Either way, lesson learned. Never sell bullshit to people who kill for pride.
And boys—never dig up that patch of soil. That corner of Koolaroo is dead for a reason.
Frank Branson
Chapter 22
Mitch
* * *
I jolted awake to the sound of dingoes howling in the distance.
Charlie was still asleep against my chest, her breathing soft and even. I squinted into the surrounding blackness as the howls echoed across the ravine, high and eerie, like goddamned ghosts circling in the darkness. One started, then another answered, then a whole chorus sang their creepy song to each other. Damn things made me shiver, dragging me back to that night locked in the shed. Another reason I hated my old man.
My left arm had gone completely numb from Charlie's head resting against it, but I didn't want to wake her. Not yet. After she'd finally stopped shivering last night, it had taken a long time for her breathing to even out.
Sleep hadn't come easily for me either. It was a bloody miracle we'd slept at all after yesterday's bullshit.
My pathetic fire had died in the middle of the night. The cold had set in after that, sharp and bitter. Outback nights were always brutal, but without shelter or a proper blaze, the temperature had dropped to the point where I could see my breath misting in the starlight.
The dingoes howled again, closer this time.
I shifted slightly, trying to ease the cramp in my back without disturbing Charlie. Every muscle ached. My ribs hurt from that fall, but I'd gotten lucky that none were broken. The cuts on my face had started to scab over, pulling tight every time I moved my jaw.
But I was alive. We were alive.
That was a bloody miracle.
Never thought I'd be in that kind of fight for my life out here on Branson land with anyone but Frank.
Somewhere in the distant trees, a kookaburra laughed. Thank Christ. Dawn must be coming.
I looked toward the eastern horizon, where the faintest hint of gray touched the sky, softening the black.
We'd made it through the night.
Charlie's breathing changed, becoming shallower. She was waking up.
I waited, giving her time to surface gradually instead of jolting awake in panic.
Her hand moved, fingers spreading against my chest. Then her body tensed. She jerked upright with a sharp gasp, lurching away from me like I'd burned her.
"Hey, it's okay," I said, touching her back. "You're with me, Mitch."
"Sorry." Her voice was rough with sleep. "I didn't know where I was."
"It's fine. You good?"
She sat there for a moment, knees to her chest, breathing hard, getting her bearings. In the growing pre-dawn light, she looked pale. Her hair was a mess, and dark smudges covered her left cheek and chin.
Considering what we'd been through, she still looked amazing.
I'd served with women who could hump a ruck for twenty miles without breaking a sweat, they were tough as nails, every one of them. Charlie had that same kind of strength, the kind that came from somewhere deep and didn't quit even when the shit hit the fan. But there was a softness about her, too, a vulnerability that triggered every protective instinct I'd spent years learning to suppress. It was messing with my head in ways I didn't have time for. I liked her. I liked her a lot. And that was dangerous. She was way too sweet for a man dragging around the ton of baggage I carried.
She cleared her throat. "What time is it?"
"No idea. But I heard a kookaburra a minute ago, so dawn's coming."