lights on too early she left the curtains open and navigated the stairs by moonlight. A lanky shadow on the landing made her gasp until she recognized the lampstand from the living room. Nan had been moving things again. Pushing it to one side—she was too tired to tidy up now—Jo went into her bedroom, stripped off her clothes, put on her dressing gown, then ran a bath. While it filled she sat on the rim and listening to the house creaking and groaning as the outside temperature dropped. Steam rose, invisible in the dark. It touched Jo’s face with warm, sympathetic tendrils.

The doorbell rang, startling her. Wiping her eyes, she groped for the tap and turned it off. The bell rang again, a peal that echoed through the dark, silent house. Jo didn’t move. Silence except for the steady drip of the tap. Finally, she heard footsteps retreating down the gravel path. Clutching her robe, she crept to her bedroom window, which provided a view of the front garden.

Holding a bunch of white lilies, Dan stood under a bright moop n±€†n. She froze but he’d caught her movement and lifted his face. Across the garden they stared at each other.

He’d changed into a white shirt and his broad shoulders were accentuated under the moon, which also bladed his cheekbones and shadowed his deep-set eyes. But Jo read his lips.

“Let me in.”

Her heart started pumping so hard she struggled to breathe. She shook her head.

Dan assessed a route. She could read his thoughts. Swing up onto the pergola; walk along it to her window. Jo caught the sill for support as his gaze returned to hers, unblinking. Intent.

“No!” Through her panic, she found the fierceness she needed. The anger that her best friend was putting them through this when she was finally bringing some control back to her life.

Jerking the drapes together, she fumbled for the catch on the window and locked it. Counted one minute down, then two. Sucking in a fortifying breath she peeked again, half expecting to see Dan crouched on her windowsill. But there were only lilies propped against the gate. Bridal white in the moonlight.

Closing the drapes, Jo hugged herself as she returned to the bathroom and switched on the light. In the mirror her eyes were huge … shocked. He was really serious about this? Maybe she should tell him the truth behind that pass.

“Do you want his pity?”

No. God, no. Unthinkable. She hadn’t protected her secret so carefully to reveal it now. She’d only panicked because she’d been caught unprepared.

Untying her robe, Jo shrugged it off her shoulders. Her gaze lowered over her naked body, then she turned and stepped into the hot, steamy water, leaned back and closed her eyes.

In company with the real Jo, his best friend, he’d soon come to his senses. He had to.

Back in the Soldier’s Arms/Here Comes the Groom

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CHAPTER FIVE

A HAWK SWOOPED OVER the pasture, its silhouette faint against the grass in the dawn light. Dan turned off the hurricane lamp he’d been using to illuminate his fencing work and stretched his back, his gaze following the predator as it crested a hill with one lazy flap then disappeared into the rising sun.

He returned his attention to tightening the wire with the strainer then tied it off and surveyed the seven-wire fence. All he had to do was add wooden battens for bracing and this stretch was done. Straightening his back, he took a break.

Amazing what insomnia could achieve. For the past two nights he’d risen around four and gone fencing, rigging up lighting to help him do it.

Fortunately there was more than enough maintenance work to absorb his restless energy.

The sky lightened to lavender-blue. It was going to be a beautiful morning. On impulse he started up the hill natead> for a better view of the sunrise, attracting the attention of the steers in the next paddock, which trotted over to the fence. They were yearlings, curious and still skittish. One spooked and bolted and the rest thundered along behind, stopping in confusion three hundred meters away, their breath steaming clouds in the growing light.

Untying the woolen bush jacket from his waist, Dan pulled it on as he climbed, tempted to use his cell to call Jo. Come watch the sunrise with me. Except that would only confirm his craziness in her eyes. He thought of her fury the other night, when he’d gone visiting with flowers in the moonlight. Better give her one more day to cool off.

A breeze came up, carrying the malodorous stench of semi-rotted grass. Silage. Dan grinned. Not such a romantic setting after all. Reaching the crest, he stripped off his sweaty fencing gloves as the sunrise slowly illuminated the rolling pasture. Sheep dotted the steeper sections while mobs of bulls—small groups of thirty animals—populated the flat, separated by electric fences.

It had rained overnight, swelling the stream which now ran muddy and fast through the property. He traced it back to its source, a spring-formed lake surrounded by marshland and bog, thick with reeds and waterfowl. Duck-shooting season started this weekend, he thought. Mist rose in patches off the dew-soaked grass, spiraling lazily toward the sun.

How many times had he imagined this view in the harsh, throat-scratching desert? This stillness. Dan closed his eyes. But even with his ears attuned to the minutiae of country noises—the soft snort of cattle, the birdsong, the faint throb of a tractor engine—peace eluded him.

I should have been there.

He opened his eyes, simultaneously closing his mind to the images that haunted him. Below, his father was a tiny figure on the tractor as he hauled silage into the northwest paddock, half a dozen working dogs running behind him. That was another job ahead. Getting the dogs to change loyalties. Giving up on serenity, Dan returned to stapling fence battens.

Herman might be sleeping in town but his waking hours were all on the farm. To help Dan while the farmhand was on holiday, he told Pat when she tried to finalize travel itineraries. To free you up to organize the wedding, he’d tell his son. But for all his talk of a succession plan, his father seemed reluctant to implement one. Still, Dan preferred Herman’s company to being alone. What if Jo didn’t come around?

He rammed the batten in place. No, defeat wasn’t an option. Dan lost himself in physical labor. When he’d finished the sun was high and his stomach rumbled. Returning to the ATV—the quad bike that handled the farm’s varied terrain—he saw a curl of smoke rising from the direction of the homestead.

Only Mom would light the fire during the day, Herman being too economical and Dan too inured to climate to bother. The quad rattled over the main track and he made a mental note to discuss regrading with his father.