Bush Bashin' Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  About the Author

  MLR Press Authors

  My name is Jeremiah Haines, but most people call me Frog. This is the story of how I uprooted my life, moving from Brisbane to a small cattle station in Western Australia.

  Between the crocs in the yard, the station hands giving me the cold shoulder, and the neighbouring station recruiting me to put their Australia Day barbie together, it’s no wonder I’m in over my head. And that’s before I take into account my unexpected attraction to sexy cowboy Ren Fielding.

  What’re the chances I’ll make it through Australia Day with both my mind and heart intact?

  Bush Bashin’

  N.J. Nielsen

  mlrpress

  www.mlrpress.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2013 by N.J. Nielsen

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Published by

  MLR Press, LLC

  3052 Gaines Waterport Rd.

  Albion, NY 14411

  Visit ManLoveRomance Press, LLC on the Internet:

  www.mlrpress.com

  Cover Art by Deana Jamroz

  Editing by Kimberly Brandt

  ebook format

  Issued 2013

  This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. This eBook cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this eBook can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the publisher.

  To my wonderful husband, who is the lone Kiwi in a house full of Aussies.

  Chapter One

  Full of piss and wind

  Translation: A long-winded tale with a slight exaggeration

  The scariest day of my existence was the day I decided to up and change my whole world. For thirty-one years I’d lived my life safely, at least ten of those years in a job I loved, even though I couldn’t stand the restaurant I worked for. Long story, but we’ll get to that later.

  I’m a chef.

  I’m bloody good at what I do, even if I do say so myself. But lately I’d been feeling as though I needed to change something dramatically. I didn’t want to be stuck in the rut I felt I’d been falling into. When I told my family and friends what I was planning they all thought I was nuts and tried to dissuade me from my plans. My parents thought I was having some kind of midlife crisis.

  Can you even have a midlife crisis at thirty-one?

  Well, whatever that thing was, it had me packing up my life and moving across the country to a huge cattle station outside Kununurra. I’m now the new cook for Billingsford Station.

  Being a city boy through and through I’d always fantasized about being surrounded by cowboys and was almost excited my dream was being fulfilled.

  Isn’t it every gay man’s dream to be surrounded by sexy cowboy butts in tight Wranglers? No? Hmm, okay maybe it’s just mine then. Who knows, maybe if I played my cards right I’d wind up with a cowboy to call my own. But knowing my luck they’d all be straight, though from what Lizzie has already told me there are a couple I have my suspicions about. I’ll let you know more about them later.

  Why did I head across the country, I hear you asking? The answer’s really quite simple. Some years ago I made a friend online. Her name is Lizzie, and she’s one of the craziest and funniest chicks I’ve ever met. She’s married to a stud named Brian Granger, the owner of Billingsford Station, one of the biggest heli-mustering businesses around. Most of their days were spent in one of the station’s choppers as they rounded up the livestock and got them where they needed to be, or checked out different things on the large property. Lizzie says besides their own property they offer their services to surrounding stations. I must admit I was a little disappointed when I found out there would be no cowboys on horses like I’d imagined for so long. Nowadays there are cowboys on trail bikes and in helicopters, though Lizzie assures me there are still some horses in use.

  Why am I telling you this? Again the answer’s pretty simple, and here it is: recently, like a month ago, Lizzie sent me an advert for her own station, which was looking for a new cook for twenty-five station hands. The email arrived right at the moment when I was feeling blah about my life. When my friend sent me this job ad, my interest perked up. Mind you, she had been trying to get me to come see her for years, but I was always too busy and living the life of a popular city boy. Okay, maybe it’s all in my own head, but at the time I felt like it was true. Then eight months ago my boyfriend, David Beckett, decided to move onto a greener and younger partner in the form of a sweet little Tasmanian man by the name of Corey Flynn. I wanted to hate him, but in all honesty Corey is nice… And if I’m still being totally honest, David and I were only still together because our relationship had sort become a habit for us. I’m not saying that’s a bad thing, but we were more best friends than lovers toward the end. Okay, jeez, honesty sucks — we were more like friends for the last two and a half years we were together. I also have to add, we parted on good terms and I still classed both David and Corey as part of my close-knit circle of friends.

  Okay, I know I’ve digressed from the main topic of conversation — bad Jeremiah. Lizzie sent me the ad and I immediately rang her saying I would take the job if she was serious. I swear I nearly went deaf with how loud she squealed into the damn phone. The sound wasn’t something I would want my friend to ever repeat again within hearing distance. I also wanted to make sure the station hands were going to be okay living with a gay man in their midst. I’m not completely stupid. I do know we (as in gays) aren’t always safe.

  Her immediate reply was “Frog, don’t be an idiot; they’ll love you the minute they taste your cooking.” Cooking she had tasted when she and Brian came to Queensland for a visit. After her visit we became even better and closer friends than we already were.

  By now you’ve probably guessed most people call me Frog.

  Why? Because of the line in some bloody song which goes, “Jeremiah was a bullfrog / Was a good friend of mine.” David sang it to me the night we met and it kinda stuck. God! Looking back, it’s been twelve years since that fateful night. David and I met in some little bar which no longer exists in the centre of Surfers Paradise on the Gold Coast. No wonder I’m feeling old.

  My name’s Jeremiah Mitchell Haines, and I absolutely detest when people shorten my first name to Jerry. I have never, nor will I ever look like a man who should be called Jerry. I guess you want to know what I look like. I’m not conceited or anything. I know I’m not the sexiest man alive, but I do okay. Here’s the clinical me: I stand about six foot two, I’m skinny — in fact sometimes I need to buy women’s jeans to get them to fit. Now, before you go wondering, I’m not anorexic. I love food — I’m a chef for Christ-sake — and no, I’m not usually a cross dresser; just when it comes to jeans.

  Okay, getting back to what I look like. I have long black hair which is “as straight as,” and reaches the centre of my back. I usually have this tied back in a tail at the nape of my neck, or if my nieces are around they like playing with my hair and I usually end up with it done princess style. I’ve been told I have nice lips— to me they only look like nor
mal lips. David used to always tell me they are kissable lips. Who am I to disagree? I have a straight nose and my most distinguishing feature are my eyes; unlike the rest of the family I inherited the gene which gave me green eyes like Nana Daisy. The rest of my siblings, and there are three of them, all have brown eyes like our dad. Believe me, the fact I’m the odd man out has led to many jokes about Mum jumping the fence when I was conceived. The last thing which people notice about me is I’m white and I don’t just mean in ethnic heritage. Seriously, I’m so white I could stand in the snow buck naked and blend in. The worst part is I never seem to tan, another gift from Nana Daisy — Thanks, Nana. In reality, I burn and then go straight back to being white. My three brothers all have golden tans. The kind you would associate with the surfer boys they are.

  Oh crap, I’ve digressed again. I seriously have got to stop doing that, or we’re never going to get this story told and believe me you want to hear this story. There’s a lot which has happened in my life in the last month — all right, all right it’s only been ten days since the big life move and I know you want me all to shut the hell up and get on with the damn story. Here it goes. Only you can decide if I’m telling the truth or I’m full of piss and wind.

  But first let me take you back a few days for you to be able see where it all began and how my life spun out of control.

  Or: how my life took on a whole new meaning — you choose.

  Chapter Two

  Let’s hit the frog and toad

  Translation: Let’s start our journey.

  After a long and tedious flight with a stop-over in Darwin for the night, I was feeling less than perfect. I hate being squashed into an over packed plane, and a small plane at that. Who knew this many people would be heading to Kununurra on the second day of the New Year. I didn’t, but there were probably about forty of us packed into the flying tin can. I often wondered how planes stay in the air. Maybe I shouldn’t; it could send me insane.

  Being the time of year it was we were hotter than hell, and even the flight attendants’ cheerfulness hadn’t changed how the rest of us were feeling. Not that I knew how my fellow companions were feeling, but by the looks on some of their faces I would have hazarded a guess to say they were feeling as shitty as I was.

  Kununurra (for those who are interested) is situated not far from the Western Australia/Northern Territory border. The Victoria Highway runs right by the township. I know this because I had to look it up when I first met Lizzie online, to see where the hell she lived. If I was expecting a big place I was sorely mistaken, but Lizzie loved the place and filled me in on all the local gossip as if I were a local myself. I probably know as much about the residents in and around Kununurra as the people do themselves. But what I know I’ll never tell.

  Some of it is definitely TMI, even for me.

  Firstly, I should tell you that the person who picked me up from the airport was definitely not my friend Lizzie as I had been expecting. Here I’d been, minding my own business, waiting for my friend to show up when all of a sudden there was a guy standing almost toe to toe with me. Honestly he scared the crap out of me, I can tell you. He was a little younger than me; maybe in his mid-twenties, and he was also shorter than me. I guessed him to be around five foot eleven. He had light brown hair which was cut fairly short, but long enough for it still to curl. His eyes were a very pale blue like the colour of a really well-worn and faded pair of jeans. Pretty much like the pair he had on right now. He had on a grey button up shirt open over top of a Jackie Howe singlet, which Lizzie informed me was the country way of saying he was wearing a blue bonds singlet. Lizzie also told me the Jackie Howe was named after some famous Australian sheep shearer. This was another thing I had to look up on the net to see if she was just yanking my chain. Turns out it was the truth.

  I swear, if you type in his name and it will lead you to all types of links.

  Anyway, back to the guy who’d stood in front of me (who, by the way, had started to freak me out a tad). The only other thing he was wearing was an Akubra hat and a pair of Blundstone boots. Again, I assumed he was wearing underwear but there was no way in hell I was going to be asking him if he was considering I still didn’t even know his name at the time.

  “Um, hello,” I said as I took a step back from him.

  He only stood there and stared at me as if trying to work out something in his own mind before he was willing to speak.

  I wiped a hand across my face in case I had remnants of the hurried breakfast I’d consumed earlier still present and on display.

  “You’re Frog, ain’t ya?” A twinkle appeared in his eye as he asked the question.

  I frowned at his apparent mirth. “Yes, I’m Jeremiah.” If I thought I was going to get people to start using my actual name I was wrong. “And you are?”

  He held out his hand in my direction. “Bo Carson. I’m the leading hand and chief helicopter pilot for Billingsford Station. Lizzie asked me to pick you up, seeing as I was already in town on a supply run. You look exactly as she described you.”

  The only thing I could do was shake his hand; it seemed rude not to. The moment our palms met I felt a certain zing race over my palm, up my arm, down my body and come to pool in my groin. All I can say is thank God the rumpled t-shirt I had been wearing wasn’t tucked in and covered any embarrassing semi hardness which might’ve been occurring in my jeans. The guy was cute and my body reacted — what can I say? The sad part was Bo wasn’t even my type.

  “Jeremiah Haines,” I said and then mentally slapped myself as soon as I realised I’d already told him who I was earlier. Man, sometimes I’m as stupid as all get go.

  He chuckled and pointed to the two suitcases at my feet. “Is this all you have?” When I nodded he continued, “The last cook had way more than two cases and a laptop. But she had finding herself a nice country boy to settle down with on her mind.” He grinned. “Do you have the same thing on your mind? Finding yourself a country boy to settle down with, I mean.”

  I hadn’t wanted to give him the satisfaction of knowing how close to the truth he had gotten, so I laughed it off. Obviously he knew I was gay. What else had Lizzie told him?

  “Lizzie told you I was gay, then?” I asked, hoping I came off sounding casual.

  “Yeah, at dinner one night she stood up and announced it to the whole room. She said if any of us had a problem with your sexuality then we knew where the door was and not to let it hit us on the arse on the way out. Me, I don’t have a problem, though we did lose two of the hands. We’ll be looking for replacements soon I dare say.” He grabbed one of my rolling suitcases while I manhandled the other and we headed out into the parking lot.

  Part of me felt bad Lizzie had lost two of her workers, but the other, more sane part of me was glad they were gone and wouldn’t cause me any hassles. As it was, my whole entire family had been waiting for me to throw my hands in the air and run screaming back to Queensland with my tail between my legs and admit what a stupid mistake I’d made. Let’s just say I’d wanted to prove them all wrong. More so, I had wanted to prove to myself I could do it.

  As we stopped beside a black Suzuki Grand Vitara I watched Bo open up the rear door and load my luggage into the cargo area. I put my laptop on the bags, but Bo frowned at me and moved it, placing it in the netting against the back of the rear seats.

  “You don’t want it to get busted jumping around. I’m taking the shortcut home, and some of those roads are pretty rough. I hope you like bush bashin’.” He was still chuckling as we got into the front seats. “I’ll stop and get the supplies and then some fuel before we head out. If you want a drink or anything to eat that would be the time to get it. McCorbin’s is the last pit stop before we get to the station.

  One thing I could say for my newfound friend was boy could he talk. I swear, I’m not exaggerating much when I say I think the man could talk underwater with a mouth full of marbles. At least I only had to smile, nod, and give short answers when required.


  Bo kept the chatter going. When we stopped at McCorbin’s I did as suggested and brought a bottle of soft drink and the biggest bottle of water they had. After Bo filled the car he ordered a bacon burger and got some drinks to go with it. He stood at the front of the car which he had moved over to beneath the one and only tree and ate his burger. Afterward we jumped back into the car and began the journey to the first step of the rest of my life.

  Dramatic much?

  “Let’s hit the frog and toad.” Bo grinned at me and I rolled my eyes in return.

  The three hour drive to Billingsford Station turned out to be the most interesting and possibly one of the scariest fucking things I’d ever had to endure, and took almost five long fricken hours. Seems the shortcut wasn’t really short after all. I swear to God, he only took me on the shortcut to see what kind of a man I was. It would have saved us a hell of a lot of time if he had asked me. I’d have told him honestly I’m a chicken. Needless to say, a few things happened only to prove just how true this was. One, we got bogged not once, but twice. Two, water is usually deeper than what it appears to be. And three, I hadn’t known crocs could grow that fricken huge, and yes, I did scream like a girl. Very loudly, in fact. This only seemed to make my companion chuckle louder with each passing incident. I’m happy to say the size of the croc even made Bo jump.

  By the time we arrived at Lizzie’s place I was a bloody nervous wreck. As grateful as I was to finally get there I still checked the ground before I got out of the car, especially after my erstwhile travelling buddy told me how a time or two a croc had found its way into the homestead yard. I wasn’t taking any chances. No way in hell was I getting my leg bitten off by one of those ugly as fuck critters. Let me say here and now, there’s no such thing as a pretty crocodile.