Crossing the Bridge by Nancy Cunningham

Author:Nancy Cunningham
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Escape Publishing
Published: 2023-11-23T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty

JB woke stiff and sore, the miner’s couch mattress a hard lump under his aching muscles. He longed to wake next to another person; not a mate, not a soldier, but a woman, one soft and tender. Then he remembered his nightmare. The smell of wet earth had filled his senses. How the hell did he go through the horrific maelstrom in the jungle and come out alive?

‘Ah, shit.’ It took him a full minute to realise what the hell happened last night. His neck clicked as he sat up and moved his head. He grabbed the rest of his clothes from the chair and pulled them on, his pants stiffer than a starched shirt. He stared towards the mattress in the corner. Poppy lay facing him, a strand of hair over her face, her head resting on her hands like a sleeping child. Last night he’d shown her a moment of weakness, allowed her to see beyond the former soldier, but in the end she’d turned him down.

He retrieved a pack of cigarettes he’d found earlier and headed out the door. Outside, stillness surrounded the damp landscape. Dew formed on clumps of grass and drops fell from the edges of the veranda. Ten feet from the door were Bessie and Frank, and in the distance, by the creek, was Mister Peebs. He lit his cigarette and walked towards Mister Peebs, then grabbed the loose reins and walked him to the old homestead, tying him up to a post. Bessie stared up at him, lashing her tail from side to side, Frank nestled in close to her. ‘You three are nothing but trouble makers. Wait till the boss lays eyes on you. She’ll be happy to see you, though. Happier than seeing me.’

JB glanced towards the old homestead’s door and back towards the creek. ‘What am I going to say to her when she wakes, Mister Peebs? It’s all your fault, you know. Frankie, my boy, what about you? Got any advice for your old man? Or maybe I should ask your mother. Got a clue for me, Bessie? Huh?’ The cow pushed her nose in the air. ‘This kind of thing doesn’t happen every day.’

‘What kind of thing doesn’t happen every day?’ Poppy’s melodious voice came from the old homestead’s doorstep.

As unoriginal as it sounded, he wanted to say to her ‘spending a night next to a beautiful woman’, but, mindful of her rejection, he stilled. The memory of her husband’s name escaping her lips as his own pressed against the soft skin of her neck had been a profound reminder of his place, and hers. ‘Morning, Poppy.’

Poppy sat on the bottom step and smiled up at him. ‘Good morning, JB. I can’t believe it’s already warming up. It was as if a tiny bit of winter passed through, just to say hello.’

Christ, even bedraggled and tired, wearing her work clothes, her hair plastered to her face, she appeared pleasing to his eyes. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes sparkling.

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