‘We’re multifaceted.’
‘Which some might say could make a lawyer’s character hard to pigeonhole …’
She tilted her head, acknowledging the point. ‘Yet still that initial assessment is invaluable. You’re not going to pretend you don’t get a gut feeling when you meet people?’
Was there a subtext to her words? He’d tagged her as abrasive, independent and arrogant, yet he felt a flare of interest, the thrill of discovering something different.
‘Fortunately for everyone, I’m open to questioning my gut.’
‘Graphic,’ she said, and a galah in the overhanging eucalypt cackled. ‘But see, you’re admitting that you, too, make snap judgements. Orpigeonhole, as you seem to prefer.’ Somehow, she managed to make it sound like agreeing to use the word was another victory in her favour. ‘We all do it, because sometimes it can come down to a survival tool. At the very least, it’s a useful skill.’ Jemma’s dark gaze ranged the yard, before settling. ‘For example, I can tell you that girl is looking for trouble.’
He followed her line of sight and snorted. ‘Not round here, she isn’t. That’s Tara Paech. Wheaty’s sister.’
Jemma gave a disparaging huff, and he realised his mate’s name meant nothing to her. ‘Does that connection somehow make her safe? Because I can tell you right now, she’s not necessarily a bad girl but she’s actively looking to be led astray. The clues are in the way she’s dressed—and the fact that the entire time we’ve been out here, she’s had her eye on you.’
He felt unwelcome heat warm his neck. Like the rest of the town, he was awkwardly aware of Tara’s infatuation and he always laughed it off; Tara would grow out of the crush. ‘That’s some kind of uptight bullshit, you know,’ he said gruffly, although Tara must be freezing in her short shorts and tight tank. ‘I thought women were supposed to be able to dress any way they want?’
‘Obviously, they can. But there’s a vast difference between what is defensible and what’s sensible. I’d argue her right to wear anything she wants, but you can’t tell me that her clothes are appropriate for the place, the weather or the task. Ergo, defensible but not sensible.’
‘So then you’re judging her appearance, not her character.’
‘Character can be evidenced by appearance, at least on a basic level.’
The woman had an answer for everything, delivered in an infuriatingly confident tone.
‘There are ways to let your interest be known to the appropriate person, rather than advertising general availability. And that speaks to character. In this case, immature character.’
He shrugged. ‘Or maybe it speaks to honesty, a highly undervalued trait. Besides, Tara’s just a kid. She’s testing the waters. Getting some life experience.’
A frown shadowed Jemma’s face. ‘She’s no kid. And even if she was, that’s no protection. You haven’t seen what I’ve seen,’ she finished tightly.
Although she was right—Tara had grown up without him realising it—the lawyer’s arrogance was exasperating. Perhaps this was partly because the ache in his scarred arm from the ‘accident’ the previous year proved her point. Out in the world, no woman was safe by virtue of her age or any other factor. ‘I’m aware. But no one around here is going to let anything happen to her.’
‘Pretty sure Dad mentioned Samantha is country born and bred,’ Jemma remarked.
He winced. Settlers Bridge had failed to protect one of their own; in fact, with the exception of Christine Talbot, no one had been aware of Sam’s situation until a few months ago.
‘In any case, I got the impression that not everyone in the restaurant last night was from around here,’ Jemma continued, driving home her point without even raising her voice.
‘Guess you’re right there,’ he agreed reluctantly. ‘Settlers is still coming to terms with having anything but the pub bringing in non-locals.’
Although it would be an awkward conversation, maybe he ought to have a word with Wheaty about Tara. Then again, as Jemma had pointed out, Tara was technically an adult—she wasn’t Hamish’s responsibility—and, truthfully, he wasn’t exactly the best person to be dishing out advice on how women should behave. Problem was, now that Jemma had opened his eyes, it was an issue he couldn’t ignore. Damn it.
8
Jemma
‘Ready to go?’ Dad said as Jemma wandered into the kitchen, her hair still damp from the shower. He passed her a large wicker picnic basket. ‘We’ll hit the river before the weather gets any worse.’
‘We’re still doing brunch?’ Although it wasn’t raining, the weather had closed in as she’d made her excuses to escape the working bee at Tracey’s. Not that excuses had really been necessary. Hamish had been no keener on having her hang around than she’d been on mucking in.
‘It’s getting a bit late, so we’ll call it lunch now.’
‘Does that make a difference to what we get to eat?’ Jemma lifted the cane lid of the basket, but Dad pressed it down.
‘I promise you won’t starve. Plus, I can guarantee Evie will put on a good feed for afternoon tea.’ He put his free arm around Samantha’s shoulders and pulled her in close to his side. ‘Fortunately, it’s mostly what Sam’s baked for them.’
Jemma rolled her eyes. ‘You two are more touchy-feely than any teenagers I know.’
