by Ann Major
TEXAS: CHILDREN OF DESTINY
Books 4-6
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Ann Major
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WILDERNESS CHILD
TEXAS: CHILDREN OF DESTINY
BOOK 3
SCANDAL’S CHILD
TEXAS: CHILDREN OF DESTINY
BOOK 4
THE GOODBYE CHILD
TEXAS: CHILDREN OF DESTINY
BOOK 5
Boxed set description:
Wilderness Child (Book 4)
Passion and old betrayals meet in a conflagration in the Australian wilderness when a transplanted Texas cattleman’s old love walks into a trap he’s set just for her.
Scandal’s Child (Book 5)
Noelle will do anything to gain Garret’s forgiveness for her past mistakes, and even more to help his son. Does she have a second chance, or is it already too late?
The Goodbye Child (Book 6)
Saying goodbye to Raoul Girouard eight years ago to please her wealthy family was the hardest thing Eva had ever done. Now he’s back, more dangerous than ever. Because of him her life’s in jeopardy, and he’s her sole protector. When she’s safe again, can she say goodbye a second time to the only man she’s ever loved?
WILDERNESS CHILD
Ann Major
Dedication:
To my beloved husband, Ted
A Note from Ann Major:
When I was writing about the Jacksons and MacKays in my Children of Destiny series, I always knew I wanted to write more. Wilderness Child is the story of Tad Jackson, a stubborn male chauvinist, determined to seek his own destiny in the outback of Australia where he is pitted against the dark forces of greed, betrayal and murder.
Who should turn up to help him but the one woman he is most set against—Dr. Jessica Bancroft Kent. She's a spirited feminist with a quick mind and quicker tongue. She's as bossy as Tad is stubborn, as determined to help Tad as he is determined not to be helped.
I had a lot of fun writing this book because I enjoyed working with these characters as they struggled to tame not only the rugged land but each other.
Book Description:
The last thing widower Tad Jackson wants is a second chance with Doctor Jessica Bancroft-Kent, the woman who broke his heart when she seduced and tricked him into marrying her twin sister.
Ten years later when Jess turns up in Australia with his missing daughter determined to help solve the mystery surrounding his wife’s death and raise his child, the rugged Texan resents his fierce attraction to her and vows to send her packing.
But Jess is not the type to be bullied by a mere man, no matter how sexy or stubbornly opposed to her he pretends—not when she has a better plan. Nor has she forgotten the sizzling sensuality and heartfelt tenderness of their one night together.
A few of Dr. Jessica Bancroft’s favorite quotes:
“You can never leave footprints that last if you are always walking on tiptoe.” -Leymah Gbowee
“You can waste your lives drawing lines. Or you can live your life crossing them.” -Shonda Rhimes
“The question isn’t who is going to let me; it’s who is going to stop me.” -Ayn Rand
A few of Tad Jackson’s favorite cowboy quotes he’s modified:
There never was a horse or a woman that couldn't be rode; never was a cowboy who couldn't be throwed.
Tellin' a woman to git lost and makin' her do it are two entirely different propositions.
If you get to thinkin' you're a person of some influence, try orderin' Dr. Jessica Bancroft around.
Prologue
The sun dipped below the broken battlements of the mountains. Half an hour later, the west wind, hot and fiery from its passage over a thousand miles of Australia's Never Never, died.
The pilot's glazed eyes were red-rimmed, his body movements slow and deliberate because he had fought the heat and the head wind for hours.
The red sky was edged in opalescent colors. The mountains and gorges changed from scarlet to mauve to purple, and the wild night creatures that had been sheltering in caverns began to stir. No native creature ever traveled in the heat of the day.
Only the white man.
The plane was flying low, too low, following a north, northwesterly course home. The airborne Geiger counter went wild as the plane crossed the remote northern tip of Jackson Downs, forbidden territory. The pilot's pulse began to pound in his temples as he observed the high reading. He raised his hand and gnawed at his torn nails. Then he circled, flying even lower over the vast Jackson cattle station. Twice more he circled. Each time, the Geiger counter's readings soared. His hands were shaking. There had to be an immense deposit of uranium down there. There had to be.
The pilot looked down. Beneath the twin-engine plane stretched a million acres of baking-hot, blood-red desolation darkening in the twilight. Beyond those acres of eerie, undulating rock formations, were a million more. Beneath them he was nearly sure there had to be a fortune in uranium.
He could not wait to get back to the station and tell Noelle. At last she would see him as a man and not a boy.
Even though his brother had stupidly sold this hellish land and it no longer belonged to them, he could not contain his excitement.
For it would belong to them again. No matter what he had to do.
For a moment the pilot considered Tad Jackson, the new owner. There was no man tougher or more respected in this desolate emptiness than Jackson. Too bad he, his wife, his kid, all of them would have to be crushed if Jackson refused to cooperate.
The pilot had started his climb when before him, out of nowhere, loomed a mountain, its violet razor edges higher than the rest. In his excitement, he'd failed to keep a sharp eye on his altimeter.
He pulled the yoke back to make a steep, climbing turn, but nothing happened.
Uranium!
He wasn't going to crash into a damned mountain. Not tonight.
The razor-red edges of the mountain rushed toward him.
Life had never been sweeter. Nor crueler.
The plane was like a dead weight hurtling through the sky.
In those last seconds, he wondered as he'd done so many times before—why was it always like this for him? Just when everything was beginning to go right for him, everything went wrong!
Noelle! Oh, God! Noelle!
The plane exploded against the wall of rock.
The man-boy inside was devoured in a billowing blossom of flame.
A flock of galahs rose, screeching with doleful, disturbed cries from their nesting places in the cliffs. They soared and flapped wildly about like crazed bats above the petals of fire.
Then the flames died, and the birds settled upon their gnarled perches in the casuarinas and stringy barks.
Flying foxes and euros, the small, gray mountain kangaroos, came out to forage and drink from a dark pool where cloyingly sweet applethorn was in flower.
In the great quietness, all became darkness except for the hard glister of a narrow moon that rose and swam through a sky that was as black as jet.
One
Two years later
“Why isn't that the Yank that killed..."
"It's hard to tell with his beard."
"I think you're right. That's him. That's the one! Jackson—bloody murderer."
The women's voices were high-pitched, curious, not in the least embarrassed, and they cut Tad Jackson to the q
uick. The hurt was immediately followed by a flash of anger.
All eyes fastened upon the lean, golden-haired giant in the denim trousers and khaki shirt, that ubiquitous uniform of the Australian bushman. His skin had been burned and his hair bleached by too many hot, southern suns. Leather hat in his clenched hand, he was slouching negligently in the shadows while he waited for an elevator.
They had noticed him, of course. Right away. The moment he'd come into the building. Women always noticed him. Even now, despite his beard.
A look of quick, smoldering anger hardened his carved features, and his silvery blue eyes narrowed. His sensual mouth thinned. He moved his head slightly and a silken lock of gold swept across his forehead. There was a recklessness in his dark face, something intangible that was wild and dangerous, something hostile that exuded virile masculinity, and that special, barely tamed something had always been irresistible to women.
Once he'd considered all that an advantage, but for the past year it had been a curse. Why couldn't they leave him alone? Why did every man, woman and child in Australia want to nail him to a cross?
Wasn't it enough that he and his family and men had been terrorized for two years? Enough that his fences were routinely cut, his livestock shot, his stockmen ambushed, and the road trains carrying his cattle to market attacked? A year ago his wife had become so terrified, she’d taken their daughter Lizzie and run away. She'd come back, stolen money from him before disappearing again. He had loved his daughter, but not his wife. Then the rumors had begun to fly about that he'd killed them. Only he hadn't. He wanted desperately to know where they were.
The women were staring at him in fascination and horror.
Heat stained his cheeks. Tad let his hot, blue gaze slide over them. Then his mouth curled as he strode past the pocket of women waiting for the elevator.
Maybe someday one of them would take a wrong step and learn what it was to be persecuted for a crime she hadn't committed.
As he pushed open the door to the stairwell, he stopped and turned. Forcing a bitter smile, he touched a tanned finger to his brow and muttered a savage, "G'day, ladies."
His greeting was Australian, the slurred drawl, Texan. But it was the white grin in the bitter, male face that brought startled little gasps of fear.
"He heard us!" There were more frightened titters.
He forced himself to keep smiling even though he felt as if the walls of the stairwell were closing in on him. God, was this nightmare never going to end? He had come to Australia because he'd wanted to be his own man, to stand alone. Because he'd never fit in with his own family back in Texas—at least, not with his older brother Jeb running things. Tad had brought Deirdre here, ruined her life. For what? He was ready to sell out, to pack up, to leave this country and go back to Texas. Even if it meant not being able to clear his name and having to take orders from Jeb again.
He could feel the women's eyes drilling into his back like the sharpest bits.
"The Yank killed his wife, they say. And probably his nipper, too. On one of them fancy resort islands off the Great Barrier Reef. There was something about it in The Australian again only last week."
"How horrible."
"He wasn't charged. They never found her body."
"And they won't find her, either. Not with the sharks where she disappeared. And their child. The little lass disappeared without a trace. Good-looking devil, though, isn't he?"
Tad let the door bang behind him, and he raced up the stairs, his long legs taking them two at a time. He ran up eight flights. He ran till his heart felt like it was bursting in his chest. Then he stopped and leaned against the wall to run a shaking hand through his hair. He reached in his pocket for a cigarette, lit one, took a single drag and then, when his throat burned, he remembered his cold and that he’d quit smoking. The cigarette made the pain in his chest worse. He tossed the cigarette to the concrete and squashed it out with the heel of his boot.
He'd always been a loner. He'd thought he didn't give a damn what people thought of him, and he hadn't until now.
Ian better have a good reason for demanding that he leave the station and fly into Brisbane. Every time Tad came to town, it got worse. People stared at him, talked about him, actually accused him of killing his wife and his daughter. They were driving him from the country where he'd made his home for the past eight years. As if he could ever hurt a woman, or a child. His Lizzie...
Most of his friends had deserted him. Even Ian, his own lawyer, half believed he'd killed Deirdre. It was Ian who'd talked him into selling out and quitting Australia.
Tad walked up the last flight and barged into Ian's outer office and past Ian's receptionist who was carefully styling her billowing tufts of cotton-candy white hair. Her overblown, Kewpie-doll brand of beauty would have stopped most men dead in their tracks.
As Tad rushed past her, she dropped her brush. Her mouth formed a wide baffled O that would have made a perfect target for a blowie had she been in the bush. Then she jumped up, all flutters and big-eyed alarm. Just as his hand touched Ian's door, Tad heard the pit-a-pat of her heels behind him.
"Wait! Mr. Jackson, you can't go in there!"
When he whirled, she almost ran into him. Her neon-bright fingertips flailed wildly to avoid him. His narrowed gaze met the frightened baby-like brown dazzle of hers. As she shrank from him, he grinned bitterly. "You going to stop me, sweetheart?"
If he'd been a mulga snake towering twenty feet high and about to strike, the poor girl couldn't have looked more terrified. Tad's expression softened. "Why don't you go back to your desk, honey, and tackle something you can handle?" He shoved open Ian's door.
The office was opulent and felt as safe and silent and as insulated from the real world as a bank vault. It was January, and the sun outside would bake a man alive. Inside this cell of urban splendor, blasts of icy air cooled the plush carpeting, rich, lustrous mahogany walls and floor-to-ceiling sheets of glass.
Ian was one of the richest men in Queensland. Unlike Tad, Ian’s family had lost their fortune when he’d been a kid, so Ian had had to start again with nothing. Nothing but greed and ambition, Tad thought bitterly, two of the most powerful forces in the world. Ian had grown up in Queensland on a cattle station, the son of a horse-breaker and a shepherd girl. At the age of six, Ian could track a lizard across rock better than most Abos. At the age of ten, the station had been sold to American investors and Ian's family had ended up destitute on the streets of Brisbane. Ian wasn't forty, but he'd done well.
On one wall were maps of Queensland and the Northern Territory where Ian had colored in the properties he owned. He owned stations that totaled in the millions of acres. He was into ore, salt, gypsum, cattle and wool. "You name it and I'll own it" was his motto. He was the best lawyer in Queensland, but despite his upper-class pretensions, he was a street fighter at heart. He'd been one of the first friends Tad had made upon coming to Australia to take over the management of his family's holdings.
Tad studied the maps rather than the magnificent views of Brisbane's sprawl that included the famed Story Bridge over the wide, curving river, the moored yachts, the snarl of river traffic. Tad saw that Ian was expanding his operations, and the fact was like salt in the wound of his own disappointments.
One of Ian's cigars was smoking in an ashtray. Ian was on the phone, barking orders. He was short and heavyset, and he exuded the raw, animal power of a weight lifter. His eyes were as bright as twin dark coals and glittering with fierce intelligence. He had a hard, bluntly carved face, bushy black brows and a thick frizz of prematurely gray curls. He took one look into the wild blue eyes of his client, growled an abrupt goodbye and slammed the phone down.
"This had better be good, Ian."
Ian was as cool and serene as his client was irrational. The lawyer picked up his cigar and puffed great clouds into the air before replacing it in the ashtray. "Oh, it's better than good," he said slowly. "Sit down, and I'll tell you." Ian paused. "Coffee?"
/>
"Coffee!" The single word was an explosion. "Hell, no." Tad sprawled violently into the leather chair across from Ian's desk. "Well?"
Ian grinned. He was never intimidated by Tad's outbursts. Tad thought he took a perverse delight in drawing out this moment of suspense.
"Jackson, can't you ever relax?"
Never, when he was closed in by walls, by people, by the city. Never, when his lawyer demanded he fly into town.
"I thought you'd feel better," Ian persisted, "once you decided to sell."
"Who decided? I was driven to sell. I don't like quitting, but I'm not running a station out there anymore. I'm fighting a war. My men are armed to the teeth. None of us dares leave the homestead alone. I just wish I knew who I was fighting and why. They come out of nowhere. It's always a strike in the dark when you least expect it. One week they cut fences; the next they blow up a bore. The other property owners have had their troubles, too. There's the drought, which adds more pressure. My cattle are dying, but every time I try to ship them, the road trains get attacked. It hasn't rained a drop on Jackson Downs in months. I've been heavily in the red for the past three years. I just flew across a thousand miles of spinifex, scorched bush and hungry cattle, and you say relax!"
"Things haven't eased up, then?"
"Eased up? Hell. Ever since Holt Martin's plane was sabotaged a couple of years back..."
Ian ran a hand through the gray frizz. "So you think it was sabotage?"