Page 160 of Crossed Wires: The Complete Series

“Hey, you hit Dylan, you may as well be hitting Hunter. And I’m not letting you do either, ’specially now you’re third in charge. I plan on milking that position of power as much as I can.”

Keith cocked an eyebrow at him. “Is that right? And how exactly are you planning on doing that? Seeing as I’m the one in that ‘position of power’?”

Marc grinned. “I’m not telling you, mate. You’ll spoil all my bloody fun if I do.”

Keith rolled his eyes, tugging his hat back on. “Why do I put up with you?”

“Because I’m hung like a horse. You said so yourself.”

Keith walked around the ute’s bonnet and opened the driver’s side door. “Mention your dick one more time, Thomo, and it’ll beyouI punch the crap out of.”

“What? You know you want it.”

Keith gave him steady look. “Shut the fuck up and get in, Marc. We’ve got to drop off Harper Shaw’s luggage to Amy’s place before Mrs. Sullivan finishes giving her the tour.”

Marc smirked. “Is that all we’ve got to do?”

Keith’s answering smile was close to a grin. “No. We’ve got to call Amy while we’re there. There’re a couple of questions I want to ask that girl.”

Marc opened the passenger door and dropping into the seat.

Ten minutes later, his cock painfully hard thanks to a filthy line of thought he’d kept to himself, they pulled up outside the small cottage Amy called home.

A traditional settler’s cottage dating back to the early 1800s, it had been the residence of the Farpoint Creek teacher since the Sullivan family established the cattle station. Over the years, each teacher living there had placed her mark on the quaint cottage, as the various paint colors adorning its exterior surfaces attested—sky-blue window frames, deep-green door, a red porch rail. It stood amongst a grove of willow gums, the shade of the ancient trees painting it in dappled shadows.

To Marc, it was as close to a home base as he could imagine. His mother had been the resident teacher until she’d passed away ten years ago. He’d grown up within its walls. Had spent night after night listening to the dingoes call during mating season. Had danced in the rain in the small yard outside during the wet season, his mum swinging him about as they both laughed, his dad off doing what stockmen do, regardless of the weather.

When Amy—the daughter of a Farpoint mechanic—became the teacher after four years studying in the big smoke, he’d gravitated to the cottage once again, returning to his childhood home as a guest of his friend. The nights the three of them had spent dancing to Lee Kernaghan under the stars were some of Marc’s favorites.

And now Amy was in Chicago, attempting to appease her need for adventure, and Harper Shaw was going to be living in the small cottage.

All in all, it was kinda weird.

“You reckon an American is going to handle the ankle biters we breed here?” he asked, climbing out of the ute to throw a curious look at Keith.

His best mate leaned over the side of the tray and retrieved a small suitcase from the back. “Dunno. Though I don’t think Amy would have set up the swap if she didn’t think Harper could handle it. Amy may have a bloody hard case of wanderlust, but she’s more dedicated to those kids than most of the blokes working here are to their job.”

Marc snorted. That was true. Amy may be a bit flakey every now and again, but he’d pit her work ethic against that of most the hired hands employed on Farpoint. And that was saying something, given that the Sullivan brothers only employed the best. Well, maybe with the exception of Big Mac.

Another snort left Marc, this one turning into a chuckle as they reached the front door of the cottage.

“Like the flowers.” Keith nodded at a wattle spray painted with exquisite detail on the bottle-green door next to the slightly rusted, slightly dented knob. “Amy’s latest effort?”

Marc let his gaze roam over the yellow puffballs depicted on the wood. “Guess so. She said she was making sure Harper knew she was in Australia no matter where she looked.”

Keith laughed. “Sounds like Amy. You reckon the Yank’s got a hope of forgetting where she is? Can’t imagine a plain green door’s gonna make her think she’s back in the U.S.”

Marc shook his head as he reached for the beat-up old doorknob. “Nope. But y’know Amy. Any chance to teach something new. Any surface too, apparently.”

He turned the knob and pushed open the door.

The interior was bathed in cool shadows, the wide verandah and overhanging trees outside keeping the high Outback sun and heat at bay. The gentle scent of acacia filled Marc’s breath.

“Looks like she was determined to keep that Australian botanical lesson going inside as well.” Keith slipped past Marc to enter the cottage. “How many bloody bunches of wattle can one woman need?”

Marc skipped his gaze around the small living area and eat-in kitchen. Keith was correct. There were at least four vases of acacia scattered around the place, although, he noted, each vase contained a variant of the flower. At the base of each one was a little white card, on which he could see Amy’s neat handwriting. He’d bet his left nut if he picked one up and read it, it would be both the common name and scientific name for the particular flowers in the vase.

Ah, Amy, he thought.God, I love ya.

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