They were still talking about Fee and the important cameo role she was to play in a new Australian movie, when they were interrupted by the shrilling of the phone, the latest miracle for the outback that had depended for so long on radio communication. Rebecca went to answer it, returning with an expression that wiped all the laughter from her luminous grey eyes. “It’s for you, Grant, Bob Carlton.” She named his second-in-charge. “One of the fleet hasn’t reached base camp or called in, either. Bob sounded a bit concerned. Take it in Brod’s study.”
“Thanks, Rebecca.” Grant rose to his impressive lean height. “Did he say which station?”
“Oh I’m sorry!” Rebecca touched her creamy forehead in self-reproach. “I should have told you at once. It’s Bunnerong.”
The station was even more remote than they were. About sixty miles to the north-west. Grant made his way through the Kinross homestead, familiar to him from childhood. It was amazingly grand in contrast to the Cameron stronghold with its quietly fading Victorian gentility. Ally, of course, would change all that. Ally the whirlwind but for now his mind was on what Bob had to say.
Bob, in his mid-fifties, was a great bloke. A great organiser, a great mechanic, well liked by everyone. Grant relied on him, but Bob was a born worrier, a firm believer in Murphy’s Law, whereby anything that could go wrong, would. Equally Bob was determined no harm would come to any of “his boys.”
On the phone Grant received Bob’s assurance all necessary checks had been made and the chopper had passed the mandatory 100-hour service. The helicopter was to have set down when the stockmen were camped at Bunnerong’s out station at approximately four o’clock. The pilot, a good one with plenty of experience in aerial muster had not arrived by four forty-five when Bunnerong contacted Bob by radio. Bob in turn had not been able to contact the pilot by company radio frequency.
“I wouldn’t worry too much about it.” Grant wasn’t overly concerned at that point.
“You know me, Grant, I’m going to,” Bob answered. “It’s not like Curly. He runs by an inbuilt timetable.”
“Sure,” Grant acknowledged. “But you know as well as I do things can go wrong with the radio. It’s not all that unusual. It’s happened to me. Besides it’s almost dusk. Curly would have put down somewhere and made camp for the night. He’s got all he needs to make himself comfortable. He’d resume again at first light. If he’s anything like me he’s dog-tired. Besides, he’s not actually due to start the muster until morning anyway.”
All of which was true. “There’s an hour or so of light left,” Grant said at length breaking in on Bob. “I’ll take the chopper up and have a look around, though I’m coming from another direction. I need to refuel on Kimbara, if I’m going to get close in to Bunnerong.”
“I suppose we might as well wait for morning,” Bob sighed. “Curly could still turn up. Bunnerong can get a message to us and I’ll relay it to you.”
So it was decided. “Curly” to all because of a single wisp of hair that curled like a baby’s on his bald patch, was a pro. He had food with him. A swag. He’d probably put down near a bush lagoon and set up camp for the night. Nevertheless Grant felt the responsibility to take his chopper up. Initiate a bit of a search before night fell.
Bob’s mood had affected him, he thought wryly. Experience told him Curly, though obviously having problems with his radio was most likely safe and sound setting up camp on the ground. Still he liked to know exactly where every one of his pilots and helicopters in service were.
Grant walked swiftly back through the house, telling the two young women of his intentions the moment he set foot on the verandah.
“Why don’t you let me come with you?” Francesca asked quickly, keen to help if she could. “You know what they say, two pairs of eyes are better than one.”
Rebecca nodded in agreement. “I was able to help Brod once on a search and rescue. You remember?”
“That was from the Beech Baron,” Grant told her, a shade repressively. “Francesca isn’t used to helicopters. The way they fly, the heat and the noise. She could very easily get airsick.”
Francesca stood away from her chair. “I don’t suffer from motion sickness at all, Grant. In the air. On the water. Please take me. I want to help if I can.”
His response wasn’t all that she hoped. The expression in his hazel eyes suggested there was a decided possibility she could become a liability. But in the end he nodded in laconic permission. “All right, lady! Let’s go.”
Minutes later the rotor was roaring and they were lifting vertically from the lawn, rising well above the line of trees, climbing, then steering away for the desert fringe. Francesca like Grant was strapped into her copilot seat, wearing earphones that at least made the loud noise of the swishing blades tolerable. Still she found it a thrilling experience to be up in the air looking down at the vast wilderness with all the rock formations undergoing another change in their astonishing colour display. Even when they flew through thermal cross-winds over the desert she kept her cool as the winds took hold of the small aircraft and shook it so it plunged into a short, sickening dive.
“O.K.?” Grant spoke through the headphones, a deep frown of concern between his eyes.
“Aye, aye, skipper!” She lifted her right hand in a parody of a smart salute. Did he really think she was going to go to pieces like the ladies of old? Have the vapours? She had pioneering blood in her veins as well. Her maternal ancestor had been Ewan Kinross, a legendary cattle king. The fact that she had been reared in the ordered calm of the beautiful English countryside and her exclusive boarding school didn’t mean she hadn’t inherited the capacity to face a far more dangerous way of life. Besides it was as she’d told him. She had a cast iron stomach and she was too excited for nerves. She wanted to learn this way of life. She wanted to learn all about Grant Cameron’s life.
They searched until it got to the point when they had to turn back. When they landed Brod was waiting for them in the brief mauve dusk that in moments would turn to a darkness that was literally pitch black.
“No luck?” Brod asked as Grant jumped out onto the grass turning to catch Francesca by the waist and swing her down like the featherweight she was.
“If Curly doesn’t turn up on Bunnerong first thing in the morning we’re looking at another search. Bob report in?”
“No news. Nothing.” Brod shook his head. “You’ll stay the night.” It wasn’t a question but a statement of fact. “Better you’re here anyway. We’re closer to Bunnerong if there’s any need of a search. I expect your man is boiling the billy now moaning his radio is out of order.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” Grant responded to Brod’s good spirits. “It’s Francesca here who’s the real surprise.”
“How so?” Brod turned to smile down on his English cousin, as dark with his raven hair and tanned skin as Grant was tawny gold.
“I think he thought I was going to go into a panic when we hit some thermals,” Francesca explained lightly, striking Grant’s arm in reproach.
“I wouldn’t have blamed you if you did,” he answered with a faintly teasing smile, enjoying fending her off. “I’ve always said you’re much more than a pretty face.” A ravishingly pretty face.
“It would take a lot to put Fran in a tizzy,” Brod said with affection. “We’ve learnt over the years this little piece of English china has plenty of spunk.”
Up at the homestead Rebecca smilingly allotted him a guest room overlooking the rear of the house. The meandering creek that ran near and encircled the home compound revealed itself in a silver line as the moon turned on its radiance. Brod walked in a few minutes later with a pile of clean, soap-smelling clothes from his own wardrobe.
“Here, these should fit,” he announced, placing the clothes neatly on the bed, a blue-and-white striped cotton shirt on top, cotton beige trousers and underwear that hadn’t even come out of its packet by the look of it. Both men were much the same height a few inches over six feet with
the lean, powerful physique of the super active.
“Am I glad of them. Thanks a lot,” Grant answered, turning away from his own speculation of the night to smile at his brother’s best friend. With Rafe and Brod those few years older he’d always been the one trying to catch up, trying to catch them, trying to emulate their achievements, academically and on the sports field. All in all he hadn’t done too badly.
“No problem.” There was an answering smile in Brod’s eyes. “You’ve saved me dozens of times. I’m for a long, hot shower. I expect you are, too. It’s been a thoroughly tiring day.” He started to move off then stopped briefly at the door. “By the way I don’t think I thanked you properly for doing such a great job,” he said with evident approval. “It’s not just the way you handle the chopper, which is brilliant, you’re a cattleman as well. The combination makes you extraordinarily good.”
“Thanks, mate.” Grant grinned. “I aim to offer the very best service. And it doesn’t come cheap as you’re due to find out. What time are we off in the morning always supposing Curly gets a message through he’s okay?”
Brod frowned, answering a little vaguely for him. “Not as early as today, that’s for sure. The men have their orders. They’ll have plenty to do. We’ll wait and see what the morning brings. I know bush logic tells us Curly has landed safely, but I’d like to stick around until we’re sure.”
“I appreciate that, Brod.” Grant accepted his friend’s support. “A land search in such a huge area would be out of the question. It will take aircraft to find him if he’s in any kind of trouble.”
“Not that it’s odd having problems with the radio,” Brod echoed Grant’s own previous words, obviously trying to offer reassurance mixed in with the voice of long experience. Brod’s expression brightened. “Now, what about a barbeque? I feel like eating outdoors tonight and it gives me the opportunity to show off. I cook a great steak if I say so myself. We can throw in a few roast potatoes. The girls can whip up a salad. What more could a man want?”
Grant smiled broadly. “Go for it! I’m hungry enough to eat the best steak Kimbara can offer.”
“You’re going to get it,” Brod assured him.
A long, hot shower was a wonderful luxury after the heat and uproar of the day. The bellowing of the cattle as they were herded into doing what they clearly didn’t want to do; leave the familiar surroundings of the scrub was still in his ears. More of the same tomorrow. And the day after. But he planned on getting right out of fieldwork. He wanted to concentrate on expanding the business. He’d go on building up the fleet and the team but his mind was firmly on extending the range of services.
With time on his hands and glad of the company of such good friends, he used some of the shampoo he found in the cupboard beneath the basin. Kinross sure knew how to look after its guests, he thought with wry admiration. There was an impressive array of stuff to make a guest feel good. Fancy soaps, bath gels, shower gels, body lotion, talc, toothbrushes, toothpaste, hair dryer, electric shaver. Lots of good, big absorbent towels. Man-size. Brilliant!
He stepped out of the shower and wrapped one around himself, feeling the exhaustions of the day slip away. His hair needed cutting as usual. Barbers weren’t all that easy to come by in the desert. He shook his wet, darkened hair like a seal deciding he’d better use the dryer if he wanted to look presentable.
Which he did. He was intensely aware of his attraction to Francesca, her marvellous drawing power though he knew how ill advised it was. The Camerons and the Kinrosses had always lived like desert lords but their world was beyond “civilisation” as Lady Francesca de Lyle knew it. No question the call of the outback had reached her. After all she had an Australian mother born in this very house but Francesca was on holiday, taking the rose-coloured holiday view. It was impossible for her to realise the day-to-day isolation, the terrible battles that were fought against drought, flood and heat, accident, tragic deaths. Men could bear the loneliness, the struggles and frustrations, the crushing workload. He knew in his heart an English rose like Francesca would find it all unbearable no matter how adaptable she claimed she was. She simply had no experience of the bush and the hazards it presented.
Grant threw down the hair dryer, thinking he shouldn’t have used it. It made his hair look positively wild. He turned to dressing, pulling out the belt of his uniform to thread it through the cotton trousers. No difficulty with sizing. The fit was perfect. If only he were certain Curly was safe and sound he could really look forward to enjoying this evening.
It had been lonely at home with Rafe away on honeymoon. He was looking forward to a letter from them or maybe another phone call. Ally had been so full of their stay in New York. She adored it. The excitement she felt as she “hit the sidewalk” the “thrum” of the place more electric than any other city on earth. “And we’ve got you some wonderful presents,” she’d added. “Really special!” That was Ally and she had the money.
The Camerons had never kept pace with the Kinrosses in the generation of great wealth, though Opal was an industry leader and Rafe was dead set on expansion, building up a chain, just as he, himself, was determined on making his mark in aviation.
The pride of lions! Well he and Rafe had tasted tragedy as had Brod and Ally. At least some things were now working out. Brod had found real love, much rarer than people thought. As for Rafe and Ally! They were like two sides of the same coin. Allowing himself to fall in love with Francesca had to make him downright crazy. Easy enough to get led astray, though, he reasoned. Finding the path back might prove very, very, difficult.
Francesca was crossing through the front hall when Grant descended the stairs. She looked up feeling a sudden rush of blood to her face. He looked marvellous, his strong, handsome features relaxed, hazel eyes sparkling, his full, thick head of hair, obviously freshly washed, settling into the deep natural waves women paid a fortune to achieve. She was astonished at her own desire, so sweet, so primitive like a woman staring at the man she wanted for her perfect mate.
“Hi!” His voice was pitched thrillingly low, stirring her further.
She had to force a flippant tone in case he read what was on her mind and man-like backed off. “You look cool.”
“Courtesy Brod.” He grinned. “He rustled up some gear.”
“It suits you.” She spoke with a nice balance of admiration and teasing.
“Actually you look very sweet yourself.” His eyes gently mocked. She was wearing a sapphire-blue full skirt with a matching strappy little top, the fabric printed with white hibiscus. Blue sandals almost the same shade were on her feet, her Titian hair wound into some braided coil that suited her beautifully. He saw the apricot flush on her creamy skin. He knew it was there because he was coming close.
How did it happen? This longing for a woman that sent a man reeling? He’d been making love to her in his mind at least three times a week for some time now, seriously considering it had to happen, shocked because he couldn’t seem to come to his senses. But what did sense have to do with sexual attraction? He felt compelled to have an affair. He couldn’t make the wider choice, yet he moved right up to her, surprising her and himself by moving her into an impromptu tango, remembering how they had danced and danced at Brod’s then Rafe’s wedding.
There was music in him, Francesca thought. Music, rhythm, a sensuality that was reducing her limbs to jelly. This man was taking her over utterly, making all her senses bloom like a flower.
“I’m in perfect company right now,” he murmured in her ear, just barely resisting the temptation to take the pink earlobe into his mouth.
“Me, too.” The words just slipped out, very soft but not concealing her intensity. She hadn’t made a conscious decision to fall in love with him surely, but his effect on her was so pervasive she could hardly bear to contemplate her holiday on Kimbara coming to an end.
Rebecca, coming to find them, burst into spontaneous applause at the considerable panache of their dance. “You’re naturals, both of
you,” she cried. “I’ve never thought of it before but this is a terrific dance floor.” She looked around the very spacious front hall, speculation in her eyes.
“Why would you need it when you’ve got the old ballroom?” Francesca asked, catching her breath as Grant whirled her into a very close stop.
“I mean for Brod and me,” Rebecca smiled, still very much the bride. “Come and join us for a drink. I’ve chilled a seriously good Riesling. It’s beautiful out on the back verandah. The air is filled with the scent of boronia. How I love it. The stars are out in their zillions.” She came forward very happily to link her arm through Francesca’s, her long, gleaming dark ribbon of hair falling softly from a centre parting the way her husband loved it, the skirt of her summery white dress fluttering in the breeze that blew through the open doorway.
They found Brod wrapped in a professional-looking apron, the large brick barbeque well alight, the potatoes in foil already cooking. Ratatouille kebabs prepared by Rebecca lay ready for the grill plate, a leafy green walnut and mushroom salad prepared by Francesca waiting for the dressing.
Grant was given the enjoyable task of opening the wine, and pouring it into the tulip-shaped glasses set out on the long table, while Francesca passed around the crackers spread with a smoked salmon paté she had processed a half hour before. It was light and luscious and the conversation began to flow. These were people, interconnected through family, who genuinely enjoyed one another’s company. The steaks, prime Kimbara beef, were set to sizzle over the hot coals and Rebecca decided she’d like a tarragon wine sauce so went to the kitchen to fetch it. While they were waiting, Grant walked Francesca to the very edge of the verandah so they could see the moon reflected in the glassy-smooth surface of the creek.
The English Bride Page 2