One day, once she was mounted on Lucinda, Wes and Fleece took her over a large section of the property, showing her the varied terrain, from gentle slopes to heavily wooded areas, across two streams that bisected Wes’s holdings, to the boundary fence of Hugh Thurtell’s property.
‘Race you back to the big ghost gum,’ Fleece challenged, and in the next instant she was off at a gallop.
Brooke flicked her reins and was off too, leaving Wes to catch up.
Until recently she’d had no idea how exhilarating it was to ride, with the wind racing through her hair and against her face, pressed close to Lucinda as if they were one, as they bounded across the pastures and skirted around boulders and fallen tree trunks. She experienced a sense of excitement that gave her an adrenaline rush and pushed her heart rate up as she covered the half-kilometre stretch at a gallop, urging Lucinda forward as fast as she could go. She turned her head back to check on Wes and saw that he wasn’t seriously contesting the race. His chestnut gelding, a thoroughbred, was an exracehorse and could have beaten Fleece and her mount without working up a sweat.
She reined in beside Fleece and waited for Wes to catch up. ‘That was fantastic,’ she enthused. ‘I had no idea…’ She patted the side of Lucinda’s neck several times. ‘You know, girl, I think you enjoyed it too.’
Wes drew up beside them. ‘After that exhibition I think I can safely say that you’re over your fear of horses,’ he commented drily. ‘Wait till Jason sees you ride. He won’t believe it.’
‘I know. I can hardly believe it myself.’ Spontaneously, she stood up in the stirrups, leant over to where he sat on his horse and brushed his cheek with her lips. ‘Thank you for being so patient with me.’
Fleece grinned at them both, but being Fleece she also took the opportunity to fire a pot shot at her father. ‘Patient? Sometimes. He’s also a tyrant, especially when it comes to homework.’
‘I don’t deny it. That’s why you get straight As in every subject, my girl.’ He looked sternly but fondly at Fleece. ‘That was the deal, as I recall. If you weren’t going to go to that fancy boarding school, you’d continue to be a straight-A student.’
Fleece rolled her eyes at Brooke. ‘See, I told you he was tough.’
‘You’ll thank me for it later on,’ he assured her. The next moment he nudged his horse in the withers. ‘Come on, Fantasy Lane, now we’ll show the girls what you can do.’ And then he was off, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake.
Following behind, last because Lucinda was the slowest of the three horses, Brooke gave credit where it was due. Wes Sinclair was a superb horseman and, in helping her conquer her own fears, he had proved himself a good friend to her and Jason. She wouldn’t forget that. Finally, in that acceptance she was able to put behind her all the niggling doubts she had had about him since coming to Bindi Creek.
That evening, as Wes sat in his office, he couldn’t shake an uncommon restlessness. The children were asleep and the house was quiet, except for the occasional creak of a roof beam as it contracted in the cooler night air. For an hour or so he had been working on Sindalee’s books, but his concentration was decidedly off. Why?
He knew why. His mind was reflecting on images, memories of the last few weeks: of Brooke arriving at the property, tense; of seeing that tension gradually ease and a burgeoning self-confidence develop. She was a remarkable woman in an unassuming, no-nonsense way, quietly getting things done, being the best she could be.
His mind wandered as he remembered with a small amount of pride that Brooke wasn’t the first person he had successfully taught not to be afraid of horses. Though he didn’t think too much about it, he had something of a reputation around Cowra as a kind of natural teacher when it came to horses. It was something he had learnt from his father. One day he hoped that, in turn, he could pass on that knowledge to Fleece and Drew.
His thoughts snapped back to Brooke as he realised the reason for his unease went deeper than he wanted to think about. But he couldn’t help it. He fleetingly touched the spot on his cheek where Brooke had kissed him. The spontaneity of her action had taken him by surprise and somehow, without him realising it at the time, cracked the emotional armour plating he had wrapped around himself for so many years. He’d become used to, even looked forward to, her arrival and the time they spent together twice a week. She was lively, straight-talking and intelligent—attributes he admired in men and women.
Damn and double damn! What was he thinking? What was he feeling? Was he in love with her? No! His answer was swift and emphatic. But he did admire her…a great deal. There was no denying that, no matter how much he might want to.
Scowling at the way his thoughts were running, he poured a whisky and sat disconsolately in a high-backed leather chair to ruminate further. Not since Claudia had left six years ago had he consciously thought about another woman as a woman. Not even Sharon Dimarco, with her glamour and her flirting, had made a dent in the invisible wall he had built around himself as a defence against being hurt.
Was he lonely? When he took the time to think about it, which wasn’t often, he admitted that a woman around the place held some appeal. He was concerned about Fleece and Drew growing up without a woman’s softening influence in their lives and around the house. He took another sip of his drink. There were plenty of single available women in the district, if he had the courage or desire to risk another relationship.
He grimaced as he swallowed the remaining whisky in his glass. He knew he wouldn’t pursue them. In a way he was like Brooke: she’d had her fear of horses, and he had this—he wouldn’t exactly call it fear, but a reluctance to get on the relationship merry-go-round again. Sharon, beautiful as she was, did not turn him on, as the expression went. Neither did half a dozen other attractive women he could think of. They would all make good wives, but…
A slim, short-haired, brown-eyed image of a woman sprang into his head and would not be dislodged: Brooke d’Winters. She epitomised what he looked for and admired in a woman. In today’s world it was probably an old-fashioned ideal, but he didn’t care. He saw her as a devoted mother, a loving wife and a very community-conscious person. Totally worthy.
He grunted as he heaved himself out of the chair and made his way down the hall to his bedroom and the wide, lonely bed. Unfortunately, Brooke d’Winters was the wife of his oldest and best friend and, as such, as far out of reach as the moon.
Minta Downs, Hugh Thurtell’s property, was one of the first settled in the district in the late 1820s. From the time it baled its first fleece, a dance had been held annually in the property’s shearing shed as a way of celebrating the end of the season. The shed, which was considerable in size, was scrubbed to rid it of the smell of sheep, sweat, wool and lanoline. Hay bales and planks were brought in for seating. Many metres of sacking—used for the bales—were hung around the walls, and coloured paper lanterns and lights were strung up to give the shed a festive air. A band was hired for the evening, country and western singers were invited to perform, and a local line-dancing group were organised to show, noisily and enthusiastically, how the dance was done on a makeshift stage.
As usual, Hugh issued an open invitation for anyone in the district to attend, and most property owners and those associated with earning their living from the land did, bringing plates of food with them, while the host supplied the alcohol. For the women it was an opportunity to dress up in their best gear and to socialise with people they might only see once or twice a year. And for the men it was a chance to compare how they’d done that year, to relax and enjoy the free-flowing alcohol.
Sharon, as Hugh’s hostess, was in her element and, to her credit, did a professional job with the organising, right down to the finest detail. This was her night to star, and she was going to make sure that she did. She was intent on showing all those traditional country women who thought well of her sister Bethany, but not so highly of her, that she had what it took.
Sharon, unobserved as she stood in the shadow of t
he stockmens’ bunkhouse, watched Brooke and Jason d’Winters arrive. She had never seen Brooke dressed in anything other than casual clothes and wearing little or no make-up. It came as a shock to see the doctor’s wife fashionably attired, in a long-sleeved cocktail gown which wouldn’t have looked out of place at a Point Piper party, together with make-up that accentuated her large brown eyes, high cheekbones and well-shaped mouth. Brooke looked lovely, and glowed with happiness as she clung to Jason’s arm.
Sharon’s gaze narrowed. The sly bitch! All this time, pretending she was little Miss Ordinary, when she was capable of being so much more. Sharon then enjoyed dissecting the woman inch by inch but could find little fault with her. Damn it, what was it about Brooke that irked her, she wondered, for maybe the hundredth time. She was better looking by far. She was far more glamorous. There really was no competition, so why did she feel threatened by the doctor’s wife? It made no sense to her, never had, yet the insecurity prevailed.
Continuing to watch from her secret vantage point, Sharon studied the guests as they came up and spoke to the d’Winters. All so friendly, nice, admiring. In a short time the d’Winters were surrounded by a small group, all chatting and laughing. Sharon’s mouth thinned into an unattractive line. People didn’t mill around her like that. And then, in a moment of clarity, the reason for their popularity came to her: people liked the d’Winters, both of them. So what? She shrugged her shoulders with feigned nonchalance. She was Hugh Thurtell’s daughter, and he was the most important pastoralist in the district. People didn’t have to like her, but they damned well had to respect what the family name stood for.
Immersed in her introspection, it was a minute or so before she recognised Wes as he joined the group. When she saw him she concentrated solely on him. He looked so masculine and self-assured, a man who knew his place in the scheme of things and was comfortable with it. Then she saw something. The look was so fleeting that for a moment she thought she might have imagined it. But, no, it had been there, if only for a few seconds before he masked it behind a façade of teasing camaraderie. She didn’t like what she had seen, and her fingers curled into fists, long lacquered nails digging into the skin. Wes had looked at Brooke d’Winters as if…There had been a warmth, an admiration in his grey eyes that went, she suspected, way beyond friendship. What the hell was going on?
Anger and no small amount of hurt welled up inside her. Wes had never gazed at her with even a modicum of tenderness, for all the things, too numerous to count, that she’d done for him. The times she’d put up with his kids (who could be revolting when they had a mind to be, especially that sharp-tongued Fleece). And listening solicitously to how much Claudia had hurt him, running off as she had. And hostessing the occasional party for him. Being there for him. Waiting for him to get over Claudia and realise that she was a much better catch.
As she studied Brooke again, Sharon’s eyes darkened with a mixture of fury and jealousy. From the way the woman looked at her husband, Sharon was sure Brooke barely knew that Wes was alive, let alone interested. But just how interested was he, she wondered. Would he try to break up the d’Winters’s marriage if he thought he could get her? Hmm, an interesting question. No, Wes was of the old school—too much the gentleman to pull that kind of trick on his best friend. So, were his feelings serious? An eyebrow arched thoughtfully. Maybe. She tried desperately to put a lighter spin on things. It was infatuation, nothing more, and would run its course, especially if the attraction wasn’t returned.
Yes, she decided; that was it. As she saw it she had two options: ignore Wes’s tenderness towards Brooke, or mount an all-out campaign to discredit her and drive a wedge between her and Wes. Hmm! Sharon knew there was too much of the bitch in her to go along with the former idea, so she latched on to the latter. Put your thinking cap on, girl. Find a way to nip Wes’s emotional attachment in the bud.
Her confidence restored itself once she had the glimmerings of a plan in her head. She moved out of the shadows towards the d’Winters group, a forced smile of welcome—the one she had perfected in Italy years ago—pasted onto her face.
‘Hello, everyone, so pleased you could all come. Brooke, you look sensational.’ She smiled at Wes and Jason, but her hazel eyes flashed at the object of her compliment, and she only just managed to bite back a spiteful remark. She said instead, ‘Who would have thought such a sophisticated woman lurked beneath those old T-shirts and jeans.’
‘Yes, it’s a surprise to all of us,’ Wes murmured, his gaze locked on Brooke.
‘Please, you’re embarrassing me.’ Brooke laughed the compliment off with surprising aplomb.
Jason dug his mate in the ribs, slid his arm possessively around his wife’s waist to draw her closer to him, and said in a mock angry tone, ‘Go find your own girl, mate. This one’s taken.’
‘Point taken.’ Wes laughed good-naturedly.
‘The line-dancers are about to start. Why don’t you come in and watch?’ said Sharon invitingly to the group. ‘They’re very good.’ She sidled around the group towards Wes and threaded her arm through his. With a subtle tug she moved him in the direction of the shed, determined to put as much space between him and the d’Winters as possible.
Brooke stood with Sheridan on her hip, watching Jason prepare to take the twins for a ride in the sidecar of his motorcycle. It had taken months to find a sidecar that could be modified to fit the old bike, and then more time for Frank Galea to fit it to hold two small seats, tandem-style, and seatbelts for the boys. The twins were, naturally, very excited. Jason was taking them via Blayney to Trunkey, then south to the Abercrombie Caves. They would be gone for the entire day.
Jean King came down the front path, saw the activity and, curious as usual, continued on around the side of the house to the carport to find out what was going on. She saw Adam and Luke struggling with a picnic basket and a rug, trying to help their parents but actually being more of a hindrance.
‘Boys,’ she called to them, ‘hello. Off on an adventure, I see. Can you do me a favour? My chickens have stopped laying; I can’t find a single egg anywhere. Are your chooks okay?’ She watched Luke nod. ‘Do you think I could borrow some eggs?’ she said, winking at Brooke as she asked the question.
‘Yes, but you will pay us back, won’t you, Mrs King?’ Adam, his features serious, was the one to ask this question. At almost seven he fancied himself a junior businessman and was quite enterprising when it came to wheeling and dealing in the schoolyard and around town. He bagged and sold horse manure to neighbours for their gardens, and would offload excess eggs to the local fruit and vegetable shop for a small price. Then, on the odd occasion when his mother’s vegetable garden had a glut of a certain produce, he hawked the vegetables around in an old billy cart to earn a few dollars, which he and Luke shared.
‘Adam! Jean is very good to us. There’ll be no talk of paying eggs back, young man,’ Brooke scolded. ‘Get a basin and see what eggs you can find. By the time you finish, your father should be ready for you to go.’
Jean chuckled as the boys raced off. ‘Thanks, Brooke. I actually do need the eggs, you know. It’s Greg’s birthday and I want to make a birthday cake for him. He’s bringing his new girlfriend home for dinner—her name’s Connie—so everything has to be just right.’
‘You’re welcome to the eggs, Jean.’
Both women watched indulgently as Jason fidgeted with the bike. He strapped the basket to the back of his seat. Then he organised helmets and goggles, checking that the windshield of the sidecar, which he’d fixed on yesterday, was screwed down tightly.
‘How lucky you are to have a husband to plan outings for the children. It’s something I missed when Greg was growing up. Being a mother is a difficult job; trying to be mother as well as father is almost impossible.’ She chuckled. ‘The first time Greg and I went fishing was a scream. I didn’t know how to put bait on the hook or how to take fish off. It was like a Keystone Comedy, working out how to do it. We accidentally dropped three
fish back into the water in our clumsiness.’ She sighed in spite of herself, then added softly, ‘Royce would have made a wonderful father. He was a man’s man but he loved kids. At the Aboriginal mission he used to play with them so naturally.’
Brooke heard her friend’s wistful tone and sympathised with her pain and, to some extent, sense of guilt. She patted Jean’s arm affectionately. ‘I know what you mean. My mother was, for quite a while, both Mum and Dad to Travis and myself. Dad was away at sea a lot. Then, when he came home, there was house maintenance to do and visiting friends. Still, he found the time to teach Trav and me how to swim and to play cricket.’ Brooke pulled a face before adding, ‘Not that I was too good at the swimming bit.’
The twins returned with half a dozen eggs in a plastic bowl.
‘You’re a lifesaver, boys,’ Jean said as she ruffled both heads of dark hair.
‘Come on, lads,’ said Jason. ‘It’s almost nine o’clock. We’d better get on the road.’ He ordered the boys into the sidecar, gave them their helmets and goggles and clicked the seatbelts firmly around them. He had made the unusual decision to cancel Saturday morning’s surgery so he could have the entire day with the boys—something he did infrequently and only when there was reasonably good health in the area.
Brooke giggled. ‘You look like characters who’ve escaped from one of the Biggles books.’ Sheridan, who was walking unsteadily around the motorbike, began to cry. She wanted to go too. Brooke scooped her up and gave her a hug. ‘Not yet, pet. When you’re older.’
Jason kick-started the bike, gunned the throttle and edged the vehicle up the drive. Turning back for a final look, the three d’Winters males waved before they took off up Tyrell Road.
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