Lilian Darcy - The Australians' Brides - The Runaway and the Cattleman

“After that sales pitch …” He launched toward her and ended up deeper, wetter and probably colder, competitive the way he’d been with Nicky as a child. Couldn’t let any female get too far ahead of him, but appreciated the ones who gave him a good run for his money.

Like Liz.

He felt a twist of regret and loss and impatience. Why had he thought about Liz now? Why did he have to make everything so hard for himself? Liz would have been the last person to approve of the way he tied himself in knots.

Go for it, Callan.

He could almost hear Liz’s voice, saying the words.

But go for what?

“Are we jumping and yelling and bunyipping today?” Jac asked.

“What, we’re not cold enough already? We need to get colder?”

“We need to keep moving. The rocks up on the ledge are starting to get into the sun. They’ll warm us up. I didn’t yell loud enough, the first time. I want to do it again.”

“Race you to the ledge,” he said, and won.

Just.

“You let me get that close to a win.” She was breathing hard, making her chest rise and fall in the water. He wanted to look down, ogle her breasts. He was tense and prickly and awkward and aware, and knew she felt pretty much the same. “You were going easy on me. Weren’t you?”

“You’ll never know, will you?”

She flicked water in his face, and then they both climbed onto the ledge.

The way they’d done last Saturday, they ran and jumped and yelled, swam and climbed and ran to jump again. “Why is this so good?” Jac said. The highest parts of the rock ledge were in full sun, now, and the smooth granite warmed rapidly. They sat on it, stretching their legs out and making wet imprints that shrank to a vanishing point as the moisture dried. “This should go in a self-help book.”

“You ever think of writing one of those?” Callan suggested. “They sell pretty well, don’t they?”

“Never, no matter how well they sell. I don’t think I have enough answers for myself, let alone for anyone else!”

“I can’t imagine self-help books give people real answers. I’ve looked at some. They always make it sound too easy. And if they do give answers … What about your novel? Doesn’t a novel need answers?”

“Yes, but they’re messy ones. Nice and human and flawed. Not definitive.”

“But basically, with a novel, you control the universe. You can make it all work out just the way you want. That must be pretty nice.”

“Not always. I mean, it is nice, but you can’t always do it. You’d be surprised. Characters sometimes refuse to behave.”

“Make them.”

“You can’t. They have minds of their own. If they don’t, then they’re made of cardboard and readers can tell. I mean, I’ve never finished my novel so I don’t know why I’m sounding like such an authority on the strength of thirty thousand words. All I know is, there have definitely been times when my characters didn’t behave, and the right thing seemed to be to let them take control.”

“When you talk about your writing, when you’re really involved in it, your face changes.” He’d noticed it before, but the change was more marked, today.

“Does it?” She pressed her hands to her cheeks, embarrassed, laughing a little. “Hope the wind doesn’t shift direction, then.”

“No, it’s a good kind of change. Your eyes get a spark in them. You smile more. You move more. Are you working on your novel, in Lockie’s notebook?”

“No.” She shook her head vigorously. “No, I’m not.” She paused. “At least …”

“So you are?”

“Oh … no … I had a couple of thoughts about my main character, that’s all. I’m sure it doesn’t mean anything. I haven’t written a word.”

“Are you going to try? You should. You shouldn’t give up on something like that. You shouldn’t let it defeat you.”

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