Australian Quinns: The Mighty Quinns: Brody

Callum grabbed Brody’s hand and then Teague’s and pressed all their hands together. “Wish it,” he said, dragging them closer. “Close your eyes and wish it really hard and it will happen.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in the rock,” Teague said.

“Do it!” Callum said. “Now.”

They all closed their eyes and focused on the one wish. But somehow, Brody knew this wish didn’t depend on the rock or the combined powers of the three Quinn brothers. It was up to their parents to make it come true.

When he opened his eyes, he found his brothers staring at him. Brody forced a smile, but it did nothing to relieve his fears. Something bad was going to happen, he could feel it.

He rolled over onto his stomach and slid down the side of the rock, dropping to the dusty ground with a soft thud. His horse was tethered nearby and he grabbed the reins and swung up into the saddle. As he watched his brothers jump down, Brody couldn’t help but wonder whether the rock had heard them. It was just a rock. And though it didn’t belong where it was, there probably wasn’t anything special about it.

Pulling hard on the reins, he kicked his horse in the flanks and took off at a gallop. If his mother left the station, then he was going with her. She’d need someone to take care of her, and Brody had always been able to make her smile. She’d once whispered to him that he was her favorite. If that was true, then it was his duty to leave the station. He felt the tears tumbling from his eyes and drying on his cheeks as the wind rushed by.

The breeze caught the brim of his stockman’s hat and it flew off, the string catching around his neck. Brody closed his eyes and gave the horse control over their destination. Maybe the horse wouldn’t go home. Maybe it would just keep galloping, running to a place where life wasn’t quite so confusing.

1 (#uf467a1ed-6930-5001-8aca-15fd0c125bc5)

Queensland, Australia—June, 2009

HIS BODY ACHED, from the throbbing in his head to the deep, dull pain in his knee. The various twinges in between—his back, his right elbow, the fingers of his left hand—felt worse than usual. Brody Quinn wondered if he’d always wake up with a reminder of the motorcycle accident that had ruined his future or, if someday, all the pain would magically be gone.

Hell, he’d just turned twenty-six and he felt like an old man. Reaching up, he rubbed his forehead, certain of only one thing—he’d spent the previous night sitting on his arse at the Spotted Dog getting himself drunk.

The sound of an Elvis Presley tune drifted through the air and Brody knew exactly where he’d slept it off—the Bilbarra jail. The town’s police chief, Angus Embley, was a huge fan of Presley, willing to debate the King’s singular place in the world of music with any bloke who dared to argue the point. Right now, Elvis was only exacerbating Brody’s headache.

“Angus!” he shouted. “Can you turn down the music?”

Since he’d returned home to his family’s cattle station in Queensland, he’d grown rather fond of the ac-commodations at the local jail. Though he usually ended up behind bars for some silly reason, it saved him the long drive home or sleeping it off in his SUV. “Angus!”

“He’s not here. He went out to get some breakfast.”

Brody rolled over to look into the adjoining cell, startled to hear a female voice. As he rubbed his bleary eyes, he focused on a slender woman standing just a few feet away, dressed in a pretty, flowered blouse and blue jeans. Her delicate fingers were wrapped around the bars that separated them, her dark eyes intently fixed on his.

“Christ,” he muttered, flopping back onto the bed. Now he’d really hit bottom, Brody mused, throwing his arm over his eyes. Getting royally pissed was one thing, but hallucinating a female prisoner was another. He was still drunk.

He closed his eyes, but the image of her swirled in his brain. Odd that he’d conjured up this particular apparition. She didn’t really fit his standard of beauty. He usually preferred blue-eyed blondes with large breasts and shapely backsides and long, long legs.

This woman was slim, with deep mahogany hair that fell in a riot of curls around her face and shoulders. By his calculations, she might come up to his chin at best. And her features were…odd. Her lips were almost too lush and her cheekbones too high. And her skin was so pale and perfect that he had to wonder if she ever spent a day in the sun.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed. A lot of people talk in their sleep.”

Brody sat up. She had an American accent. His fantasy women never had American accents. “What?”

She stared at him from across the cell. “It was mostly just mumbling. And some snoring. And you did mention someone named Nessa.”

“Vanessa,” he murmured, scanning her features again. She wasn’t wearing a bit of makeup, yet she looked as if she’d just stepped out of the pages of one of those fashion magazines Vanessa always had on hand. She had that fresh-scrubbed, innocent, girl-next-door look about her. Natural. Clean. He wondered if she smelled as good as she looked.

Since returning home, there hadn’t been a single woman who’d piqued his interest—until now. Though she could be anywhere between sixteen and thirty, Brody reckoned if she was younger than eighteen, she wouldn’t be sitting in a jail cell. It was probably safe to lust after her.

“You definitely said Nessa,” she insisted. “I remember. I thought it was an odd name.”

“It’s short for Vanessa. She’s a model and that’s what they call her.” Nessa was so famous, she didn’t need a last name, kind of like Madonna or Sting.

“She’s your girlfriend?”

“Yes.” He drew a sharp breath, then cleared his throat. “No. Ex-girlfriend.”

“Sorry,” she said with an apologetic shrug. “I didn’t mean to stir up bad memories.”

“No bad memories,” Brody replied, noting the hint of defensiveness in his voice. What the hell did he care what this woman thought of him—or the girls he’d dated? He swung his legs off the edge of the bed, then raked his hands through his hair. “I know why I’m here. What are you doing in a cell?”

“Just a small misunderstanding,” she said, forcing a smile.

“Angus doesn’t lock people up for small misunderstandings,” Brody countered, pushing to his feet. “Especially not women.” He crossed to stand in front of her, wrapping his fingers around the bars just above hers. “What did you do?”

“Dine and dash,” she said.

“What?”

Her eyes dropped and a pretty blush stained her cheeks. “I—I skipped out on my bill at the diner down the street. And a few other meals in a few other towns. I guess my life of crime finally caught up with me. The owner called the cops and I’m in here until I find a way to work it off.”

He pressed his forehead into the bars, hoping the cool iron would soothe the ache in his head. “Why don’t you just pay for what you ate?”

“I would have, but I didn’t have any cash. I left an IOU. And I said I’d come back and pay as soon as I found work. I guess that wasn’t good enough.”

Brody let his hands slide down until he was touching her, if only to prove that she was real and that he wasn’t dreaming. “What happened to all your money?” he asked, fixing his attention on her face as he ran his fingers over hers. It seemed natural to touch her, even though she was a complete stranger. Oddly, she didn’t seem to mind.

Her breath caught and then she sighed. “It’s all gone. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I’m not a dishonest person. I was just really, really hungry.”

She had the most beautiful mouth he’d ever seen, her lips soft and full…perfect for—He fought the urge to pull her closer and take a quick taste, just to see if she’d be…different. “What’s your name?”

“Payton,” she murmured.

“Payton,” he repeated, leaning back to take in details of her body. “Is that your last name or your first?”

“Payton Harwell,” she said.

“And you’re American?”

“I am.”

“And you’re in jail,” he said, stating the obvious.

She laughed softly and nodded as she glanced around. “It appears I am. At least for a while. Angus told me as soon as he finds a way for me to work off my debt, he’ll let me out. I told him I could wash dishes at the diner, but the owner doesn’t want me back there. I guess jobs are in short supply around here.”

Brody’s gaze drifted back to her face—he was oddly fascinated by her features. Had he seen her at a party or in a nightclub in Fremantle, he probably wouldn’t have given her a second glance. But given time to appreciate her attributes, he couldn’t seem to find a single flaw worth mentioning.

“Quinn!”