The Flyer by Marjorie Jones Read Free Book Online

and leaping to the ground like little fiery raindrops. Cute didn’t come close to describing her.
    Still, the look in her eyes told him he’d hit a nerve. Everything about her screamed that she was as big a risk taker as he was. Even he could tell she didn’t think he was irresponsible. No, Helen was a modern woman with her own mind, her own set of rules. From the significantly modern clothing she wore, to the bobbed hairstyle that obviously refused to give up its curl, she was a woman of means and dedication. She dressed in the masculine-cut dresses more popular in the big smokes of Sydney or Perth, and even bound her breasts, considering she’d been much … fuller last night. Shameful practice, that. He much preferred the curves she’d displayed in her nightdress.
    Yes, there was an adventurous side to Dr. Stanwood. It was there, in her eyes, for as brief a moment as it takes a raindrop to land on the river.
    Then it all disappeared behind a storm cloud of self-doubt. She frowned, and the light vanished. “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.” She brushed past him and hurried up the steps into the back hall, her delectable rear bouncing from one side to the other.
    For a moment, after she’d disappeared into the building, Paul leaned against the railing. Had he said something wrong? One second, she’d been scolding him like a mother tigress, and the next, she’d looked as if she’d just lost her best friend. There was more to her than met the eye. Of that he was certain. And he couldn’t wait to find out what it was.
    There was no better place to begin than the man who’d invited the little hellcat into his life. He pushed away from the stairs and slid next to Doc, making a mental note to return later with a hammer and nails to repair the loose boards.
    The old man concentrated on his herbs, not looking up until Paul had reached his side and leaned on the workbench. “So, Doc. ‘Fess up.”
    “About what?” Doc left the workbench and headed to the far side of his prized sanctuary.
    Paul followed. “What do you mean, ‘About what’? About her, you cheeky bastard.”
    “Who? Helen?”
    “Aye. Helen.”
    “I told you. She’s the daughter of an old colleague of mine. I attended a series of lectures in the United States … oh, it must be twenty years ago now. Helen was little more than baby then. Her father and I shared a passion for herbology, among other things, and we’ve kept in touch over the years.”
    “She’s a right nice piece of work, isn’t she?”
    Doc smiled, glancing at the back of the house. “She looks very much like her mother.” He collected the watering can and returned it to the crate Paul had built the previous summer to house the old physician’s tools.
    Paul used his good arm to heave a canvas bag of potting soil to his shoulder and followed. “There’s a story behind her, isn’t there?” he asked.
    “Oh, you won’t find me carrying tales,” Doc replied, lifting his hands in a motion of absolute surrender. When he saw the bag, his composure stiffened. “Put that down. You’ll tear open all of Helen’s stitches.”
    “No worries. I’m still whole. Now, tell me more about the girl.”
    “Oh, no. If you want to find out more about Helen, I’m afraid you’ll have to ask her.”
    Gazing at the back of the house as though he could see through the planked walls, Paul made the decision to do exactly that. Right after he’d made riotous love to her.

3
    C hurch was something Paul usually avoided. Not from any dislike or even disrespect for the beliefs that went along with attending services every Sunday at ten in the morning. Neither did he avoid it like many of the men in the community—because they’d had too much to drink at the boozer on Saturday night and couldn’t be bothered to get out of bed quite so early on Sunday.
    He preferred to spend his spirituality elsewhere, that’s all. In the sky, flying over the Great Sandy Desert where there was nothing