by Margaret Way
Tall, good-looking in his way, and very fit, he was in his mid-thirties and divorced. His marriage had apparently crashed. He was respectful enough, but there was something Christine didn’t like in the length and quality of his hazel gaze. She was tempted to say something to Mitch, but decided against it. She didn’t really want to get Jack into trouble, but his gaze reminded her of the speculative stare of other men who had sexually propositioned her. Or longed to. She knew that look. The hardness behind it, the too intimate lop-sided grin.
He continued to stare when he thought she wasn’t looking, ceasing only when Mitch, who had been giving last-minute instructions to Snowy, rode back to her side.
“Before I forget, I’ve had word from Sarah,” Mitch told her. “The hospital has released Clarry.” He referred to the elderly man they had rescued in the desert. “They won’t be resuming their journey. He suffered a mild heart attack as well as concussion. Gemmima’s flying him home. Both of them send their regards. They want to keep in touch.”
“Where are they based?” Christine, seated on Wellington, who needed a good rider to control him, adjusted the red bandanna around her neck. It would be too tight when the heat mounted.
“Adelaide.”
Mitch allowed his eyes to fall on her. He was seduced all over again. She had ruled his dreams the night before to the extent that he’d woken once, heart pounding, thinking she was naked beside him. Now, in the glimmering light of dawn, she was the picture of health and vitality.
She wasn’t wearing a scrap of make-up. She didn’t need it. Just a touch of rosy lipgloss, most probably to protect the sensitive skin of her mouth. Her beautiful springy dark hair was drawn back into a plaited rope, and her skin and eyes glowed. She was a real beauty, as opposed to artificial, her sapphire eyes arresting against the jet-black of brows and lashes. Christine Reardon. His downfall.
She was smiling as she answered. “I expect they’re very grateful to you for rescuing their vehicle as well. It must have cost an arm and a leg.”
“How did you know?” He wasn’t someone who broadcast his good deeds.
“Your mother told me. She always wants me to know how kind and generous you are.”
“It’s called being a mother,” he complained, making an affectionate low clicking sound with his tongue. His mount, the splendid, very agile silver-grey mare Zena, responded. She moved off obediently, quite happy with her stablemate the big chestnut Wellington alongside.
Even at this early hour the mirage was abroad. It painted waves of blue fire at the feet of the distant hump-backed hills. The hills looked close, but Christine knew they were twenty miles to the north-west. The air was incredibly sweet, scented by the trillion fuzzy golden balls of the flowering acacias that dotted the landscape.
How I love the scent of wattle, she thought, breathing in deeply. It’s the smell of my homeland. The scent of the bush. My country. How I’ve missed it. She risked a glance at Mitch. God, he was beautiful! Happiness surged. On a scale of one to ten she was on Cloud Eleven. She was even hopeful she could win him back.
Forty minutes on and they were on the edge of a chain of lakes the Claydons called the Blue Billabongs: areas of oasis on the semi-arid desert fringe. Here the waters were a curious pearly green, but the lakes took their name from the exquisite dark blue and violet water lilies, with their masses of yellow stamens, that were reflected in the tranquil waters.
At this magical hour the air was alive with the extraordinary Outback bird life, especially along the lines of the creeks and billabongs. Budgerigar, zebra finches, the red-capped robins and the orange chats, brilliant lorikeets, sulphur-crested cockatoos, clouds of geese and water birds, blue kingfishers and, through the breaks in the silver-grey eucalypts, glimpses of the elegant brolgas stepping delicately along the sandy banks.
The spinifex that had stood silver against the dawn light now caught fire with the rising sun. It turned for long moments a fiery red before blazing gold. The sky above was already bright blue and cloudless as the sun established its supremacy. It gave Christine a feeling of wholeness, completeness, she had never experienced anywhere else.
“You look remarkably happy,” Mitch said, feeling the self-same peace. They were riding so close the sides of their mounts almost swished.
“You can’t imagine how I’ve missed this,” she admitted with a voluptuous sigh. “This is what makes me tick.”
One dark golden eyebrow shot up. “That’s odd—I thought you’d find it pretty hard away from the glamorous capitals of the world.”
“Do I look like I’m finding it hard?” she flashed back.
She rode beautifully. Back erect. “Oh, well, while on holiday one has to make the most of it,” he mused.
“How can I be on holiday? This is where I was born. This my world as well as yours, Mitch Claydon. Thank you very much. ‘Here I am, homeward from my wandering. Here I am homeward and my heart is healed’.”
“I wish I could say the same for mine,” he said dryly.
Instinctively she turned to him. “There’ll always be a bond between us, Mitch. You might as well accept that.”
“Oh, I do!” He shrugged. “But sometimes it catches me by surprise. Like last night.”
“I don’t regret it, do you?” Not those minutes of rapturous abandonment.
“That remains to be seen. Essentially, I can’t afford to get too close to you ever again. It’s called self-preservation. You can understand that, surely? After all, you’re bound to do the same old thing. You’ll go away.”
“Could you consider I’m tired of being Christine Reardon, public figure?” she asked.
“You mean you’re tossing up between the idea of retiring or perhaps moving to the silver screen? You’ve got a head start. You’ve got yourself an American accent when others have to study it.”
“You can’t help acquiring an accent when you spend a lot of time in a country,” she said reasonably. “Besides, I like an American accent—though there are plenty of them. Mine’s more cosmopolitan.”
“It should come in handy, should you make the move.”
She ignored the bitter mockery. “Hey, can we ride along peacefully?”
“Sure. I want your holiday to be a good one.”
She lifted a hand, whispered behind it. “I hate you, Mitch.”
“I hate you too, only you get me excited.” His gaze sparkled as it settled on her mouth.
“That’s the intention.” Her whole body was brushed with heat.
“Tell me again when we’re alone.”
“So you can put me in my place?”
“Now, Chrissy, that only makes good sense.”
By mid-morning they had made their first sighting of Lightning and his harem, along the beautiful wild banks of the Blue Billabongs—to the aboriginals on the station a home of mystical beings. Flashes of ebony, bay, bright chestnuts and creams were caught in the dancing light through the thick screening of trees.
Mitch, his expression exhilarated, a little taut, lifted a hand to signal they were off.
Where there were chases there was always danger. Brumbies were cunning. They tended to see station horses and riders a split second before they themselves were spotted, their hearing being vastly superior to humans’. It was virtually impossible to swoop upon a brumby. The wild horse had to be outrun, outclassed or penned up in some way.
They had to consider the best strategy for containing this stallion. In this landscape a lignum swamp or ravine. It was no easy task, roping a brumby, anyway, whether from the ground or, harder yet, from a galloping horse.
Lightning, the brumby leader, was showing his thoroughbred blood. Just like a racehorse, from a standing start he bounded into a gallop, instantly activating the wild herd. Christine watched as the brumbies scattered into the scrub, manes whipping, coats sleek and gleaming as they flashed through the timber, heading for what lay ahead—eroded hill country and beyond that the open plain.
They were off!
Wild gallops were nothing new to Christine. Many a time she had taken part in bush races, but she had never been able to outrun Mitch. Now Mitch, a superb horseman, was already clear in front, his mare, Zena, incredibly fit and eager for the chase. Jack Cody, the overseer, galloped past her actually taking the time to flash her a triumphant grin that held more than a hint of leer. The rest of the party were hot on her tail.
Without weight to carry the brumbies were holding their lead, except for two mothers with foals who dropped back as the rest of the herd forged ahead. The riders ignored them. It was only the black stallion they were after.
A fallen branch as big as a hurdle loomed ahead of Christine, who had decided on a shortcut as part of her tactics. It reared out of the scrub giving her a split second of panic before she sent Wellington soaring over it. She already knew the big chestnut was a clean jumper. The gelding didn’t hesitate, relishing the challenge.
More hurdles confronted her, big spreading branches, but she rode hell for leather, ducking the low-growing rungs of the mulga, keeping Mitch not all that far ahead, locked in her vision. Finally she burst out of the timber, her taut rear slamming hard into leather, breasts rising and falling, skin slick with sweat, booted feet feeling weightless in the stirrups. She was utterly intoxicated with the charge. A great flight of budgerigar formed a green and gold canopy over her, their antics keeping time with her mount.
Some of the inferior horses of Lightning’s harem, fillies and mares, were starting to fall back. The riding party galloped on past them, intent on capturing Lightning, who ran with the best of the colts—colts that in the normal course of events would one day fight him for control of the harem.
Mitch was a crack hand with the rope, but the little mob was going like the wind. The trail she had blazed on her own brought Christine out in front of all the men, including the hard-riding Cody. Wildlife darted for cover. Kangaroos and wallabies and wandering emus, those great flightless birds, pulled out their own dazzling turn of speed. The creek’s kingfishers and kookaburras, always in high spirits, chuckled at the chase, but the multitudes of sulphur-crested cockatoos adorning the trees like giant white flowers rose into the air, screeching indignantly at the galloping procession of horses.
As Christine approached Mitch at speed he indicated his intention to drive the herd towards a section of the eroded hills criss-crossed by low canyons. The wrong canyon and the brumbies would escape. The right one and they stood an excellent chance of capturing the muscular jet-coloured stallion. He had to stand seventeen hands. Proof of his good blood.
The others were thundering up to them, Snowy, the aboriginal tracker, calling out loudly and tossing his head in the direction of a particular rotund dome in the line of hump-backed hills. It glowed like a red-hot furnace in the blazing sun.
The colts were faltering. The mares had given up. The stallion was still thundering across the hard-baked sand, but as the riding party got into their line of battle, flanking the stallion, his headlong flight to escape was effectively funnelled towards the squat dome and its near neighbour, a narrow pinnacle that rose considerably higher. A narrow ravine lay between, with only one entrance, its exit blocked by huge boulders.
The chase was over.
Inside the rock-strewn narrow canyon the stallion turned to confront them, rearing and tossing his head. He was snorting in the wildest, most intimidating fashion Christine had ever heard. No station horse could put on a war-like display like this. One powerful front leg struck the ground, pawing over and over, issuing a warning.
“Might be a bad one, boss,” Snowy called to Mitch. “Mightn’t be worth havin’. Got that look about ’im.”
“Hell, Snowy, we’ve done our damnedest to corner him. Are you saying we should let him go?” Mitch’s reply had an edge of exasperation, particularly as he was arriving at the same conclusion.
“Uneasy, boss.” Snowy smiled grimly. “This guy a rogue. Look at da eyes. There’s a debbil in them eyes.”
“I agree.” Christine’s gaze was fixed on the stallion and his menacing attitude.
“He’s aggressive, all right,” Mitch muttered, knowing the stallion was trouble but loath to let him go free. “You don’t reckon you could tame him, Snowy?” Snowy was a marvellous horse-handler. None better.
“Concerned him no good, boss. Could be a killer.”
Christine spoke quietly. “Let him go, Mitch. I’ve got a bad feeling about this one.”
That infuriated Jack Cody. “Bugger that!” he exploded, throwing Christine a look that said women were useless except for one thing. “If Snowy can’t break him, I can.”
Mitch wheeled Zena around, staring at the overseer. Jack had not been his choice. His father had appointed him. “I don’t think I care for the prospect of your breaking him, Cody. I’m sure the stallion wouldn’t like it either. We’ve got a bit of a problem here, though. Lightning is becoming a real menace. We can’t possibly fence in our station horses. They’re used to roaming a huge area. But I won’t lose the two station mares.”
“Why don’t we collect them?” Christine suggested, riding quietly to Mitch’s right. “Lightning will burn himself out.”
“What would a woman know about horses?” Jack Cody challenged, eyes bright with male hostility. Clearly his blood was up. He made no effort to hide the fact he was disappointed with the turn of events.
“Probably twice as much as you.” Mitch’s swift change in demeanour instantly reminded the overseer who was boss. “Miss Reardon is as knowledgeable as any of us. She was reared on Wunnamurra. You might start to apologise.”
Cody, keyed up, had not known exactly who Christine was, beyond one of the great Mitch Claydon’s girlfriends. He immediately backed down, aware he had overstepped the mark. “Of course, I do apologize. I didn’t realise, Miss Reardon.”
Christine shrugged, said nothing, but Mitch spoke pointedly. “You didn’t notice how she can ride?” He turned away pointedly. “So you’re saying we give up on Lightning, Snowy?”
Snowy’s perfect white teeth showed in a grimace. “I’m nervous about ’im, boss. He might break somebody’s skull.”
“He looks like he wants to do it now,” Christine said uneasily, eyeing the haughty animal with a hollow chill. “He’s impressive-looking, but there’s something about his stare. There’s a lot of violence in it.”
Mitch ran a hand up over his golden-skinned face. “He’s a wild horse. A tough, strong wild horse. But, yes, he does look a touch demented.”
“Why don’t you just let me rope him?” Jack Cody suggested, a veteran of more than a few rodeos. He tensed for rejection, thinking he could take the stallion whenever he wanted.
“I think you might finish up a casualty, Jack,” Mitch said, knowing Cody had taken a bad fall at the last Darwin rodeo but unprepared to embarrass him.
“So this whole exercise has been a waste of time?” Cody couldn’t contain his frustration. Who would have ever thought bigshot Claydon was a wimp?
“Him gotta bad spirit,” Snowy observed, his long dark fingers stroking his chin.
Christine shot a quick look at the aboriginal elder, wondering whether Snowy was referring to Cody or the brumby. Maybe both.
“I reckon we don’t want ’im boss. Good looker, but fulla vice. Let’s look for the mares and foals. Pick ’em up.”
The stallion was still displaying boldly, warning the riding party that this was his territory and to back off.
“If I can ride him home can I have him?” Cody let his tone match his inner bravado. “You know my reputation. I’m a really good rough rider.”
“That horse could kill you, Jack,” Mitch said. “He’s never been handled. Now that we’re seeing him up close, surely he looks unrideable to you, therefore valueless to the station. He won’t make a good work horse after all, which was what this chase was all about.”
Mitch provided the cool voice of reason, but Cody was as touchy as the stallion. His pride was on the line and he found himself wanting
very badly indeed to impress the woman. She was beautiful and much more. Few would think to argue with Mitchell Claydon, but Cody wasn’t entirely in control of himself—hadn’t been from the first moment he’d laid eyes on Christine.
“He might surprise yah. Let me see if I can get a lasso over his head. I know as much about horses as any man on the station,” Cody boasted, though it was far from the truth. Mitch was a superb horseman and Snowy was a renowned “breaker”. “Horses have gotta respect humans,” Cody said, alarming them all by suddenly producing a rope already noosed at one end. He rocked in the stirrups, then threw it while the rest of the party moved their mounts swiftly to the walls of the canyon.
“God Almighty!” Mitch was staggered by the overseer’s actions, with so much potential danger for them all. “Back up further, Chris!” he yelled, his heart in his throat as he glimpsed her off to the right.
Incredibly the rope passed over the stallion’s neck first time, but then all hell broke loose. The choking down process Cody had thought to accomplish to render the stallion either unconscious from lack of air or weak enough to fall to its knees, failed badly. The stallion was just too powerful. He objected violently to this ploy, thrashing his head from side to side in terror, eyes rolling whitely, so strong and heavily muscled Cody’s horse was no match for it in the tussle. The station horse’s sturdy legs were unable to sustain the weight of the stallion.
“Drop the rope, you bloody fool,” Mitch shouted to Cody. “Get out of the way. That’s an order.”
But Cody, whose major fault was trying to impress women, was hell-bent on showing his skills. Not only that, he was terrified to let go in case the stallion—who was showing no sign of buckling, despite the noose being pulled tighter and tighter—bolted right at him in a mad panic to escape.
There was nothing for it, Mitch thought with cold fury, feeling his heart pound in reaction. Christine, his main concern, was offside, but there was no telling if the stallion would run straight at Cody or execute a series of maddened manoeuvres in his frenzy to escape. He couldn’t begin to think of Christine hurt. Bloody, bruised and trampled. Cody, the arrogant bastard, had lost his senses.