Page 54 of The Mechanics of Lust

In addition to the pens, I’d cobbled together a couple of gates: Two short sections of fence stood in a line with a gap between them that the sheep had to pass through. A bridge constructed from a raised dirt platform with ramps on both approaches and fences on the side. A pegged lane they had to pass along. A shedding ring where the dog had to separate one or two sheep from the rest. And a pen or yard.

All I had at my disposal to get the sheep successfully through all the obstacles and penned in a time-limited run was my heading dog Jojo, my voice, my whistle, and my shepherd’s stick. But for Nina, the huntaway competitions were all about driving the stock up a hill in either as straight a line as possible or in a set zig-zag hunt.

And I’d had a ton of success with both forms, although I hadn’t done much the last few years. Jojo had several South Island titles and two back-to-back National Championships, and Nina had four South Island and one national title. I didn’t usually train them together, but occasionally I liked to test them as a unit the same way they worked on the station.

With Jojo coming up behind them, the approaching merinos clocked me standing with my hand on the open gate of the pen and veered off course.

“Jojo, stand. Nina, speak.”

Jojo froze while the huntaway’s deep bark echoed through the valley and the merinos hesitated, eyed up the source of all the noise, debated the nuisance factor, and then corrected course.

“Nina, quiet.”

The huntaway fell silent.

“Jojo, walk up.”

Jojo slowly crept forward and the sheep moved closer to the open pen. Almost there. But when the lead ewe reached the open gate, she saw something she didn’t like—who knew what—and came to an abrupt halt with a look on her prissy little face that clearly said,Oh, hell no.She immediately turned to stare down Jojo who responded in kind, freezing position with one paw in the air.

“Nina, stand,” I warned, as the huntaway looked ready to offer her kennel mate some assistance.

Nina dropped to the ground.

Meanwhile, back at the O.K. Corral, the front merino was stamping her foot at my border collie. Jojo eased her paw to the ground and took another excruciatingly slow step forward.

The merino stamped her foot again—and if sheep could narrow their gaze, she did an admirable job—and the two animals eyeballed each other.

Jojo took another step and the merino snorted dismissively, then turned and gave me the stink eye.

With one hand fixed on the gate as per rules, and the other holding my shepherd’s stick out to the side in an attempt to discourage any of them from bolting past, all I could do was rely on Jojo to finish the job.

She crept forward another step, and then another. The lead ewe studied the challenge, calculated the odds, and opted to fight another day, leading the other two sheep nonchalantly into the pen as if that had been her plan all along.

I swung the gate closed, stopped the timer on my phone, and released the dogs. Seconds later I was being circled and set upon with much enthusiasm and wagging of tails. But it was the slow clap from the direction of the gate at the bottom of the hill that drew all my attention.

Luke.

An unexpected thrill ran up my spine at the sight of him dressed in that sexy damn flight suit. I’d heard the chopper but hadn’t expected to see him in person. He was leaning on the gate, his boot resting on the bottom rail, and wearing a broad smile that was all mine.

I offered a casual wave—there was that word again—as if I’d known he was there all along, and he waved back. Meanwhile, the dogs were already halfway down the hill to greet him like some long-lost friend. Which in some ways, he was.

Luke visited the station often enough for all the dogs to know he was welcome, and I couldn’t stop the smile on my face as he opened the gate, and then immediately got down on his knees so they could slobber their delight all over his fancy flight suit, and generally make a nuisance of themselves.

I called to both of them, “Get in.”

They ran back and tucked behind my legs.

“Sorry about that.” I set the sheep free and watched them scurry down the hill, bleating their indignance.

“It was me who opened the gate,” Luke replied, clearly unbothered by the doggy mauling he’d received. “I know the drill.”

The comment brought a smile to my face. Gotta like a man who gets silly with your dogs.

I made my way down the hill toward Luke, all the while trying to suck my tongue back into my mouth from where it dangled in the dust somewhere around my feet, because damn, the man looked good. Too good. Almost better than I remembered, and I remembered a fair bit, having beaten off in my shower to his image most mornings and nights since he’d left my bed three days ago.

Standing there, leaning on my gate, looking more delicious than anyone had a right to, that cheeky-as-shit smile promised a hundred dirty ways to get me off without breaking a sweat. Not that I was going to tell him that. Or accept the unspoken offer that twinkled in his eyes.

I wasn’t.

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