Page 45 of Where the Wattles Bloom

Nonetheless, sandwiched between the church-run burger stand and the CWA tearooms, the Cattleman was an institution, having served beer to thirsty show goers for over a century.

Not bad for a pub that was only open two days a year.

It was crowded as per usual on the last afternoon of the two-day event. All the livestock had been shown, all the wood had been chopped and all the ribbons had been awarded. It was time to relax and socialise, with what felt like the entire cross-section of rural Australia milling around the bar.

Everyone from jackaroos and jillaroos to farm hands to station owners, from ag experts to machinery and grain reps, from local government pen pushers to cowboys to townies whose businesses formed vital supply chains. The Cattleman didn’t care where you came from or what you did; it welcomed everybody.

Unlike Stevo, who was cutting loose, Lachlan had been sitting on his second beer for a while. He had to drive home in a bit and for damn sure Thommo would be sitting on the road out of town with his handheld breathalyser.

‘Now that is one fine-looking filly.’

Lachlan turned slightly and looked over his shoulder, almost choking on his mouthful of beer as Rowena, drenched in winter sunshine, sauntered past the open frontage of the pavilion.

Holy shit.

He’d caught a glimpse of her leaving for work this morning in her hospital-issue navy trousers and navy polo shirt, her hair pulled back in that neat ponytail.

She did not look like that now.

She’d changed into jeans and a fire-engine red, long-sleeved t-shirt. It was pushed up to her elbows and hugged her chest to perfection. Gone was the ponytail, her hair swinging free, sliding between her shoulder blades as she looked around, taking in the sights.

She looked like a goddamn walking emergency beacon.

Quickly swallowing the dregs of his beer, he clapped his hat on his head and Stevo on the shoulder. ‘I’m outta here.’

‘Oi,’ Stevo called after him. ‘I saw her first.’

Lachlan, who didn’t stop walking, muttered, ‘No fucking way, buddy.’

He dashed out of the pavilion, catching sight of her easily in the crowds who were determined to enjoy the annual event to the very last second. This evening the show would culminate in fireworks, and he had no doubt that, whatever the capacity was at right now, it would be double at eight o’clock tonight.

Striding purposefully, dodging prams and escapee kids and people just stopping to chat in the middle of the goddamn concourse, he reached her as quickly as possible, announcing himself as he sidled up. ‘Hey.’

‘Oh.’

She stumbled a little at his sudden appearance and he castigated himself. Smooth. Real smooth.

‘Sorry.’ He slid a steadying hand beneath her elbow. ‘Didn’t mean to startle you.’

‘Where’d you come from?’

Lachlan tipped his head in the direction of the Cattleman. ‘The bar.’

Falling into step beside her, he geared down to a stroll, which was about the speed of the surrounding masses. ‘Reggie said you did the show yesterday?’

Lachlan had made a concerted effort not to crowd her since she’d arrived. She seemed content in the quarters, keeping pretty much to herself, and apart from the odd waved greeting that had passed between them, he’d let her be.

Sure, he’d wanted to drop in and see how she was going, or just chat, but he didn’t want her to think he had some kind of agenda where she was concerned, either.

Because he didn’t.

She’d been adamant about their boundaries and he respected that. Hell, he’d even taken to wearing underwear while playing the bagpipes.

‘I was going to. But Brooke wanted to swap shifts yesterday so she and Nathan could come here last night. So I didn’t finish until nine. Figured I could just as easily come after my early shift today for a gander.’

Lachlan had heard her car drive in at nine-thirty last night but had assumed she’d come from the show, not work.

‘Fancy some company while you gander? I can tell you which stall has the best dagwood dogs and where to find the bull with the biggest balls.’