A Shearer’s Run

Chapter One

Panicked bleating cut through the evening air as Poppy Fletcher waded knee-deep into George O’Sullivan’s dam, her gumboots clinging to the stinky mud with each step. Face set, she lunged for the trapped sheep.

‘Come on, you stubborn—’ The words died as her boots sank deeper into the bottom of the mud like quick-setting concrete. Maybe wearing gumboots into the dam hadn’t been her brightest idea . . .

Planting her hands on her hips, she glared at the ewe before looking up at George, who wore a smile as large as a half-moon. ‘I don’t think you’re winning this round, young Poppy.’ His weathered face crinkled with amusement from the top of the bank, his walking stick tapping against his leg. ‘Better lose those boots of yours if you want to shift her.’ His kelpie, Rowdy, who had only a couple of weeks ago given birth to her pups, gave a quick bark, at her or at the ewe, she wasn’t sure.

She’d arrived to help George recover from his fall, and this was the thanks she got? She might love him like a grandfather, but wrestling sheep in a dam that was more mud than water—thanks to the drought—was taking things a tad too far in her opinion. But George deserved every bit of help she could give. He’d made it clear he didn’t want to go into a nursing home, so this was her way of helping him stay as long as he could.

The cool breeze caused goosebumps to ripple along her damp arms as she bent to wrestle her first foot free, the squelchy mud sliding between her toes as she wobbled back and forth. She sucked in a sharp breath as she fought to regain her balance, emptying the boot ceremoniously before tossing it to the water’s edge.

Narrowed eyes angled in George’s direction, and she ignored the chuckle he had a cheeky habit of using when she was in a pickle, which just happened to be more often than not. ‘You’re lucky I didn’t make you get in here,’ she said, pointing a waggling finger at him despite the smile she could feel rising on her cheeks.

She released the second boot from its suction grip, tossing it to the side of the dam before she inched her way towards the ewe again.

‘Baa.’

Poppy blew out a long breath, the mud clawing at her feet as her legs dragged against the dead weight of her soaked jeans. If she hadn’t done her routine check of George’s dams earlier that afternoon, this ewe might have been dead by morning.

She still might not make it.

‘Easy, girl. I’m here to help you.’ Gathering a breath, she launched herself, the ewe fighting against the suction grip of the mud to leap out of Poppy’s reach.

‘Watch her, Poppy,’ George warned. ‘She’s a bit cantankerous.’

‘You think?’ she growled as the ewe’s big, brown eyes widened and her head thrashed about.

Poppy puffed as she blinked against the splashes of water dripping down her face. She’d already had a big day, drenching George’s sheep and shifting stock to newly rested paddocks. He didn’t have that many sheep on the grand scale of things, but there was always enough for her to keep an eye on. The opportunity had been a godsend after . . .

Poppy looked up as the roar of a diesel engine came over the top of the hill. Twin headlights and a lightbar the length of a football field blinded her, and she squinted against the glare bouncing off the water, shying away as the ewe continued to thrash her head. The four-wheel-drive descended with a low chug, illuminating the entire dam.

‘Turn down your bloody high beams!’ Poppy muttered, grasping the ewe’s sodden wool as the sheep fought harder. She squinted at the ute curiously. She had been in Tasmania for two weeks and George hadn’t had any visitors. So why now?

The ute eased to a stop, the lights dimming, thankfully. Fighting to see through the jarring spots in her eyes, she saw a man hop out and stand beside George. His battered Akubra sat snugly on his head, casting a shadow, but she caught a flash of white teeth.

With muddied water dripping from her hair and her feet glued to the bottom of the dam, her patience snapped. The tighter she held on, the more the ewe fought, and Poppy glared at both men, not caring who the heck was with George or why he was there.

‘Well?’ she puffed, shaking the water from her face as she wrestled the ewe, her shoulders almost wrenched from their sockets. ‘Are you planning to help or just enjoy the show?’

‘All you had to do was ask.’ His voice carried lazy amusement. ‘Just hold on, okay?’ He strolled back to his ute—actually strolled—while she stood in this rank water with an increasingly desperate sheep.

‘Easy for you to say,’ she called back, shaking her head as more droplets shimmied from her hair. She glanced at George with a what-the-heck glare on her face, not missing the smile he was wearing with infuriatingly bright delight. She would be having words with him later, once she was out of this pitiful predicament.

George had been her one and only Tasmanian client, visiting each year and classing his wool to help him out. With some long, hard years and low wool prices, she wanted nothing more than to see him have a good year, enough to get back on his feet. And his shearing wasn’t far off from beginning again.

Poppy’s jaw clenched as the stranger returned from his ute, making a deliberate loop in the rope like he was demonstrating some fancy-pants knot at a country show.

The ewe kicked out beneath the water, connecting with her shin.

‘Ouch!’ Her yelp escaped before she could stifle it.

‘You okay there?’ His cheeks lifted in a lazy smile like he had all the time in the world to spare, his eyes never leaving hers despite the ewe continuing to wrestle her head free of Poppy’s grip.

‘I might be if you’d hurry up and help,’ she said, her teeth now chattering, the evening air seeping in deeper than her feet in the slimy mud. Drought be damned. She was going to need an hour-long shower to warm up, and free herself from this muddy stench.

He approached the edge of the dam as the glow from the ute lights highlighted the rippling water dancing about. ‘Here, take this and put it around her middle.’ He made to throw the rope towards her.

‘You seriously want me to ask the ewe, nicely, if she wouldn’t mind lifting one leg, then the other, all while I reach down below her, without her kicking me, again, and get that rope around her middle?’

Was he for real?

‘Well, I’d rather not get wet, so yeah, that’d be good.’ His damned smile, all warm and sweet, deepened, the cute dimple in his cheek unmistakable in the proximity they shared.

But his sheer audacity left her speechless—for a full three seconds. Then she smiled—the sweet smile she’d perfected especially for her four brothers when they were playing “piggy in the middle” . . . and she was the “piggy”. ‘Of course. How silly of me.’

Her tone must have broken through his casual confidence because his expression shifted, and with obvious reluctance, he dropped the rope, tugging off his work boots with careful precision, placing them neatly beside one another. Even his socks were folded. Poppy’s eyebrows lifted in disbelief.

He slipped into the water and sidled up beside the ewe, and his arm brushed hers. She jerked away instinctively as electricity raced up her arm before staring at him, and for a moment neither of them moved.

He tilted his head back just enough for her to catch his eyes in the dim light—darker than she’d expected, studying her with compassionate intensity.

Her pulse hammered against her throat. This was exactly what she’d come to Tasmania to avoid.

‘Right, let’s get this done,’ he said, and before she could react, he lifted the sodden ewe like she was lighter than a feather. Muscles corded along his forearms as he effortlessly held the still-struggling animal steady.

Poppy grabbed the rope, careful not to look in his direction or touch him again, threading the rope through the water and underneath the sheep. When he lowered the ewe back down, he took the rope from her, their hands brushing despite her caution.

She hiked an eyebrow before sharply looking away, perplexed by her unwanted feelings. She tried to focus on the ewe, but her distracted mind was calling her on a rebellious path she didn’t want to go down. She had seen his hands, calloused from hard work, maybe fencing? The thought did funny things to her insides, and she fought to shut it down. She didn’t want any romantic distractions in her life.

Ever again.

‘Now push her, and I’ll pull.’

Uh, what? She looked up at his expectant face, noticing the lines of concentration around his eyes. She saw it, the way he cared about the welfare of this ewe. A warmth filtered through her.

Poppy took a deep breath, mustering her strength before heaving the ewe forward as he pulled on the rope, his arms straining against the tension as though he’d done it a thousand times before. Together, they wrestled the panicking animal, puffing from the effort.

Poppy hauled herself from the water, teeth chattering as she hugged her arms around herself. She focused on emptying her boots—every last dribble—anything to avoid looking at him.

‘Won’t go in there with those on next time, will you?’ he said, smiling lightly as he hauled the dripping ewe into the back of his ute, laying her on her side. He’d done this kind of thing before?

‘Excuse me?’ She straightened, boots dripping. That lopsided smile was back, along with raised eyebrows that did nothing to slow her racing heart. Who was this guy anyway?

He needed a lesson in being a little less Mr Smarty-Pants and a whole lot more obliging, in her opinion.

‘Just sayin’.’

She tugged on her soaked boots, fighting off her building frustration before hobbling over to George’s ute. She was one-hundred percent about to be the proud owner of at least two very fat, angry blisters in her near future, but that wasn’t about to have her easing her pace.

Poppy managed a tight nod as she wrenched the ute door open, pulling George’s spare Driza-bone over her sodden clothes. The oil-slick fabric provided blessed warmth, but she could still feel this stranger’s gaze following her as he strapped the ewe’s feet together, all too aware of the broad shoulders beneath his checked work shirt.

Rick. The name popped into her mind with sudden caution. He had started with that same confident smile. She turned away, her stomach a twisted knot as memories surfaced once more.

‘Thanks for the help,’ she called without looking back, opening the driver’s side of George’s old ute.

George stepped up to the passenger door and cleared his throat, his keen gaze looking between them. ‘Poppy, this is LJ.’

The way “LJ” shifted from one foot to the other caught her attention, his focus turning from her to the ewe, his hand resting on her side until she finally stopped fighting against the rope. When he looked back up and offered her a soft smile, Poppy’s heart skipped an unexpected beat.

But she had to quickly remind herself why she had come to Tasmania. To forget men.

So why was this one, in nothing more than a passing moment, making that so damn difficult? She was here to forget Rick and get on with her life.

As a single woman.