Kiwi Summer Christmas, page 1
Kiwi Summer Christmas
By
Kris Pearson
*
Copyright 2018 Kris Pearson
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is coincidental.
*
Christmas is close, and high-country shepherd Brigitte Foster and rugged farmer
Steve Sorenson need a sparkling miracle to bring them happiness.
She has the three wise dogs. He has the repainted stable. But will they be enough?
*
Chapter 1 – An Unexpected Invitation
Brigitte Foster sat astride the shuddering quad-bike and for about the ninety-ninth time reviewed her decision to leave the farm.
Majestic and beautiful, the New Zealand landscape made her heart swell. The shepherding job at Silver Peaks had been an incredible opportunity. She’d learned so much. Stretched her confidence. Been in heaven working with her dogs.
But she was lonely with no prospective partner on the horizon. Unsettled with no shape to her life yet. And in winter, in the snow, she froze here, however many layers of wool and waterproofing she piled on.
Further down the steep hill her younger dogs were in good control of the woolly mob they were driving to the yards. Fella, Ben and Hitch had long futures ahead of them. It would almost kill Brigitte to sell them, but they’d bring good prices, and that was the reality of her life. She whistled, and her signal echoed through the valley. The trio obeyed and turned the mob fractionally.
Twisting around on the quad, she fondled old Jess’s head for comfort. The Border collie gazed at her with adoring eyes, one of which was clouded with cataracts. They’d started their first job together when Brigitte was eighteen; no way would Jess ever be sold.
“How are you doing there, Jess?” she crooned. “Not too cold for your old bones? I’m planning to go somewhere warmer, so you hang in there a while longer.”
Jess gave a soft wuff and buried her nose in Brigitte’s hand. Ten years together. Absolute love.
*
Steven Sorenson scanned the online farming news and stopped when he found the ad for three working dogs. Owner giving up shepherding. Why? Illness? Retirement? No clues, except that the dogs worked well as a team, and there was an unwritten but somehow obvious plea they should be kept together. Steve needed another good dog, but not three. Someone was going to be out of luck. Would it be him, or the owner, or the dogs?
The ad ended with ‘Brigitte’ and her mobile number. Maybe a foreigner leaving New Zealand? The name Brigitte sounded somewhat foreign.
He glanced out to the darkening lawn, knowing his mother would have a fit if she saw how he’d let the grass get away in her absence. Then he checked his watch. Brigitte, whoever she was, should be off work by now. He grabbed his phone.
It rang four times before a breathless voice answered. “Hello? Brigitte Foster.”
Not foreign then. “Yeah – Steve Sorenson, enquiring about your dogs.”
“Oh.”
She didn’t sound thrilled. Was he too late? Had she already sold them? “All collies?” he asked, hoping she’d chat for a while. He’d had enough of his own company. “That’s unusual. No huntaways?”
A short gap. A sigh. “Well, my first was a collie. And she was so good, I just…” She hesitated.
“Kept going with the same?” Steve supplied.
“Yes, I guess. Three and four years old, like I said in the ad.”
He swung his feet onto the coffee table and settled more comfortably into the sofa cushions. “Why are you selling?”
Nothing for a few moments again, then she cleared her throat. “I don’t want to. I love shepherding, but this place is so cold. I don’t think I could stand another snowy winter.”
“So move somewhere warmer. Where are you?”
“Outside Taihape.”
He whistled. “Yup – like a freezer up there sometimes.”
“And… also… it’s not that I’m exactly lonely, but everyone’s married here, and decent social events are pretty few and far between.”
Steve scratched his jaw. She was probably ugly as sin. Boring as all get-out. Needy. Clingy. There’d be something wrong, for sure. He summoned up every reason why this was a bad idea, but not looking forward to yet another microwaved meal on his own, he asked, “Can you get as far as Hunterville? I’m south of Halcombe. We could meet at the pub, grab some food, discuss the dogs.”
He squeezed his eyes closed and grimaced, embarrassed to be practically begging a total stranger for a date. But yeah, unrewarding social events, no suitable partner in sight – not a million miles from his own situation. With his parents in Europe for a long-anticipated holiday he was stuck here, rattling around in the big old farmhouse, keeping the whole place going. He’d had enough of his own company. And she had a pretty voice. A little bit of a catch in it. It would be no hardship listening to her for an hour or so.
“This evening? I could be there by seven-thirty? I have more photos of the dogs on my phone.”
Huh! He sat up straight. “O-kayyyy… The Argyle on the corner? That’s a bit further for you to travel than me. Or there’s Ohingaiti?”
“Hunterville’s fine. I wasn’t planning on doing anything too important tonight.”
Suddenly energised, Steve set his feet on the floor. “Right. I’m six two. Wearing a grey jersey with a black stripe around the chest.”
“Long brown ponytail,” the unknown Brigitte replied. “Um… red hoodie. See ya.”
*
She sucked on her bottom lip. Why on earth had she agreed? At least she couldn’t come to any harm in a pub. If he was an old perv she’d simply leave and curse the waste of time and petrol. But six-two – he couldn’t fake that. And he’d sounded efficient and as though he knew about working dogs. Maybe not so old, either. His voice was deep, Kiwi, and not rough. Had he been sent to boarding school? Entirely possible if he’d grown up way out in the countryside.
She glanced at her watch. No time for a shower or messing with makeup, but some fresh lip-gloss at least, and she’d brush out her hair because wearing a woollen hat over the bundled-up mass did it no good at all. She shook her head at her fanciful thoughts. They’d only be talking about dogs, for heaven’s sake.
*
Steve drove up to Hunterville with his music on full blast to keep him awake. His parents were away for weeks yet, farm-hand Hemi was unwilling to go too far from base with his wife expecting their first child any day now, and he’d given Gav the sack after finding yet more concealed marijuana plots on Sorenson land. Which left him way short of manpower and stressed to the max.
He coasted up the wide main street of the country town and braked to a halt outside the pub. The evening chill hit him as he stepped out of the pick-up truck. Yep – no fun working in the high country for too long. You couldn’t blame the girl for wanting to get away from it.
Inside, beer fumes and the rich smell of grilling steaks and frying chips settled around him and made his gut gurgle. A long silky ponytail shook and jiggled over a fleecy red hoodie as its owner engaged in conversation with the barman. Her? He stepped closer. “Brigitte?”
She glanced over her shoulder. Bright blue eyes inspected him from under raised brows. “Steven?”
“Or just Steve. You’re here. Great.”
She turned to face him more fully. “Wasn’t sure quite how long the drive would take. Can I buy you a beer?”
“As long as I pay for dinner.”
She began to object, and he dived in with, “To make up the petrol difference. You drove further.”
“Pffft!” she said. “I bet you drive a real gas-guzzler if you’re thinking like that.”
He shrugged and grinned. “A Corona, then. Thanks. I’ll grab a table.” He wove through the noisy crowd, trying to find a quiet corner. No chance, but the barman might have tweaked the volume down on the big TV when the rugby changed to tennis, or maybe tennis was simply quieter. An improvement, anyway. He found a table with one chair. Manhandled another over from the adjacent setting that wasn’t being sat on, and stayed standing so she’d find him. She hadn’t dressed up for him, but given she was only here to sell dogs, what could he expect? Jeans, work boots, and the red hoodie which he hoped she’d unzip once she warmed up. Carrying no extra weight – no wonder she felt the cold. She needed feeding up.
A couple of minutes later she walked slowly across to him with two beers and empty glasses upturned over the necks of the bottles, trying not to let her shoulder bag slip off.
He reached for the beers and she gasped and made a grab for the bag strap as it finally slid down. “Thanks. That could have been embarrassing. I seem to have half a ton of stuff in there.”
He set the beers on the table top and put the glasses beside them. “Women’s handbags. All the same.”
“You’re the expert, are you?” Her big blue eyes held a definite challenge.
Steve sat, pushing one bottle and glass in her direction and lifting his own bottle in an ironic salute. “My mother seems to carry plenty in hers. I watched her having a cleanout a while ago before she went to Europe. Phone, notebook, two clanking keyrings – she can’t possibly need that many keys.”
The corners of Brigitte’s mouth curved up, and, enjoying her smile, he added, “Make-up galore. Heaps of paper. It looked like receipts for everything she’d bought in months. Seven lipsticks – I counted.”
“So you don’t have a wife who cleans out her handbag?”
That sounded pretty direct. He straightened his shoulders. “No wife or I wouldn’t be here at the pub with you – even if we’re only talking dogs.”
She shrugged and looked away. “That probably came out wrong. Sorry.”
He relaxed at her grudging apology. “Family farm. I’ll inherit it, along with the mortgage, sometime in the future. I’m still living at home. You probably disapprove?”
She looked really discomfited, and shot him a cautious glance before opening the flap of her bag and peering inside. “I said I was sorry. Ignore me. So… no make-up here. Well, one lip-gloss. Cake of chocolate.” She placed it on the table top.
“You’re an unusual woman if you can keep chocolate sealed up.”
“Mmm,” she said. Which might have been agreement, or might not. “Car keys. Dog treats. Phone…” She rattled around and pulled out half a dozen pretty stones which she laid on the table.
Steve quirked a brow. “They must weigh plenty.”
“From a walk by the river. I was going to use them in a painting and haven’t got around to it yet. They’ve got lovely markings.” She nudged one toward him.
“You paint?” He pulled it closer, weighed it in his palm. “How long have you been carrying them around?”
She shook her head, and her golden-brown pony-tail danced. “No idea. A few weeks? Life got kind of busy and I don’t use this bag much.”
He set the stone down with the others and was surprised when she produced a small sketchpad from the side pocket. How much more did she have in there? She shuffled her chair closer to his and opened the pad to reveal a pencil drawing of an old dog. Then she flipped the page over. Three younger dogs, heads tilted to the side and bristling with energy. “I’ll hate being without them.” She buried her teeth in her bottom lip for a few seconds.
Then flowers on a flax stem, with a tui dipping its long, curved beak into one. He imagined the bird taking flight, dark feathers sheened blue and green in the sun. “You do big stuff too?” he asked, reaching for the pad and investigating further. “These are really good.”
She smiled slightly, but didn’t look him in the eye. “Can’t do much big stuff – not with the way I’ve been living. Sharing one of the farm cottages means there’s no room to keep anything properly set up.”
He sensed how much that annoyed her. “Yeah, no joy having to pack it away all the time.”
She unzipped her red jacket, then stood, pulled it off, and dropped it over the back of her chair. Steve’s gaze bounced from the sketchpad to her breasts. A snug navy blue merino jersey left nothing to his imagination, and his brain supplied a quick flash of his hands reaching out and cradling her. Soft against his fingers. Sweet against his tongue.
He had big hands. Her curves would fill them beautifully, even if the ribcage below them was narrow and her waist slender. He ripped his gaze downward, trying to concentrate on the rest of her, knowing his too-obvious admiration would have her running for the hills if she noticed.
The jersey was tucked into denim jeans held up with a brown leather belt. He could practically span that trim waist with his hands. For a couple of seconds his hormones took over again and he imagined unbuckling the belt and finding pretty lace panties and smooth thighs, which was even worse than ogling her boobs.
You’ve been too long without it, and you won’t be getting any tonight.
She sat again, reaching behind her and closing her fingers around the tie holding her pony-tail together. Then she ran her hand along the full length of her glossy hair, drawing the bunch forward over one shoulder and brushing the end of it to and fro against her jaw as she watched him turning the pages of her sketchpad again.
He wondered if it was a nervous habit – she seemed miles away and unaware she was doing it.
She drew a deep breath. “When I leave the farm I might have the chance to get more serious. Take some classes or join an art club, maybe.”
“You should.” His fingers itched to grab that long gleaming fall, release it from its band, and let it cascade down. How long would it be? To her waist? What would it feel like against his skin? He took a sip of his beer, then cleared his throat. “Dogs?” he suggested.
She reached over for the sketchpad and stowed it away. “That was them at the front. I can give you a better look. I know they’re still young, but they’re a good team and work well together.” She rummaged in her bag again and found her phone, scrolling through and then passing it over to him. “Fella, Ben and Hitch. All males, obviously, with those names. Fella’s a year older than the other two.”
Steve inspected the photo and finally bit the bullet. “I don’t need three. One really. Two at the most.”
She closed her eyes briefly. “Do you think they’d miss each other? I was hoping they could stay together.”
He took another swig of beer. “They’re dogs, so who knows? I’m guessing they get used to things.” He nodded toward the menu. “We’d better order. What are you having?”
Brigitte picked up the folded cream card with the pub’s logo and ‘Menu’ on the front. Green and brown, very country, trying hard for a bit of class.
Steve knew there wouldn’t be much more than a choice of steaks, deep fried battered fish, and a token vegetarian curry, but it was better than anything he was likely to heat up for himself at home, and the company was certainly welcome. He scrolled on through her photo gallery while she was occupied, hoping to find a shot where she had her hair down, or was wearing something pretty and summery and had some skin on display. No such luck. More dogs, several scenes taken at a barbecue with people milling around in front of a shearing shed. Spectacular snowy peaks and close-ups of assorted vegetation. He presumed those were for her drawings and paintings.
“Porterhouse steak, medium rare thanks,” she said, pushing the menu in his direction and reaching for her phone.
He hurriedly returned to the dogs. “Who’s the oldie? Someone from your past?”
Her face softened. “That’s my Jess from the sketchbook. Still in the present, but maybe not for much longer. She’s not a working dog any more but I still take her out with me when I can. Cataracts and arthritis.”
Steve flinched. “Cruel. Bet she feels the cold worse than you.”
Brigitte finally picked up her bottle of beer. “Yes.” She poured some into her glass, tilting it so the golden liquid slid down the side and the head of foam remained minimal.
He watched, impressed. “You’ve done that before.”
She silently acknowledged it with a nod before sipping. “Three brothers, one dad, all beer drinkers. They trained me early.”
“And you’re not mentioning your mother,” he said. “Can I ask, or would you rather I didn’t?”
She swallowed some more beer and put her glass down on the over-vanished table top. Held his gaze and then said, “She’s alive and well. She left. We both left. She was sick of being treated like a doormat, and I knew if I didn’t go too, I’d be in for a big dose of the same. So…”
He twisted his mouth to the side, thinking his own mother got her way in most things. She and his dad seemed to have their territories worked out pretty well, though. “I’ll put our order in,” he said, pushing his chair back and heading for the bar. How was he supposed to comment on mistreated wives and daughters? Out of his comfort zone, for sure.
*
Brigitte flipped her ponytail over her shoulder so it hung down her back again. She knew she played with it when she was nervous. Why did Steve Sorenson make her nervous? And why had she blurted that about them leaving her dad and her brothers? Now he’d think she’d grown up in a terrible home, and she hadn’t. Not really. Her dad had assumed things would be done his way, her brothers had followed his example, and her mother had given in rather than have constant arguments and fights. How many times had she heard her father say, “In my home” as though her mother made no contribution to it? With her part-time job and her ceaseless cooking and cleaning up after her four unthinking males, she contributed constantly, but she’d chosen peace at all costs. There were probably households like that all around the world.
By contrast, Steve was easy company. Not a tyrant like her dad. Or so she assumed, because he’d looked pretty upset when she’d mentioned being treated like a doormat. She should be able to relax with him because this wasn’t a date. Just a chat about her dogs, and they hadn’t even done much of that yet.
