Free The House On Burra Burra Lane by Jennie Jones

have done that.’ But he wanted to do it again. And again, and again. The touch of her mouth was stamped on his. His longing for her suddenly uncontrolled. He could wrap himself around her in a second. Take hold of her body and crush it against him, hard. Hold onto her.
    He’d grown into a man of balance, of reasonable equilibrium but her damned mouth was so inviting. He could take her here, now, on the straw. In a stable full of animals.
    ‘We’re not supposed to kiss,’ she told him quietly, her fine russet eyebrows arched. ‘We’re friends.’
    ‘Sorry.’ He had to fix this, before he confused her. ‘We are friends.’ He could hardly get his breath. ‘I aimed for your cheek and missed.’
    She paused a moment. ‘I understand.’ She reached out and put her hand on top of his. She smiled. ‘I feel the same way.’
    How could she possibly feel the same way? He’d nearly pulled the clothes from her body and fallen on her.
    ‘It’s that nature thing again,’ she said, shuffling closer to the colt. ‘It happens a lot around here, doesn’t it?’
    Somebody give him strength . ‘It does tend to throw a person off stride. I’m very sorry, Sammy.’
    ‘Forget about it.’ She swept her ponytail over her shoulder. ‘Just make the colt better.’
    Sammy stared at the fine art paper on her dining room table and flicked the waxy lead pencil between her fingers. The green and gold colours of the evening dress she was drawing looked too bold; out of place with her hushed thoughts.
    Ethan.
    She dropped her hand to the table. It happened to friends occasionally, she knew that. They got emotionally tangled with each other as recognition of similarity or even disparity became apparent in the new bond. Especially when it was a friendship between a man and a woman. The boundaries were messed about, the lines of communication were different because of gender.
    When he’d kissed her she’d accepted it as a token of friendship. But she could still taste him on her lips.
    She picked up her artwork and focussed on it. No flow. No inner movement, regardless of the buttery texture of her favourite pencils. She scrunched the drawing into a ball and pushed it across the table.
    She closed the pencil case and slid the art folder away. She couldn’t grasp the mental grounding her drawing normally gave her. It wasn’t usually a chore, but tonight she had no patience for it.
    She pushed the chair back and stood. Had Ethan seen the similarity in how they both used their hands for their skilled work?
    She walked to the middle of the room and rested a hip against the sideboard. It had been a struggle to shift the heavy and unfashionable Victorian piece of furniture, but she’d managed to inch and slide it away from the wall so she could get to the skirting boards; wash them down, ready for a fresh lick of paint. She wouldn’t get rid of the wallpaper on the sideboard wall though. It was thick and elegant, good for another ten years. It had a loving feel to it, with its trelliswork background and the yellow rosebuds climbing between. Someone had loved this wallpaper.
    She picked up the letter she’d found, stuck at the back of a wooden shelf in the sideboard.
    Two pages, fragile and burnt with age at the creases.
    She walked into the hallway and made her way up the stairs. Dark jarrah shone with an aged patina either side of the yellowish-brown threadbare carpet—an old-fashioned runner carpet with metal slides holding it in place.
    She went to the end of the long landing and plumped a cushion before throwing herself into her favourite wicker chair. She sat here when she wanted a little peace, and to gaze out of the dormer window at her land and wonder at how she was shaping up in the newness of her life.
    She slipped the letter’s pages apart carefully.
    … The boy’s got a mind of his own, Linnie, you can’t change it. And while I’m on the subject, he’s not a boy anymore, he’s a man. Time you put aside your concerns