by Margaret Way
Brock took his hand away from his head, suddenly realizing with a shock that his grandfather was staring at him.
“Who are you?” his grandfather demanded hoarsely. “Get away from me.”
His face was so stricken Brock couldn’t control an instinctive pity. “I’m your grandson. You wanted me home, remember? Look long and hard. It’s Brock.”
Kingsley continued to stare at him as if he were his mortal enemy. “Stay away!” he cried, looking terrified. “Get back.”
Brock released an explosion of breath, instantly rising to his feet. “Calm yourself, old man. I’m going.” It was obviously the painkilling drugs disturbing Kingsley’s mind.
“Let me die in peace.”
Was it possible that tears squeezed out of the old man’s eyes? “I won’t bother you.” Brock, who worried he had a chunk of the old man in him, responded to the anguish. His grandfather looked already dead. “I’ll send your nurse back.”
The sigh from the bed was like a death rattle. “I destroyed you.” For a moment Kingsley was lucid.
“Is that it?” Brock turned back to demand. “You mean to cut me out? Is that why you brought me back here? To continue our rift?”
“Where is my daughter? Where is Catherine?” Now Kingsley’s face was alight with feverish anxiety.
“She’s dead,” Brock answered harshly, trying to calm himself but tremendously upset at the sound of his mother’s name. “Like you soon will be.” You killed her, he thought, but he didn’t have the cruelty in him to say it. “She’s free at last.”
“Dear God, Daniel.” The voice from the bed now issued so powerfully it caught Brock by surprise.
Rex Kingsley with a supreme effort cleared his brain. He was so full of pain. Pain that seared through his body like a licking, burning trail of fire. It was agonizing. The pain had all but defeated him. Another man would not have survived so long. The drugs that were meant to shut down the poker-hot agony were all but useless after the shortest time.
“Daniel—here. Come back here.” He had to end this battle. Buried deep inside him the love for his younger grandson was struggling to find a way out.
“What is it you want?” Brock moved back towards the bed. “You need me, don’t you, Grandfather? How can you bear it?”
Astonishingly, Kingsley grabbed his hand, held on as though in human contact the terrible pain could be made bearable. “You were a boy who felt no fear at all. The grandson I always wanted. Not content to live an ordinary life. I knew I loved you.”
“Is that what caused you to treat me so badly?” Brock asked with deep bitterness. “Make or break?”
“You were wild.” Kingsley held onto his hand, though Brock made an attempt to withdraw it. “I was obliged to. But I was proud of you. Proud of the way you could disappear into thin air. I sent men looking for you, our best aboriginal trackers, but you were one with the desert.”
“Maybe they were deliberately looking where they knew they’d never find me,” Brock said, knowing a little of that was true. The men had been loyal to Kingsley out of fear. They’d always turned a blind eye to his escapades, essentially on his side.
“I know they tried to protect you, but they had no right. I am your grandfather. I had to do what I thought best. I had to stop you. Bring you back. Your father was a waster.”
“You’d do well to get off the subject of my father,” Brock said, his voice deep and daunting. “All my life I’ve thought there was something you could tell me about his disappearance.”
“He bolted. Left you and your mother.” Kingsley peered at him. “You’ve got his eyes, you know.”
“You don’t seem to be able to deal with that.”
Kingsley moved his head on the pillow. “Catherine and I were so close. I idolised her. I gave her everything she wanted.”
“Except freedom.”
“She never loved your father so much she would leave me.” There was a strange triumph on the old man’s face. “I forebade her to see Tyson. She defied me. Once she would never have contemplated doing such a thing. But I loved her.”
“And now you’re looking for forgiveness before you stand before your Maker?”
“It’s true.” Kingsley gave a deathly smile. “A man gets like that when the arrival of the Grim Reaper is imminent.”
“I wish I could say I forgive you, but I don’t, Grandfather. That kind of forgiveness died with my mother.”
“But she’s here right now,” the old man said, suddenly pointing into the shadows at the far end of the darkened room.
Such was the conviction in his grandfather’s voice that for a minute Brock almost turned his head. But that way lay madness. The old man was hallucinating. “No, she’s lost to you forever.”
“She’s standing just behind your shoulder.” Kingsley’s eyes filled up. “I’ve made my peace with her.”
“And with the others? Philip and Frances? What of them? They won’t let go. You’ve allowed Philip to believe he’s your heir.”
“They’ve been taken care of,” Kingsley rasped, his shaky hand moving dismissively. “You have my promise, as I told you. Mulgaree belongs to you. The world I created, it’s yours for life. After that it passes to your son—Catherine’s grandchild.”
“Does that make you feel much better?” This was atonement, plain and simple.
“It was meant to be, Daniel. I gambled on Philip, but the idea of Philip taking over is too dreadful to allow. I rarely make mistakes, but I did with him. He doesn’t have the steel.”
“Why are you so sure I have?” Brock stared into his grandfather’s eyes, the pupils greatly enlarged from the drugs.
“You survived it all. You’re tough. That’s important. You need to be in a man’s world. You’re fit to be the living symbol of Kingsley Holdings. Therefore I want you to change your name by deed poll to Kingsley. You’re Daniel Brockway Kingsley—understand?”
“You want me to renounce my father?”
“He was never a father to you,” Kingsley reminded him harshly. “I reared you and your cousin. I kept Catherine and Frances secure and comfortable. They wanted for nothing.”
Except love and acceptance from a man with a heart of lead.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE end wasn’t to come easy. Rex Kingsley was to be punished. He passed a desperate night when he actually started to pray that the Lord—if there was one—would take him. With the big things in life Rex Kingsley had always been prepared to gamble.
The nurse gave him another shot of morphine at dawn. She was astounded her patient had managed to live through the early hours of the morning, when many a suffering soul was released. But somehow Rex Kingsley managed to hold on, even though there were periods when he blacked out with the pain.
The answer was simple. A will of iron ran through him, a sense of purpose often put to ruthless use but utterly genuine.
The nurse had been told Mr Kingsley’s solicitor, Gerald Maitland of Maitland-Pearson, a big legal firm in the State capital, Brisbane, was flying in the following day. The solicitor had already made the hellishly long trip, weeks before; now Rex Kingsley was dragging him back.
Frances Kingsley, a striking brunette in her mid-fifties, but looking nowhere near that age, believed it signalled bad news for her and her son.
“What do you suppose is happening?” she asked with equal parts of fear and frustration. “Has Brock managed to worm his way back into your grandfather’s good graces?”
Philip grimaced. “I wouldn’t associate Brock with worms,” he said grimly, the jealousy in his voice more chilling than his mother’s open anger.
“He can’t take precedence over you,” Frances protested strongly, knowing how Philip as a boy had yearned to be like his cousin. “You’re the elder. You’ve been here all the time. We stuck it out.”
“My God, haven’t we?” Philip said, bitterness taking control of him. “You don’t think it significant Grandfather wanted Brock to sit with him last night?”
Philip laughed discordantly. “We’ve got a few ourselves.” He struggled with his sense of guilt, made stronger since he’d come to know of his aunt Catherine’s premature death.
“I won’t discuss them, Philip!” Frances burst out, her face cold. “I did what I had to do to secure Mulgaree for you.”
“I know that.” Philip bowed his head. “But it was unjust, Mother. The lies you told about Brock. And Aunt Catherine. She was always so nice to me, but you were awful to Brock. I’m sorry Aunt Catherine’s dead. It shouldn’t have happened. And so far away! I’m sorry about a lot of things. All those lies! It was like goading a bull.”
“At any rate the bull believed them,” his mother answered with shameless sarcasm. “You’ll be a lot sorrier if somehow your cousin manages to cut you out—literally at the death.”
“We just have to pray to God, Mother, that he doesn’t,” Philip said, desperate for his inheritance but intimidated by all that went with it.
He could never step into his grandfather’s shoes. Never! On the other hand he could see Brock taking over the reins. Even at his wildest Brock had commanded affection from the men, and a certain wry respect. Especially after Brock had turned his grandfather’s beatings against him. He still had the sight of his beaten grandfather, shocked senseless, imprinted on his mind.
“I suppose we could put a stop to it,” Frances said very slowly, not meeting her son’s dismayed eyes.
“I’ll ignore that, Mother. Grandfather might be on his deathbed but I’d never underestimate him or his faculties, or even think of perhaps hurrying things along. His nurse rarely leaves his side.”
“As if I couldn’t handle that woman.” Frances thrust a hand through her dark hair, which she continued to wear in a perfect side-parted pageboy. “You’re the one underestimating the urgency—”
“Of what?”
Brock startled them greatly by suddenly appearing in the room. A tiger couldn’t have trodden more noiselessly, Philip thought, wondering how much his cousin had heard.
As it happened, nothing save the last remark. But Brock caught a flicker of something like fear in Frances’s dark eyes.
She smiled icily. “You should pay more attention to your manners, Brock. You never did have any. This is a private conversation.”
“Obviously about Grandfather.” Brock barely concealed his contempt for her. His mother’s enemy.
Philip glared at him. “Grandfather, is he now? He was always the old man or Kingsley.”
“Careful of what you say, Phil,” Brock drawled, fixing his shining gaze on his cousin. “In fact, you ought to be careful about everything.”
“I…don’t know what you mean.”
“Of course you do,” Brock replied dangerously.
Frances shifted her chair out of a strong ray of sunlight that fell into Rex Kingsley’s huge dark-panelled study, with its scores of books, mostly non-fiction, filling the shelves from floor to ceiling, its pageantry of blue ribbons for prizewinning stock, gleaming trophies, the collector’s treasure trove of guns in a locked glass-fronted cabinet.
“What is it you want, Brock?” she asked angrily.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Frances,” he warned. “Actually, it’s my business, not yours. But I don’t mind if you know. I want the keys for the helicopter. I have a little trip in mind.”
Philip, who had been sitting crouched in a rich claret-coloured leather armchair, shot to his feet. “Well, you darned well can’t have it!” Colour rose alarmingly beneath his tanned skin.
“Dear me!” Brock glanced at his cousin as though he fully expected his reaction. “It’s already been cleared with the old man.”
“I don’t believe this. Since when did you learn to fly a helicopter?” Philip made it sound insurmountably difficult.
“You think I’d try without a licence? It’d be safer to walk. Relax, Phil. I have notched up five thousand hours on a helicopter in Ireland. I regularly flew my boss and his friends and colleagues across to England and France.”
“How clever you are, Brock,” Frances sneered. There had never been anything the boy couldn’t do. Now he was a man. That meant big trouble. Brock was clever. He understood ambition even if he had got into the absurd habit of putting his mother’s wellbeing before his own. Now Catherine was gone and Brock’s ambitions had free rein.
“This helicopter is a completely different machine,” Philip muttered, taking a few steps towards a long rack behind the massive partner’s desk that held many bunches of keys, all clearly labelled.
“I can handle it,” Brock said in a level voice, blocking his cousin’s way. He was taller, heavier, superbly fit and looking it.
“So where are you taking it?” Philip challenged, giving in reluctantly, inevitably, as he always had with Brock.
“Over to Wybourne. I told Shelley I’d like to look in on her tourist operation.”
“Shelley?” Philip almost yelled in a great surge of emotion. “Shelley’s mine!” he insisted, like a petulant child.
“Wishful thinking, pal.” Brock’s tone was quiet, a touch contemptuous.
“Stop this now, Philip,” Frances thundered, looking wrathfully at her son, who was standing there gritting his teeth. “The Logans are nobodies. Absolute nobodies. They tell me Paddy Logan has turned into a heavy drinker. The mother stays in her room all day, and the elder girl, Amanda, is little more than a slut. As for Shelley—”
“You can’t sling any mud at Shelley!” Philip dared to give his mother a nakedly hostile stare. “She’s beautiful. She’s good and sweet and smart.”
“I’d almost forgotten you had a decent streak in you, Phil.” Brock gave his cousin a half-mocking, half-sympathetic smile. “You’re right about Shelley. She’s a saint. In fact, she’s damned near perfect.”
“You keep your hands off her,” Philip warned, hazel eyes flashing. “She’s my girl. When the time comes I’m going to ask her to marry me.”
“Over my dead body!” Frances cut in violently. “There’s a huge gap between the Logans and us. All right, I apologise about Shelley, but she’s the only member of her family one could invite to the house.”
“God, Mother, you’re such a snob!” Philip exclaimed, looking as if he was on the verge of crying.
“With no real basis for your snobbery,” Brock said. “Aren’t I right in thinking Grandfather believed Uncle Aaron married beneath him?”
Frances turned a bright shade of crimson. “How dare you, Brock? My family is perfectly respectable. I won’t hear a word against them. I didn’t shock them by running off with a penniless adventurer, like your precious mother.”
“Of whom you were excessively jealous. How my father’s memory has been tarnished,” Brock said. “But he wasn’t a Judas, which is more than I can truly say for you, Frances. Now, pleasantries over—you must excuse me.” Brock reached out a long arm for the keys to the helicopter.
“You could have told me. I could have taken you,” Philip said unexpectedly.
“Come, if you like.”
Philip’s face reflected his shock. “You’re serious?”
“I never waste time saying things I don’t mean.” In fact it was Shelley who’d suggested it. Probably at pains to put him in his place, he thought with bleak amusement.
Frances closed her eyes as if in pain. When she opened them she glared at her son. “I forbid you to go, Philip. Your place is here. Grandfather could slip away in your absence.”
“He’d better not,” Brock said with the faintest touch of menace. “Grandfather won’t go until he has straightened out his affairs. He’s waiting for Gerald Maitland to arrive. Good old Gerald! The two of you still good friends, Frances?” Brock fixed her with cynical ey
es.
Frances, already wary, was suddenly afraid of him. “I have no idea what you’re getting at, Brock.” But her olive skin had reddened. “I’ve known Gerald for many years. I was at his wife’s funeral. She passed away almost two years ago.” She stared back at him with loathing. “Philip will inherit. Make no mistake.”
“Have you ever thought Phil mightn’t want the job?” Brock asked. “Take time off to think about it, Frances. We’ll be back late afternoon, I expect.”
Brock set the chopper down on the large front lawn of the Wybourne homestead.
“You shouldn’t have done that!” Philip remonstrated. “Mr Logan won’t like it—not to mention the noise of the rotor!”
Brock, being Brock, ignored him. “Might wake him up,” he replied harshly.
Amanda was waiting for them, waving prettily from the verandah, but her bright blue eyes were focused entirely on Brock.
Gosh, what a sexy walk, she thought, unable to take her eyes off him. A few steps behind was Philip, his slight stoop made more noticeable by comparison with his cousin’s head up, shoulders back stance, and that lithe, cat-like coordination. She was pleased Philip had tagged along. Now he could team up with Shelley while she was free to concentrate on Brock, who appeared more gorgeous than ever.
With both young men now joining her, Amanda reached up and threw her arms effusively around Brock’s neck, kissing his cheek as if they’d once been the greatest of friends.