Chapter Seven: Ryan

I t's not a surprise to find myself seated beside Oscar at the dinner table. (I say ‘table', but it's actually three long timber dining tables set together to make one super long one, taking up what was probably intended to be both the formal living room and dining rooms.) The chairs are an eclectic mix of styles, and the whole look really sets off the country vibe of the station's main house.

It's warm and inviting in here, the cream-painted walls decorated with photos in a variety of different sized and shaped frames. They're displaying everything from the animals, to the staff, to the family who owns the place.

The stationhands are all seated along the dining table, chatting animatedly and passing bowls and trays of steaming dishes whose combined scents are making my mouth water and my stomach grumble.

It's been a long time since I had a proper homemade meal. I usually buy pre-made stuff from Woolies. There's no sense making a fuss just to feed myself, and Maddy was always the better cook of the two of us anyway.

A mild pang of grief strikes me as I think of Maddy. He would have loved it here. Being a country vet had been in his blood: he was the one who had gotten me into it, after all. He'd loved rural Australia and everything that comes with it, right down to the constant flies and the snakes.

I suppress a shudder. I don't like snakes. Thankfully, I haven't had to treat many during my career…and, yes, I'm aware there's an irony in being a vet with a fear of a specific kind of animal. So sue me, I didn't grow up in the country; I was always a city boy before I met Maddox.

I'm shaken from my thoughts as an arm reaches across in front of me and lifts my plate from its setting. Oscar sets about piling on steaming heaps of meat and veggies before he places it back down in front of me, his eyebrow raised expectantly.

I try to suppress the full-body shiver that expression induces.

"Thank you," I say, managing to bite off the instinctive ‘Daddy' before I can embarrass myself among his colleagues. The way Oscar's lips twitch suggests that he heard it loud and clear anyway.

Heat rises to my cheeks. I don't understand why I have those urges now. Sure, the night with him had been mind blowing and perspective changing, but I'm so much older than him. Submitting to him as a Dom is one thing, but thinking of him as Daddy? Isn't that…weird?

How is it any weirder than wanting to call him Sir? I question myself. Or Master?

Titles he's uncomfortable with.

Maybe that's why I want to call him Daddy, because I know he doesn't like the alternatives. I've Googled a lot since that night in Brissie, and I've been reassured that Daddy kink doesn't have to include regression play. It's not that I think there's anything wrong with age regression, mind you, but it just doesn't appeal to me.

I want to submit…but I kind of like the idea of being taken care of, too.

Maddy used to do both for me.

I have to close my eyes and take a deep breath. Maddy's been gone for almost a year and a half. I can't be thinking about him while I think about a new man, can I?

Even while I try, my brain won't let go of my previous train of thought.

Maddy was more than just my Dom. I called him Sir when we played, but he took care of me as well as dominating me. I always put that down to him being my husband, but…I never took care of him in quite the same way. He made sure that I ate right. He dealt with all the confusing paperwork to do with our business. He generally made all the big, scary decisions for me, and I trusted him to take that stress off my shoulders.

After a couple of months of Googling, I'm coming to realise that I might have called him Sir and thought of him as my Dom, but he was actually more of a Daddy Dom.

Huh.

Maybe I'm interested in Oscar being my Daddy because I miss having one. Even if I never used the word before, that was my dynamic with Maddy. And, if I push the logic a little further, maybe that's why interacting with other Doms felt inherently wrong after Maddy died. Yeah, I was grieving him, but I was also looking for the wrong kind of Dom, too.

"You okay, darlin'?" Oscar's breath ghosts over my neck as he leans in to ask me the question, his voice low and calming.

Yeah, I consider replying, feeling lightheaded, just having a lightbulb moment.

Clearing my throat, I nod. "I'm good," I assure him, smiling to let him know that I appreciate his concern. "I was just…lost in thought."

"Well, you should eat up before Jim pounces on your plate," he replies, jutting his chin to gesture to my other side.

The man in question —Jim— grins unrepentantly back at me when I turn to face him, his previously full plate already half- empty. "It's the quick or the dead here, Doc. Gotta sink your teeth in before someone snatches your tasty treat away."

I blink in surprise while Oscar groans.

"Ignore Jim," he says, and I glance back to catch him shooting a pointed glare at his colleague, "he's got no hope of sinkin' his teeth into anythin' you might want."

"You guys aren't talking about the roast, are you?" Dusty asks from across the table. His eyes dart from Jim, to me, to Oscar and then back again. His cheeks turn pink when Jim laughs heartily.

"I'm just fucking with them, Dust," Jim says, waving his hand dismissively as he leans back in his seat. He tilts his head back in a stretch, and he misses the flash of relief across Dusty's youthful face. But I don't.

My mind is spinning.

My shock must be written all over me, and Oscar interprets it correctly because he snorts and says, "Don't mind us, Rye. I think you'll find this is the most progressive, accepting station in the whole damn country. I got pretty lucky landin' here with these degenerates." His thigh, warm and firm, nudges mine beneath the table. "Now, eat up like a good boy, hmm?"

Fuck, but that endearment goes straight to my cock.

I shift in my seat and lift my knife and fork, finally digging into my dinner. It's just as delicious as it smells. Once he's seemingly satisfied that I'm eating, Oscar resumes his meal, too.

When I'm certain I can't fit another morsel in my mouth, I lean back in my chair and rub my belly. I'm full and content…and sleepy.

That's not good.

It's a three-hour drive back to Denham and driving our country roads at night is bad enough when you've got your wits about you. Being sleepy is basically begging for trouble.

"You okay there, Doc?" Jim asks, and it takes far too much effort to turn my head to face him. He's still eating, mopping up a puddle of gravy with a home-baked bread roll. He furrows his eyebrows in concern. "You look dead tired, mate."

"Mmm," I agree, patting my belly. "I think I ate too much. Should probably have some coffee before I hit the road."

Jim glances over me momentarily before he meets my gaze and shakes his head. He's still holding his sopping roll over his plate. "Yeah, nah. You're not driving in this state. You'll probably run off the road or something. I reckon you should crash here for the night and head out early. We'll likely be up before you anyway."

"Oh, no, I couldn't put you all out any more than I already have."

My protest seems to land on deaf ears, because Jim whistles shrilly to catch his employer's attention. "Oi, Rob. Can Doc Sharp crash in one of the guest houses tonight? He's buggered and I don't think he'd be safe on the roads like this."

My cheeks burn as every set of eyes around the table lands on me. "I'm fine," I insist, but they all shake their heads.

"'Course you're welcome to stay the night," Rob declares cheerfully. "Being midweek, most of the guest houses are empty right now. We operate a side-hustle as a farmstay, y'see. Get a lot of city slickers out here on weekends and school holidays." His grin turns affectionate. "It's good to see the kids getting into all the farm stuff. They like feeding the animals, collecting eggs…better than seeing them all glued to screens. Gives me hope that some'll keep the stations going when we're all gone, y'know?"

"Dear God, who gave him the Bundy? He's off on his ‘we'll all be dust' rant again." Another guy jokes from the other end of the table, holding up his half-empty glass, giving it a little shake. "Also, can I have some?"

"Get your own," Rob sasses back at him, reaching for the bottle in question. "It's a work night anyway."

The guy snorts. "You my Boss or my Daddy, Rob?"

"Either way, I'll tan your hide if you drink my rum."

"Jesus," I exhale in surprise and sit back in my seat again, shaking my head. "You lot really are a different breed, aren't you?"

Oscar laughs and rubs my back, which wakes me up more than a cup of coffee possibly could have. "I told you," he all but croons into my ear, his honeyed accent doing all sorts of things to my nerve-endings, "it's the most progressive, accepting, half-queer bunch of ranchers I ever worked with."

"Stationhands," Jim huffs. "We don't do ranches here."

"Whatever," Oscar dismisses him lazily. "It's all the same thing."

Instead of taking the bait, Jim leans forward and winks at me. "Want me to show you to your room for the night, Doc?"

"Hell no," Oscar answers for me, and he snakes a possessive arm around my shoulders to match his tone. "I'll be showin' the nice doctor to his room."

"Uh-huh. His room or yours?"

"Well," Dusty cuts in, his eyes darting between all three of us much like they had earlier, his brow furrowed and chapped pink lips pinched with displeasure, "seeing as Ozzy's bunking with me, I think he'd be better off showing Doc to his own room."

In this moment, Dusty reminds me of a little terrier. He's short in stature, but he's territorial and yappy. I like him a lot. I can't help grinning at him. "Or maybe you can show me where I'm staying?"

"Now, hang on, darlin'…" Oscar starts, and I don't have to look at him to know that he's frowning. "I'm more than capable of gettin' you home safe for the night."

Jim says something teasing in response, but my mind has already flashed back to that night at The Vault. "I know," I reply softly, knowing that he gets my meaning as soon as the words are out.

His arm tenses around my shoulder, and he leans into my personal space again. I brace myself for whatever sweet, charming thing he's about to say, when the moment is interrupted.

"Oz, the keys for cabin three are on the hook in the kitchen," Rob's voice cuts in from down the table. "Figure Doc Sharp might enjoy a room with a view." I look down the length of the table and the station owner grins at me. "Consider it thanks for saving Jemima and Little Ted."

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. "You named the foal Little Ted? And its mother is Jemima?" Narrowing my gaze, I lean forward a little. "Do you have a chicken named Henny Penny and a cow named Daisy? A cat named Diddle, even?"

Rob's lips twitch, but Dusty's awed "How'd you know that?" is what sets off my guffaws.

Dusty, who is probably only in his early twenties, should probably remember Play School better than I do. I'm not ashamed to admit that a lot of my memories come from watching it while high or drunk during my uni days.

Don't judge me: I was at uni before we had such things as wifi or streaming services. And when you're high or drunk as fuck, nothing is more amusing than Spike Milligan's On The Ning Nang Nong sung by underpaid NIDA graduates on low-budget community television.

But I digress.

Still chuckling, I shake my head. It's not every day you meet a bloke's bloke like Rob only to discover that he has a weakness for classic Australian preschool entertainment. "Your animals are all named after Play School toys," I inform Dusty, only for him to appear more confused.

"Play School?" he asks. "Like…preschool?"

"The TV show," Jim tells him. "It's been on the ABC since the seventies or something." He smirks, and, as an aside, adds, "I had a crush on Noni Hazelhurst as a kid."

"I always said you had good taste," Rob snarks.

"None of these words are making any sense," Dusty's complaint makes me feel old.

"To you and me both," Oscar agrees, but he sounds amused. "I feel like Google will be our friend later."

"Or right now." Dusty whips his phone from his pocket and taps at the screen. He screws up his face as he stares at his screen, and the very song I recalled only moments ago starts playing through the tinny speaker.

"That's what passes for kids TV in this country?" Oscar asks, sounding horrified. "I didn't think things were that dire here. I mean, cartoons have been a thing for a long while. Disney…Hanna Barbera…" The look he casts me is full of exaggerated concern and he gestures at Dusty's phone. "You didn't have to live this way, darlin'."

Down the table, Rob bursts into guffaws. "You wash that mouth of yours out with soap, Ozzy. Play School's iconic. It raised generations of kids."

"My own included," I nod in agreement, then blink as the table around me falls silent.

"You've got kids?" Oscar asks gently. His tone is unreadable.

I feel myself flush. "Maddy —Maddox, my…my late husband— did. They were already almost in their teens by the time Maddy and I got together, but I think of them as my own, yeah."

Even now, they both check in with me every couple of weeks to make sure I'm taking care of myself. Neither of them were happy with me when I told them I was moving across the country, but they understood that I needed to start fresh again.

Thinking fondly of them, I continue to talk into the surprised silence. "Makayla, Mak , is thirty now, and Trev's twenty-eight." It's at this moment I realise just how close they are in age to Oscar. "They're great kids. She's a paediatrician in Toowoomba, and he's a lawyer in Brissie. Criminal law."

As I talk, I can't help but wonder…will they be disgusted if Oscar and I become a thing? And, God, will he think it's weird that I've got step kids his age?

A dim stirring of memory settles my nerves a little. I did originally tell him that I was old enough to be his dad, and he was okay with that.

More than okay , my brain says helpfully. He's into older men.

But then maybe I'm getting ahead of myself. Yeah, he's shown interest in me today, but that doesn't mean he wants anything between us to become serious or ongoing. He might just want to let off a little steam. God knows he earned it the night he rescued me. I was the one who got off back then, not him.

"You sound so proud of 'em," Oscar says softly. I turn my head to find him smiling. "I bet they're great people. They sure sound smart, at least. But then, you're a vet, so…" he trails off, shrugging.

"Maddy was, too. He was an equine specialist, actually." I grin at Dusty. "That's how I knew so much about how to help Jemima without seeing her. Maddy was obsessed with horses. Some of that rubbed off on me."

After over a year grieving him, it feels liberating to be able to talk about my late husband without crying. To feel the fond exasperation thrumming through my veins when I think about just how horse-crazy he was. Not that I was any different after I started working with him.

"Is that why you're a country vet?" Oscar asks, pulling my attention back in his direction. He's got his head cocked to the side and genuine curiosity in his eyes.

I tilt my own head from side to side. "Eh…kind of? I tried my hand at returning to suburban practice back in Brissie, but I missed the rural life. Maddy and I had our own practice just outside of Townsville. His enthusiasm for working with horses was infectious, y'know? I'd been content with cats and dogs until I met him. Then, suddenly, I was almost as obsessed with livestock as he was. After he died, I sold the practice and moved to Brisbane…" I trail off with a shrug. "A year of that was enough for me to realise that I really missed working out in the country. When the practice in Denham went up for sale, it felt like I'd be getting the best of both worlds. I see a lot of domestic pets as well as livestock nowadays."

Somewhere in the middle of my rambled answer, Oscar placed his hand on my back. Now, he rubs soothingly, then squeezes my shoulder. "I'm so sorry for your loss, darlin'. You sound happy when you talk about him. About Maddy."

"I was happy. We were happy." I smile back at him, grateful that he doesn't seem irritated or put-out to hear me talk about my dead husband.

"How'd he die?" Dusty asks, and Jim groans.

"Mate, you can't just ask that."

"Why?" Dusty pouts, then sits back and stretches his arms out at his sides, gesturing to the table at large. "We were all thinking it."

Sure enough, everyone seems to be following my tale of woe with rapt attention. Don't they get streaming services out this way? Surely my depressing story isn't that entertaining.

Jim just sighs and says, "Because you just can't , Dust. It's rude."

"It's okay," I cut back in as Dusty's expression falls. He's a sweet kid, and I like being able to talk about Maddy without the oppressive veil of sympathy or sadness which usually accompanies talking to family or old friends. "I don't mind." My smile still slips as I answer, "It was skin cancer. Melanoma. It spread fast and—" I stop abruptly as my eyes fill with tears and my voice breaks, remembering just how quickly my vibrant, sixty-three-year-old husband's health plummeted. Oscar squeezes my shoulder, his hand a steadying warmth. Clearing my throat, I finish, "He was gone pretty suddenly."

Dusty stares back at me, horrified. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have asked. I…shit, Doc, I'm sorry."

A watery chuckle escapes me and I shake my head. "Don't be." Cringing, I add, "I'm sorry for bringing the mood down. How'd we get from Play School to this?"

"Let's just blame Dusty," Jim teases, and I snort at the affronted expression on the younger man's face.

Oscar lets go of my shoulder to pat me on the back. It's as much a calming gesture as it is a giddy-up. "C'mon, darlin', I think that's our cue to get you set up in your guest quarters."

The words remind me of how tired I am, and I nod. "Okay. Thanks."

Pushing to my feet, I thank Rob again for his hospitality, compliment the food one last time, then bid the rest of the team goodnight and, for the most part, goodbye. I can't imagine they'll be needing me to travel out from Denham again, not once their local vet is back on his feet.

It's a bit sad to realise, really. This station is unlike any other I've visited, and I could see myself befriending this whole group if I was given enough time to do so.

Then, with Oscar's palm warming the middle of my lower back, I wonder if maybe I might get that chance one day after all.

It's probably wishful thinking, but I could use some wish magic right now.