The Cattleman's Bride
Joan Kilby
She has it all worked outSarah Templestowe figures she'll take two weeks off work, fly to Australia and buy out the other owner of the outback cattle station her father left her. Then she'll return to Seattle, give the station to her mother as a retirement present and pick up big-city life where she left off.He has other plansBut Luke Sampson is not about to let go of his dream of owning a cattle station. He's not about to let go of Sarah Templestowe, either. Warm, caring and frank, she stirs him the way no other woman has in years. Luke, though, is a man of few words, and he can't seem to tell her that.Now what?Sarah's trip Down Under turns her world upside down. Her short time in Australia provides endless surprises, especially where Luke is concerned. She loves him–enough to get out of his life forever.
HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE
Celebrates its 20th Anniversary
Two decades of bringing you the very best
in romance reading.
To recognize this important milestone,
we’ve invited six very
special authors—whose names you’re sure to recognize—
to tell us how they feel about Superromance.
Each title this month has a letter
from one of these authors.
Who better to write the foreword to Joan Kilby’s
The Cattleman’s Bride than acclaimed author
Margaret Way. Both writers live in Australia
and both have the magical ability to make the land
and its people come alive.
The Cattleman’s Bride is the story of a man and a
woman who must overcome differences as vast as
the outback itself in resolving the dilemma that
faces them. In that harsh and beautiful land,
superficialities are stripped away as Sarah and
Luke reach deep inside themselves and find a love
that promises them a lifetime of fulfillment.
This is Joan’s third book for Superromance.
Her first novel earned her a RITA nomination for
Best First Book, and her writing talents have
merited a profile in the much-respected Writer’s
Digest. It’s a pleasure to showcase Joan on this very
special occasion for Superromance.
Dear Reader,
I was born and grew up in Vancouver, Canada, but have lived in Australia for ten years now. My first impressions of this beautiful land remain vivid—the colors, the scents, the intensity of the sun, the enormous blue sky and the wide-open spaces.
The outback holds an almost mythical place in the hearts and minds of Australians, most of whom live in large cities along the coast. As I got to know more about the outback and talked with the people who live there, I was struck by the fact that, despite the harsh environment and the hardships they face, they passionately love their way of life.
As my heroine, Sarah, discovers, it’s not an easy life, but in the challenge lies the reward. Her greatest reward is Luke—a modern-day pioneer, a battler who loves the land and the freedom to be his own man. In each other, Sarah and Luke discover that once-in-a-lifetime love that transcends all boundaries.
I hope you find The Cattleman’s Bride as enjoyable and satisfying to read as it was for me to write. I love to hear from my readers. Please write me c/o Harlequin Enterprises Ltd., 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9, or e-mail me at www.superauthors.com.
Sincerely,
Joan Kilby
The Cattleman’s Bride
Joan Kilby
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
FOREWORD BY MARGARET WAY
When my editor, Paula Eykelhof, asked me if I would write a foreword for an upcoming Superromance, the year 2000 being the twentieth anniversary of the line, I agreed with pleasure—and with the sense of being honored for my own contribution to the big, bright, beautiful world of Harlequin romance novels.
Although I have written some 80-odd books for the Harlequin Mills and Boon Romance series, it was only recently, through Paula’s encouragement, that I extended my boundaries to Superromance. The Australian Heiress, released in 1998, was the first. My second, already researched, is in the process of being written. It is again set in the Australian outback, and I hope it will be an exciting read with a fascinating and provocative theme. Ancient Egyptian presence in tropical far north Queensland? The hunt is on for treasure in the rainforests and crocodile-infested swamps of Australia’s top end wilderness coast. Be assured that a great romance figures in this story, along with the skulduggery and high tension. I look forward to seeing it in the Superromance lineup for 2001—and I hope you will, too.
Although I greatly enjoyed writing for the Romance series and have done so for the past thirty years, Superromance has provided me with a fresh challenge. I derive considerable satisfaction from the longer story, which gives me the opportunity to weave a more complex plot, introduce more characters and let them speak as they develop a fuller personality.
Being a successful writer (for which I must thank my publisher, my excellent caring editors and my loyal readers) must be one of the best jobs a woman can have. I love getting involved with my characters. I love falling in love with my heroes (yes, I do), but one of the most delightful aspects of the job is bringing pleasure to a lot of readers.
And speaking of readers…I’ve recently had the pleasure of catching up on my Superromances. I read books by Jan Freed, Bethany Campbell, Margot Early and others—and I thoroughly enjoyed a diversity of compelling stories. On the newcomer front, I particularly enjoyed A Father’s Place by a fellow Australian, Joan Kilby. This book has an important message to deliver through a very engaging heroine. Such messages can change lives. I’m sure that writing such an eloquent first book gave Joan enormous pleasure and satisfaction. I know she’ll go on to even greater things.
A peaceful and prosperous 2000 (and beyond) to all our readers (with the fervent hope for better government around the world!).
Margaret Way
Margaret Way is one of the best-known and most-loved romance writers in the world. Her books are usually set in her native Australia, which she writes about with passion and immense skill. She’s made Australia real for millions of readers. She continues to be published by Harlequin Romance—the original romance series. And her second Superromance will appear in February 2001.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE (#u42ebe555-e843-53f6-aff0-1152f91fea84)
CHAPTER TWO (#uc77e04fd-ae74-5457-8161-3703b387f8df)
CHAPTER THREE (#u1a7913db-6652-556f-94ba-dcd13ce90391)
CHAPTER FOUR (#ua3d6e0d5-6393-5285-b884-67dd31682932)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
“DOUBLE HAZELNUT MOCHA with a sprinkle of cinnamon and a dash of nutmeg, please.”
Sarah drummed the steering wheel while the attendant at the drive-through stall in Eastside Seattle whipped up her coffee. She usually ordered espresso to wake her up on gray October mornings, but in times of crisis a jolt of flavored caffeine usually helped perk her up.
Okay, so her father’s death wasn’t exactly a crisis; she hadn’t seen him more than a handful of times since he and her mom had split up when Sarah was a baby. The shock was learning he’d left her Burrinbilli, the outback cattle station where her mother had grown up. Half the station, that is. The station manager owned the other half.
“Thanks,” Sarah said to the attendant, and maneuvered the steaming foam cup through the window of her Mazda.
Back in the stream of traffic, she sipped her coffee and fantasized about buying the penthouse suite for sale on top of her employer’s office building. If she lived there she could be at work by now. Imagine, rising at a civilized hour, having a leisurely breakfast in the café next door, then taking a mere elevator ride up to the computer programming department where she designed educational software. Urban paradise.
The traffic inched along. The windshield wipers slapped away the rain. The fax machine rang. Sarah pressed the start button and glanced at the emerging paper—a request for details on the new software package she was working on.
She could sell her half of Burrinbilli and buy that penthouse suite.
Or she could do something really nice for Mom.
She pulled into the car park opposite her office building and hurried across the street. Minutes later she stepped onto the fourth floor to navigate the rabbit warren of cubicles to her workspace. Some people complained about the cramped quarters, but Sarah didn’t mind. She’d plastered the divider walls with Far Side cartoons and pictures of her cat. With her coffee at hand and a family-size bag of Gummi Bears in her drawer, what more could she ask for?
She pulled the letter from the executor of her father’s estate out of her briefcase, punched in the phone number of Burrinbilli, then swung around to gaze at the old photo tacked to the wall of her cubicle, the receiver tucked under her ear. The little girl standing on the steps of the veranda and squinting into the brilliant sunlight of western Queensland was her mother.
Mom had raved about Burrinbilli for as long as Sarah could remember. Endless blue sky, the creek where she fished for the freshwater crayfish she called yabbies, the wide shady veranda that wrapped itself right around the elegant 1880s homestead.
And best of all, to Sarah’s mind—Lake Burrinbilli.
The telephone rang and rang. Sarah wondered belatedly what time it was in Australia. Was it five hours ahead or nineteen behind? Either way, that meant…Uh-oh. She started to hang up the receiver.
“H’llo.” The man on the other end stifled a yawn.
“Hi!” she said. “I’ve just realized what time it is there. I’ll call back later.”
“Who’s this?”
“Sarah Templestowe. My father was Warren Temp—”
“What can I do for you?” His sleep-roughened twang suddenly had an edge like a boomerang.
“I’m looking for the station manager, Luke Sampson.”
“You found him.”
“Hello. Nice to meet you.” Slow down, Sarah. Breathe. “I guess you’ll have heard from his executor. That he left his half of the property to me, I mean.”
“I heard. Sorry about your father.”
“It’s okay.” She felt uncomfortable accepting condolences for a man she’d hardly known. The man who hadn’t cared enough to do more than send a Christmas card and visit once every five years. Warren Templestowe might have been her biological father, but her stepdad, Dennis, had been the stable, loving man who’d always been there for her.
“I was going to call,” Luke said. “Offer to buy you out.”
“Oh, no,” she said. “I want to buy your half.”
A long silence ensued. “Hello?” Sarah said, thinking she’d lost the connection.
“A week before your father died I made him an offer on the property,” Luke informed her. “I’ve got a bank loan arranged and the paperwork drawn up.”
“Did he actually agree to sell?” Sarah doodled furiously on her scratch pad. “Did he sign any documents?”
“No,” Luke said slowly. “But he hasn’t put a bean into this place in years.”
Sarah wasn’t surprised her father had neglected the station. He’d never given her mother a cent for Sarah’s maintenance, either. “Burrinbilli belonged to my mother’s family—she grew up there. I’d like to give it back to her.”
“I didn’t know that about your mother,” Luke said. “Burrinbilli used to be one of the best properties in the area, but with the drought times have been tough. There are better stations around if you’re looking for an investment.”
“What exactly is the problem?”
“Cattle yards need repairing. Machinery needs replacing. We badly need a new bull. That’s just for starters.”
“And the homestead?” Sarah twined the phone cord around her finger.
“Bloody shame about the homestead.”
Her heart sank, but only for a moment. Something in his voice didn’t quite ring true. “If it’s that bad you should be glad I’m willing to take it off your hands so you can buy one of those other stations you were talking about.”
“Well,” he said slowly, “I guess we won’t bulldoze it just yet.” After a pause, his voice deepened. “The truth is, I’ve invested ten years and my life savings in this place. I don’t intend to sell.”
“I’ll pay you whatever you want.” It was a stupid thing to say, but she might do it if she could raise the money.
“Be careful, I could take you up on that—except I know you’re probably in shock over your father’s death.”
“There was no love lost between me and my father.”
“Fair enough. But I don’t want money. I want the land. And I’ll only pay the market value.”
Sarah popped a red Gummi Bear in her mouth and pondered her next move. He sounded like one determined dude, but everyone had a weak point. However, she wouldn’t find out his on the telephone. She hated traveling but… “I guess I’d better come down and check it out.”
“Do you have some notion of running this place yourself?” he asked warily.
“Goodness, no! I wouldn’t have the first idea. My home is here in Seattle. Would you have room for me to stay at the homestead if I come for a brief visit?”
“Plenty. Just my daughter and I live here. But we’re coming up to the annual cattle muster,” he warned. “And we’re late this year, so I’ll have my hands full.”
“I won’t disturb you. Promise.” She’d only bug him a little, just enough to get him to sell. “I’d better go for now. Sorry for waking you.”
“No worries.”
“I’ll let you know my flight number.”
“Hop a train from Brisbane, then take the bus from Longreach. We’re at the end of the line.”
The end of the line? Oh, God. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Right, then. Cheers.”
Sarah hung up. Her gazed drifted back to the faded photo of Burrinbilli. It seemed to call to her. Or was that Luke’s voice echoing in her imagination?
LUKE RAN WATER into the kettle. Through the window above the sink the predawn sky was paling in the east. A new owner for Burrinbilli—he’d thought it would be him. Bloody oath, it would be him. He was thirty-three and too old to be moving on.
Becka appeared in the doorway in her nightgown, clutching her doll. “You woke me up. Why are you having breakfast in the middle of the night?”
Luke forced himself not to react to her accusing tone. Was this hostile nine-year-old really his daughter? Where was the loving child who used to swing on his knee? And when had the emotional distance between them, as vast as the desert, sprung into existence? Maybe he should have taken her to live with him right after Caroline died, instead of leaving her with Caroline’s aunt Abby. But how could he have cared for a baby when he was out on the cattle run all day?
“Go back to bed,” he told Becka. “I’ll be in around nine for morning tea. I’ll make you breakfast then.”
“I don’t want to go back to bed. I want breakfast now.” She dropped into a wooden chair at the long jarrah-wood table in the middle of the kitchen and twined a finger through her sleep-tangled blond hair.
Luke exhaled through flared nostrils. It’d only been a week since he’d brought her here; things were bound to get better. Meantime, he didn’t have a clue how to discipline her. So he turned his back and set about making breakfast, cracking half a dozen eggs into one pan and frying strips of lean steak in another.
“I don’t see why I had to leave Aunt Abby’s to live out here in the middle of nowhere,” Becka whined. “I want to go home.”
“This is your home now. Abby and I agreed when you were a baby that when you turned nine you’d be old enough to live out at the station.”
He hadn’t realized then that the move would be such a huge emotional wrench for all of them. For most of Becka’s life their only contact had been the few days a month he could get away from the station to spend with her. Was it any wonder she didn’t want to be here with him now?
But she was his daughter, his flesh and blood, and he loved her. If Caroline hadn’t drowned when that rust bucket Thai ferry sank he might have convinced her to marry him and move out to the station. They could have been a family.
Luke placed a plateful of steak and eggs in front of Becka and sat opposite. She stared at it, then at him, silent and incredulous.
He motioned to her plate with his fork. “Eat.”
“I can’t eat that! Why did you give me steak? Aunt Abby never cooks steak for breakfast.”
“You’re not at Aunt Abby’s anymore. Better get used to it.” He’d never liked Abby overly much; she was fussy and irritating and spoiled the girl something chronic. Although, to her credit, she loved Becka and had given the child the time and attention that Luke couldn’t have.
His harsh tone made Becka’s face crumple. She turned to the doll still cradled in her arms. “Don’t worry, Suzy, we’ll visit Aunt Abby soon.”
Ah, hell. Luke laid a gentle hand on her arm. “Sorry if I sound a bit rough, possum. I’m not used to having a lady in the house. I’ll have to learn to mind my manners.”
“I want Coco Pops.”
He pulled back his hand, muscles tense. “Next time we go into Longreach for supplies we’ll get Coco Pops. Till then, eat up.”
Still holding her doll, Becka picked up a fork and poked at the fried egg. “Couldn’t I have stayed in Murrum at least until school ended?”
“The bus runs right by here. I’ll drive you down to the road every morning.”
“What about during the Wet when the road floods and I can’t get to school? And I’ll never be able to play with my friends on the weekends. Station life sucks.”
Luke rapped the butt of his knife on the table. “Watch your mouth.” Then he made an effort to soften his tone. “Summer holidays are coming up in December. You can have a friend out to stay.”
Becka sullenly began to eat. A minute later she started in on him again. “You’re out with the cattle all day. What am I going to do by myself? Who will help me with my lessons?”
“We’ll sort something out. I’ll help you in the evenings.”
The situation was rough on her, he had to admit, moving away from town and the aunt she loved to the isolated station. Probably he should have let her finish the school year in town, but he hadn’t thought, didn’t have the experience to know, these things were so important to kids.
“You can come out on the motorbike with me this morning to check the water bores.”
Her miserable glance of disdain told him what she thought of that idea. Luke carried his dishes to the sink, his love for his daughter like a knot of pain in his chest.
“Station life isn’t so bad,” he said, rinsing off his plate. “You can ride Smokey whenever you want.”
“Aunt Abby was going to get me a puppy.”
“We’ve got Wal, the Wonder Dog.” In the corner by the stove, Wal raised his speckled black-and-white head and thumped his tail.
“He’s not mine.”
Luke had had enough of trying to appease her for one morning. “Listen, miss, your attitude had better change. We’re going to have a guest shortly. The other part owner of the station is coming from America to see the property. I expect you to be polite and cheerful around her.”
“Why would she want to come to this dump? If I were her I’d rather stay in America.”
“She wants to bring her mother down here to live.”
“Oh, great. Does that mean we’ll have strangers living with us?”
Luke stopped short. He hadn’t had time to consider all the implications. If he couldn’t persuade Sarah Templestowe to sell her half of the station to him the situation could be tricky. “It might mean we’ll move into the manager’s cottage.”
Her face fell. “Not that awful place.”
“We’ll soldier on, Becka, even if it means living in the jackaroo’s quarters. Now, when you’re finished your breakfast you can get dressed and help me feed the chooks.”
Luke went through the sliding glass doors onto the veranda. The rising sun had gilded the silvery limbs of the river gums down by the dry creek bed. From their towering branches, a flock of white corellas lifted, screeching as they flapped noisily away, their snowy crests spread against the deep-blue sky.
He loved Burrinbilli as much as if he had grown up here. And he’d been that close to having all of it.
He took his battered Akubra hat off the peg beside the door, clapped it on his head and headed toward the milking shed, whistling for Wal. Soldier on.
SARAH PUSHED THROUGH the door of her mother’s import store, setting the brass bell to tinkling. The scent of ylang-ylang wafted from the oil burner on the windowsill beneath colored crystals and ornaments of stained glass. Anne was seated on a stool behind the counter, head bowed, as she entered accounts by hand into a ledger. Wisps of short auburn hair curled around her temples and a pair of half glasses sat midway down her nose.
“Hi, Mom.”
Anne glanced up and smiled. “Sarah, darling, what brings you out on this awful day?”
“I had a meeting with the executor of Warren’s estate last night.” She dropped her briefcase on the floor and shed her wet coat onto the horns of a carved wooden rhinoceros. “I’ve been trying to call you all day. Where’ve you been?”
“The phone was off the hook,” Anne said, folding shut the ledger. “It was hidden under a pile of papers and I didn’t notice until a little while ago.”
Sarah laughed. “Only you would do something like that. Anyway, I’m glad you didn’t have to be there. The way he swindled you out of Burrinbilli after your divorce was so unfair.”
Anne adjusted the dark purple shawl draped over her black turtleneck sweater, her oval face expressing her resignation. “Let it go, darl’, it’s in the past. Anyway, he didn’t swindle me out of it. I sold it to him.”
Sarah tilted her head impatiently. “For a song.”
“It allowed me to buy this shop, which was all I wanted back then—a place where I could work and care for you at the same time.”
“But he left you with nothing.”
“He left me you.”
“Oh, Mom,” Sarah said, her voice softening, and she stepped behind the counter to hug her mother. “I will never understand how anyone could walk out on you.”
Anne’s gaze shifted uncomfortably. “Since I wouldn’t have met and married Dennis otherwise, I consider myself lucky your father and I split up. As for Burrinbilli, I always regretted letting it go, but…I’ve made my peace with the loss.”
Sarah smiled, hugging her secret to herself a few minutes longer. “But you’d go back if you could, right?”
Anne got down from her stool and walked to the window to gaze out at the rain streaming down on the gray city streets. “I still dream about Burrinbilli,” she said in her faintly accented voice. “The sun, the heat, the wonderful open country of the Downs—” her voice caught “—the homestead my great-grandfather built after he came out from England.” She sighed and pulled her shawl tighter. “What’s that saying—’You can’t go home again’?”
Sarah laughed, unable to contain herself any longer. “But you can! Warren did one decent thing before he died. He left Burrinbilli to me.”
Anne turned, surprise and delight widening her dark brown eyes. “You mean he still had it? I never would have thought he’d keep it all these years. That’s wonderful!”
“Don’t get too excited,” Sarah cautioned. “I don’t own it completely. Apparently Warren ran into financial difficulties a few years ago and sold half to the station manager.”
“Oh, dear.” Anne came back to the counter. “And now it’s too late to buy him out.”
“He wants it, too. I’m going down to Australia to convince him to sell me his half. And when the place is entirely fixed up you can retire and move back there.”
“I beg your pardon?” Anne’s voice sounded strangled.
“You can move to Burrinbilli,” Sarah repeated. Her voice softened and she took her mother’s hand. “Dennis has passed on. You can go home. You’ve always said how much you missed Australia.”
“Yes, well…” Anne pulled her hand away to run her slender fingers over a string of colored beads from Nepal. “Are you actually traveling all the way to Burrinbilli?”
“You make it sound like the end of the earth. Not that that would worry you.” Every year Anne practically begged her, in vain, to come along on her yearly buying trips to Third World countries.
Sarah moved the bead display to one side and hoisted her briefcase onto the counter. “Wait till you see what I’ve got for us.”
“Not another electronic gadget, I hope. I still haven’t figured out the clock radio-cum-coffeemaker you gave me last Christmas.”
“Oh, Mom.” Sarah handed her an instruction booklet. “How are you doing with the laptop?”
“Don’t ask.”
“It would make your business so much more efficient if you’d only let it.”
“I’m a Luddite, I’ll admit. But I don’t have room in my brain for programming instructions for a dozen different machines.” Anne flipped through the pages of the booklet. “What’s this, now?”
Sarah pulled two identical cellular phones from her briefcase. “Aren’t they great? They also do fax and e-mail. We’ll be able to communicate at all times.”
Anne took one and gingerly turned it over in her hands. “When someone invents a device that facilitates genuine communication between people it’ll be worth a fortune.”
“Mom. Don’t go all airy-fairy on me. Now watch. You press this button to make a phone call. That one to send a fax, and that and that for e-mail. Don’t worry about the Internet connection. I’ve hooked you up to my server.”
“I’ll never use it.”
“Try it,” she urged. “You’ll be surprised.”
Anne put the cell phone down and held up her desk phone. “You can call me on this. And you’ve already got a cell phone. Why do you need another?”
“I thought it would be fun. This is an updated model that’s compatible with Australia and Japan. The new digital system spans the Pacific. Cool, huh?”
“Amazing.”
Sarah ignored her mother’s dry tone and packed her phone back in her briefcase. “Why don’t you come with me to Queensland? It would be so much more fun going together.”
The bell over the door tinkled. Two teenage girls entered, smiled a greeting to Anne and disappeared behind a rack of cotton dresses from Ghana.
“I can’t leave the shop just now, darl’.” Anne gestured around her at the displays of colorful bric-a-brac.
To Sarah the store looked just as it always did—cluttered and colorful and a little too retro for her taste, but not desperate for attention. “Your friend Mandy would take care of the place for you.”
“She left last night for two weeks in Mexico.” Anne, her face suddenly troubled, reached out to stroke the hair away from Sarah’s cheek. “You’re the sweetest girl in the world, but are you sure you want to do this?”
Sarah gave her a tight smile. “Not entirely. I’d really miss you if you moved back there.”
“Then why don’t you sell your half of the station and buy the apartment you have your heart set on?”
Sarah dismissed that with a wave of her hand. “What would I want with an apartment? I’m too young to settle down.”
“What about what’s-his-name, Quincy—?”
“Quentin.” Sarah rolled her eyes. “He gets a rash every time the word marriage is mentioned and rushes off to phone his analyst.”
“I thought he was an analyst.”
“He is, but apparently Physician Heal Thyself doesn’t apply to shrinks. Anyway, I’ve decided I can’t marry him. I want a real man.”
Anne laughed. “And what is that, darl’?”
“I don’t know exactly, but it’s not Quentin.” She glanced at her watch. “I’m on my way to the travel agent. Are you sure you don’t want to come? I could book us two seats. You’ve never been back except for Pop’s funeral, then Nana’s, and that was years ago. We could have so much fun together.”
Anne’s eyes clouded. “There are too many ghosts, darl’, living and dead.”
Sarah studied her mother’s face, totally not understanding her reluctance and certain it was time those ghosts were laid to rest. “Mom, all my life you’ve sacrificed for me. At last I have a chance to do something really special for you.”
“I appreciate the thought more than I can say. You have a good time in Oz. You can tell me all about it when you get back. If nothing else you’ll have a break from work. It’s been what—two years since you’ve had a holiday?”
“Something like that. I’m looking forward to this trip. You know, discovering my roots and all.”
A tiny smile curled Anne’s mouth. “Maybe you’ll decide to stay.”
Sarah laughed. “Not a chance.”
“Make sure you pack lightweight clothing. It’s heading toward summer down there and it gets hot.”
“I’m going shopping right after I arrange for my ticket.”
“Take care, darl’,” Anne said, hugging Sarah close. “If you run into Len Johnson, tell him…” She trailed off, her cheeks tinged with pink.
Sarah didn’t think she’d ever seen her mother blush before. “Tell him what? Who’s Len Johnson?”
The teenage girls came up to the counter with an armload of scented candles. Anne nodded to them before replying, “Just someone I used to…know. On second thought, you don’t need to tell him anything.”
Sarah moved aside so the girls could lay their purchases on the counter. “This is going to be so cool,” she said. “Seeing your old stomping grounds, meeting your old friends…”
“Don’t expect too much,” Anne warned. “Compared with Seattle, Murrum is just a dusty little town in the back of beyond.”
“I’m going to love it! Anyway, it’s only for two weeks. I’ll be back before you know it.”
CHAPTER TWO
SARAH SHIFTED uncomfortably on the bus seat. The hem of her skirt had ridden up and her bare thighs were sticking to the vinyl. She’d been traveling for over thirty-six hours and she felt grimy and hot and sweaty. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d brushed her teeth.
The air-conditioning had broken down hours ago. The second-last passenger got out not long after. The sun was a yellow glare in a frighteningly immense blue-white sky. The flat red earth, sparsely covered with dry grass and dotted with cattle, spread to a distant horizon. With a shudder she pulled her gaze back inside the bus. Outside was too big, too empty, to look at.
Australians might affectionately call their country Oz, she thought moodily, but out here the yellow brick road was a dusty red track across hundreds of miles of nothing and it led away from Seattle, the Emerald City, not to it.
Out of the heat haze appeared the silhouettes of houses and stores. Oh, thank heavens, a town. Like the other towns she’d passed through, the shops had false fronts, wide streets and broad wooden awnings that shaded the sidewalk. They looked a little like towns of the Old West except for the occasional palm tree, which destroyed the illusion. The bus passed a tiny wooden church and a big, ornate hotel with a second-story veranda before slowing to a halt beside a boarded-up train station.
Murrumburrumgurrandah. The town’s moniker rattled along the sign above the platform like an old man’s phlegmy cough.
Shielding her eyes from the blinding sun, Sarah stepped off the bus onto the hard-packed red dirt beside the road. The heat hit her like a dry sauna, sucking the moisture from her skin and turning her ivory linen skirt and top as soft as dishrags.
While the driver retrieved her luggage Sarah stood in the shade of the corrugated-iron bus shelter and fanned herself with the magazine she’d bought in Sydney. It kept the flies off but didn’t provide much of a breeze. If she didn’t get to someplace cool right now she was going to expire of heat exhaustion.
“Someone meeting you?” The driver set her bags at her feet, then wiped the sweat off his forehead, smearing his skin with red dust.
“Yes, at least I think so. Is there a taxi service into the town center?” Second on her priority list was a long cool drink followed by a double latte with a generous sprinkling of cinnamon.
The driver tipped back his hat to scratch his head. “This is the center of town.”
That was what she’d been afraid of.
“Where is everybody?”
He shrugged. “Middle of the day, most folks stay out of the sun.”
“Do you know if there’s a telephone booth?” The batteries on her cell phone were flat from hours of talking to her mother in the airport and on the train trip.
“You can call from the petrol station up the road.”
“Thanks.”
The driver got back in his bus, made a U-turn in the middle of the wide empty street and pulled away in a cloud of red dust. When the pall had cleared Sarah gazed around her for anyone who might be Luke Sampson. There was no one in sight but a lone sheep chewing the stubble beside the road, its fleece as red and dusty as the dirt. Could this deserted place really be the bustling town of her mother’s childhood?
Panic fluttered in her breast. Spooky music echoed in her brain. She’d entered the twilight zone.
And not a drive-through coffee stall in sight.
Stop it, she told herself. Think. Petrol was gasoline. So the petrol station would be that low-slung building up ahead with the pumps. Looking closer, she saw that in the dappled shade of a gum tree, two men sat on a bench, drinking soda from bottles and watching her.
With the sun crisping the skin on her nose and the sweat dripping down the back of her neck, Sarah hitched up her bags, quashed her misgivings and set forth across the baking tarmac. Her spirits picked up a little when she saw the men wave. At least the locals were friendly. Her hands were full and she couldn’t wave back, so she smiled, instead. The men kept waving languidly. Sarah kept smiling. She smiled and smiled.
Until a fly buzzed around her nose and she shook her head to send it away. Another fly came and landed on her chin. Half a dozen more lit on her arms and on her hands, still wrapped around the suitcase handles. One landed on her upper lip and tried to fly up her nostril. Eeeuuww. She dropped her bags in the middle of the road and batted at the cloud of flies buzzing around her head.
The men weren’t being friendly—they were waving away the damn flies!
A once white Land Cruiser, now red with caked-on dust, motored around the corner and pulled in at the service station. A man in beige pants and a light-brown shirt with the sleeves rolled up got out. He lifted his broad-brimmed hat, revealing wheat-colored hair streaked with gold and ocher. “G’day. Sarah Templestowe?”
The voice from the telephone. “Luke. Hi.”
A large sun-browned hand enclosed hers in a callused grip. “Bus must’ve been on time for once.”
She shrugged and smiled, too hot and weary to make small talk. But not too tired to notice his piercing blue eyes.
He picked up her bags. “If you don’t need anything in town we’ll save the Cook’s tour for another day and head straight to Burrinbilli.”
“Fine.” She doubted there was a single thing in this godforsaken town she wanted. As for tourist attractions, the concept made her want to laugh. Which was maybe his intention, though it was hard to tell from that dry-as-dust tone.
They went past the men on the bench. The younger man, deeply tanned and not more than twenty, wore a large sheathed knife strapped to the belt of his dusty shorts, and an open shirt with the sleeves cut out. Around his neck was a choker of some carnivore’s teeth. He raised a smoothly muscled brown arm to tip back a leather hat with a feather stuck in the band. “Luke. How ya goin’, mate?”
“Could be worse.” Luke gestured to Sarah. “This is Sarah, from Seattle. She’s the new part owner of Burrinbilli. This is Bazza.” He indicated the young man. “And this is Len,” he added, nodding at the older man. “Len’s the mayor of Murrum and he owns the general store.”
Len. Sarah eyed him curiously. He looked about Anne’s age, and under his broad-brimmed hat his face was kindly and intelligent. A hearing aid was tucked discreetly behind one ear. He wore a blue cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up and navy twill pants. He was studying her, too.
She smiled at them both. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”
“I’ll be mustering in a week or so,” Luke said to Bazza. “Interested?”
“Yep. I reckon Gus and Kev’ll be interested, as well.” Bazza pulled out tobacco and rolling papers and leisurely prepared a cigarette. He glanced at Sarah. “You been to Hollywood?”
“Uh, no,” she said, caught off guard. “Although my mother took me to Disneyland on my tenth birthday.”
“I was in a movie some American blokes filmed out here last year.” He lit his rollie and squinted through a puff of blue smoke. “Outback Ordeal. Ever heard of it?”
Bazza’s drawl and thick accent forced her to listen hard to understand his words. Aware of Luke standing slightly behind her, waiting, she searched for a tactful remark. “I don’t get to a lot of movies.”
Len spoke. “You’re Anne Hafford’s daughter.”
“Yes,” she said, happily seizing on a link with reality. “Mom told me about you. Well, she didn’t actually tell me anything. Just that I should say hello if I saw you. It’s so cool to meet someone from her childhood. Did you know her very well?”
He smiled blandly. “A little. For a while.”
She couldn’t read his face so she just babbled on. “She’ll be so pleased I met you. And on my very first day, too. I’ll tell her you said hello, shall I?”
There was a long pause. “If you like.”
Behind her, Luke cleared his throat. She glanced back and he nodded toward the four-wheel-drive. Sure, Sarah thought, as she turned to follow him, why waste words? She’d used enough for all four of them. “Nice meeting you,” she said again over her shoulder to Bazza and Len.
When she was a few steps away she heard Bazza say in a low voice obviously not meant for her ears, “Not hard on the old peepers, but a bit of a dag, don’t you reckon?”
Sarah couldn’t make out Len’s softly spoken reply. Dag? she thought, and strode after Luke. What the heck was a dag? Or had he said dog? She’d never been called a dog before.
Luke was placing her bags in the back of the Land Cruiser. “Is he for real?” she asked.
“Bazza?” Luke smiled. “Ever since he got a bit part in that movie he’s been waiting for a call from Spielberg. Thinks he’s bloody Crocodile Dundee. Don’t pay any attention.”
“He doesn’t bother me,” she said. It was Len she found unsettling. She’d give anything to know what had gone on between him and her mother.
She climbed in on the passenger side and strapped herself in, noticing with dismay that her top and skirt were dusted with fine red earth. So much for first impressions. She tried to brush the earth off and it smeared, staining the pale fabric. Perfect.
She caught Luke staring at her. “It’s okay. Rust is my color. What’s a dag?”
One corner of his mouth lifted. “Don’t worry about it.”
He started the vehicle and drove through town—a trip that took all of ten seconds.
Sarah flipped down the sunshade to reduce the glare and kept her gaze firmly fixed on the truck’s interior. Her discomfort at being surrounded by the wide-open spaces was increasing instead of easing. After this, Burrinbilli had better be good.
Be positive, she chided herself. Be the little Aussie battler your mother taught you to be.
After this, Burrinbilli would be damn good.
LUKE DROVE in silence, thinking about poor Wal, who’d been left at home in case Sarah Templestowe was afraid of dogs, and how pathetic his life must be if he felt less comfortable with a woman seated beside him instead of Wal. He rubbed his jaw, unused to being smooth-shaven in the middle of the day.
“Mustering is like a roundup, right?” Sarah asked.
Damn, he’d forgotten to put up the notice in Len’s store advertising for a muster cook. “That’s right. Normally we muster during winter, when it’s cooler. Cattle don’t like working in this heat.”
“Why the delay?”
“I broke my leg in a tractor accident a couple months back. Took a while to heal.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. What kind of cows do you—we—own?”
“Santa Gertrudis.”
“Oh.”
He glanced sideways and caught her mild frown. No doubt cows were like cars to a city-bred woman—identified by color rather than breed or model. “They’re the solid reddish-brown ones. Originated in Texas.”
“Oh. And the cattle yards you mentioned on the phone are…?”
“Where we hold the cattle after we bring them in from the run—for branding, drenching, cutting out the yearling bulls—whatever needs doing.” He realized she was actually listening. Maybe she was interested in the station. Well, it would justify her father’s hanging on to it all these years, but it didn’t bode well for him buying her out. “Do you ride?”
She hesitated, casting a lightning-swift glance out the window. “Er, once or twice at summer camp. I don’t suppose that counts.”
“I could find you a gentle mount.”
“You don’t have to worry about entertaining me,” she added quickly. “I’m only here for a short time and I’m sure I’ll have way too much to do to be a tourist.”
“Fine.” It was all he could do just taking care of the station and dealing with Becka.
“How far is it to Burrinbilli?” she asked.
“Eighty kilometers or thereabouts. This grassy plains country we’re driving through is called the Downs.” His gaze slipped sideways again, to see her lightly freckled nose wrinkle as she engaged in mental calculations. Her cheek was smeared with dust and her clothes a disaster. Her auburn hair was twisted up at the back, but the ends sprayed out in a spiky arc from the plastic thing that clamped it in place.
He smiled. Bazza was right. She did look a bit of a dag. Still, clean her up and she’d be bonza—tall, with long, strong limbs. He liked a woman who didn’t look as if she might snap in a stiff breeze. She had the warm coloring that went with auburn hair and the clearest green eyes he’d ever seen.
“Why, that’s…fifty miles!” she exclaimed. She whipped her head around to look through the rear window at the road down which they’d come. “Please don’t tell me Murrum is the nearest town.”
“Didn’t you know that?”
“I knew it was a long way from Burrinbilli to the town, but from what my mother said, Murrum was a bustling place.”
“Things have changed since your mother’s day.” He couldn’t keep the trace of bitterness out of his voice. “First the train stopped coming through. Then the banks pulled out. Then we lost the post office and the government offices were relocated. Wasn’t much left after that except the pub, the petrol station and the general store. Oh, and the church. They share that around the various religions.”
She shook her head sympathetically. “Economic rationalism strikes again.”
She was right, but something in him didn’t want her feeling sorry for the place he called home. “Some folks say Murrum’s picking up again. Tourism and such.”
There was the briefest pause. “I’m sure it is.”
Luke had spent enough time in cities to know what she must be thinking: why would anyone live out here? It wasn’t something city folk understood. Not many people who came from the “big smoke” stayed long to discover the attraction. Rose had stayed. But Rose had married Tony, the owner of the pub. Luke couldn’t see someone like Sarah settling down with anyone around here.
“How long did you say you were here for?”
“I’ve taken my two weeks’ annual leave. I’ve also got a few weeks’ worth of flextime owing me, but I’m hoping to be home before the end of the month.”
He reckoned she’d be long gone before that. Bazza and Len each had five dollars on the departure date. They’d wanted to cut him in, but seeing as she was staying at his house, he didn’t think it right to participate.
But it wasn’t just his house, he realized. Their house? That didn’t sound right. He and Warren had never felt the need to clarify who had rights to the homestead.
They passed a small wooden cottage set back from the road. Luke pointed it out with a nod. “That’s where my daughter’s great-aunt Abby lives. Becka’s visiting her this afternoon after school.”
“How old is your daughter?”
“Nine.”
“You didn’t mention a wife. Are you divorced?”
She inquired with such innocent directness he found it hard to take offense. But some people needed to understand that other people didn’t like to talk about their personal lives. He told her part of the truth. “I’ve never been married.”
“Oh.”
He could tell she wanted to know more, but this time she just nodded and pressed her lips together. There was nothing shameful about his relationship with Caroline. She just hadn’t wanted to get married, not even after she’d gotten pregnant. She’d said she didn’t want to marry anybody, but she’d died before it could be proven one way or the other.
“Are you going to have to go all the way back for Becka?” Sarah asked.
Luke shook his head. “Abby’s bringing her out later.”
Silence fell over the truck. She must be thinking up more questions, Luke thought. He stared straight ahead, not wanting to disturb the peace, and wondered if the fencing materials he’d ordered would arrive tomorrow. Halfway to the station turnoff the bitumen ended and they continued on a hard-packed red dirt road. A road that developed deep pockets of fine dust called bulldust in the Dry and became a red bog—and often a lake—in the Wet. When they had a decent Wet.
“I can’t wait to go for a swim,” Sarah said, plucking her damp top away from her chest.
He gave a short laugh. “Swim?”
“Yes, in Lake Burrinbilli.” Sarah leaned back with a dreamy smile. “When I was a little girl Mom told me how she and her brother, Robby, used to swim there. With this heat I can see why it’s important to have water nearby.”
“Your mother told you she swam in a lake?” He wanted to laugh, but it wouldn’t be nice.
“Everything sounded beautiful, the way she described it—the old Victorian homestead set among ghost gums, and out the back, not far away, Lake Burrinbilli. I am so hot and that water is going to feel so good.”
Ah, that lake. Luke wished he’d placed a bet with Bazza and Len after all. He would have cut Bazza’s estimate of four days in half. “The, ah, water level’s down a little. Not too good for swimming.”
Her mouth drooped, but only for a moment. “Oh, well, splashing around will cool me off.”
“There might be a water hole in the creek that hasn’t dried up.”
Her eyes widened. “But…?”
He caught sight of the old refrigerator they used as a mailbox and geared down. “Here we are.”
“Where?” She gazed around at the featureless landscape. He could swear he saw her shudder.
“The driveway,” Luke said, and turned off onto a rutted dirt track.
Sarah took another glance outside and this time he was positive about the look of revulsion.
“The driveway?” she repeated, aghast.
“Yep. Only thirty kilometers to the homestead from here.”
Sarah heard this with a sinking heart. By now she knew every detail of the dashboard as well as she knew the keyboard of her computer. She watched the digital speedometer with glazed eyes. Anything to take her mind off the weird feeling that stopped her from looking out the window. She’d never experienced anything like it before. But then, she’d spent all her life nestled between the mountains and the sea, swaddled in cozy enveloping clouds that lowered the sky and brought the horizon in close.
Just when she thought she couldn’t stand it another minute, she saw in the distance a stand of smooth white-limbed trees and the sloping roof of the homestead, half-buried among their leafy branches.
Burrinbilli at last.
She’d never been here and the landscape was completely foreign, but she’d heard so many stories that she felt a strange sense of homecoming. Here, her mother had lived as a child. Here, her grandmother had given birth to her mother. Here, her great-great-grandparents had built the homestead and run cattle.
Luke lived here now. Had for ten years. It probably felt like home to him, too, and for more tangible reasons than hers. She glanced sideways at him, wondering what he really felt about her visiting. His chiseled profile gave nothing away.
“Have you given any more consideration to my offer to buy you out?” she asked.
Luke stopped in front of a wire gate across the road and put the truck in neutral. “Only how I might convince you to sell, instead. I was a signature away from owning it all.”
“I’ve brought back your deposit.” She rummaged in her purse for an envelope and held it out to him.
Ignoring it, Luke swiveled on the bench seat to face her, one elbow resting on the seat back, the other on the steering wheel. “I would have thought you’d honor your father’s intent.”
Luke was a big man, Sarah realized, tall, broad shouldered and well muscled. But being tall herself she wasn’t intimidated by size. “I don’t know my father’s intent. Anyway, I owe him nothing.”
Luke pushed a hand through his hair, sweat dampened at the temples from his hat. “How can that be?”
“After he and my mother split up he bought Burrinbilli from her for a pittance. Not long after that he remarried and moved to the east coast,” Sarah added bitterly. As good a father as Dennis had been to her, it still hurt that her real father had cared so little about her.
“I’m surprised your mother didn’t return to Australia after her marriage broke up.”
“Her father died fighting a bushfire not long after she came to America. Her brother had been killed in Vietnam the year before. With no men left to run Burrinbilli, my grandmother passed it on to Mom, thinking she and Warren would come back. Nana went to live on the coast, where she died when I was about ten. So even though Mom owned the station, none of her family lived there anymore. I guess she didn’t feel she had much to come back to.”
Sarah paused to take a breath. The glazed look on Luke’s face suggested he already knew more than he ever wanted to about her family history. But she wanted to get it all over at once. “Also, Mom thought I should be raised near my father. The trouble was, his second wife didn’t want him to have anything to do with us. By the time Mom realized Warren wasn’t going to go against her to see me, she’d met my stepfather, Dennis, who had an established business in Seattle. So, she stayed.”
“I see.” Luke eyed her warily a moment, as if to make sure she’d really stopped. Then he yanked on the hand brake and jumped out of the truck to stride toward the gate.
Sarah sat where she was, her stomach churning as it always did when she thought about her father. Watching Luke walk back to the Land Cruiser, she recalled the old Mills and Boon romances by Lucy Walker, which were set in the outback and which she used to sneak from her mother’s cache of books as a young girl. It was the passenger’s job to open and close the gates.
Luke got back in and drove through the gate. “I’ll shut it,” Sarah said when he stopped on the other side.
She jogged back to the gate through the searing heat. The metal latch burned her fingertips as she pushed it shut. Then she made the mistake of glancing over the top of the gate. The land was so huge, so open. Nothing for her eyes to fasten on except the haze of heat that shimmered over the dusty track. To her surprise, a wave of panic quivered through her. Oh, no…
Her chest tightened until she was literally gasping for breath. Black spots appeared before her eyes and she doubled over, wrapping her arms around her waist. Beads of cold sweat popped out on her forehead. She was going to pass out…
Strong hands gripped her shoulders. “Keep your head down. Breathe deeply.”
She did as he said and after a minute she was breathing easier. “Thanks,” she said shakily, and struggled upright.
Luke’s eyes searched her face. “What happened? You went as white as a ghost gum.”
Sarah smiled feebly. “I felt…a little…faint. It must be the heat.”
He regarded her dubiously but said nothing as he helped her back to the vehicle.
Sarah was quiet the rest of the way. The heat, although a fierce contrast to autumn rains in Seattle, hadn’t caused that panic attack. She knew that was what it was because of Quentin, even though she’d never experienced one before.
Finally they topped a low rise and her worry fled as she got her first close-up view of Burrinbilli. The homestead was a long single-story building bordered by two stocky palm trees. Built of creamy sandstone blocks, it had a sloping roof of sage-green corrugated iron and a wide wraparound veranda. Tall narrow windows flanked by shutters were set into the walls at intervals. The iron pillars supporting the veranda were lush with a tangle of purple bougainvillea that almost obscured the intricate iron filigree trim.
“Vines are overgrown,” Luke said, braking to a halt.
“It’s beautiful,” Sarah declared from the edge of her seat.
A speckled black-and-white dog with pointy ears and stubby legs rose from the veranda, barked once and wagged his nether regions furiously as Luke got out of the truck.
“How ya goin’, mate?” He bent to rub the dog behind the ears, then presented him to Sarah. “Wal, the Wonder Dog.”
“Hello, Wal. Aren’t you gorgeous.” She crouched to let him sniff her hand. “Wonder Dog? Does he do tricks?”
“Nah, he’s a blue heeler, a working cattle dog. I call him Wonder Dog just to make him feel good.”
Sarah rose and gazed around. A hundred yards away to the left of the homestead gardens was a meandering line of huge gum trees. They must mark the path of the creek, she thought excitedly. To the right was a field dotted with horses. A glossy chestnut trotted along the fence toward them, arching its muscular neck and tossing its mane.
Sarah noted the spring in its step and briefly regretted her lie about not knowing how to ride. “Summer camp” had been a series of intensive courses in advanced equitation. The lie had come on impulse, an instinctive denial so she wouldn’t be expected to ride in the open country.
She would have to get over this phobia. That was all there was to it.
She climbed the single shallow step onto the shady veranda, her sandals sounding dull on the wooden flooring as she crossed to the entrance. A fanlight topped the door and on either side were panels of engraved glass. Sarah traced the roughened surface of a Scotch thistle twined with roses and shamrocks. Her mother had an antique silver-and-garnet brooch in the same pattern.
She’d known none of Warren’s family background and precious little of her mother’s. Here at last was her heritage. She hadn’t missed it until this moment, but now the smidgen she glimpsed left her wanting more.
She heard a step behind her and turned to find Luke with her suitcases in hand. “Thanks. Sorry, I should have helped bring those in. I was just so excited at seeing the house. I never thought it would affect me this much. Suddenly I’m reliving all sorts of memories—my mother’s memories, really—stories she’s told me through the years. I feel I know Burrinbilli almost as well as if I’d lived here myself.”
Luke gave her a dry glance and gestured her inside. “Make yourself at home.”
Oops, her pride of ownership was showing. Sarah stepped into the large entrance hall, her gaze rising to the high, ornate plaster ceiling before alighting on an impressive glass-encased display of butterflies.
“Of course, I couldn’t ever live here,” she assured him. “I’m an urban girl through and through. Bright lights, skyscrapers, the sound of traffic in the streets. To tell you the truth, all this quiet makes me nervous. Give me an apartment, a café and a view of the city over Puget Sound and I’m at home. Speaking of water, will you show me the lake?”
Luke hung his hat on a peg beside the door.
“Okay. But like I said, it’s not what you’re expecting.”
CHAPTER THREE
HE LED THE WAY to the other side of the house, through the biggest country kitchen Sarah had ever seen. She just caught sight of a stone fireplace you could stand up in enclosing a modern stainless-steel stove before Luke pushed open the sliding doors to the back veranda.
This section of the veranda was enclosed with fly screen and clearly used as an extension of the living space. At one end stood a child’s school desk and bookshelves, while at the other end wicker chairs padded with cushions were grouped around an outdoor table.
She gazed eagerly through the screen, past the sheds and the clothesline and the tall trees whose spreading boughs shaded the yard to—Huh? Where the lake should have been was nothing but a broad dent in the dry red earth. Tufts of salt grass grew here and there.
“That’s it?” Although he’d warned her, seeing the empty lake bed made her feel like crying. Anticipation of Lake Burrinbilli had sustained her through the long hours of the journey and now…It simply didn’t exist. “When did it last have water in it?”
“Three, maybe four years ago. It’s not really a lake, just a depression that holds water when it floods. It’s been six years since it was deep enough to paddle in.”
Sarah pressed two fingers to her closed eyelids and felt moisture seep beneath her lashes. Fatigue was sending her emotions up and down like a yo-yo. She was dying for a coffee, but even more than that she wanted to be alone with her disappointment. “I think I’ll take a shower and lie down.”
“It’s a different world when the rains come,” Luke said, as if he hadn’t heard her. “Green shooting up over the Downs, thousands of wildflowers. Frogs seem to spring right out of the mud. Flocks of birds so large they darken the sky.”
Sarah opened her eyes. He was gazing across the dry lake bed, looking into the past. Or maybe it was the future.
“I wish I could see that,” she said, blinking at the sun-bleached landscape. Faced with reality, she numbly realized that even her mother’s memories failed her.
“Life will flourish here again.” His eyes, locked briefly with hers, seemed to add, For those who stay.
He led her back through the kitchen and down a long hall. “This is my room. Becka’s room.” He gestured to closed doors. “Loungeroom’s out the front. Bathroom’s in there. And this—” he pushed open a door and stood aside “—is your room.”
Sarah stepped past him into a square room with faded floral wallpaper. The matching curtains were clean but frayed around the edges. A white coverlet lay across the iron single bed. On the opposite wall sat a dresser made of distressed pine that her antique-collecting friends in Seattle would pay big money for. In one corner stood a matching old-fashioned wardrobe. Overhead a ceiling fan whirred quietly.
Luke set her bags down beside the bed and returned to the doorway. “I was going to move out of the main bedroom while you’re here, but—”
“I wouldn’t want to put you out.”
“I reckon this was your mother’s room.”
“My mother’s room?” she said, glancing around with new interest. “What makes you think so?”
He nodded toward the dresser and a notebook lying on top. “I found her diary tucked under a loose floorboard beside the bed. Must have been there for years. I told your father about it, but he didn’t mention returning it. Don’t know why, but I kept it instead of throwing it out.”
Sarah moved across the room to pick up the notebook. Scrawled in a loopy, slanted hand on the front of the faded red cover were the words Anne’s Diary. Private. Keep Out. This means you!
Sarah smiled. The handwriting was more rounded and immature than nowadays, but it was definitely Anne’s. “Did you read it?”
Luke looked offended she would even ask. “Says right on the cover that it’s private. Anyway, I don’t have time to read girls’ diaries.”
Sarah flipped through the closely written pages and found herself tempted. Don’t even think it. She returned the diary to the dresser. “I’ll take it to her. She might find it amusing after all these years.”
“Right. Well, I’ll let you get settled.” He backed out of the room and shut the door.
Sarah put her clothes away, then flopped on the bed with her cell phone. She replaced the old batteries with the spares from her suitcase and dialed her mother’s number.
“Hi, Mom,” she said, disappointed when she got the answering machine. “I’m here. My God, what a trip! It’s so hot. How come you never mentioned the flies? And the lake that’s not a lake. But the homestead is beautiful. By the way, Luke found your old diary. Oh, and I’ve already met Len. What’s the deal with him? I’m going to rest now, but I’ll call you later. Love you. Bye.”
LUKE PACED the front veranda, his frowning gaze on the dirt track that cut across the Downs toward Murrum. The wide western sky was bloodred with the setting sun, yet still no cloud of dust heralded Abby and Becka’s arrival.
“Where do you suppose they are, Wal?”
The dog, who was never far from Luke’s side, pressed his cold nose against his master’s palm.
Luke heard a movement behind him and turned to see Sarah standing in the doorway. She’d put on a sleeveless cotton-knit dress, which hugged her curves and showed plenty of leg. Her damp auburn hair fell in long wispy spikes around her bare shoulders. His dormant libido stirred like a bear after a long winter, ravenous and on the prowl.
“Is something wrong?” She came forward, bringing with her the subtle fruity scent of her shampoo.
“It’s almost seven o’clock. Abby hasn’t brought Becka back yet.” Back in your cave, Sampson.
Sarah stooped to pat Wal. “Maybe she’s on her way.”
“Abby won’t drive out here in the dark. It’s too easy to stray from the track and get lost. She said she’d have Becka back in time for tea.”
“Tea? Oh, you mean dinner.” Sarah glanced down the track and stepped behind the screen of bougainvillea, her fingers brushing the glossy dark green leaves. “Maybe her car broke down or she got caught up in something.”
Luke strode back into the house to ring Abby again, realizing belatedly that he’d just walked off without a word. He wasn’t used to informing others of his movements. First Becka, and now Sarah.
“Hello?” Abby sounded pleasant, unconcerned.
“Why aren’t you here?” he demanded. “Is Becka okay?”
Outside the kitchen window, dozens of snowy white corellas screeched as they flapped home to roost in the river gums.
He listened to Abby’s excuses— “Low on petrol, the station’s closed for the night, tried to call you earlier.” She was unapologetic, unrepentant, plausible. He wanted to rant and rave and tell her how worried he’d been, but that would be overreacting.
“Okay. Okay,” he said, reassuring himself rather than her. “I’ll pick Becka up tomorrow.” He wasn’t taking any chances on more excuses.
He found Sarah on the side veranda, watching the corellas perform acrobatics in the branches, swinging upside down and cracking gum nuts between their strong hooked beaks as they squabbled among themselves. Luke’s attention, though, was drawn to the curve of Sarah’s neck, lengthened by her upturned face and repeated in her wide smile as she turned her delighted gaze upon him. “Aren’t they gorgeous!”
“Yeah,” he grunted. “Want something to eat?”
“Yes, please.” She followed him back inside. “Did you get hold of Abby?”
Luke smoothed his face into an expressionless mask. “Becka’s staying overnight. I’ll pick her up tomorrow.”
Sarah’s green eyes probed his. “Are you all right with that?”
No, he was not “all right” with that. He’d barely had his daughter with him a week before she was back at Abby’s. What really rankled was that he’d had no choice but to let Becka stay, unless he wanted to make the long trip back into Murrum. Abby must have known he’d be reluctant to do that on Sarah’s first night. He felt bamboozled by Abby and oddly uneasy about leaving Becka.
“She’ll be okay,” he assured Sarah, but the catchall phrase was meaningless in the present context. “Come and have some tucker. Hope you like steak and potatoes.”
“Steak! I haven’t had a steak since 1989.”
“We eat the odd one around here. You a vegetarian?” He was amused that the owner of a cattle station might not like beef.
“No, I just don’t usually eat big chunks of meat.”
“I reckon we can find you a knife.” But first he opened the bottle of cabernet sauvignon he’d been saving for a special occasion. He twisted the cork off, not even wanting to think about what was prompting him to serve his best wine.
“That’s an interesting corkscrew,” Sarah said, examining the implement. The handle was fashioned out of a cow’s horn, with a large nail driven through and twisted into a tight spiral.
“My grandfather made it. He made or grew just about everything he owned and used. He was so self-sufficient he even made his own coffin and dug his own grave.”
She grinned. “And this is something you aspire to?”
“Self-sufficiency, yes, but I’m not turning the sod just yet.” His answering smile felt rusty through disuse. He hadn’t exactly wanted her to come here, but at least she was taking his mind off Abby and Becka.
After dinner they carried their coffee out to the side veranda. Luke settled into a creaking slung canvas squatter’s chair. Before Sarah’s arrival he’d wondered what kind of a person she would be and what arguments he could use to convince her to sell him her half of the station. It had never occurred to him that he might find himself attracted to her. He propped his booted feet high against the pillar and tried not to dwell on it. She wasn’t even that pretty, he told himself. Her nose had a slight bump and her jaw was a touch strong….
Sarah remained standing, her hands wrapped around her cup. “It sure is quiet.”
“You think so? Sounds pretty noisy to me, what with the cicadas down by the creek and the possums crashing around in the gums….”
“Doesn’t it get lonely out here all by yourselves?”
Only at night, going to a solitary bed.
“There’s a difference between being alone and being lonely,” he said. “Anyway, we get plenty of visitors passing through. I catch up with friends at race meetings or dances.”
Luke rubbed a thumb around the rim of his cup. Compared with town, it was isolated. He was used to it, but Becka wasn’t. If only she were an outdoor sort of kid she might be happier at spending time with him out on the cattle run. Abby had turned her into a townie.
He glanced up to see Sarah sip her coffee and grimace. “Coffee okay?”
“Fine.” She smiled brightly. “Just fine.”
Like hell, he thought, but it was the best he had. Suddenly he wished he had something better to offer. But she was a townie; probably nothing would seem good enough. “What do you do back in Seattle?”
“I’m a computer programmer. I design educational software for a large company. Are you on the Internet?”
Luke snorted. “I’d rather cross the Simpson Desert than venture into cyberspace.”
“Really?” Sarah paced down the veranda. “I don’t know how you stand all this emptiness.”
“It’s not empty. It’s full of life if you know where to look. I’d go off my nut cooped up in a city.”
She wandered back and leaned against a pillar, gazing down at him. “What did you do before you came to Burrinbilli?”
“I was a stockman in far north Queensland on a station owned by a large pastoral company.”
“And before that?”
“Did some traveling. Before that I was a jackaroo on my uncle’s station near Hughenden. That’s where I grew up.” In the deep dusk of the gum trees a kookaburra made its laughing call. Another chimed in, and another. You don’t hear that in the city. “I had a friend as a kid, an aboriginal from the local community. He and I would go out in the desert. His grandfather taught him how to track and find water and hunt. And he taught me.”
Her eyes widened. “Did you, like, eat grubs and things?”
“That’s right.” He couldn’t resist teasing her. “Moreton Bay bugs are my favorite. We’ll have them sometime while you’re here.” He smiled, knowing it was too dark for her to see the twinkle in his eyes.
She shuddered. “Ugh. I guess I’d eat bugs if I were starving, but only then.”
He laughed. Then drained his coffee and got to his feet. “Reckon I’ll turn in. Sunrise comes pretty early.” He paused at the doorway. “You planning on staying up awhile?”
“Well…”
“Because if you go for a stroll at night, mind you take a torch. Brown snakes usually go to sleep at sundown, but death adders and mulgas are out and about.”
“Death adders? Mulgas? Those are poisonous, right?”
“Most snakes in Australia are.”
Sarah scrambled to her feet. “Actually, I’m feeling pretty tired after my long trip.”
“Thought you might be.”
As she went past him into the house the overhead light illuminated her bare freckled shoulder and the scent of her warm skin reached his nostrils, reminding him it had been a long time since he’d held a woman in his arms.
It would be a while longer, he thought, sliding the door shut behind him.
And it wouldn’t be this woman, tempting though she was.
Pity.
LATE THE FOLLOWING afternoon Sarah was in her room, going over the list of items she wanted to buy for the house. Now that she was part owner she ought to do her bit to take care of the place—if Luke let her. Real money needed to go toward machinery or a bull, but fresh paint and new fabric could make a big difference for relatively little expense. She’d found an old sewing machine on the floor of the linen closet and although she was no seamstress she could manage curtains and cushion covers.
She heard the sliding door to the kitchen open and checked her watch. Five o’clock. Luke was in from the cattle run to go and get Becka. He’d asked Sarah this morning if she wanted to go with him and look over the property. Maybe tomorrow, she’d answered, not meeting his eye.
Sarah went down the hall and paused in the kitchen doorway. Luke had stripped off his shirt and was bent over the kitchen sink, sluicing hot soapy water over his head and arms. She’d never been one for westerns, and the popular appeal of cowboys escaped her, but the sheer physicality of his broad shoulders, lean muscled back and strong arms left her blinking like a cursor on a blank screen.
He reached blindly for a towel and blotted the water from his face and hair. Opening his eyes, he saw her and for an instant froze, towel clutched against his chest. “G’day.”
“Hi.” She folded and refolded her list. “Are you going to get Becka?”
He nodded and reached for his shirt, bunching it in his fist. “Want to come?”
“No. Thanks.” She noted the odd, intense light in his eyes and wondered if it was obvious she found him attractive. “I thought I’d make dinner if you would show me how to work the woodstove.”
“Nothing wrong with the electric stove.”
“Let’s just say the woodstove inspires me. Mind if I raid the pantry?”
One corner of his mouth lifted as he slicked back his damp sun-streaked hair. “Go for your life.”
LUKE PULLED INTO Abby’s driveway and jumped out of the car. Doors were never locked in Murrum and friends and family didn’t wait for a formal invitation, so he knocked once on the front door and went in. “Abby? Becka?”
No answer.
He wandered through the kitchen and looked out the window into the backyard. Becka and Abby were on their knees in the vegetable patch, staking up tomatoes. Stepping out the back door, he called, “G’day.”
Abby glanced up and pushed a strand of gray hair off her forehead. “Hello, Luke. We’re almost done.”
He glanced eagerly at Becka, ashamed at how much he longed for her to run to him the way she used to. Daddy, Daddy, see what I did.
Now she only glanced up without smiling before going back to the tomatoes. Any encouragement at all and he would have given them a hand. But he might as well not have been there for all the notice they took of him.
“Don’t mind me,” he muttered, and retreated into the house.
He helped himself to a glass of water from the tap and sat at the kitchen table. There was the usual clutter: a stack of paid bills, Becka’s hair ribbons, a half-done crossword puzzle. At the end of the table, above the salt and pepper shakers and the tomato sauce bottle, hung one of Caroline’s watercolors of a desert landscape. A mutual love of the desert had brought them together, but it hadn’t been enough to bind them. Nor had his love.
The painting reminded him that this house had been hers before she’d died. Abby had taken it over, as she’d taken Becka over.
Idly, he flipped open the photo album. There were Caroline and her parents, Caroline and Abby…He turned the page to see old photos of Abby as a young woman. She wasn’t unattractive really, although her one brown eye and one blue eye were disconcerting. Too bad she’d never married and had children of her own since she loved them so much. He seemed to recall Caroline’s saying something about her being in love with Len and never getting over it.
He flipped the pages. Caroline painting. Caroline pregnant. They hadn’t planned to have a baby, but when she’d gotten pregnant he’d thought they would be a family. Turned out she’d wanted to travel, not settle down.
Luke flipped another page, to find an unsealed envelope tucked into the crack. He slipped out the photo that was inside—one taken of Caroline in the hospital after she’d had Becka. He frowned. Something was odd about this. He peered closer, hardly believing his eyes.
Caroline’s face had been cut out of the photo and a picture of Abby inserted in its place.
Oh, God. He dropped the photo and jumped to his feet. Though the room was stifling, a chill swept over his body. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath.
Unbelievable. Impossible.
He looked again.
It was true. He thought he was going to be sick right here on Abby’s kitchen floor.
Voices at the door. He crammed the photo back in the envelope and slammed the album shut.
Abby came through, smiling, scraping the red earth from her feet. “All done. Time for a cuppa before you go?”
His mouth was dry. He couldn’t say a word. Abby, humming, ran water into the electric kettle. She was so familiar, yet suddenly a stranger.
Becka. His baby. All blond ponytail and coltish legs under her shorts. What lies had Abby told her?
“Becka, get your things. It’s time to go.”
“Relax, Luke,” Abby said. “You’ve got a couple hours of light left.” She hovered over the girl. “Wash your hands, dear. Use the nailbrush. A little more soap. That’s right.”
“Sarah’s making dinner.” He struggled to keep his voice normal, unaffected by the rage building inside. “Becka—now, please.”
She turned away from the sink, wearing her aggrieved-princess look. “Do I have to?”
“Yes.” He waited for her to dry her hands and leave the room. Gave her another five seconds to get to the far end of the house. “Abby—” he began.
“So Sarah Templestowe is making dinner, is she?” Abby’s voice turned coy, her mismatched eyes watching him. “That sounds cozy.”
Luke refused to be sidetracked by Abby’s sly remarks. She was always digging for information, making something out of nothing, then seeming oddly pleased when there really was nothing. Nothing lasting, at any rate.
“I looked at your photo album.”
She smiled pleasantly and reached into the cupboard for cups. “Did you hear Sandy Ronstad had her baby?”
“Abby.” His hands clenched. “Why did you cut out Caroline’s photo and replace it with your own?”
Her body gave a kind of jolt, but she didn’t answer right away. The cups trembled in their saucers as she set them on the table. “Whatever are you talking about?”
He flipped open the album and waved the envelope at her. “Did you show this to Becka?” If she had, so help him, he’d—
“I’m not surprised Sarah Templestowe would move in fast on a handsome bachelor,” Abby continued, her voice wavering but still sounding determined. “Look at her mother. Taking off with that American after only a few weeks. Poor Len. She broke his heart.”
Luke gripped her shoulders, stopping just short of shaking her. “Did you tell Becka you’re her mother?” he demanded in a fierce whisper.
“Of course not.” Abby pressed her fingers to her temples. “That would be crazy.”
“Then why did you put your photo in Caroline’s place?” Abby covered her ears with her hands. “Answer me,” he ordered harshly.
“She’s all I’ve got, Luke. Don’t make me give her up.”
“It’s time, Abby. We agreed after Caroline died that Becka would come to live with me when she turned nine.”
“Nine was just an arbitrary number. She still needs a mother—” she quailed under his fierce scowl “—figure.”
“She needs her father, too,” Luke said, hardening himself to her beseeching gaze. He couldn’t get the image of the defaced photograph out of his mind.
“Dad!” Becka called from her old room. “I need help.”
Luke glared at Abby and strode down the hall to Becka. She was struggling with her overnight bag and two shopping bags full of clothes.
“What’s all this?” he asked.
“Aunt Abby bought me some dresses and stuff.”
Luke pulled out a handful of slippery blue fabric with spaghetti straps. “Is this a nightgown?”
“It’s a party dress. Isn’t it cool?”
“You’re only nine. You’re not going to parties dressed like this. Leave it.”
“Da-a-a-d.”
Abby appeared in the doorway. “Let her have them, Luke. She should have something fun and pretty in her wardrobe.”
He turned on her. “You shouldn’t have done this, Abby. Not without asking me.”
“Rubbish! Men have no idea how to shop for young girls. Do they, Becka?” She stroked Becka’s hair and the girl smiled up at her.
“Take…them…back. She doesn’t need party clothes out at the station. She needs jeans and T-shirts and boots.” Luke tossed the shopping bags on the bed as though they were contaminated.
“I was only trying to help. In case you hadn’t noticed, Luke Sampson, your little girl is growing up.”
Luke had noticed, all right. And he hated it. He’d already missed too much of her life. “You’re making her grow up too soon. These are for a much older girl.”
“You’re out of touch with what children are into these days,” Abby said. “It’s not surprising, living way out on that station. I’ve been caring for her almost all her life. I know what she needs. Anyway, she’s grown out of practically all her old clothes.”
“If she needs new clothes I’ll buy them for her.”
Tears burst from Becka’s eyes. “I hate you!” she screamed at Luke, and ran out of the room, her overnight bag banging against the doorjamb.
Abby gazed at him reproachfully. “I really think you could have handled that better, Luke. But then, you haven’t had much practice being a father, have you?”
His jaw clenched so hard it hurt. “We won’t be seeing you for a while. Becka’s going to be busy out at the station.”
From the front porch, Abby watched them drive off, the wheels of the Land Cruiser spinning in the dirt before hitting the bitumen and squealing away. She gripped the wooden railing till a splinter pierced her skin, raising a bright red drop of blood. She didn’t notice. The pain was nothing compared with the pain in her heart. Becka was all she had and Luke had taken her away. Just as Anne Hafford had taken Len away from her all those years ago.
Don’t worry, Becka, my darling. We’ll be together again soon—somehow.
“OUCH!” Sarah snatched her blistered finger back from the hot cast iron of the wood-fired oven and thrust it under cold water. Wood-fired oven be damned. It didn’t turn out the savory masterpieces the one at Alfredo’s Bistro did. Her pizza was burned around the edges, pale and gloopy in the center. Maybe if she switched on the electric stove and put the pizza under the broiler…
Irritably, she wiped a smudge of flour from her nose and blew the hair off her forehead with an exasperated sigh. Canned tomatoes were no substitute for sun-dried, even drained through a sieve. And the closest she could get to paper-thin parma ham was a thick rasher of bacon complete with rind and little bones.
But the burned dinner was a mere annoyance. The thing that set her teeth on edge and had her jumping out of her skin was the total absence of decent coffee. The instant stuff Luke made last night was okay once or twice, but she needed something more. She needed full flavor and rich aroma. She needed concentrated caffeine and lots of it. It was humiliating to admit, but she was addicted. Throwing down the hand towel, she strode down the hall to her room.
She snatched up her cell phone, jabbed in her mother’s home number, and almost wept with relief when Anne answered the phone. “Mom! Thank goodness you’re still up.”
“Darling, what is it? Is something wrong?”
“I need coffee. Real coffee. Beans, freshly ground, covered with briskly boiling water. Frothy, steaming milk. Espresso, French roast, cinnamon hazelnut, cappuccino, café latte—”
“Sarah, Sarah, are you all right?”
“What was that noise?” Sarah demanded as she paced back to the kitchen. “I heard a slurping sound. Are you drinking something?”
“Just a cup of herbal tea. Really, darl’, get a grip.”
“I can’t. You’ve got to send me some coffee.”
“I know Murrum isn’t exactly the center of the civilized world, but they do have coffee.”
“Instant coffee. At least that’s all Luke has.” Sarah checked the broiler to see if it was hot and slid one of the pizzas under it. “Mother, please.”
“Consider it done.” There was an odd hint of laughter in Anne’s voice. “How is the homestead? I’ve been thinking about you all day. Have you been down to the creek yet?”
“Er, no. There’s so much to do in the house I haven’t had a chance to get out.” Sarah wrapped her free arm around her waist. She wasn’t going to tell her mother she was afraid to go outside the yard. It was too ridiculous.
“So is it very run-down?” Anne sounded wistful.
“A little shabby. Don’t worry, I’ll have it looking fabulous in no time. But Luke may not be as amenable to selling his half as I’d hoped. He’s really dug in here.”
“Well, he’s been there long enough. What’s he like, do you think, as a manager? Would you say he’s trustworthy?”
She pictured Luke—squinting into the sun, bare chested at the sink, grinning in the dark of the veranda at some private joke. “He doesn’t say much, but he looks you in the eye when he says it. I went over the photocopies of the station accounts before I left Seattle. They seem perfectly okay. In fact, I don’t know how the place survived on what they’ve pulled in the past couple of years.”
“It’s a tough life.” Anne paused. “You said you met Len.”
“He remembered you right away, but when I told him I’d give you his regards, he clammed up.”
“Oh, well, it was all a very long time ago. No point in dredging up ancient history.”
Sarah listened for disappointment, but Anne’s voice was neutral—too neutral. “I’ll bet he was a babe and a half in his day.”
“I believe he’s married, darl’. Er, about that old notebook of mine…tuck it away somewhere safe, will you? There’s nothing of interest in it. Just the typical angsty ramblings of a teenage girl—”
“Don’t worry, Mom. I won’t read it.” Sarah paused to check the broiler. Yikes! The pizza was done, all right. The surface looked as though it had been charred with a blowtorch. On the plus side, the tomatoes were definitely dry.
“I’d better go,” she said. “Dinner’s…uh, ready. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Sarah heard the Land Cruiser drive up and put the pizza on the table, trying in vain to hide it behind the salad and the garlic bread. Surely it didn’t look too bad.
A stony-faced Luke strode into the kitchen, trailed by a sullen young girl with blond braids who dragged her overnight bag on the floor.
“Sarah, this is Becka. Say hello, Becka.”
“H’llo.”
“Hi, Becka. Nice to meet you.” Sarah smiled, hiding her shock at the girl’s swollen, red-rimmed eyes and the tears staining her freckled cheeks. There was an awkward pause before Sarah said brightly, “Dinner’s ready.”
Luke sat down. After a second, so did Becka with a loud scrape of her chair on the slate floor. Her face was set mutinously and she wouldn’t look at her father.
Sarah took her seat and tried to keep the conversation rolling as she dished up the pizza. “It’s not exactly a gourmet delight, but there’s salad, too. And with the leftover dough I made garlic bread.”
Luke took a big bite of burned pizza. He chewed and swallowed without seeming to notice what he was eating.
“How is it?” she asked.
“Good.”
Now she knew he hadn’t tasted it. She turned to Becka. “What do you think?”
Becka shrugged and picked off the tomatoes.
Sarah ate salad and wished she could show Luke there were things she could do really well. Why, she could work the bugs out of a software program in the blink of an eye. She was a good manager, too. She organized a team of six and oversaw all technical aspects of their designs—
She stabbed a piece of red pepper and crunched it down. What was she thinking? The things she was good at meant nothing to a man like Luke. Why should she care what he thought, anyway?
“Did you have a good time at your aunt’s house?” she asked Becka.
Tears flooded from the girl’s eyes. Instead of answering Sarah’s question, she turned to Luke and shouted, “Why can’t I see Aunt Abby again? Why? You hate me, don’t you?”
“Becka, you know that’s not true—” Luke began.
“It is true! You said I can’t go back to Aunt Abby’s, but you won’t even tell me why.” Blinking ferociously, Becka pushed away from the table and went through the sliding doors onto the veranda.
Sarah turned to Luke. “Oh, dear. What happened?”
“Kids,” he said with a dark scowl, and took another bite of charred pizza.
Sarah put down her fork. Clearly, more was going on than he was prepared to tell her. “Is there some reason I shouldn’t mention Becka’s aunt to her?”
Luke’s forearm flexed as he gripped his water glass in his fist. “Don’t mention her to me.”
“Okay,” Sarah said carefully. “You’re angry with the aunt but don’t want to talk about it. Becka is upset about whatever it was that happened and can’t talk about it. I’m completely in the dark but should mind my own business because I’m a stranger here. Have I got it right?”
Frowning, Luke nodded. “Nothing personal.”
She glanced out at Becka, who was leaning morosely against a pillar. Wal came up and tried to lick her face, but the girl pushed him away. “You are going to talk to your daughter, I hope?”
His scowl deepened. “I’ve said all I’m going to say.”
He got up and stalked out of the room instead of going out to comfort his child. Or explain what was obviously incomprehensible to her, too.
Sarah watched him go, shocked and saddened. It really was none of her business. But she’d had a father who’d never been there for her as a child or as an adult. And now he was dead and there was no possibility of reconciliation.
Sarah knew she shouldn’t project her feelings of rejection onto the little girl who was crying on the veranda, but her heart ached for Becka. Although Sarah didn’t know a lot about kids, she remembered how much it hurt to think her father didn’t care about her. She’d seen the worry on Luke’s face last night when his daughter hadn’t been brought home on time. He loved Becka, but for some reason he couldn’t express it. Whether it was any of her business or not, Sarah knew she wouldn’t rest until she discovered what was wrong between Luke and his daughter.
And fixed it.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE NEXT MORNING Sarah put on a skinny sleeveless top and short skirt and slathered sunscreen over her arms and legs and as much of her chest and back as she could reach. She wanted to see the creek where Mom had caught the yabbies.
Jet lag had awakened her in the wee hours, but she’d fallen asleep again at last and now the clock over the kitchen stove said it was nearly ten o’clock. She felt the kettle. Still warm. Luke must have come in for morning coffee and gone out again on the cattle run. Becka was still in her room if the sound of the radio behind the closed door was any indication.
After a quick breakfast of toast and coffee, Sarah stepped outside onto the back veranda. The air was warm and dry and smelled exotically of eucalyptus. Her cross-trainers raised puffs of red dust as she stepped off the veranda and rounded the galvanized steel tank used to collect rainwater.
She headed in the direction of the creek, her mother’s reminiscences ringing in her head. Once a yabby pinched Robby’s big toe and wouldn’t let go. I never laughed so hard.
Sarah could almost hear the sound of children’s laughter coming from the dappled shade near the creek. A few more steps took her out of the comforting shadow cast by the house and into an open stretch of ground. Then it happened again.
Beneath the relentless sun, Sarah began to shiver. Her heart pounded and she struggled to take a breath. She tried to take another step and couldn’t. Her gaze crept involuntarily to the open land on her left that reached into the distance. Her stomach floated; her head felt light.
With an effort she dragged her gaze back to the trees. Suddenly the distance between her and them seemed a vast, untraversable expanse. In her mind the sound of children’s laughter turned mocking.
With her heart thumping so hard she thought it would burst, she spun on her heel and race-walked back to the veranda. There she clutched an iron pillar for support before dragging herself across the planks to sink into a wicker chair, her eyes shutting in sick relief.
What was happening to her? Was she dying? Going crazy?
Gradually her heart slowed to normal and she got her breath back. She stood up, walked the length of the veranda and turned the corner to pace the perimeter of the house. At the front of the homestead she quickly averted her eyes from the view of the open Downs and hurried on around the next corner. She was beginning to feel like a tiger exploring the confines of her cage. Tomorrow. She would overcome her fear tomorrow.
Right now she could use some company. She went in search of Becka, and found her sitting on the floor of her room amid boxes of unpacked toys and books, playing quietly with her doll. Her long blond hair had been pulled into a clumsy braid and she wore a frilly, flowered sundress that matched her doll’s outfit but didn’t suit her tomboyish looks.
Sarah leaned on the doorjamb. “Hi, Becka. What are you doing?”
Becka glanced up, her oval face grave. “Playing.”
“May I come in?” Becka nodded listlessly, so Sarah moved into the room to sit on the bed. She eyed the windows. “I’m going to sew new curtains. What color would you like?”
Becka shrugged. “Whatever.”
“I always think your surroundings make a lot of difference to the way you feel, don’t you? For instance, if we replace those brown curtains with yellow ones—maybe a sunflower pattern—this room would be a lot cheerier. What do you think?”
“Fine.”
“Is something wrong, Becka?”
Becka’s small chin lifted defiantly. “No.”
“I can see you’re unhappy about something,” Sarah said cautiously. “Your dad’s really worried about you.”
Becka snorted. “My dad doesn’t care about me.”
Sarah leaned forward on the bed, her elbows on her knees. “Your dad loves you a lot. Even I can see that.”
“Then why is he keeping me prisoner?” Becka demanded, sullen and defiant. “He won’t even talk to me.”
Sarah’s heart went out to the girl. Behind the defiance lurked fear and uncertainty. “I guess you miss your aunt.”
Becka bit her lip and combed her doll’s hair with a tiny pink comb. “I hate it here. It’s the middle of nowhere.”
“It feels strange to me, too—” She broke off. That was no way to talk around the child. “Hey, I noticed a brand-new superdeluxe computer in the office.”
“Dad bought it so I could use it for school. He tried to teach me, but he doesn’t know how to work it.” Becka’s mouth pursed disapprovingly. “He said a swear word.”
“I can show you how to use it,” Sarah said, suppressing a smile. Surely it would be more fun than dolls at Becka’s age.
Interest sparked in the young girl’s eyes and for a moment Sarah thought she would say yes. Then her shoulder’s drooped as she remembered her role as the unjustly imprisoned. “Nah,” she said, turning back to her doll. “I’ll just stay here.”
“Let me know if you change your mind,” Sarah said, rising from the bed. “Would you mind if I tried it out?”
Becka shrugged, presumably in the affirmative. Then as Sarah was leaving she said so softly it was almost a whisper, “Thanks, anyway.”
Sarah slowly shut the door. Poor kid.
She walked back down the hall to the little room off the living room—or the loungeroom, as Luke called it—that served as an office. Sarah skimmed the titles in the bookshelves lining one wall. Among the volumes on cattle breeding and animal husbandry were a surprising number of books on the geology, botany, zoology and natural history of Queensland.
Along another wall stood a tall wooden chest with many narrow drawers. What was in Luke’s drawers? She grinned at her own pun, but although she was curious about what the chest might contain, the lure of the computer was stronger.
She booted it up, admiring the speed at which it went through its paces. The PC was state-of-the-art and loaded with software. In spite of Luke’s disavowal of the Internet there was even a modem. Regardless of his financial constraints, he’d spared no expense for Becka’s link with the world. For that Sarah thought he deserved a medal. And if he’d learn how to use it himself, he would surely see there were benefits for the station, as well.
But Luke wasn’t kidding when he said he hadn’t ventured into cyberspace. Tsk, tsk. A modem and no Internet connection. She searched the cluttered desk beside the computer, found a phone book and rang up the nearest service provider. She paid for a year’s connection with her credit card and asked for the software to be couriered care of Murrum general delivery. Aside from helping Luke and Becka, if she could get on the Internet she could look up agoraphobia and hopefully find out how to help herself.
Satisfied with her morning’s work, she shut the computer down and repaired to the kitchen for another blah cup of coffee. The phone rang while she was waiting for the water to boil. “Hello?”
“Good morning,” said a cultured masculine voice. “This is Professor Winter, from Australia National University in Canberra. May I speak with Luke?”
“He’s not in at the moment,” Sarah replied. Now, why would a professor be calling Luke? “Can I take a message?”
“Please ask him to call me back on this number….”
Sarah wrote the number down on a pad of paper beside the phone. She’d barely hung up, when she heard boots on the veranda. Luke came in, glanced at her and hung his hat on a row of pegs that already held a bridle, a rope and a coiled, short-handled stock whip as well as several other beat-up felt hats. “Two rules about hats,” he said. “Never wear them in the house. And never go outside without one.”
“I’ll remember that. Oh, a Professor Winter just called. His number’s on the notepad.”
“Thanks. I’ll ring him later.” He crossed to the sink and scrubbed his hands.
She eyed him, mildly frustrated. He not only had no intention of satisfying her curiosity about Professor Winter, he wasn’t even aware she was suffering from it. Heck, he barely seemed aware of her existence. She sighed. It was probably just as well, since there was no possibility of anything but a business relationship between them. “Do you have ground coffee, by any chance?”
“Not worth the bother to make real coffee for one.”
Huh? Coffee was always worth bothering about. Then again, she wasn’t looking after forty thousand acres and fifteen hundred head of cattle single-handedly.
“That’s an excellent computer you’ve got there. I’ve signed you up for the Internet.”
Luke, at the open fridge door, glanced over his shoulder so quickly a lock of sun-streaked hair fell over one eye. “What’s that going to cost?”
“Don’t worry, it’s my treat.”
His jaw stiffened. “I’ll pay you back.”
“No, you won’t,” she replied cheerfully, and poured water over the instant coffee she’d spooned into two cups. Before he could protest further, she added, “I’d like to contribute somehow to the running of the station.”
Luke rummaged in the fridge and returned to the table bearing a plate of cold roast beef, a container of leftover salad and jars of mustard and mayonnaise. “There is something you can do if you don’t mind.”
“Sure. Anything.”
“With the muster coming up we need a cook.” Anything but that.
On the other hand, how could she not cook if that was what was required? She placed a cup in front of Luke and loaded her own with cream and sugar. She had a responsibility to the station, too.
“No problem,” she said, curving her lips in a smile both firm and cheerful. Sacrifice was her middle name.
Luke looked up from the piece of bread he was spreading with mayonnaise. “Beg your pardon?”
“I’ll be the cook. It’ll be…fun.” Even as she said it, her resolve wavered. Was she capable of producing three large edible meals a day for a gang of hungry men? “How many did you say will be in the muster crew?”
“Four, including me. But that’s not the favor. All I want is you to drive into Murrum and put a notice on the board outside Len’s store, advertising the position. I meant to do it yesterday and forgot.”
Oh, no. The next time she faced a long journey through the Downs it would be on the bus out of here. Just the thought of going out there made her tense in case panic struck again when she was alone, away from help. “Truly, I’d be happy to cook.”
Luke began to carve thick slices off the roast beef. “Stockmen like their tucker. It’s got to be good and it’s got to be plentiful or they’ll shoot through.”
“You really can’t go by the pizzas.”
One dark-gold eyebrow rose above a skeptical blue eye. “The garlic bread wasn’t bad. If you really want to help, you could make bread. Homemade beats store-bought anytime.”
“Bread?” she repeated, trying to picture herself up to her elbows in dough. “Uh, sure. But about going to town—”
“I’d bake myself, but you have to do something with the dough every couple of hours or it’s ruined.”
“Like children.” Oh, dear. She hadn’t meant to say that, but now that it was out she wasn’t sorry. His eyebrows drew together in a scowl as he silently layered his roast beef with tomatoes, lettuce and sliced beetroot. Beetroot?
“I know it’s not as if you have a lot of choices,” she said, sipping her coffee and trying not to grimace. “And I’m sure you have a really excellent reason for not wanting Becka to be with her aunt—”
His fierce glance stopped her, but only momentarily.
“You need to talk to her,” Sarah insisted. “She’s upset and confused. She thinks you don’t care about her.”
Luke carefully laid another slice of bread atop the massive sandwich. “Did she tell you that?”
“It’s obvious.”
“That’s ridiculous. She—”
Becka burst into the room, calling, “Sarah!” She saw her father and her steps slowed.
“G’day, Becka,” he said. His gaze followed her as she went silently past him and up to Sarah.
“Will you show me how to use the computer now?”
Sarah looked helplessly at Luke. Whatever their differences, it wasn’t right for Becka to ignore her father.
“Sarah’s going into town for me,” Luke said. Then he added more gently, “You can go, too, and show her the way. Get yourself a treat at the store.”
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