Master of the Outback

by Margaret Way

  Trevelyan was due to pick her up in ten minutes. They weren’t taking the horses, but the Jeep. Genevieve was trying to sort through her feelings. She had to consider he now knew exactly who she was—a bestselling author. It was obvious Liane had made it her business to ferret out her pen-name, probably finding out quite a bit about her and her family in the process. But mercifully there would be no apparent connection to Catherine.

  Once more the familiar white-hot rush of excitement the minute she saw him. He stepped out of the Jeep, a tall, striking figure, his akubra pulled down at a rakish angle on his tanned forehead. There were no words she could come up with even as an author to describe his effect on her. Mesmerising didn’t say it. She was a woman in thrall, confronting the reality that she was hopelessly, helplessly in love with him. Indeed, under his sway.

  But was there a huge distinction between being in love and knowing oneself loved? The line for her was becoming more and more blurred. In a way, she almost wanted her old self back. The cool, composed and successful Genevieve, who had been gaining control of her life. The Genevieve she was now was no match for Trevelyan. Her feelings for him were pushing her to the very limits.

  She rushed to meet him, not wanting to keep him waiting. He was staring right at her. No smile. She didn’t smile either. She saw he had made an instant check on her: protective sunglasses, hat, etc. She had brought her own straw hat instead of the akubra she had been presented with. Her straw hat was more feminine, and it fitted her head better.

  “All right. Let’s get going.” His long shadow fell over her.

  She wasted no time, throwing her hat into the back before climbing into the passenger seat. It had been a day of blazing heat. It was getting towards late afternoon now, and the air had cooled, but chances were they would have a thunderstorm. The Dry was moving towards the tropical Wet. A storm had threatened the afternoon before—a spectacular display, but as frequently happened coming to nothing. From long years of drought followed by two years of unprecedented torrential rain people on the land had become wary of gathering storms. Often they brought flash floods—the cause of the death of city girl Sondra Wakefield.

  Inside the Jeep the very air was trembling. Genevieve averted her head, looking fixedly out the window at the flying miles. In the heat the silvery-blue fire of mirage was abroad. It created so many quivering illusions, or really delusions, she could see how lost explorers had been tricked into believing glassy lakes of water weren’t all that far off if only they could survive to reach them. Fascinating, but cruel.

  Genevieve looked up at the sky. The contrast between the cloudless peacock-blue and what was happening on the horizon was extraordinary. Piles upon piles of incandescent cumulus clouds were massing: purple, dark grey, streaks of livid green surely denoting electrical charges, streaks of crimson, a rolling line of navy blue nearest the horizon. That could only mean a fierce electrical storm was threatening, although here and there the anvil-shaped masses were shot through by glittering swords of sunlight.

  There was a purple haze over the jagged line of ridges where they were heading. The Hill Country guarded the galleries of aboriginal art on the station. She had seen over the years many wonderful non-sacred paintings on canvas and on bark. Aboriginal art had established itself in major art galleries all over the world, despite the fact it was such a departure from Western modernism, or maybe because of it.

  As they drove across the vast trackless wilderness she was amazed by the thick vivid green herbage that was strewn across the Spinifex country: bright bursts of pink, yellow and cobalt blue wildflowers were scattered all over in huge patches. Flights of budgerigar zoomed ahead of them in their unique squadron formation. To Genevieve’s fascinated eyes they looked like long flowing bolts of emerald silk tipped with gold. It was a sight she had come to treasure. The bauhinias—the beautiful orchid trees that only a couple of weeks before she had so admired, bright with pink, white, cerise or purple blossom—were stripped of their seasonal glory. The spent petals had dropped in masses, like snow in the desert.

  About half a mile from their destination she dared to glance across at Trevelyan’s handsome profile. It could have adorned a coin, she thought. She was anxious to know what was ahead of her. For a moment she thought he was about to speak, but apparently he thought better of it.

  “So what’s wrong?” She was so nervous she jumped in—just to get it over.

  “Did I say something was wrong?” he countered, without turning to her.

  “You don’t have to. It’s written all over you.”

  “Who can escape your percipience?” he said suavely.

  That stung. “It saved Kit,” she reminded him.

  He did glance at her then. “So it did. I’m sorry.”

  “Apology accepted. You’re a man who wouldn’t apologise often.” She turned her head again to look out of the window. It was a gesture of refuge.

  “That’s good, coming from you.” Mockery laced his voice.

  They might have been cocooned inside a bubble. Excitement was building—dark and disturbing. “So what has Liane been up to?”

  “Funny you should ask that.”

  Genevieve shrugged. “She’s obviously done some checking on me. I knew she would. Your ex-fiancée is clinging to the belief the two of you are going to get back together again.”

  “And you say we won’t?” He flashed her a satirical look.

  “No, you won’t,” she said quietly. “Liane did something you considered unforgivable. No coming back from there. I understand perfectly. My ex-fiancé betrayed me with my own stepsister.”

  All was silent. “Good God!” he breathed. “Betrayal on two fronts.”

  “I don’t think I can ever forgive her,” Genevieve said, eyes cast down. “It took me most of my life to realise Carrie-Anne had problems with me. I’m a few years older. You know all about sibling rivalry—though she wasn’t a true sibling, but my stepmother’s daughter. From the beginning Carrie-Anne had to have what I had. I suppose you could say in a weird way she wanted to be me. Anyway, that’s a chapter closed.”

  “What she did was very wrong.” Trevelyan passed judgement. “One can only wonder at your nameless fiancé’s blindness and stupidity.”

  She turned her head towards him. “I could say the same, perhaps, of Liane?”

  He gave a brief laugh that held little humour. “At least we like something about one another. That admitted, I’m not sharing my secrets with you, Genevieve Grenville aka Michelle Laurent. You’ve forfeited my confidence by not sharing your secrets with me. So you’re a bestselling author! Congratulations. I can’t for the life of me think why you found it necessary to hide the fact.”

  “It was Liane, wasn’t it?” she asked.

  “You’re the mind-reader. Of course it was Liane. She’s fiercely jealous of you.”

  “And why would that be?” she asked, in a tightly controlled voice.

  “Oh, please—it’s not exactly one of life’s unanswerable questions, is it? Women know these things. She knows I’m attracted to you.”

  “Despite having so many suspicions and doubts? Tell me—I’m curious.”

  “You have the nerve to ask?” He swung his head.

  “Are we going to have a set-to?” She pushed distracted fingers into her hair, held at the nape by an antique gold clasp that had belonged to Michelle. She had long forsaken the offending bun.

  “Set-to?” He laughed. “A bit old fashioned, isn’t it?”

  “All right—a blue. A ding-dong fight.”

  “What would be the point?”

  She released a long breath. “I’m not going to miss you when I leave.”

  “Oh, yes, you are!” His black eyes glinted. “Besides, I haven’t said you can leave. Not until we get to the bottom of why exactly you’re here
on—my—land.” He spaced out the words for emphasis. “Anyway, that can wait. We’re here.”

  Genevieve stared up at the ancient rust-red eroded ridges. Some pointed jagged fingers to the blue sky. The ridges weren’t all that high, but the flatness of the plains country below exaggerated their height. Not far from where Trevelyan had parked the Jeep a mob of brumbies—a grey stallion, obviously the leader, two chestnuts with white blazes, and two liver bays—were standing up to their flat knees in the wildflowers that swam across the top of the tall grasses. Heads were turned alertly towards them.

  Genevieve, the horse lover, paused to take in the picture they made, while Trevelyan paid no attention. This was an everyday sight to him.

  “Put your hat on,” he said.

  “I was about to.” Defiance spiked her voice. “I’m not a schoolgirl out on a day trip.” No chance of being cool and unflappable with Trevelyan.

  “Why would a red-head not have a temper?” He gave her mutinous face a look of languid amusement. Sunlight was falling through the weave of her straw hat, throwing little glittery chinks of light on her flawless skin. “I’ve told you the akubra offers more protection. But you don’t listen. Turn the sides down, not up.” He waited while she did. “Okay, let’s see the main cave. Obviously we have to do a bit of climbing, but at least you’re wearing the right boots.”

  At one point she made a little agitated sound, fearing she might lose her footing on the rubble, only his hand shot out to clasp hers.

  The intoxicating feeling of skin on skin! Strange the way he had of not only commanding her thoughts, but her body’s responses as well. Did anyone really understand powerful physical attraction? she pondered. She had two hearts. One was bouncing around in her chest. The other one had mounted into her throat. It was no easy thing to fall victim to overwhelming desire, and it offered no peace.

  The sun was still shining brilliantly, but she could smell the storm. The active oxygen in the air, the ozone and its clean fresh scent. The scent was intensified by the sun’s discharge both before and especially after a lightning storm. She knew in her bones this was the day the storm would break.

  He kept tight hold of her hand as they moved along the face of a long-eroded escarpment. Genevieve was stepping very carefully. Small showers of pebbles dislodged by their footsteps were racing with a clatter down the slopes. A reckless wind had sprung up, coming from the north-east and hitting her face like a sharp smack. Trevelyan’s akubra was withstanding the sudden wind change. She was forced to hold her straw hat in place. She snatched it off before it went sailing away.

  They had passed several small openings that could be the homes of desert creatures, but Trevelyan kept them moving along the narrow crumbling track until they were outside the neck of a cave much higher and larger. The opening was a perfect oval.

  “Stand here for a moment,” he said, pointing to an exact spot against the red ochre rock wall. The man was well used to obedience. “I’ll check inside.”

  At once she thought of snakes. Desert taipans. God! Dragon Lizards would be lovable pets by comparison.

  A moment later Trevelyan, dipping his dark head so as not to knock it, signalled to her that it was okay to enter. Her head easily cleared the neck of the cave. Brilliant sunlight slanted steeply into the interior, but she knew that wasn’t going to last. The burning ochres of the wild landscape, so beautiful in their savage way, were soon replaced by violet shadows. After the heat of the desert the interior of the cave was of infinite coolness. What a benediction! She threw her straw hat onto the clean sand. It landed right beside Trevelyan’s cream akubra. Fascinated, she lifted her glowing head to the rock walls, worried the light might fail in the violence of a storm.

  She felt just as she would if confronted by paintings in an art gallery. Only these were individual drawings, executed in an extremely lively manner. Even the high ceiling some eight feet high at the centre was covered.

  “How did they get up there?” she asked in some wonderment.

  He watched as a beam of reflected light caught her sumptuous hair. “They would have devised something. Not many people get to see this cave. One reason why the drawings are so well preserved.”

  “Then I’m privileged.”

  He nodded. “It’s actually quite an important gallery. On the ceiling are the so-called floral designs. Various wild creatures, plenty of them mythical, are engraved on the back wall. The wall you’re facing has hunting and ceremonial scenes. None of the rock engravings have anything to do with sorcery, considering sorcery was rife in this area. The totemic designs are considered to be extremely good. A year or two ago we had an emeritus professor from the University of Western Australia give us his opinion and offer conservation advice. As this gallery is on Djangala we have an obligation to preserve it.”

  “Of course,” she murmured, continuing her tour. “That can’t be a crocodile, surely?” She paused before an engraving. “And fish?”

  “You’re forgetting the inland sea of pre-history. Lake Eyre, right at the heart of the continent, has filled twice in the last two years. Unbelievable. I flew over it both times. It certainly brought to mind the Inland Sea.”

  A tremendous flash of lightning prevented any further comment, its blinding brilliance illuminating the interior of the cave like a stage set. Automatically Genevieve began to count off the seconds before they experienced what had to be a clap of thunder of Wagnerian proportions. It came right on cue reverberating so powerfully over the walls of the cave she had to put her hands to her ringing ears.

  “It’s going to pour, isn’t it?” she asked Trevelyan.

  Something was very delicately, very dangerously poised over them. The sword of Damocles? She thought a single movement could bring it down.

  “But then you knew that.”

  “Of course I did. I’ve lived here all my life. You’re quite safe here. The cave is deep. And you won’t be able to get away. You and I are going to have a long overdue talk, Genevieve.”

  Tumult set itself up, echoing the tumult of the storm. “What do you imagine I’m going to tell you?”

  “Why do you want to dig up the rubble of the past?” he asked in brusque interrogation.

  “Why do you want to hide it?” she countered, thinking the wildness of the storm was enfolding them in great wings. Everything had the high definition of one of her dreams.

  “Simple,” he clipped out. “I don’t want to cause my family grief. The pain of some old stories has never healed.”

  “One old story, don’t you mean?” She issued the challenge as if she could no longer hold on to it. “Like the fate of the young blonde woman Hester loved? All that remains of her are memories and old photographs. Hester left it to you to tell me. But you’re crying off, aren’t you?

  “Oh, spare me!” he exclaimed. “And what’s all this nonsense about Hester loving the young woman?”

  “Why don’t you give her a name?” Genevieve looked right back at him.

  “This is personal, isn’t it?” His tone gripped like a vice.

  “Personal?” Her voice rose.

  “Yes, damn it! You aren’t talking about someone in my family’s past. You’re not here gathering information, or inspiration for another bestseller. This is exactly what I say—personal.” Anger was glittering in his eyes.

  Genevieve shook her head, thinking everything was slipping out of her grasp. “You don’t need to know any of that.”

  He could feel himself losing control. Only this woman could do it to him. The fact that he wanted her so badly even now only increased his anger. “Don’t I? Who the hell do you think you are?” He moved closer.

  She was taller than average, but he made her feel like a doll. “Well, I thought I was here in the capacity of ghostwriter.” Instinctively she backed away.

 
He couldn’t trust himself not to shake her. He could even feel his hand around the back of her neck. “Genevieve, I want answers, not evasions.” He spoke with blunt force. “What a shock it must have been for you when that McGuire woman asked if you’d like a short stint in the Outback—moreover on a historic station. Just a bit of ghostwriting—a piece of cake! It must have seemed like a God-sent opportunity.”

  Genevieve found herself clutching at his arm. “What really happened to Catherine?”

  He shook her off, afraid he would take what he so desperately wanted. “How did you know it was Catherine? Hester didn’t put a name to the young woman in the photograph—which, incidentally, I’ve just seen for the first time.”

  He was staring at her as if she were the very image of someone from the past. Genevieve turned her head away, half blinded by another searing flash of lightning.

  “Catherine Lytton is the key to everything, isn’t she?” he said. “Otherwise you’d never have come here.”

  She didn’t answer. Her nerves were terribly on edge. She thought if he touched her her mood could even turn hysterical.

  “I’ll take that as a yes. Imagine—we’d never have met!” he said with great irony. Her beauty—luminous, delicate—her desirability was breaking over him in dizzying waves.

  Genevieve dared not meet his eyes. “Haven’t you got anything to say, Bret?”

  The lightning that flickered in the cave, lit one side of his striking face; the other was in a shadow. “I think I should know your story first,” he said. “You have a family connection to Catherine Lytton?”

  There was nothing she could do but tell the truth. “Yes, I do,” she admitted, her voice splintered. “Sooner or later it was all going to come out. The big surprise is Liane didn’t dig deeper. Catherine Lytton was my kinswoman—first cousin to my maternal grandmother.”

  He stared back at her with a frown. “And you’ve applied yourself to finding out more about her? She died in a tragic accident long before either of us was born. The accident was thoroughly investigated.” There was a real harshness to his voice. “There were no witnesses. She must have stepped too close to the crumbling edge of the escarpment. You could see how easily sections of the rock face sheared off as we climbed up here. Everyone could understand what so easily happened.”