‘This button to talk,’ he says, thumb pressing it.‘And this dial changes the channel.You don’t need to touch that unless you wanna flirt with truckers passing through.’
‘Tempting.’
He hands it back, his fingers brushing mine again.Definitely on purpose this time.The contact sends a spark skittering down my spine.Which I ignore.Obviously.
‘Got it,’ I say, all false confidence and desperate bravado.‘I’m Russell Coight.’
‘You’re doing great,’ he deadpans.‘Proud of you already.’
He lets out a low whistle, sharp and precise.The dogs shoot forward like bullets, disappearing through the open gate with terrifying enthusiasm.
I crank the quad back to life and follow, wheels spinning over the cracked earth.The horizon is a golden watercolour now – light dripping over the hills, kissing every dry blade of grass, every sun- bleached fence post.
And then I see them.
The cattle.
Thousands of them, clustered in lazy formation, tails flicking, ears twitching, heads low.Brown, black, tan – a slow-moving, heavy- breathing herd of muscle and inertia.
Luke whistles again, sharper this time, and the kelpies respond like dancers hitting their marks – looping around the left flank, nipping at heels, shifting the entire herd.Controlled chaos.The cattle start to move.
I try to stay wide, guiding them with soft revs of the engine, minor turns, minimal fuss.One rogue cow breaks from the pack and starts lumbering to the open field as if it’s heard there’s a better party elsewhere.
‘Uh, we’ve got a runner,’ I say into the radio, nearly dropping it in my lap.
‘Then go get her, Maverick,’ Luke’s voice crackles back.
I veer off, kicking up dirt as I circle around.The dog – Scout, I think – cuts the cow off before I can even get close, nipping enough to redirect her.
The cow turns, lowing in protest, and stumbles back into the herd.
‘Good girl, Scout!’I shout, throwing a fist in the air.She ignores me, obviously.Too cool for praise.
When I glance at Luke, he’s watching me with a look I can’t quite read.Maybe approval.Maybe surprise.Maybe trying not to laugh because that was Sushi, not Scout.
Either way, my heart does an annoying little cartwheel.
He turns Banjo in a wide arc, moving smoothly along the far side of the herd, giving subtle whistles, shifting in his saddle with an ease that makes the whole thing look effortless.His shirt clings to his back in all the right ways.His forearms flex with every adjustment of the reins.He’s not smiling, exactly, yet there’s a calmness in him.A stillness.He belongs here in a way I never will.
And damn it, it’s hot.
Not sexy hot – capital-H, people-write-fanfic-about-this-man hot.
It’s deeply unfair.
Because I know men like Luke aren’t built for people like me.He rides horses at dawn.I panic if I miss an episode ofSeverance.He can control a whole herd of cattle with his voice.I once cried in a Kmart parking lot because I couldn’t find my car.
But right now, watching him out here, watching the way he communicates without speaking – with a whistle, a shift in weight, a raised hand – and seeing how everything around him responds …
It makes something pull, tight and dangerous, in my chest.
Not lust.
Longing.
Which is worse.But just this once, I block out the head noise and let myself enjoy the view.
The cows move like slow thunder – one reluctant step at a time.It’s hours of sunburnt dust rising in clouds around our legs, brittle spinifex brushing at our ankles like nature’s barbed wire, and ironbark trees standing guard in the distance, their charcoal trunks cracked and peeling.Scrubby, dull green saltbush dots the ground, and every so often a fallen paperbark redirects the herd.We keep pushing forward while the herd tests our patience by occasionally turning around on a whim because one of them caught a vibe and the rest decided to follow.
