Misplaced Hands: 4 (Foreign Affairs) by Lexxie Couper, Mari Carr Page B

hurts.”
    * * * * *
     
    The day had been a stinker. The south mob hadn’t behaved at all, more than one steer running amuck as Keith and Marc tried to round them up. Keith had resorted to not only using his dog, Jett—a tough-as-nails kelpie—but Dylan’s dog, Mutt, as well. Both dogs were amazing, running the herd of Angus down until the cattle finally went where Marc and Keith wanted them. However, two hours out from penning the lot, a bloody eight-foot brown snake in the grass got them riled and he and Marc spent the next three hours rounding the bellowing bloody things up again. Six hours on horseback, in the blazing Outback sun, after fuck-all sleep made for a very agitated Keith.
    Especially when, despite all the shit from the cattle, his mind constantly kept wandering back to Harper Shaw.
    The day would have gone much smoother if he could have kept his focus on the job rather than fantasizing about the gorgeous American teacher. The trouble was, every time his mind turned to her, the pit of his stomach clenched in a warm knot he knew damn well was happiness.
    Checking Whippet’s hooves one last time, Keith walked out of his horse’s pen and removed his hat from his head. “Thank bloody God that’s done.”
    Marc grinned at him over Kilowatt’s back, his hand working the scraper over the stallion’s rump. “You getting too old for this shit, Blue?”
    Keith snorted, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Think I am, mate. Maybe it’s time to cash in and buy one of those swank apartments overlooking the harbor in Sydney?”
    Marc snorted, returning his attention to his horse’s coat. “Yeah, yeah. You’ll live in the city the day hell has snow lifts and pay-to-rent ice skates.”
    Keith returned his hat to his head. Marc was right. He’d rather hack off his left nut with a blunt pocketknife than live in the big smoke.
    “Reckon we should have taken Legs out with us today? Given the young bloke a run at controlling the mob?”
    Keith shook his head, picturing the seventeen-year-old jackaroo Dylan had hired before heading off on his honeymoon. “Not yet. He’s still dodgy on a horse. He may have come first in his class at Tocal and know his Black Angus from his red blindfolded, but throwing him into a muster when he still can’t stay seated in a saddle isn’t smart.”
    Marc chuckled. “And leaving him with Big Mac was? Poor bugger’s probably quit by now.”
    Keith leaned his shoulder against the entrance to Whippet’s pen and shoved his hands in his pockets, watching his best mate scrape the sweat and dirt from his own horse. “Big Mac may be a tosser, but he can teach Legs how to get the drenching pit ready better than you or me.” He adjusted his weight on the metal threshold. “As much as I hate to admit it, the bloke knows his way around a chemical mix.”
    With a pat on Kilowatt’s rump, Marc joined Keith outside the horse’s pen. “True. So, when are we going to talk about the Harper situation?”
    At the mention of Harper’s name, Keith’s jaw clenched. “What’s the Harper situation, Thomo?” he asked, striving to keep his voice calm.
    “The one where we both spend every bloody waking minute thinking about her. That one. The one where we can’t wait to see her again and keep looking at our watches hoping it’s the end of the day and not five bloody minutes after we looked the last time. That one.” Marc folded his arms, leaned his back against the opposite frame of the pen’s opening. “The one where we start to work out how the hell to convince her not to go back to the U.S. when the fortnight finishes. That situation.”
    Keith ground his teeth, balling his fists in his pockets. It wasn’t long at all before Harper flew back to Chicago. He didn’t like that idea.
    He hadn’t figured on falling for her when they’d taken her to the billabong three days ago. He’d thought they’d all flirt a little. Maybe he’d get a look in before she