This is a work of fiction, loosely based on the actor Russell Crowe.
I do not own the copyright on that character, but only
on the premise of this story.

This story is for readers over the age of 18 only, and contains explicit sexual situations and adult language. The writer is not responsible for any "discomfort" caused to the reader by this language and these situations.

©2001 by WILDBEARIES

ROSE

It was late and I was the last person left in the record store. We were open late on Friday nights, though God knows why because we got almost no customers after nine or so. The store, a long time fixture in the old downtown area, sat between an antique shop on one side and a bookstore on the other. It was an old neighborhood, newly trendy, catering mostly to the wives of wealthy businessmen plus a few others who had enough money to spend on the pricey merchandise in the shops. The record store and book shop drew a more mixed clientele that included working people and students.

I finished counting the money in the till, fixed the bank deposit pouch and put the little padlock on it, setting it into the safe for the morning trip to the bank. I spun the dial on the safe just as the bell on the shop door rang, signaling a customer. I sighed without looking up. "We're ready to close," I said.

Footsteps approached the counter where I was bent down, writing a note in the accounts book. "Can I help you?" I said, hoping my disinterest would convey the message that I wanted to close, wanted them out of there, wanted. . .I looked up when no answer was forthcoming.

A pair of incredible aquamarine eyes surrounded by the longest eyelashes I'd ever seen peered at me over a pair of Ray-Bans that were lowered on a straight, prominent nose.

"C-can I help you?" I finally got out, mesmerized by the man standing on the other side of the counter.

"Um, I'm looking for any music you have by Crowded House."

God, the voice! It did things to me in places I hadn't realized I had places. And the accent - definitely not central Florida. I blinked, realizing I was still gaping at the man like the rudest person in the world.

"Crowded House?" I echoed, "Um, let me see - I think we have their last two CD's over in the alphabetical section." I came out from behind the counter after making sure to shut the cash register drawer - one can never be too careful, even if the most gorgeous man one had ever laid eyes on was standing not five feet away. I crooked my fingers at him and led the way over to the shelves where the CD's were stacked in bins alphabetically by the artists' names. "Let's see, Christopher Cross, " was that a snort of laughter I heard? I decided to ignore it. After all, our music selection was pretty eclectic. "Here they are - you're in luck, we have the two latest ones and a retrospective." I pointed to the bin and stepped aside to let him look.

"Thanks," he said politely, removing the shades to examine the CD cases. He handed me all three. "American Express?" he inquired.

I juggled the plastic jewel cases, "Sure, come on back to the counter." I was in luck, that meant I wouldn't have to open the safe and take the money out, redo the cash drawer, etc. I took out a charge slip, he handed me a platinum card - which I'd never seen before - and I wrote out the sales slip as quickly as I could without seeming to want to rush him out the door. Actually, just looking at him was doing odd things to me. "Is that C-R-O-W-E?"

"Yeah," he said, taking a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his leather jacket, "Okay to smoke in here?"

"Sure, everybody does - it doesn't bother me." I finished the charge slip, ran the card through, wrote in the authorization codes and slid the card and the slip across the counter for him to sign.

He held his lit cigarette between his right index and forefingers, managing to also sign his name with his right hand. He had large hands with long, tapered fingers, and from what I could see of his wrists inside the cuffs of his jacket, he had strong arms with curly, dark blonde hair on the backs, though not furry like a bear by any means. When he handed me back the little Amex clipboard, his fingers touched mine and I got a little shock. "Ow!" we both said, laughing at the same moment.

"It's the lack of humidity," I explained, "the only time that happens is in the middle of winter, the rest of the time it's so humid here you breathe in just as much water as oxygen."

"I can believe it," he said. He had a nice smile and, I noticed with delight, really nice dimples, moreso on the left cheek than the right.

I had placed the accent now. "Australian?" I asked.

"Yeah, Sydney - well, really way north of it. I live in East Bumfuck, just outside of a place nobody ever heard of called Nana Glen."

"Sounds like the name of a babysitter," I commented, putting the charge slip copies in the drawer and locking it.

He laughed, holding the plastic bag I'd handed him with the CD's inside and smiling at me. "Fancy a drink, luv?"

It took my brain a few moments to process the accent, clogged as it was with local drawls and slang. "Oh, no, I need to get home." Who was I kidding? There was nobody at home but the cat, and she was probably long since asleep, the traitor.

His face fell a little, although that could have been an act.

I relented, "Okay, I'll go, as long as you promise no funny business."

He grinned and my heart went pitty-pat. So much male beauty really should be against the law. "I promise not to be any funnier than you want, deal?"

"Deal," I said, and followed him to the door, carrying my purse and keys, locking up the shop and closing the folding anti-theft door on the outside, then locking it. I wondered if perhaps I should be locked up for going for a drink with a perfect stranger, but hey, the guy had a platinum Amex card and it was good, so I figured he at least wasn't a vagrant and I could always lose him if I had to since I was familiar with most every inch of the town and he obviously wasn't.

He led me to the biggest Harley I'd ever seen, and given that Daytona Beach with its annual Bike Week wasn't that far away from here, I'd seen some fancy bikes. This one was all chrome with touches of white on the body work. He took a key ring from his pocket, unlocked the little storage container, and then relocked it with the CDs safely stowed inside. "Y'wanna ride with me, or walk someplace?" he asked me.

Normally, you'd never catch me riding a hog with a stranger, at night, but somehow I knew I'd be safe with him, so I nodded. "Ride. I'd like that." Good thing I was wearing slacks and not a skirt.

He put the key in the ignition, swung his leg over and held his hand out to me, "C'mon then, luv, climb on behind me." I did, settling into the leather seat, which brought the whole front of my body in direct contact with the back of his body. "Don't be shy," he teased, shoving the kickstand up, "and hold onto me unless you wanna end up on yer ass on the pavement." With that bit of advice, he fired up the big motor and, once I slid my hands around his leather-clad middle, we were off.

I'm sure at least half a dozen local citizens stood, open-mouthed in shock, and watched as I rode off on the back of a stranger's Harley. I'm also sure the phone lines were burning up the minute one of them thought to call everyone else and broadcast the news. I would have Hell to pay in the morning knowing how gossip traveled, but for now, I was determined to live dangerously. I leaned against the solid body in front of me and enjoyed the ride.

My hands were cold, but I felt him touching them, then heard him yell to me, "Stick your hands in my jacket pockets!" So I did, and held onto his waist through the jacket, my hands much less chilled. "Good onya," he rumbled. I deciphered this while we stopped for a red light. "Better now?"

"Yes, thanks," I yelled over the engine noise.

He patted my right hand, then grasped the handle bars again and we shot off down Magnolia Street. We only went a short way, me shouting directions into his ear, pulling into the parking lot of the Ale House Pub. He helped me dismount, locked the ignition, and escorted me inside. I pointed toward a booth three quarters of the way down the length of the bar, and he nodded. "S'fine, luv," he said, walking me down there past the occupied booths, all filled with people who knew me or knew who I was. I was going to be in for it when my dad found out, but it didn't stop me. I slid into the booth and he slid in across from me after taking off his leather jacket and putting it on the other seat. "Y'wanna put your jacket there?"

I shook my head, "No, it's just right in here with it on, it's not a warm jacket." It wasn't, it was thin suede, unlined, and my pullover underneath it was altogether too formfitting for me to feel comfortable displaying myself in front of the man.

He grinned, the dimples flashing again, and put his shades on the table. He saw me looking at them, and explained, "I don't normally wear dark glasses at night, but I've had some eye surgery, and sometimes the bright lights still hurt a bit."

I noticed the slightly reddened rims around those remarkable eyes. "What'd you have, that laser surgery?"

He grinned, "Yeah, I see pretty well already, but it's only been a few days. The doctor said the light thing would only last a week or two."

I grinned back as the waitress came up for our drink order, "Oh, the shades add mystery, everyone will probably think you're a celebrity or something." His grin broadened, but I didn't get the joke. Instead I just said, "I'd like Coor's Lite, in a bottle, please."

He turned his grin onto the waitress, who blinked, eyes glazing over slightly. "Coor's Lite for the lady and, if you have it, Shiner Bock for me."

"I think we have it," she stammered, and practically ran back to the bar with her order pad. I stared after her, wondering what had gotten into her. She was talking and gesturing excitedly to the bartender and both of them were looking over at our booth.

"Okay," I said, turning back to him, "you want to let me in on the secret?"

"Oh, I probably just look like somebody she knows," he said in a low voice, obviously amused. "I didn't catch your name, luv."

How stupid! "Oh, jeeze," I said, really embarrassed, "it's Rose, Rose Jennings. And you are?"

He laughed, a kind of boyish sounding laugh that took me by surprise, "Y'saw my Amex card, luv, remember?"

"Yes, but I didn't really pay attention," I admitted, "I just wanted to get rid of you so I could go home!"

The waitress brought our beers, set a big basket of white corn chips and a bowl of salsa - two kinds, green and red - in front of us, and hovered a moment, until he murmured, "Thanks, luv." Obviously disappointed, she moved down to her other tables. "So you wanted me gone, did you?" He drank straight from the bottle, ignoring the glass she had brought.

"Truthfully, yeah, I did. It's been a long day." I drank from my own bottle, not an affectation of his style, but my own normal behavior.

"What, d'you run the store all by yourself?" He set his bottle down and blotted the moisture off his fingertips on a paper napkin.

"Not usually, but my helpers both had exams today, so I did both their shifts. Normally, I just come in in a pinch, like that."

"Oh," he said, clearly unenlightened, "so the store is a hobby?"

I grinned at him, "Not really, it was my mom's, and my dad couldn't bear to let it go to someone else after she died, so we kept it."

"I'm sorry, Rose," he was instantly contrite, "didn't mean to bring up a sadness."

"That's okay, it's been five years now. Er, what was your name again?" I felt stupid asking, but the waitress had interrupted him and he never had told me.

"Russell, but I've been known to answer to all sorts of names, luv, no worries." He drank off about half his beer and set the bottle down again. He dipped one of the thin chips into the green salsa before I could warn him, and crunched the whole thing into his mouth.

"You're gonna want that beer," I warned him, and sure enough, his eyes widened and his face got a little red, but he got the chip down without spluttering. "The green salsa is a killer," I said, too late.

He nodded, drank off the rest of the beer in one big gulp, and gestured to the waitress for another. "No shit," he said hoarsely, and laughed that wonderful laugh again. When his second beer arrived, he drank off a good third of it before setting it down. "Whooo," he commented, "that'll take the paint off the barn."

"Yeah, you need a cast iron digestive tract to eat much of it," I dipped my own chip in the much milder red salsa. "Try the red kind, it's real nice."

He gave me a doubtful look, as though deciding if I was having a joke at his expense, but dutifully followed my example and beamed as the delicious sauce's flavor got rid of the last of the burning. "Nice," he said, and crunched happily. "So what do you do besides the shop?"

"I train horses, and ride in shows."

He brightened, "I have horses. What kind y'got?"

I pictured him on horseback, the strong body I'd barely gotten a glimpse of confident and assured in the saddle. "Arabians," I finally answered, "and some paints. What kind do you have?"

"Quarter horses, mostly, and one Arab. What bloodlines are yours?"

I launched into a brief, edited for a tourist, explanation of my horses' backgrounds, hoping I wasn't out of his depth or boring him.

Instead, he was nodding like he knew what I was talking about, and when he asked a couple more pointed questions, I realized he did know. "Straight Egyptian," he said, nodding, "my mare is too." He told me the bloodlines and I was duly impressed. "I want to buy a stallion and take him back home, do you breed horses too?"

"Sure, or rather, my dad does. We have some real beauties right now, you should come to the farm and see them. Not that I'm trying to sell you a horse or anything."

He shook his head, "No, that's fine, luv. I'd like to see them. Where's your farm?"

I drew him a map on a paper napkin and told him the landmarks. "Come by any time, we're here another three weeks, then the show season starts and I'll be hitting the road with my horses."

"Oh, I was thinking of coming tomorrow," he said, "if that's okay." He took the little map from me, his fingers lingering, one fingertip gently stroking mine. He was looking directly at me, his eyes very intent, as if he were trying to use telepathy on me. I looked right back at him, feeling a distinct quiver in my nether regions just as he gave a little half-smile. Was it possible that he could tell I was powerfully attracted to him? He stopped stroking my fingers and leaned back, glancing around the pub. "Nice place."

"Y-yes, it is," I agreed, hating the sudden catch in my voice. I excused my self and slid out of the booth, "I'll be right back."

"No worries," he said airily, and beckoned the waitress over with another beer. When he lifted an inquiring brow to ask if I wanted one, I shook my head no.

I locked myself in the stall and just breathed in and out for a few seconds. My heart was racing - and it wasn't the beer, it was him. He must exude some kind of pheromones. I pulled down my slacks and panties, noting with resignation that they were soaked. I hadn't felt such a powerful attraction to a man in so long, I felt almost panicked by it. I took a deep breath, told myself I was being silly, flushed, pulled up my pants and exited the stall. I washed my hands, looking into the ornate mirror above the row of sinks. My hair was windblown, but not too bad. I fussed with the dark brown strands for a moment, delaying the inevitable, then took another deep breath and went back out to my unexpected companion of the evening.

I returned to my seat and he smiled. "So, what time shall I come to see the horses?"

We agreed upon a time around mid-morning when I would have fed and watered them and mucked out the stalls. "Great," I said, "I'll tell my dad - he'll be happy to show you our stock."

"Oh no," he insisted, "I want you to do that."

"Me? But my dad is really the expert - "

"Oh, c'mon, luv," he teased me, "you have a horsewoman's walk, you can't fool me."

"A horsewoman's walk?" That was a new one. Was he saying I walked like I was behind a plow?

He lit a cigarette with what looked to be a very expensive silver lighter. I noticed his wristwatch - a large chunk of silver or white gold with a lot of knobs and an alligator band - also very expensive. Yet he wore faded, obviously well-worn jeans and a plain black tee shirt tucked in. He was a mystery to me - appearing very ordinary, but with some of the trappings of the quite extraordinary. Then there was the waitress's reaction to him, as though she knew him.

"Yeah," he finally answered me, apparently amused at my sudden attention to what he was wearing and my assessment of who and what he was. "You don't mince when you walk, you know your horses' bloodlines inside out, and you rode my hog like you were used to being mounted on something strong and a bit dangerous."

I gaped at him. My crotch was sending a clear message to the rest of my body, overriding my brain's natural caution with another trickle of moisture. I felt my cheekbones flush and looked away. He leaned back and grinned at me. "Okay," I said, "you're right, I am a 'horsewoman'. I train the Arabians and dad trains the paints, but I'm in charge of the breeding operations. If you want to come by at dawn, you can, I'll be up feeding and mucking out stalls."

"I've done a bit of that myself," he claimed.

I laughed, "If you say so. Now, would you like to let me in on the secret?"

"Secret?" he echoed me, "No secrets, luv. I'm just an ordinary bloke, on a trip to buy a horse and talk to some folks about some other business."

"And I'm the Queen of the Rodeo," I shot back, not liking being conned. I started to slide out of the booth, but he put his hand on my wrist - gently.

"Now, now, no need to run off, I'll admit everything."

I sat back down. "This had better be good," I told him.

"Really," he claimed, "I'm just here to buy a horse or two to take back to Australia, and do some other business related things. Nothing mysterious or glamorous about it - fair dinkum."

"What does that mean, 'fair dinkum'?" I asked.

"What, don't you folks here speak English?" he teased me, "Fair dinkum means honest, truly, sort of like saying something is the truth."

"Oh, well, okay, but I just have this feeling you're not telling me something," I allowed. Feeling a bit mellow from the one beer - I'm a cheap drunk - I leaned forward, elbows on the table, "So, what kind of business is it? Something secret?"

"Sure," he said, leaning forward in a similar position, lowering his voice dramatically, "I'm negotiating a nuclear weapons treaty with the President, it's top, top secret though."

"Shit," I scoffed, "you're not even a good liar."

We laughed, he ordered one more beer, and when a couple of good tunes came on the jukebox, we danced a little. He was really a good dancer, graceful and agile, and I enjoyed doing a couple of slow dances with him. When he put his arms around me during the second dance, I think it was to "I Fall to Pieces" by Patsy Cline, I felt very secure. I also felt that all he would have to do to have his way with me was kiss me, and I'd fall right in his lap like a ripe plum. My love life had never been easy, there was an ex-husband and a couple of failed relationships in my past, so I was more than a little leery of falling under the spell of a charmer like this one. I just hoped if push came to shove, I'd be able to resist him.

Looking up at his long-lashed eyes, I wasn't so sure.

I was up before dawn the next day, as usual, walking down through the wet grass to the stables in back of my house. I sipped at my coffee as I walked, trying to tell myself I shouldn't be excited about the man who was possibly coming to look at my horses that day, but not succeeding very well. He was a charismatic person. I had been powerfully drawn to him the night before, only just managing to resist the invitation in his eyes when he asked me if he could drop me back at my car, or?

I had resisted, though, and he hadn't seemed at all put out by it. In fact, he had seemed more amused than anything. "No worries, luv," he had said in that wonderful voice, "let's get you back to your car so you can get home okay."

He seemed like a man who could have any woman he wanted. Most of the women in the pub the night before had been unable to take their eyes off him, although he hadn't appeared to notice it. Either that, or he was deliberately ignoring it. Which brought me to a question that had been bothering me since I'd seen the waitress at the pub look at him, drop her order pad, and then run back to the bar, after which every waitress in the place had stared at him as though seeing the Holy Grail. Just who was he?

I walked into the stables and was greeted by every horse along the row. I laughed and set my thermal mug down in the tack room, calling out to them all, "Good morning, sweeties!" I should mention that I call most every animal "sweetie" at one time or another. It works especially well when I don't know their name - any name ending in "ie" seems to catch their ear. The chorus of neighs and nickers grew in volume as I started down the row with the wheelbarrow and tools to clean the stalls. During what most people would consider scut work, was when I spent time thinking about things, making plans, bonding with my horses. In short, it might be a time I shoveled manure out of the stalls, but my mind was engaged in a lot less earthy activity.

Since I did this twice a day, the stalls weren't that bad. I quickly worked my way down the eight big box stalls, ending up with the huge one at the end of the row where my big Arabian stallion, Alfie, stood waiting for me. "I see you," I called out to him as he tilted his gorgeous, sculpted head to see me better. He snorted, tapping one forefoot lightly against the door of his stall. "Impatience," I informed him, "doesn't work."

Alfie, who was large for an Arabian at almost 16 hands, was chestnut with a white star and snip perfectly centered on his forehead and a white coronet on his offside hind leg. He was a big baby, although to look at him, you'd think he was too fiery for anyone to ride. With me, he was a lamb. I had raised him from a tiny foal, with his mother's cooperation, of course, handling him from almost the minute he was born, so he was used to and liked being touched. He was four years old, and had won everything there was to be won in the world of Straight Egyptian Arabian horses. I was going to show him again this year, showing him in native costume classes for the first time, as well as in halter classes, where he excelled.

I opened his stall door and went in with the manure fork, quickly removing anything other than clean shavings while he snorted softly and nuzzled at me every chance he got. "Stop it," I said, pushing his nose away from my breast pocket. "There's no treats in there, you big baby." He snorted loudly and turned his back to me with a swish of his arched red tail. "Go ahead, pout, you silly boy."

"I'd pout too," came the voice from the night before, startling the heck out of me. I just barely kept from dropping the manure fork.

Alfie, who normally would kick up a fuss when anybody new came into the stable, particularly a male, hadn't even turned a hair. In fact, he was nuzzling Russell's pockets like he'd known him forever. "Stop it, Alfie, he doesn't have any carrots either." I was a little annoyed that my horse - my baby - seemed to already be highly enamored of him.

Russell grinned, "Actually, I do," he admitted, and took a small zip top bag of little fresh carrots out of his jacket pocket. "He found them right off." He opened the bag and offered Alfie a carrot on the palm of his hand. Alfie, naturally greedy, whuffed it right up while Russell chuckled at his enthusiasm. "Good boy," he said, rubbing the velvety muzzle. "He's beautiful," he commented to me as I came out of the stall.

"Thanks, he's my pride and joy." I started down the aisle with the now-full wheelbarrow, and, to my surprise, Russell took it over from me, asked where to dump it, and quickly did just that, leaving me staring after him, mouth agape. I shut it before flies could get in, and started filling the water buckets in each stall. Before I was finished, Russell came back, took off his leather jacket, rolled up the sleeves of his denim shirt, and took the hose from me. "I'll do that," he said, and proceeded to go down the row, filling buckets and scratching the noses of the curious horses as he went.

I watched him for a minute, but he had a very sure way with them, so I shrugged and started filling hay nets. I exchanged the empty net in each stall for a full one, and once again, he took that over from me before I was halfway done. I didn't complain - he could reach the hooks to hang the nets a lot easier than I could. I started scooping feed into the grain troughs. Thanks to my unexpected helper, I was going to be finished a lot earlier than normal. As I was putting the mixture of oats and corn into Misty Rain's stall, and telling the mare what a good girl she was, I heard my father's voice as he came down the path from his house to the other barn.

"Rose!" he was yelling, "Whose car is that in your driveway?"

"Yours?" I asked Russell, who nodded. I shouted over to my dad, who was advancing on the stable like a one-man army, "A client's, Dad, come to look at the Arabians."

Dad acted like he hadn't heard and continued to scowl, finally noticing my guest, who stood holding a currycomb, casually leaning against the door of Rain's stall. Dad, who has had a drinking problem for most of his adult life, was obviously hung over and belligerent. I sighed, noticing Russell's quick glance at me. Dad stopped almost nose to nose with him. "Who the hell are you?" he asked.

Russell never turned a hair, just put out his right hand and said, "Russell Crowe, I've come to look at some horses."

"Hmmf," Dad grunted, refusing the hand, "an Aussie, are ya?"

I was mortified, and wished the ground would open up and either swallow me or my father.

Russell grinned, dropping his hand back to his side, "Kiwi by birth, actually; Aussie by the grace of God."

"Thugs, every damned one of 'em," Dad sneered, turned to glare at me with his reddened eyes, and added, "When you're done showing off, girl, I need you to help with the paints."

"Again, Dad? Where's Roberto?" Roberto was the hired man who should have already been started on the other stable building.

"He's in there, fuckin' around, but I want you helping out too, not just wigglin' your ass at some 'client'."

I heard Russell take a breath as though he was going to intervene, but when I shot him a look, he held his tongue. I grinned at my dad and draped an arm over his shoulders, "Now, Dad," I cajoled him, "you go on back up to the house and let Luanne fix you some coffee. Roberto and I will take care of the paints, don't worry." I walked him most of the way back to his house, which was farther back in the trees than mine was, on acreage that adjoined mine. When he was back inside, and Luanne was clucking her tongue over him, setting down a huge cup of black coffee and a plate of breakfast that could have fed two adults, I went back down to my horses.

"I'm sorry about that," I apologized to my guest, who had busied himself currying the ever-friendly Rain. She was a ten year old mare, so light gray that she was almost white, and a real aristocrat, huge-eyed as a doe and just as beautiful. She was the dam of Alfie and a lot of my other best babies, and right now she had a foal at her side sired by Alfie's daddy, a sassy little filly who was nipping at my guest every chance she got.

He laughed and gave the filly a carrot, turning to glance at me, "It's okay, I just wondered if you needed my help, but I see you know how to handle him."

"Dad? Yeah, I've had to handle him, as you put it, most of my life. He's usually harmless, but he does get to be a handful sometimes."

I could see Russell was a little in doubt of my claim, but I really didn't want to air more dirty linen in front of him, so I grabbed another curry comb and a brush, going from stall to stall, getting hay and shavings out of manes, tails and coats, checking hooves to see if they needed cleaning with a hoof pick, then letting the mares out to romp in the east pasture with their babies. Alfie neighed and wanted out too, but I planned to show him off to my guest, so I sweet-talked him into staying with a couple more carrots.

"You said you were interested in a stallion," I said to him, "is that right?"

He nodded, "Yes. I just have the one Arabian now, a mare - the one I told you about last night, but I really like her and I want a stallion to complement her lines. I couldn't find what I wanted at home, so since I was comin' here, I thought I'd just look around at what was available."

That gave me the opening I'd been wanting. "Do you travel to the States a lot?" I led him to the third stall from the front, where a horse I thought he'd like was impatiently stamping his hooves, wanting his turn in the paddock. "Hush now, brat, you'll get out soon enough." I turned to Russell, one brow lifted, waiting for him to answer.

He was looking amused again - damned if I knew why! - but he enlightened me a bit. "Yes, pretty often, I work in films, so I travel a lot."

"Films? As in movies?" I unlatched the stall and went in with the two year old colt, clipping a lead onto his leather halter. He stamped impatiently and I hushed him again. Russell was leaning over the stall door, gazing at the bratty youngster I was about to lead out for him to examine.

"Brat?" he asked, instead of answering me. He stepped back to give the horse room. He watched the colt walk out, eyeing the long arched neck and sculpted face. "Bloody oath," he muttered, which I learned later was like saying, "Good God!"

"So," I tried once more, holding onto the shank as I led the colt out of the stable into the morning sunlight. "You make films? What do you do?"

He stopped to laugh, while I wondered what was so funny.

"Well," I said after a few minutes, "you might let me in on the joke."

"Films as in movies," he acknowledged, seemingly over his hilarity at my apparent ignorance. "I act in them, luv."

"Act?" I asked, mortified. "I don't get to the movies much," I tried explaining, "I'm pretty busy with the horses and the record store."

"I can see that," he said, looking very amused, while I just felt stupid. I guess he saw the dismay on my face and patted my shoulder, "That's all right, luv, my vanity can take it."

I let out a relieved breath, "Well, that's something. Now, this is a two year old colt sired by Tammen - he was world champion a few years back - and he's a nice cross with Rain's bloodlines. She's his dam." I let him take the shank and walk the colt back and forth, looking at his legs, checking his muscularity, then he asked to see him run loose, so I turned him out in the front paddock. Brat immediately reared up, whinnied like a movie horse, and broke into his lovely, smooth trot, circling the paddock, mane and tail flying.

I could tell Russell liked him, he couldn't take his eyes off him. Everyone who'd seen him had pretty much the same reaction. "He's won the regional futurity at halter, and in another year he should be ready for classes under saddle. I think he'll do well in country pleasure and western pleasure, although he's flashy enough for halter and native costume." I looked at Russell, "Of course, I don't know what you have in mind for your stallion, he'd make a terrific trail horse, also."

My guest literally shook himself, obviously mesmerized by Brat, then laughed a little self-consciously, "He's super. I don't think I'd want to show him, but I would like a riding horse - possibly a trail horse, I understand that's a fun activity."

"Oh, it is, and he has wonderful gaits, he should be a real peach to ride."

Russell leaned on the split rail fence for awhile, watching Brat sweep around the paddock, showing off. He clucked to the colt, who couldn't resist coming to see why he was being summoned. Russell caught hold of his halter easily and stroked the velvety muzzle. Brat was a blood bay - deep mahogany red - with white stockings to the knee on all four legs, and a pretty star in the center of his forehead. He had the big, prominent eyes of his dam and the incredible boning of his sire - in short, he was a beauty, with the promise of being stunning in another year when he lost the last of his coltish gangliness. I could tell Russell really liked him, but wasn't surprised when he turned to me, nodded, and said, "I have some other horses to look at, you understand, I can't make up my mind without seeing them first."

"Of course you can't," I said, and it was true. If he'd immediately wanted to buy Brat without looking, I would have put him off and insisted he look at other horses first. I asked him where he was going to look. He mentioned four other farms, all of which belonged to friends of mine, and I told him he was going to be so stuffed full of Arabians by the time he was done, he wouldn't know which end was up.

"Oh, probably true," he agreed as we walked back to the stable. "But I need to see them all, then make some choices and maybe see some of them again before I make up my mind."

I walked back to get Alfie, who had been patiently waiting to get his turn outside. I snapped the shank onto his halter and led him out. A sudden idea struck me and I asked Russell if he'd like to ride Alfie.

"You'd let me?" he seemed shocked, then pleased. "Yeah, of course I would. If you'll ride with me."

"Okay," I agreed, and went to get the tack. He followed me, so I handed him Alfie's saddle and bridle. "You ride English, don't you?"

"Oh, sure, since you don't have an Aussie saddle hanging around here," he said affably.

"Sorry, no," I laughed, "but his all purpose saddle isn't that much different from an Aussie stock saddle, just a lower cantle."

I walked over to the only other occupied stall and led out my half-Arabian mare, Fandango. She was a medium gray with black mane and tail, and trained as a pleasure horse. She was almost as big as Alfie, being half saddlebred, and she was like riding a cloud, she had such perfect gaits. We tacked up the horses, I held Alfie's bridle until Russell was securely mounted and had the stirrups adjusted, then I mounted Fanny and we rode down the back lane that led to a huge open field with a small wooded area to the back. "Come on," I encouraged him, "let's go a little faster."

Russell grinned widely, urged Alfie into a canter and then into a gallop, and I did the same with Fanny. We were shortly flying down the lane, the cool air in our faces. We got to the open area and I led the way for a bit, but Russell, typical male, couldn't resist getting in front of me, and really, Alfie had a wonderful flying gait, and was faster than Fanny because of his longer legs. I pulled up after a few minutes and just sat, observing him on horseback. He rode well. Someone had spent some time with him, teaching him the finer points of riding, using aids, signaling the horse with legs and balance, keeping one's hands light on the reins. He was graceful and very special to watch. He seemed to be enjoying himself. He was laughing, the sound carrying back to me on the breeze as he put my stallion through his paces. They were two beautiful male creatures, and I couldn't take my eyes off them.

He rode Alfie back to where I sat on Fandango, and pulled up, grinning. "He's magnificent, sure you won't sell him to me?"

I grinned right back, "Sure, the price is $1 million, credit card, check or cash, and I retain the right to breed two mares to him every season."

I thought he'd turn pale, splutter and laugh it off. Instead, he looked thoughtful, then shook his head, "No, he's your horse, that much is real obvious. I'd like to work with one a bit younger, make him my horse. Do you think your Brat would do that?"

"No question about it," I said, totally sure of what I was saying, "He couldn't help it - it's in his bloodlines way back on both sides. He's Al Khamsa - you know what that means?"

He nodded, "Pretty much - the purest of the pure Egyptian bloodlines, right? Originally desert bred, living right in the tests with the sheikhs, treated like royalty?"

I nodded, "That's it, and they are royalty. Rain, his dam, is Al Khamsa all the way back as far as her pedigree can be traced. Tammen, her sire, pretty much the same. Oh say," I mentioned, just having remembered, "Tammen belonged to someone in films - Patrick Swayze, maybe you've met him." God, I thought to myself, that was a stupid thing to say.

To my surprise, he nodded, the amused look back in those aqua eyes, "Sure, several times, but I didn't know he had horses."

"He has part ownership in a ranch in Texas, and I think he's got a place in California somewhere, but he doesn't own Tammen any more. I sent Rain down to Texas to be bred to Tammen, though, and I think Brat is a great colt. He's going to look a lot like his daddy." We were walking the horses now, Alfie pricking his ears and listening to my voice, then doing much the same when Russell talked. Every once in awhile, he'd sniff at my knee as if to say, "Hi, mom, I'm letting this nice man ride me, if that's okay with you." Like I said, he's my lamb.

"So how did he come to be called 'Alfie'?" Russell asked.

I laughed, "Oh, that's just his call name. He's registered as Rosehill Al Fiero, Rosehill being the name of my stables."

"Oh, I see…that makes sense. Al Fiero, I like that. So what about Brat? I assume he's Rosehill something-or-other grand?"

"Er, yes he is. He's Rosehill The Brat, to tell you the truth."

Russell gaped at me for a minute, then laughed loudly. He had a wonderful laugh, very light and infectious, and I couldn't help joining in. Neither could Alfie, who whinnied as though laughing with us. This, of course, provoked more laughter from both of us, and that's how we ended our little jaunt around the back pasture. It was really nice. When we got back to the stables, he took Alfie's tack off, following my lead to cool him out, curry him, and then turn him loose in his big circular paddock, where Alfie galloped around bucking and snorting, very pleased with himself. I let Fanny loose with the other mares and she shortly was right in amongst the group, grazing.

"She didn't have a foal this year?" Russell asked, startling me out of my thoughts as I stood gazing after her.

"No, she was bred, but her foal died. It happens some times, but it's always sad."

"Was something wrong with it?" he wanted to know.

"No," I shook my head, "it was just early, the lungs weren't quite developed enough, so she didn't make it. But I've re-bred her to Alfie, so I'm hoping for a nice foal next time." I pointed out Fanny's baby from two years ago, a blue roan who was lightening into gray. "That filly there, the bluish gray one? That's her last baby, sired by a black quarter horse. She's going to knock 'em dead in the show ring. She's going to a nice couple in Washington state next month."

"Oh, that's a long way off," he remarked.

"Not as far as Australia," I said. We smiled at one another. Windblown and a bit dirty from working with the horses, he was incredibly attractive. My smile faded as he moved closer, my heart thudding a bit out of sync. I could look at him for hours, especially those blue-green eyes and the laugh lines around them that told me he had a great sense of humor.

Russell took hold of my hands, turning me a little so I faced him, my back against the door of Alfie's empty stall. "Rose," he said in a low voice, "just as pretty as your name." And then he kissed me.