Misplaced Hands: 4 (Foreign Affairs) Read Online Free PDF

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.
    “I’m just going to dump this suitcase in the bedroom,” Keith’s voice dragged his focus from the closest vase, “and we can get going. The mob marked for the Cobar sale yards needs to be counted and as far as I know, they’re still in the south paddock.”
    “Great.” Marc followed him toward the cottage’s only bedroom. “Think we can round ’em up by bike? My arse is still aching from the saddle.”
    Keith threw him a smirk. “Is that what it’s aching from?”
    Without slowing down, Marc snared a cushion from the small sofa he was passing and flung it at his friend’s head. “Shut the fuck up, Blue.”
    Keith ducked the cushion, which then promptly slapped against the closed bedroom door with a soft thud. “Told you not to try to beat Hunter last week. He may be more a desk jockey nowadays than a cattleman, but he’s still a bloody good bull-rider.”
    “You didn’t tell me not to do it.” Marc shoved his hands into his back pockets as Keith deposited the American’s suitcase on the foot of Amy’s double bed. “You just told me I’d be…”
    His words faded away, his pulse slamming in his neck, his heart in his throat, as a door in the bedroom swung open. The door leading to the small adjoining bathroom.
    The door in which Harper Shaw now stood frozen, as naked as they come, her hair wrapped in a towel, her lips parted in a stunned O, her stare jerking from Marc to Keith and back to Marc again.
    “Shit!” Keith burst out, his strained voice shattering the silence. “Shit, we’re sorry. Sorry. We thought—” He spun away from her, his face redder than the dirt outside. “We thought you were still with the boss.”
    Marc couldn’t move. He knew he should. He knew he should do exactly what Keith was