She stepped back, narrowing her eyes in the fading light.
She’d bathed and brushed him every day since he’d arrived, working through the scurf and loose hair as his thick southern coat started shedding in the Territory heat.A clear sign he hadn’t been up here long and was still adjusting to the red dust and dry air.
But now, with his coat clean and the colours of the sunset hitting at a certain angle across his shoulder, the brand stood out like a bruise.
A horse’s brand was like a signature—clear, distinct.Permanent.
But this?
She touched the area again.The hair felt different—finer, smoother.Like it had grown back over scar tissue.
Branding didn’t fade like that.Not unless someone had tried to erase it.Or worse—replace it.
‘Hell’s bells.’She stepped away slowly.
An altered brand usually meant one thing… Stolen stock.
Eleven
Porter kicked back at the main table in the Elsie Creek Police Station, with soft music playing in the background and the smell of coffee still hanging in the air.His laptop was open, a few files spread out beside it as he worked through his reports, tapping away between sips of his coffee.
The front doors slid open.
Porter sat taller to peer over the high reception counter that was a protective barrier against the world.Not that much ever happened in this town, but no one should be coming in this time of night.
‘Office is closed.’Surely, he’d locked the front doors.
The inner security door clicked open, and Amara stormed in, her boots thudding against the linoleum.
‘Montrose?’He went back to scribbling his notes in the margin of a report.‘You in a rush to lodge a complaint about me?’
She didn’t take the bait, which was worrying.
Instead, she yanked a chair out from the opposite end of the table and dropped into it, breathing hard.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Where’s Tanisha?’
‘Gone.She has a life that involves cats, cocktails, cactuses, and lately a thing for glitter.Why are you here?’It had him worried, because she looked worried.
‘I took these photos of Tempest.’She swiped open the screen of her trusty tablet that she carried like a secretary’s notebook.
‘Who?’
‘My horse.’
‘He’s got a name now.I was just getting used to Lot 728.’The horse that had all his toys grounded this past week so as to not upset the animal with the engine noise.Especially his favourite machine, gathering dust in the man cave.It had earned its reputation for a reason—not for sounding like a mouse.But not while the new horse was there.
Ah, yeah… Compromise, they called it.
Signing up for night shift to avoid the tenant could also be considered a compromise, to let the waters settle, especially after that kiss.
‘The horse’s name is Tempest,’ she said with her nose in the air.
‘Sounds snobby, like some Shakespearian play.’
‘Are you saying it’s wrong?’
