He gave the interior a doubtful glance.‘Old and shot.This thing’s about as outback-ready as a shopping trolley.I’m pretty sure I saw a wheelie bin with better clearance than this thing.’
She shot him a glare sharp enough to slice through the next cattle grid.‘Funny.I don’t see the Hellhound parked out here doing the hard yards.’
Porter smirked as he leaned into the passenger door.‘The Hellhound wouldn’t even feel this road.’
‘Yeah, well, some of us don’t need a V8 midlife crisis parked in some man cave to prove a point.’
That shut him up.
For about two seconds.
His gut churned as he tightened his grip on the handrail, recognising the posts where a sign once stood near the cattle grid.‘We’re on Dixby Downs.’
‘Really?’
Now he was curious.‘Slow down, Montrose.On this side of the station, the tracks are thick with bulldust.’
‘I can handle it.The advantage is I can see his tracks now.’That were taking them over a rise and away from the main road.
Suddenly, the dust thickened, rising around them like fog, and for a bit she did a brilliant job of dodging the worst the terrain threw at her.But then the front wheels dipped just a little too deep.
Amara cursed under her breath as the tyres spun once—twice—before the Land Rover lurched, nose tilting forward.
‘You didn’t.’
‘Don’t say it,’ she said through gritted teeth.
Porter snapped.‘We’re bogged.’
‘I’ll get us out.’The wheels spun again, throwing up another spray of fine red dust.The Land Rover lurched, then sank itself.
‘Stop.’ He yanked on her handbrake.‘You’re only digging us in deeper.It’s bulldust, not dirt.This stuff’s worse than sand or mud.It looks solid, but it’s a bloody deathtrap.No bottom, no grip.And if you keep spinning those wheels, we’ll just sink deeper until you’re buried to the chassis, where it’ll then choke-up your engine.’
She pulled her hands back from the steering wheel like it was scalding her.‘You’re right.’
‘What the hell were you thinking?’Porter barked out, while bracing one hand on the dash.‘You bogged us in bulldust, Montrose.’
‘He was right there!We almost had him.’
‘Yeah?And now we’re stuck halfway to nowhere, with no radio, no satphone, and zero backup.’He scrubbed a hand down his face.‘Deadset, Montrose.You’re the queen of colour-coded micro-plans to unload a dishwasher.Where was the rule book on this expedition?’He gestured through the front window, showing off the endless dust bowl.‘Where’s your laminated escape routes you’ve got in duplicate for this?’
Her jaw set.
‘But no.One flash of a red Ram and suddenly we’re bush bashing without a clue.You know, I didn’t think you even knew how to wing it.’It was so unlike her to be like this—and how his words were sharper than he’d meant.
Porter sucked in a breath, pinched the bridge of his nose, and took a beat long enough to let the heat bleed out of his voice.
This wasn’t his first bog hole, not by a long shot.But it sure as hell wasn’t where he thought he’d end up tonight.
But this wasn’t classic Amara Montrose behaviour, either.She’d never run off in the dark without a plan—yet she did.
‘Are you okay?’Ensuring he’d softened his tone.
‘Fine.’She turned off the engine, slid on her heels, and shoved the door open—only to meet resistance, pushing against something softer than sand.
Bulldust billowed in on a cloud, settling over their laps and the dashboard like smoke.It coated everything even his teeth.
She stepped out—then promptly sank.
