When I pull up as directed, he’s already tying the horse down, whispering more of those calm, private words.
‘What happened?’
Luke is silent for a minute, still patting the horse.I start to think he didn’t hear me when he says, ‘Skip was my dad’s horse.He gets angry if he doesn’t get out enough.’
‘Why?’
Luke runs a hand along Skip’s flank.‘It’s just the way he is.Always has been.It’s my fault – I haven’t given him any attention with everything that’s happened …’ His voice fades as if stuck in the memory of his father’s funeral.Abruptly, he turns his head to me.‘You ever ride?’
‘Once.’I grimace.‘Fell off a pony at a birthday party.Cried into cake.Never again.’
‘I’ll teach you.’
‘Is this going to be similar to your driving lesson?’
He gives me a wounded look.
I sigh.‘Fine.But I’m not getting on that one.’
He grins.‘Banjo’s yours.He’s an old man.’
Quietly and efficiently, Luke saddles up both horses.I stand beside Banjo, eyeing the stirrup before I try to haul myself up.Naturally, I fail with flying colours.My leg flails, my balance abandons ship, and I let out a dramatic sigh.
Luke steps up behind me, close enough that I feel the heat of him through my shirt.
‘Need a boost?’he murmurs, amused.
Before I can answer – or lie – his hands are on my waist, strong and steady, lifting me as if I weigh absolutely nothing, which is both flattering and deeply rude.
I land in the saddle with a jolt and try to act like his hands didn’t short-circuit my nervous system.Like I didn’t immediately imagine what else those hands could do – and have done.
‘Be nice to me,’ I whisper to Banjo, mostly to distract myself.‘I have a very fragile ego.’
Luke mounts Skip and walks us slowly across the paddock, holding both reins.My spine is ramrod straight.Every creak of the saddle makes me flinch.
‘Relax,’ he says.‘Banjo can feel you panicking.’
‘That’s because Iampanicking.’
‘Then talk to him,’ he says.‘Tell him a story.Distract yourself.’
‘I don’t have any horse-friendly material.’
Luke clicks his tongue, then grins.‘All right.I’ll go first.’He shifts slightly in his saddle and says, ‘So, I was fifteen, and there was this girl – Samantha Brent.A bunch of us were at a rodeo in Darwin.’
I glance at him warily.‘This already feels like it ends in a concussion.’
‘It does,’ he says, cheerful.‘I was trying to impress her, obviously.So, I decided to ride one of the bulls.Thought I looked pretty cool.’
‘Oh no.’
‘Oh yes.It was going great – for about 2.7 seconds, until the bull launched me like an arrow straight into the fence.’
I laugh, the image too vivid.
‘When I came to,’ he continues, ‘Samantha asked if my arm was supposed to bend that way.’
‘Oh my god.’I’m actually wheezing now.Even Banjo snorts beneath me – he’s entertained too.
