Barbara Hannay - The Cattleman's English Rose

‘I beg your pardon? Who’s Chazza?’

He dropped his gaze to the dusty toes of his riding boots and grinned. ‘Sorry, that just slipped out. We’re an uncouth lot in this country. We do terrible things to names. Barry becomes Bazza; Kerry is Kezza. So you’ll find yourself getting called Chazza. Or would you prefer Chaz?’

‘Do you have a problem with my real name?’

‘No. But I’m afraid nicknames tend to happen out here whether you like it or not.’

‘Then in that case I’ll take Chaz.’

‘Chaz it is then.’

He grinned again, but her own attempt to smile faltered.

Australians were very in-your-face. Tim had mentioned in his letters that the ringers liked to toss him teasing jokes to see how he handled them. No doubt it was their way of testing a newcomer. And as a new chum she was expected to throw one back.

Her brother would have been able to handle it. She, on the other hand, had always been too earnest to be good at witty exchanges.

She repeated the word Chaz softly under her breath and decided she probably liked it. Chaz. Chaz Denham. It sounded upbeat and trendy. She had never in her life been trendy. But no way would she admit to Kane that she quite liked the idea of being Chaz.

After she had climbed up into the passenger seat, slammed the door shut and buckled her seat belt, she said, ‘I have to admit an old-fashioned name like Charity can be something of a burden. Tim is lucky he isn’t my sister.’

‘Do you think a sister might have been christened Faith or Hope?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Perhaps.’ It was time to give him a taste of his own medicine. ‘My father excelled himself when he chose my middle name.’

‘Yeah?’ An unmistakable spark of curiosity flashed in his blue eyes. ‘What is it?’

‘Chastity.’

His jaw dropped. ‘You’ve got to be joking.’ For almost a minute he sat with one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the key in the ignition, staring at her, his expression cagey, as if he were sizing her up. Then a knowing smile dawned. ‘This is payback time, isn’t it, Sunday school teacher?’

‘For the way you’ve teased me mercilessly all morning?’

‘Rubbish. I’ve shown lots of mercy.’

‘Forgive me for not noticing, Mr McKinnon.’

He grinned and turned the key in the ignition and as the motor revved he said, ‘So are you going to tell me your real middle name?’

His arrogant assumption that she would tell him was so annoying—especially when he wouldn’t tell her one measly thing about Tim. And, although it was trivial by comparison, the thought that he really wanted to know her middle name was exquisitely satisfying.

‘Never,’ she said.

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