Ringer Read Online Free PDF

demeanour had softened, or if his face was still scarlet with fury;
instead, a long silence settled in the room and just as I hoped he would
finally speak, he did.
    “Not good enough,” he said, before turning
to make his way out of my room and slamming the door behind him.
    Right then, I really wished he hadn’t
spoken at all.
     
    ***
     
    The room I once dreaded returning to now
had turned into my sanctuary. A safe haven from broody fathers and offended
farmhands. It served me well for the first hour as I busied myself by unpacking
my bags, then heading to my en suite for a shower, slipping into something more
comfortable, and crashing onto my bed before falling into a deep, much-needed
sleep.
    Hours later, as the simmering summer sun
dipped from the sky, it wasn’t the much-welcomed dip in the temperature gauge
that stirred me from my slumber; instead, it was the feeling of my head
slamming into the bedhead as a heavy, bony-weight body slammed me out of my
sleep.
    “Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!” the voice
screamed, as my mattress bounced to the beat of the sing-songed chants.
    “Ugh, get off, Moira,” I said, feeling my
palm on a face and pushing; it did little to stop her bony knees in my rib
cage.
    “Sacre-bleu,” she exclaimed. Always with
the French words.
    I blindly fumbled with the side table,
awkwardly feeling for the lamp switch. I squinted at the offending beam,
blinking as my eyes adjusted; it didn’t help that Moira lay a mere inches away
from me, her head resting on her hand, smiling her metal-mouthed smile, her
eyes sparkling with glee. My icy façade thawed seeing my little sister, seeing
that look of happiness on her face, expecting her to voice how much she had
missed her big sis’.
    “Oh my gosh, Miranda. Have you seen the
hottie Dad hired? Hubba-hubba,” she said, wiggling her brows.
    The smile slipped from my face—my adorable
boy-crazy little sister: some things never changed.
    I pulled the blanket up to my chin. “He’s
not that hot,” I scoffed.
    Moira sat bolt upright. “Are you serious?
You don’t think Ringer is smoking hot?”
    My head snapped around to frown at Moira.
“Ringer?”
    “Yeah, that’s his name, how cool is that?”
she said with intense enthusiasm.
    “What a ridiculous name.”
    Moira sighed, hugging one of my pillows. “I
think it’s awesome.” Her eyes had glassed over with gooey affection; it was the
same moony expression each time Bluey brought the shearers out to Moira in
shearing season. She was so embarrassing; the day they had shipped her off to
an all-girls’ boarding school couldn’t have happened soon enough.
    Moira snapped out of her daydreaming and
shifted herself into a cross-legged position. “So, what did you bring me back
from Paris?”
    “Nothing.” I yawned.
    “Yeah, right,” she said, playfully nudging
my shoulder.
    “It’s true; what could I possibly get a
girl who has it all?” I mocked seriousness, causing Moira to pummel me some
more; the only protection was the doona I laughed and hid under. The squeals
and squeaks of the bed mattress soon came to an abrupt halt at the sound of a
cough from the doorway.
    I slowly peeled the cover over my head,
wiping the wisps of hair from my face; I instinctively knew who that sound
belonged to.
    My mother.
    And, unlike my dad, she was less than
thrilled to see me.

 
     
    Chapter Seven
     
    Ringer
     
     
    Dusk settled
into night and I found myself languishing in the peace and coolness of the
evening.
    Rocking on the back legs of the chair in
front of the shearers’ huts, I had wasted little time relocating myself to the
out building. No matter how big the house was, it was never going to be big
enough for Miranda Henry and me. The wench should have come with a warning
label.
    I blew on my cup of tea before shaking my
head and taking a sip.
    Tea.
    I had to laugh: hours from home in a simple
shearers’ quarters drinking tea, alone, on a Saturday night.
    What the fuck was I doing with my