“Got what.”
“Feelings.”
I snort.Feelings. I don’t do feelings.
Picking up my hat, a water bottle and the satellite phone I make my way to the buggy.
Feelings. Yeah, no. Never had them, never will, and especially not for Morgan.
It’s thankfully an early finish. So, by time Beau and I get back it’s only three in the afternoon. I go to the shed, where I assume Morgan and Davis will be, but when I get there, they are not.
I stop past my place, nothing.
Where the fuck?
I make my way to the homestead and cross paths with Ron, a retired army medic. He is carrying a first aid kit, and my heart freezes and falls to the pits of my stomach.
Running past him, ignoring pleasantries, I skip the three steps up to the veranda and race inside. There in the kitchen of Brent's house is Morgan nursing a bandaged arm.
I turn to Davis, “What happened?”
“She wanted to help, so I let her. Her hand slipped and she cut up her forearm.” He says it so matter-of-factly with a little shoulder shrug.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath through my nose, tilt my head side to side, then exhale. It does nothing to suppress my anger. She’s here for protection. To be safe.
“Rhys.” Morgan’s voice cuts through my anger filled haze. “It was an accident. I’m fine. Nothing a few stitches can’t fix.”
Stitches. I don’t think, I just react. I punch Davis square in the face. “I told you to watch her.”
“Rhys, for fuck sake, I’m not a child.”
My tongue runs over my lower lip, sucking it into my mouth. Breathe.
Davis isn’t even hurt; he is wearing a shit-eating grin like he knows something. Beau walks in and lets out a low whistle.
“Why is your gender so fucking barbaric? Hit first, ask questions later.” She storms past me.
I watch her leave; we all watch her leave.
Davis breaks the silence, “Careful there, mate, or we might start to think you like her.”
“Fuck off dickhead. Shane will kick my ass if she goes back home hurt.”
“Mhmm.” And with that, Davis and his bloodied nose leave, Beau not too far behind, laughing as if this is the funniest thing.
Fuck you, Morgan Elliot. You are fucking my life and it’s only been four days.
Chapter Six
MORGAN
My arm starts to itch. It’s been three days, Ron said it was the healing phase, which unfortunately, I know all too well.
Who knew one little… I can’t remember what it was called, could cause so much damage? Well not that much. But it did leave me with fifteen stitches, done without any local anaesthetic, so that was fun.
Today, the storm is meant to hit and also marks a week since being here.
The bruises are all but gone.
