Page 159 of Crossed Wires: The Complete Series
That’s also bullshit. The way Amy talked, the two of them are damn near sisters. If Harper Shaw’sa lesbian, Amy would know.
“So you’re telling me,” Marc narrowed his eyes at Ronnie, “the kiss from the boss was more to Harper Shaw’s tastes than a kiss from either of us?”
The other man smirked. “Istand more of a chance of kissing her than you do, Thomo.”
Marc raised his eyebrows, folding his arms. “Is that right?”
“It is. And despite the fact I’m in the shit with the boss now, I’m glad I sent you two on a bum steer. At least Harper didn’t have to put up with you playing your game like you do.”
“Our game?” Marc affected a wounded expression. “Ah, Big Mac, you hurt me, mate. You really do. Blue and I don’t play any games. We are who we are and that’s just the way it is.”
Ronald McNamara snorted. “Who you are? Yeah, I know who you two?—”
“Aren’t you meant to be dealing with a cow in the old eastern billabong right about now, Ronald?”
Keith’s calm voice cut over Ronnie’s sneer. The man stopped, sliding his stare from Marc to Keith. “You telling me what to do, Blue?”
Keith nodded. A single dip of his head.
“Since when are you?—”
“Since about fifteen minutes ago,” Marc answered, uncrossing his arms to drape an elbow on the roof of the beat-up ute. “The boss told us. Apparently there’s a memo.”
Ronnie’s jaw bunched.
Marc was enjoying himself. He shouldn’t be. Not really. He got why Big Mac was pissed at him—the YouTube clip had been pretty bloody hilarious after all—but Ronald brought it all on himself. For starters, he’d covered Marc’s saddle in superglue the morning of the last south-herd roundup. For seconds, he’d used Marc’s toothbrush to clean his work boots after mopping up the mess of a calf being born.
Marc considered himself a pretty easygoing bloke, but when it came to Ronald…well, as his dead dad had always said, not everyone was meant to get along in this world. Farpoint Creek was no different, even if itwasheaven on earth.
“Probably best you bugger off, Ronnie.” Keith’s voice was still calm, but Marc didn’t miss the edge to it. His friend had reached that point most of the hired hands recognized straightaway. The point where they shut up their yapping, quit their whining, put their heads down and got their arses out of there.
Marc couldn’t help but smile, a sense of pride rolling through him for the other man. There was a reason Hazel Sullivan had called Keith a born leader; it was just a matter of time before he decided to actually be one.
A cold finger of foreboding slipped up Marc’s spine at the thought. Fuck, what happened when Keithdidhead off to run his own station? Did Marc follow him? They never discussed any plans beyond the next day. Life was, in Marc’s opinion, too short to get serious about shit like that, but whatwouldhe do if faced with the choice of Keith on a station somewhere else and Farpoint, the place he’d spent his entire life? His only real home?
“You two think you’re so bloody funny, doncha?” Ronnie’s sneer yanked Marc away from the disquieting thought.
“Nothing funny about me, mate,” Keith was saying, his eyes lost in the shadows of his hat. “But Thomo’s a bloody riot.”
For a still moment, Ronnie didn’t move. Marc tensed, his body flooding with adrenaline at the distinct possibility the other man was going to try to slam one into Keith. It wouldn’t be the first time he and Keith had been in a fistfight. Just the first one with Big Mac.
And then, with a grunt, Ronnie stormed around to the driver’s side of the ute and yanked open the door.
“Don’t think you’re going to fit the cow in the back.”
Ronnie glared at Keith over the roof. “You know there’s no cow, right?”
Keith’s lips pulled into a slow smile. “Of course I do. But I’m still sending you out to look for one at the billabong.” He paused a beat. Long enough for Marc to see his knuckles whiten. “On foot.”
With a muttered curse, Ronnie slammed the door shut, shot one last glare at Keith—threw one Marc’s way for good measure—and then stormed away, fists clenched.
“Fuck a duck, Blue.” Marc let out a ragged breath. “That was tense.”
Keith let out his own breath, a long, slow exhalation that saw his broad shoulders loosen. “Remind me to punch the crap out of Dylan when he gets back from his honeymoon, will you? None of this would have happened if the bastard hadn’t taken off now.”
“Oh yeah, you really think I’m going to encourage you to hit the man who pays my wage?”
Keith snorted, removing his hat to drag a hand through his hair. “Hunter pays your wage, Thomo. He’s the brother in charge of the money.”
