He shook his head and finished his tea. Jonathan took the cup and returned it to the sideboard, perched on the sofa again.“Well, you should do something about it then. You obviously feel very strongly. Take the cases nobody else wants, force themto change.”
Henry puttered his lips dismissively. “Then I would be ruined. I’d lose every one.”
“Not necessarily.”
“I have ambitions of my own, Jonathan.”
“I know you do, I’m only saying—”
“Anyway, why is this on my shoulders suddenly?”
“You’re angry, that’s all. I’m trying to help.”
“I’m angry because I lost today.”
“If that’s how you want to see it.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning you’re also angry because you care.”
“Of course I bloody care. That verdict was a disgrace.”
“I agree.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
Henry smiled ruefully. He sank back into the sofa and let his head fall, turned it sideways to look at his friend. Jonathansitting primly with his knees together and hands clasped, square-shouldered in his robe, tufts of pale hair visible beneaththe collar of his pajama shirt.
“Sit with me,” Henry said, and Jonathan laughed.
“I am sitting with you.”
“You’re sitting like you’re in church. Relax.”
“It’s late. We should both get some sleep.”
“Sit, Jonathan.”
Slowly, awkwardly, he did as he was told, leaning backward, his features cast in profile against the bare lamplight. He lookedhandsome, and even younger than he was. Henry inched sideways and lowered himself down until his head rested in Jonathan’slap. He pulled up his feet and lay with his cheek nuzzling the soft fabric of Jonathan’s robe and his arm draped over hislegs. He felt Jonathan’s hand touch his shoulder then his fingers raking into Henry’s hair. Henry moaned and arched into it,catlike; if he could, he would have purred. For a while they remained just like that, Henry listening to Jonathan’s breathingand the sounds of the city outside—footsteps, a dog barking, a horse clipping by—then slowly he twisted and tipped himselfover the edge of the sofa, falling clumsily to his knees. He shuffled around in front of Jonathan and parted his legs, Jonathansaying, “No, Henry, you’re drunk, or worse, and . . .” until the words trailed away. Henry untied the cord and flapped openJonathan’s robe, ran his hands over the tensed muscles of his thighs. He hooked his fingers into the pajama waistband, Jonathanraised his hips, allowed Henry to slide the trousers down. They stared at each other intently, Jonathan fully exposed now,his chest heaving, his mouth open, his eyes wild and almost scared, until Henry dipped his head and began, and Jonathan sankback on the sofa, a long breath washed out of him, and his eyes rolled slowly closed.
Chapter 12
Katherine Sullivan
In awkward silence they sat around one end of the long maple-wood dining table, eating roast rib of beef and mashed potatoes,cutlery tinkling the china plates, the room stifling from the dozens of candles Wilson Drummond had asked to be lit. The chandelier,the candelabras, the sconces on the walls—it was like eating in an oven, Katherine thought. Her father was planning something.She knew him well enough by now. Sitting on her right, at the head of the table, he wouldn’t stop smiling; had even openeda special bottle of red wine. Opposite, Charles Sinclair grinned at her horribly between forkfuls of beef. The man repulsedher. His skin was too smooth, his hair too slick, his features too sharp; he reminded her of a lizard, or some buttoned-upprince in a fairy tale. And even as a girl, Katherine had always hated fairy tales.
“I went to see Joe today,” she told her father, breaking the silence before one of them could. “Reminded him about the upperpaddocks. Told him Morris is to be let go.”
He looked up, chewing. “Has he done something? Morris?”
“The man’s lame. He can’t work. It’s charity, us keeping him on.”
“You see?” Wilson said to Charles Sinclair, pointing at her with his fork. “What did I tell you? Ruthless, when she needsto be.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Sinclair said. “If the man can’t work.”
Katherine said, “I first asked Joe to clear those paddocks two weeks ago. Apparently, you told him not to.”
Her father frowned. “I think I suggested we hold off a while, that’s all.”
“Oh? For what reason? The cattle? The fodder? The weather, perhaps?”
“I just thought—”
“That our guest should have a say in the matter, apparently.”
“Katherine, please, now is not the time. Charles? More wine?”
He slid over his glass. Wilson poured. Topped himself up too.
“This is my station,” Katherine said. “You seem to have forgotten that.”
“Look.” Wilson took a long drink, returned his glass to the mat. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves here. This is meant tobe a celebration. Charles and I have some news to share . . .” She glanced across the table. Charles flashed a reptilian smile.Here it comes, she thought. “I’m delighted to say he’s agreed to stay on at Broken Ridge. To marry you, that is. We were thinkinga ceremony sometime in the next few weeks. Get the formalities over with. No sense messing around.”
They both sat there beaming. The food caught in Katherine’s throat. She forced it down and looked between the two men, settlingon Charles. “And is that meant to be a proposal, Mr. Sinclair? Is this really the best you can do?”
Even in the raging candlelight, the man visibly blushed. He dabbed his lips with his napkin and hurried around the table,stammering out an apology and dropping to one knee at her side. He reached for her hand but she wouldn’t give it, claspingthem firmly in her lap, meaning that when he spoke his own dangled uselessly, pawing at thin air.
“I realize we haven’t spoken much while I’ve been here . . .”
“If at all,” Katherine said.
“But I’ve been watching you closely, and find I have become quite smitten.”
Katherine rolled her eyes to her father, who gave a
