Zero
Amara Montrose had always imagined that wearing a tiara and a ballgown would make her feel like a princess.Not some sweaty, outback idiot lost in the dust.
It was everywhere, dust that settled like sandpaper across her skin, squirrelling beneath the edges of the strapless ballgown, turning the once soft powder-blue a grimy, dusty red.What’s worse, it was hot.And itchy.And ruined.
Her hair was a mess.
Her make-up melted.
And for what?
Certainly not some fairytalehappily ever after—when right now, she’d kill for a glass of water.Even a muddy puddle would do.
For the first time in her life, she was lost with no clue how to fix this.With only the epic crushing blue sky above her and nothing but a red dirt track that led her deeper into the outback.
‘You can climb on, Porter.Tempest is strong enough to carry us both.’She patted the mane of the grey horse that had started all this mess.
‘Nope.And stop asking.’Policeman Porter adjusted his grip on his necktie, which he was using as a rope to lead the horse down the track.
The horse’s hooves drummed a slow, steady beat against the cracked earth.Each step kicked up a whisper of dirt, while the rustle of her many-layered petticoats filled the silence between every dull, rhythmic thud.
Porter’s fancy suit was in a worse state than her ballgown.His jacket was nothing more than rags.The shine on his boots gone.His white shirt, wet with sweat, showed off his strong shoulders and spine.
But he kept trudging along like a true warrior, leading them at that same pace for miles now, carrying nothing more than an old broken rifle in his hand.
Amara had never seen a more determined man in her life—while she was rendered helpless on a horse.
To save her ballgown, poor Porter had torn the lining from his suit jacket to wrap her ankle.It throbbed like her headache, with her mouth so dry all she tasted was dust.
And that big sky was such a cruel taunt—like a luscious blue lake she couldn’t drink from, with not even a cloud to tempt them with rain.
It sucked.
This game sucked, dragging their arses across the red sands like some twisted version ofSurvivor.
They trudged through powdery bulldust, that at times was as thick as quicksand.It had Porter using that old rifle like a walking stick to test the dirt track that kept on changing—from buttery cream sands, to compact black soils, then breaking into wide stretches of crushed ochre that crunched beneath the horse’s hooves.
But it was always the same shimmery watery haze on the horizon, as that glowing sphere of gas and fire rose higher above the distant escarpments, to send its piercing rays of light to burn her skin.
Great time to wear a strapless gown, huh?
A few birds squawked, cooed, and laughed—no doubt broadcasting news on the outback telegraph about this little party of three, trudging along the track since before sunrise.
Porter had insisted on an early start, claiming it’d be cooler.
He also insisted they were heading in the right direction.
With no phone to use her compass app and no tablet to keep her connected to the world, she had no choice but to trust Porter—and his skills as an outback lawman.He was their only hope of finding civilisation again.
The heavy, hostile air danced around them, sucking moisture from the soil, their skin, and their souls.Porter still didn’t stop, and the horse willingly followed.
He never once let go of the necktie wrapped around the steel-grey stallion’s long neck.And for a man who didn’t know how to ride horses, he somehow kept Tempest calm and kept them moving.
Meanwhile, all Amara could do was sit there, like some sunburnt princess in a ballgown and tiara, on the back of the grey stallion.
And Porter?He wasn’t talking to her.Not after what she’d done.
Which left one question.One she had no right to dare ask.
