Chapter One
Sara
The warm late-spring morning had brought out all manner of birds, butterflies and flying insects to flit among the hedgerow blooms. As she panted her way out of the village, Sara was pleased to see that the hawthorn was in full-flower and hear the rhythmic song of a yellowhammer trilling it’s familiar ‘a little bit of bread with no cheeeese’ call. Turning her head in the direction of the bursts of sound, she spotted the bright feathers of the bird perched in the top branches of the bushes as she trotted by.
Although the lane was edged with trees in full leaf, they were doing little to alleviate the heat reflecting off the black asphalt surface. Feeling both the warmth and the effects of every day that she had put off jogging for the past six weeks, Sara puffed her way up the bends of the quiet lane that twisted its way out of the village up towards White Briars’ main entranceway. Having run this way countless times over the years the route was as familiar to her as her own back yard, but familiarity, she thought wryly, did nothing to alleviate the symptoms of weeks without regular exercise.
She was absolutely sure the gradient had become steeper in her absence and as she approached the final bend of the incline she could feel her lungs burning and her energy levels sapping. Only her fierce determination and iron willpower were keeping her from slowing to a walk.
Following her usual self-motivational routine she had started at the base of hill with “I know I can, I know I can,” a chant that normally got her all the way up to the final bend. But today, at no more than a third of the way this had changed into “…I think I can, I think I can,” altering around half-way to a breathless “…I hope I can, I hope I can,” which had taken her to the final third. But now the words of The Little Engine That Could became slower and more laboured with each passing footfall. She could barely get the short syllables out at all now, “I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die,” they were uttered in short gasps as her breathing became increasingly fraught.
Head drooping, she spied the recognisable slight hump in the cracked asphalt that signified her torture was nearing an end. Heartened by the sight, she put on a last brave spurt to arrive at the grassy knoll of the top of the rise, collapsing in an untidy heap upon the fragrant primrose-strewn grass outside the gateway to what Thornden villagers had always referred to as the gypsy encampment. Growing up and living nearby most of her life, Sara had yet to see any gypsies ‘encamped’ there but the field still retained the title as a remnant from some bygone era when she supposed people were less attached to their houses and roamed the countryside more freely.
The sun must have gone behind a cloud –without its heat she felt instantly cooler. Breathing hard and only semi-alert, Sara opened her eyes to narrow slits, wiping sweat away from her brow using the hem of her top before shielding hr eyes with the back of her hand. It was not a cloud that had blocked the sun; instead her view was now obstructed by long jeans-clad legs and sturdy boots that obviously belonged to the male of the species. Great, always good to have an audience at moments like this, especially when she had just exposed her stomach and sports bra to whoever was standing over her, … “Oh please let that be Hamish or someone I know and not some total stranger…” she moaned quietly between gasps, her chest heaving in efforts to regain a tolerable level of oxygen.
“Sorry to disappoint.” The low male voice that responded did not sound at all like that of her next door neighbour. “I heard you coming up the lane. Couldn’t help but, with the din you were making. So, what are you then? The little engine that ran out of steam?”
“Oh, verrry funny. No, I’m the sometimes jogger that’s dying here,” she wheezed. “So, kindly go away and let me croak in peace.”
“That bad, aye?” He looked her over, liking what he saw. Her petite form was clad in little more than brief form-fitting shorts, a brightly coloured sports bra -which she’d given him a good eyeful of when she had pulled up the top to mop her brow- and a thin-strapped tank top. The outfit had the added benefit, in his humble opinion, of exposing a lot of lithe limbs lightly tanned from the unseasonal sun.
“You don’t look in that bad a shape to me but if you’re really dying, as you say you are, perhaps I should give you your final rites before you go.” From the wheezing sounds he’d heard coming up the rise he’d been a smidgeon concerned that she might have suffered from asthma but it seemed his concern wasn’t warranted. He was considerably relieved.
“Gee thanks,” she responded dryly. Recovering a little, she sat up and leaned back on her outstretched arms. Even through half-closed lashes she’d seen him brazenly checking her out so now openly returned the compliment. Not bad, she thought. Bit over average height. Late twenties, early thirties maybe. Built. Buff. That much was abundantly obvious as he’d taken off his shirt in the heat and was bare from the waist up, jeans riding low on narrow hips exposing a very respectable six-pack. He was holding what looked a lot like a horse brush in one hand. Belatedly, she noticed a lovely piebald-coloured horse tethered and cropping on the roadside grass behind him.
Her eyes travelled upwards. Untidy ash-blond hair that could stand a trim, sun glasses pushed up on his brow. With the light behind him she couldn’t make out his eyes or other facial details but he looked harmless enough so she made an uncharacteristically on-the-spot decision to play along with his offer. It certainly made for an interesting change in pick-up lines, if that’s what he’d intended.
“Might not be such a bad idea, the way I feel right now,” she replied, matching his own flippant tone. “Okay, here goes …Bless me father, for I have sinned. It’s been way too many weeks since my last run and I’m terribly worried I’m gonna expire right here, unabsolved for not exercising more regularly.”
He laughed as he made the sign of the cross with his right hand. “Child, I’m sure your sins are forgiven. Go and jog in peace.” He stood there, contemplating her, “There, that wasn’t so bad, was it? Now, are you going towards the light?” he questioned drolly.
“No, but if you’d get out of my sunlight, I might improve my tan,” she waved a hand for him to move over as she tartly replied.
“How about I give you a hand up instead,” he put out the hand holding the brush, “oops, forgot I was grooming Cara when you came along doing your Puffing Billy impression,” he dropped the hand for his other.
Taking affront, Sara ignored his offer and heaved herself to her feet. “I did not sound like Puffing Billy, -whoever he is,” she declared hotly.
“Panting Patty? Gasping Gertie? Winded Wilma?” he retorted, turning his back on her as he picked up where he’d left off when she come huffing and puffing into view. “Take your pick.” He unconcernedly continued brushing the horse’s back in long strokes from withers to tail. “Cara and me were thinking we’d have to throw you over her back and get you to the closest emergency room and some oxygen.” From his comment, Sara assumed Cara must have been the mare’s name. She could see Cara’s soft black ears twitching back and forth, seemingly listening in on the conversation as she grazed contentedly.
Sara was in two minds whether to walk away, –she’d have run, but her legs didn’t feel up to it yet and she didn’t need the added embarrassment of a bad case of rubber-legs- or accept the down-thrown gauntlet of this stranger’s insults. So much for thinking he might be attracted to her and she’d have to fight him off, she thought sourly.
She strolled over and laid a hand on the horse’s neck, patting the smooth, warm coat before finger combing the long mane. “It’s none of those. I’m short-of-breath Sara, if you must know. And you?” she tilted her head to one side, as if considering, “Belligerent Bertie? Grumpy Greg? Insulting Ivan?”
“Ha, ha,” he stopped brushing and looked over the mare’s wide back at her, “You’re surprisingly close, but I much prefer Gypsy Greg to grumpy, if you don’t mind. And, for your information, if you must know, I wasn’t so much ‘grumpy’ as I was a tad worried you might have been having an asthma attack. I have a sister who almo
st died once from one when we were out trekking in the Kimberleys. So the grumpy was more relief that you were merely out of breath and nothing worse.”
“Ahh,” she nodded in understanding. If she was feeling a mite sorry she’d taken umbrage she wasn’t saying. Instead, she picked up on his earlier statement. “Gypsy Greg?”
“Horse,” he spoke succinctly, indicating the solid mare he’d been brushing. “Caravan,” he twisted slightly and pointed across the field to the far side where a brightly-painted barrel-topped wagon was nestled in the shade under a huge old oak on the woodland margin, “Me,” he tapped his chest, “equals gypsy. Well, for this summer at least. I’m sort of trying the lifestyle on for size to see if it fits.”
Sara was still turned in the direction of his outstretched hand, taking in the sight of the wagon. “Wow,” she wasn’t too sure if she was impressed or not and could think of nothing else to say.
So he was ‘trying on’ the gypsy lifestyle? Nice for some. There had been a time in her life, years ago, when she would have liked nothing more than taking off from her humdrum existence and living free, travelling the road and going where whimsy might take her, but that time was long gone and a distant memory. She was a responsible mother and a successful business woman now, with multiple demands on her time that meant a gypsy life was the stuff of daydreams. Not knowing how to respond, she decided to steer the conversation into smoother waters, “You said something about the Kimberleys. That’s in Australia isn’t it? Way out west, so to speak? So are you from there? You don’t sound particularly Australian, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“Don’t mind at all. I’ve spent a number of years in Asia and Europe so the accents worn off some around the edges. But I can do ‘strine’ when I want to, mate.” He added a strongly nasal twang and a high rising terminal on the last words to prove his point.
She flinched, “That’s okay. I believe you. You’re Australian.”
“Yep, through and through, but thrilled to bits that you believe me,” he grinned.
“So what made you leave home and come half way round the world to here?” she was curious. It seemed these days, that a substantial portion of the population of the British Isles was keen to fly in the opposite direction.
“Well, I got tired of checking for redbacks on the toilet seat and brown snakes under every rock.” At her taken-aback expression, he snorted with laughter, causing Cara to raise her head and flick her ears in response. He laid a hand on the mare’s neck to calm her and she went back to grazing. “Nah, not really. I was brought up in suburban Perth and you’re more in danger from someone driving their big-ass SUV through your front fence than you are from the local wildlife.” He shrugged nonchalantly, “I guess I left home and ventured over here to earn my fame and fortune as a musician. Haven’t quite managed either yet, but I’m enjoying getting there.” He stopped brushing to inspect a hoof, running his hand down the mare’s feathered leg and clicking his tongue to signal that he wanted Cara to pick up her foot, before pulling a hoof pick out of his back pocket and cleaning the underside with practised skill. Once done, he replaced the hoof on the ground to pick up and clean the next.
Sara admired the speed and ease with which this was all accomplished. As someone with more affinity with plants than animals, she had always admired those who had expertise with the animal kingdom. Generally, she drew the line at the pigeons she bred for sale at the nursery but having acquainted herself with Hamish’s greyhound, Doug, she and her son, Matthew had been having discussions about choosing a dog for themselves. So far, both the breed and sex had been hotly debated but they were still undecided. They planned to visit the local rescue kennels in the coming weekend to check out likely candidates.
Greg patted the horse’s rump. He pulled the tether peg from the ground and started making for the open field gate. “Don’t suppose you want to come over and see the place for yourself?” he asked, nodding in the direction of the wagon.
“Ahh,” Sara prevaricated, “rain check …perhaps another time,” she glanced at her watch, “I have to be back at work in half an hour and I’m only just going to make it as it is.” She knew she would have to forego a post-run shower until later in the evening and make do with a hurried wash if she wanted to be back behind the counter in time to let her newest staff member go for lunch.
“Working for the man,” Greg commiserated.
Sara didn’t bother to enlighten him that she worked for herself. Leaning more towards Tina than Roy, in the words of the song, she acknowledged that she laboured every daylight hour that was available to her and often long into the night. This was the reason that she’d gone for so many weeks without running. There just weren’t enough hours in the day for exercise when a million things were already vying for her limited attention.
She sighed, “Yeah, something like that.” Reluctantly, she turned back to the road.
“Perhaps I’ll see you around,” Greg said by way of farewell.
“Guess it depends how long you stay.” Gypsies, by nature, she thought didn’t remain in any one place for long. She was prepared to be unsurprised should the field be empty the next time she ran past its gate.
“I’m not going anywhere just yet.” He smiled, slipping the sunglasses down over his eyes, which she had noticed on closer inspection were a shade of what she had instantly christened ‘wolf grey’. The wolf effect was emphasised even more by golden halos around the irises. His nose, she’d also noted looked as if it had been broken at some earlier time and set badly, it had a slight kink along the bridge that gave him a devil-may-care appearance. Not a bad thing on that face, she’d decided, too much perfection got a bit stale after a while and he might have been too pretty without the added fault.
“I have some gigs around so might be here a week or two, …or more. Depends how things work out,” he seemed unconcerned that his life was not planned any more than two weeks in advance. Sara couldn’t imagine how that might feel. Her calendar was full from now ‘til mid-autumn, when things might, or might not quieten down a little before the Christmas rush.
“Oh well, it was nice to meet you, gypsy Greg. I’ve gotta go,” she could think of little else to say. It was unlikely their world’s would collide unless she ran this way again in the coming fortnight and the way things were at work she doubted there would another hour free in that time to allow her to get away for a run.
He watched as she trotted off down the gentle slope, not knowing that she was heading for White Briars main gate and the shortest route back to the nursery. She had a nice smooth running style, he noted, with long strides for such a petite woman …and a nice ass in those tiny shorts, he admitted as well.
Well, Cara mia, so what do you think? Not too shabby, girl, aye what?” he chatted amiably to the horse, rubbing her nose as they ambled back towards the van.