heard Macklin mutter something in the backseat, but he was too focused on not stripping the gears—especially with the gear shift on the wrong side—to try to figure out what the foreman had said.
They bounced along painfully for long enough that Caine began to fear he’d missed a turn somehow when Macklin leaned forward. “Take the right fork ahead. It leads to the homestead at Taylor Peak. That’s where we’re most likely to find someone to take care of this poor girl.”
As predicted, the road split ahead, not an intersection so much as two paths diverging. “Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,” Caine mumbled with a smile at his own whimsy. He was a long, long way from New England, although he could certainly make an argument for taking the road less traveled by coming to Lang Downs.
“What was that?” Macklin asked.
“N-nothing,” Caine said. “A quote from a poem I read a long time ago.”
“What quote?” Macklin pressed.
“T-t-two roads d-d-diverged in a yellow w-wood,” Caine said, the feeling of being on the spot sending his stutter into high gear.“It’s from ‘The Road Not Taken’ by Robert Frost. He p-picks the less traveled one at the end of the poem.”
“It doesn’t ring a bell,” Macklin said with a shake of his head. “Not a lot of American literature in Aussie schools, at least not when I finished twenty years ago.Maybe now, I don’t know.”
“We don’t get a lot of Australian poets in our schools either,” Caine said, not wanting Macklin to feel like Caine was criticizing him for not knowing the poem. “Some British literature, a bit of what they call World literature, American lit, of course, but unless you’re an English major in college, most of it is in one ear and out the other.”
“Not for you,” Macklin pointed out.
“Just that one,” Caine said, “and don’t ask me to remember the rest of the poem. I know that one line, and I vaguely remember the sense of the rest, but I couldn’t quote any more of it. I’m not even sure I could when we were studying it.”
“I didn’t mind the novels so much,” Macklin said. “Some of those were pretty good, but I never could get my head around the poetry. Too much crammed into too small a space without enough to clue me in to where it was going.”
“I know,” Caine said with a sympathetic smile. He paused to force the Jeep back onto the rutted track, cursing under his breath. “Now give me a good adventure to sink my teeth into, and I could read and discuss for days.”
“ Robinson Crusoe ,” Macklin suggested.
“ Count of Monte Cristo ,” Caine countered, “although I enjoyed Robinson Crusoe too.”
“ Tale of Two Cities ,” Macklin added.
Caine sighed. “Sydney Carton… now there was a hero.” “Or maybe an anti-hero,” Macklin replied. “I couldn’t get into a
lot of Dickens’s other books, but I loved that one. Oh, and same time period, but totally different feel… The Scarlet Pimpernel .”
“I haven’t read that one,” Caine said. “I know the story, but that’s because my French teacher made us watch the movie with Jane Seymour and what’s-his-name in it. Oh, and Ian McKellen as the bad guy.”
Macklin laughed. “You can’t remember the name of the actor who played the hero, but you remember Ian McKellen?”
“Well, duh,” Caine said. “He’s hot as fuck, for one thing, and he’s out and proud for another. Of course I remember him in stuff.” The moment the words escaped, he regretted them. Not the sentiment, but he didn’t know how Macklin felt about him being gay, and he didn’t want to make the foreman uncomfortable. “Sorry, that was probably more than you wanted to know.”
“It makes no difference to me who you find attractive,” Macklin replied. “That’s your business, not mine. You might not want to be quite that blunt with the jackaroos. They won’t like it if they think you’re coming on to them.”
“I’ve known some straight guys I found attractive
They bounced along painfully for long enough that Caine began to fear he’d missed a turn somehow when Macklin leaned forward. “Take the right fork ahead. It leads to the homestead at Taylor Peak. That’s where we’re most likely to find someone to take care of this poor girl.”
As predicted, the road split ahead, not an intersection so much as two paths diverging. “Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,” Caine mumbled with a smile at his own whimsy. He was a long, long way from New England, although he could certainly make an argument for taking the road less traveled by coming to Lang Downs.
“What was that?” Macklin asked.
“N-nothing,” Caine said. “A quote from a poem I read a long time ago.”
“What quote?” Macklin pressed.
“T-t-two roads d-d-diverged in a yellow w-wood,” Caine said, the feeling of being on the spot sending his stutter into high gear.“It’s from ‘The Road Not Taken’ by Robert Frost. He p-picks the less traveled one at the end of the poem.”
“It doesn’t ring a bell,” Macklin said with a shake of his head. “Not a lot of American literature in Aussie schools, at least not when I finished twenty years ago.Maybe now, I don’t know.”
“We don’t get a lot of Australian poets in our schools either,” Caine said, not wanting Macklin to feel like Caine was criticizing him for not knowing the poem. “Some British literature, a bit of what they call World literature, American lit, of course, but unless you’re an English major in college, most of it is in one ear and out the other.”
“Not for you,” Macklin pointed out.
“Just that one,” Caine said, “and don’t ask me to remember the rest of the poem. I know that one line, and I vaguely remember the sense of the rest, but I couldn’t quote any more of it. I’m not even sure I could when we were studying it.”
“I didn’t mind the novels so much,” Macklin said. “Some of those were pretty good, but I never could get my head around the poetry. Too much crammed into too small a space without enough to clue me in to where it was going.”
“I know,” Caine said with a sympathetic smile. He paused to force the Jeep back onto the rutted track, cursing under his breath. “Now give me a good adventure to sink my teeth into, and I could read and discuss for days.”
“ Robinson Crusoe ,” Macklin suggested.
“ Count of Monte Cristo ,” Caine countered, “although I enjoyed Robinson Crusoe too.”
“ Tale of Two Cities ,” Macklin added.
Caine sighed. “Sydney Carton… now there was a hero.” “Or maybe an anti-hero,” Macklin replied. “I couldn’t get into a
lot of Dickens’s other books, but I loved that one. Oh, and same time period, but totally different feel… The Scarlet Pimpernel .”
“I haven’t read that one,” Caine said. “I know the story, but that’s because my French teacher made us watch the movie with Jane Seymour and what’s-his-name in it. Oh, and Ian McKellen as the bad guy.”
Macklin laughed. “You can’t remember the name of the actor who played the hero, but you remember Ian McKellen?”
“Well, duh,” Caine said. “He’s hot as fuck, for one thing, and he’s out and proud for another. Of course I remember him in stuff.” The moment the words escaped, he regretted them. Not the sentiment, but he didn’t know how Macklin felt about him being gay, and he didn’t want to make the foreman uncomfortable. “Sorry, that was probably more than you wanted to know.”
“It makes no difference to me who you find attractive,” Macklin replied. “That’s your business, not mine. You might not want to be quite that blunt with the jackaroos. They won’t like it if they think you’re coming on to them.”
“I’ve known some straight guys I found attractive
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