by Margaret Way
Mitch slumped into an armchair sighing. “Mum, no one had a chance as long as there was Sarah. Those two were made for each other.”
“I know that.” Julanne spoke more calmly. “And what about you two? You and Chris? You’re always sparring with each other. She’s been here two days and the air fairly crackles.”
“That’s when I get to see her,” he said in a mock injured voice. “She’s been keeping you company mostly.”
“Yes, isn’t she sweet?” Julanne smiled. “Don’t think I’m going to keep her chained to my side, but she’s such fun. She brought heaps of photographs for me to see. She’s got some wonderful fashion shots, and photographic-type shots of just her face. She knew I’d love them, but it’s all part of the trade to her. They don’t mean much to Christine. Vanity has never been her problem.”
“She got too much of a drubbing as a girl,” Mitch pointed out with a flash of anger. “I don’t like to think about the way her mother and Ruth gave her such a hard time.”
“No, it was pretty bad.” Julanne groped around for her glasses. “No wonder she sprouted wings and flew away.”
“She also left me, Mum,” Mitch reminded her, spotting his mother’s reading glasses and handing them to her. “I thought I’d never get over it. My one and only love. Isn’t that pitiful? She abandoned me so she could show the rest of the world how beautiful she is.”
“It doesn’t sound like you’ve found a cure?” Julanne eyed her adored son with open sympathy.
“You know darn well I haven’t. Which doesn’t mean I’m thrilled to have her here.”
“Oh?” Julanne’s full-throated mezzo sounded highly sceptical.
“Don’t look at me like that. I know how you feel about Chris, but she’s going to go away again, Mum. Don’t kid yourself or get your hopes too high. This will all be too tame for her. She’s lived a very glamorous lifestyle. She’s told us any number of times she adores New York. She’s done what thousands of women would only dream of doing.”
“Be that as it may!” Julanne murmured vaguely, going to a drawer of her bureau and removing a sheaf of glossy photographs. She extended them to her son.” Take a look at those. I know you want to. It seems to me there are two Christines. The public Christine— the supermodel moving with all the beautiful people—and the real Christine. The one who loves the land, who loves horses and rides like the wind. I’m sure she could leave all the fancy clothes and the wonderful jewellery behind tomorrow. She’s perfectly happy in her old gear.”
“Old gear?” Mitch mocked, pausing to stare down at a photograph for a moment. What a luscious mouth Chrissy had. “You mean the tight designer jeans, the sexy little gauzy blouses and the crisp striped shirts? The trendy T-shirts with the tiny sleeves and fancy logos across the front calling attention to her beautiful breasts? She’s all woman now, Mum. Forget the boyish look she used to cultivate to annoy her mother.”
“You’d think they were trying to break something in her,” Julanne mused. “Ruth McQueen was the strangest woman I ever encountered or ever expect to. She had so much influence on poor Enid.”
“Poor Enid, nothing!” Mitch exclaimed. He was forever loyal to Christine, and there was nothing he could do about it. “It’s a sad state of affairs when you have to escape your own mother.”
“It happens,” Julanne breathed. “Wonderful, aren’t they?” She referred to the photographs. “The camera just loves her.”
“It’s her cheekbones. She’ll have them until she’s an old, old lady. She’ll go away, Mum,” Mitch found himself saying again bleakly.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stop her?”
“What, and go through it all again? We were so close, but there’s a big divide between us now.”
“Seems to me on your side, my darling.” Julanne studied her son closely.
“I don’t trust her,” Mitch confessed, brilliant-eyed.
“Gracious!” Julanne waved her hands in distress. “A more trustworthy young woman I can’t imagine. You’re too hard on Chris.”
“No, she was too cruel to me,” Mitch corrected. “Chris made certain promises. I believed them. When she took off she left me in the wilderness. She’s not going to get a chance to do it again.”
“I never knew you suffered from the sin of pride,” Julanne said slowly.
“Well, I do.” Mitch rose slowly to his full height, dwarfing his mother who was above average height.
“You’re a lovely-looking woman,” he said gently. “Sunlit.”
“Why, thank you, darling!” Julanne flushed with pleasure. “I try to keep myself looking nice.”
“Well, it’s paid off.” He bent and kissed her cheek. “Would it be okay if I borrowed Chris for a few hours in the morning?”
“What do you plan to do?” Julanne’s face brightened with interest.
“A few of us are going in search of Lightning. He’s taken at least two of our mares and one of our fillies. Bart saw him running yesterday with his harem near Mulagimbi Waterhole.”
“You want to catch him?”
“We’re going to try to,” he said wryly. “I don’t mind the brumby herds remaining in the wild, but Lightning has real quality blood. He’s got good breeding and it shows. Probably his mother ran off to join the wild horses when she was in foal. Lightning’s very strong, and very sure-footed. He’s much taller than most of the wild horses, and he’ll make a good stockhorse if handled properly. Chris might like to come along. She’d have loved it in the old days.”
“I’m sure she hasn’t changed a bit,” Julanne said loyally, pleased Mitch had thought of it. “I wouldn’t want her to take a nasty tumble, though.”
“She won’t,” Mitch told her dryly. “I caught sight of her riding at sunset. She’s lost none of her old skills.”
“Then go with my blessing,” said Julanne, her maternal heart brimming with hope.
He caught up with Christine as she was off to bed. “Got a minute?”
All the time in the world, Mitch, she thought. Part of her wanted badly, so very badly, to tell him that, but she just knew what his reaction would be. “Sure,” she managed casually.
His hair was pure gold in the light of the chandelier. She wanted to put out her hand and ruffle it. How complicated their relationship had become. She’d better accustom herself to it.
“I thought you might like a bit of action?”
She laughed aloud, even though her heart quaked. “Is this some sort of trick question?”
“Surely sex can’t be on your lovely mind?” he chided, looking up at her with exaggerated surprise.
“Of all people why with you? Haven’t you totally rejected me?” She couldn’t relax around him. Every pulse throbbed.
“Not necessarily. Only if you’re going for the magnolia satin wedding dress and the lace veil.”
At his words, totally unexpected, she stepped back in time. “I can’t believe you remembered that.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve forgotten nothing,” he said a shade harshly. “You spent many hours telling me what you were going to wear when we got married.”
“I meant it.” She sighed, sad and vulnerable. “We were so young.”
“Weren’t we ever?” Irony sprang from his lips. “Thank God we’ll never be that young again. I would have given up everything for you. These days when I’m ready to get married I’ll have an airtight pre-nuptial agreement drawn up.”
She watched those sea-coloured eyes, the hard glitter in them. “You’re too cynical, that’s your trouble, Mitch. Whatever happened to Susan Gilroy?”
“Zsa-Zsa?” Now he did smile, his mouth relaxed and curvy.
“She’s the one you fitted in between Dee Marshall and Casey Thomas, if I remember rightly.”
“I’m amazed you kept yourself so well informed.”
“Actually, it was Kyall who filled me in when I pressed him for news of you from time to time.”
He gave a nonchalant shrug. “Ah, well, we’ve both had our
affairs. Mine perhaps not as well documented as yours. At least I haven’t managed one with a rock star.”
“He’s not a rock star. I’ve already told you, he’s a soap star. And he’s a very nice guy.”
“Afternoon TV’s hottest hero.”
“Take comfort. It’s not serious. So where’s the action?” Christine moved the conversation onto neutral ground.
He made a business of snapping to attention. “I think it’s something you’ll enjoy. A few of us plan on going in search of a very classy brumby stallion called Lightning. He’s got thoroughbred blood, no question. Lightning has already taken a couple of our mares and a filly to join his harem.”
“And you think he’ll make a good station horse?”
“I know so. Also, I’d like to hold onto what mares he’s been kind enough to leave us. Lightning thinks he’s king of the plains. He’s magnificent to watch. We’ve even spotted him running with the station horses. Only one thing I need to know—do you think you’re up to it?”
She gave an excited nod, lovely colour sweeping up into her cheeks. “Does anyone forget how to ride a horse?”
He rested his hands against the polished mahogany banister, staring up at her. Behind them hung a large gilded Georgian mirror that gave back their reflections. A study in gold and ebony. “I’m talking a hard gallop, and we might have to cross a couple of creeks.”
She pursed her full mouth. “Thank you, Mitch, for your vote of confidence, but I’m as good for the chase as I ever was. You know that. That’s why you’re asking me along. I thought I detected you spying on me from the hill country.”
“Spying? Never!” he lied easily. “I was killing two birds with the one stone. Checking you out and giving instructions to a couple of stock-men mustering the area.”
“I see. Well, I’d love to come, Mitch. What time?”
“We’ll mount up at first light. We need to get underway before it gets too hot. If you haven’t got good protective gear I’ll find you some. It could be rough going.”
“I’ll need gloves and chaps. I want the big chestnut gelding I rode this afternoon. Wellington.”
“Anything else?” he asked dryly.
“Not that I can think of at this minute,” she returned sweetly.
“No friendly goodnight kiss?” Burnt gold lashes hooded his brilliant eyes.
The nerves in her body twitched in shock. What was he trying to do to her? “You’re a tease if ever there was one!” She spoke lightly, though she knew a kind of crisis was looming.
“What a label!” he scoffed. “Who said I’m teasing anyway?”
“Am I hearing right? Can it be that you still care?” She visibly trembled as his eyes drifted across her. She felt her body come alive, breasts swelling against the silk of her shirt, delicate tips stiffening in instant arousal.
He noted all this with perverse satisfaction. “I don’t. But you are beautiful.” He revelled in her arousal. Clung to it with a strange vehemence.
“Damaged pride?” she suggested.
“Ahh!” He moved up to her, pressing his fingers to her mouth, silencing her. “You really are one arrogant lady.”
“I don’t mean to be.” Her cushiony mouth pulsed from the pressure of those fingers.
“And you a McQueen?”
With all that implied. “Reardon,” she corrected sharply.
“As close to a McQueen as one can get.” He shrugged, his hands moving to her shoulders.
She stood perfectly still as his fingers began to play with her dark abundant hair just as they’d used to. “I’m over you, Chrissy,” he said, disturbingly soft. “God help me, but I am.”
“Prove it.” She wasn’t such a fool that she couldn’t feel the pounding weight of sexual tension, the tiny tremble in those strong fingers.
“Letting go comes hard for you, doesn’t it?” he accused, taking her slender throat in his hands.
“Why would you want to kiss a woman who’s meant nothing but trouble?” she challenged, moving in even closer. Her need for him was so keenly, powerfully, physical it was unbearable.
“I think of it as fighting fire with fire,” he murmured, though there was nothing remotely tender in his expression. “You can keep your eyes open, if you like.”
Nothing could stop this, once begun.
It sounded simple enough. Keep your eyes open. It wasn’t. As he lowered his head her eyelids involuntarily closed, long jet-black lashes fanning her cheeks. She shuddered as a violent rush of exhilaration came for her, swamping her in its pelting torrents. Drowning her.
She fought for air, determined she wouldn’t allow him the luxury of making a fool of her. But the warmth and weight of his marvellous curvy mouth came down over hers.
Resistance was futile. The years of long denial were over. She let herself go, assailed by the clean scent of his breath, his mating tongue, the wonderful male fragrance of his hair and skin. It had stayed with her for years.
Stars burst. Whole galaxies. The full rush of blind sex.
For Mitch it was meant to be an exercise in control, a mocking kiss that would convey to her he was no longer in her power. Only the kiss with its strict limitations quickly changed character. It turned to passion and a kind of fury. Passion that came out in force, whipping layer after layer of his hard-won defences from him, leaving him totally exposed.
With an incoherent mutter he slipped his arm to her waist and hauled her into him. The whole length of their bodies fused—breast, waist, hip, thigh, long legs—as each tried desperately to meet the need to melt into the other. He compulsively plied the length of her back with his strong hand in a muted violence that had her arching her body still closer, head tilted back so he could kiss her more fully.
She wasn’t aware how long they stood like that—an eternity?—mouth hungrily taking mouth as longing broke free of its hiding place.
As an outpouring of need it was staggering. How could a kiss capture so much territory? The flesh, with its undertow of hot pulsing blood and racing nerves; the chambers of the heart; the marrow.
When he released her it was to a white-hot ringing silence. as though both were shocked by the level of arousal a single kiss had detonated.
Christine found herself staring into his face, taut with desire, blue eyes blazing.
“I think your kisses always did frighten me,” she whispered, incredibly moved.
“How?” His blue eyes scorched her.
“I used to think my soul passed into yours through my mouth,” she confessed.
“Didn’t it?” he asked tensely.
“It’s possible, Mitch, to be frightened of too much emotion. To ache with you, without you, from you.”
“So you’re now trying to tell me you were frightened all those dark starry nights?” he asked explosively.
“I used to think I was so much in love with you that I would disappear.”
His frown was bleak. “You never once said anything like that to me.”
“I’m saying it now. There was terror in it, Mitch. I was so young and inexperienced. Passion is a fever. Feel my hand; feel my cheek.” She offered her cheek to him, knowing without looking, toward the mirror her skin was incandescent with hot blood.
He didn’t trust himself to obey, but he did. His lean fingers traced the curve of her cheek, drifted to the slope of her shoulder. He was deeply desirous to cup her breasts—he could see the erect nipples peaking against the silky shirt—only that would have been total surrender. They both would have understood she had won. He wasn’t going to allow her that bitter victory.
“You taste exactly the same. Sweet on my tongue.” He forced his hands to drop. He moved back from temptation. “You’d better go to bed, Chris.” His tone was quiet, but clearly dismissive. “We have an early start in the morning.”
“They say you never forget your first love,” she murmured sadly.
“Or words to that effect.” Deliberately he kept his tone cynical, when what he really thought was t
his: sometimes a man never learned to love more than once.
CHAPTER FOUR
ALL the time she was dressing, Christine had the stirring lines of “Banjo” Paterson’s famous Outback poem, The Man from Snowy River running through her head. Brumby-running had a rich history in the nation, and Paterson’s poem captured the full excitement of the chase. She’d seen many brumbies trapped in roughly made “yards” over the years, had participated in musters, but this was something different again.
Lightning, though he was wild, had good thoroughbred blood in him, Mitch had said. That meant he would be faster, probably much faster than any mounted stockman. Except Zena, Mitch’s silver mare, had wings, and Wellington, her horse for the morning, was good for pace. Her excitement grew. The domestic horses enjoyed the chase as much as the riders. Station born and bred, Christine had been associated with horses for most of her life. And the brumbies had a mystique of their own. It was a marvellous sight to see them running in a herd. They were part of Outback culture and the best of them, all progeny of runaway or stolen station horses, had always been sought after.
This big black stallion, Lightning, was no exception. Helicopters and motorbikes had largely revolutionised station life, but horses, magnificent creatures that they were, were part of the nation’s heritage, forever linked with the Outback and the Australian Light Horse at war. Christine knew she would have been bitterly disappointed had Mitch not asked her to join them on the chase. At least he acknowledged she fitted into some part of his world. The land was part of them both.
Six of them rode out: Mitch, Christine, Jack Cody, the new overseer, two of the top hands—“Smiley” Jensen, of the poker face, and Abe Lovell—and the station’s finest aboriginal tracker, “Snowy” Moon, whose halo of ash-white curls made such a pleasing contrast with his dark chocolate skin.
All of them were fine horsemen, although Christine didn’t take to Jack Cody, who had assumed the coveted job of station overseer from Dave Reed, when he’d retired with a handsome annuity after forty years of service to the Claydons and Marjimba Station. He had, however, come straight from a cattle station in the Territory, highly recommended as a capable overseer.