by Jan Colley
Her special place.
She pulled off her hat and looped the reins over Monty’s neck, leaving him to fossick through the tussock for food.
Stiff-arming a clump of gorse, she bent slightly and moved fully into the aperture. There was a large flat rock, fully three square meters and slightly elevated, so the view was unhindered above the foliage at the entrance. And the view was spectacular.
Her mother had sometimes brought her here as a child, placing her in front of her on the saddle. Lucy remembered the smell of her, her mother’s long hair tickling Lucy’s face, the thrill of clinging to the horse, as it climbed almost vertically up the steep cliff.
“I spy, with my little eye—” her childish voice would ring out in the semicave “—something beginning with…”
She’d help unwrap the sandwiches they had brought. They would play for hours. Once they’d been caught in a storm. Her mother pulled her well back into the cave and held her close, pressing her head into her bosom. But Lucy wasn’t having it. “I want to see!” She squirmed and managed to ease her head around to watch the tongues of electricity lashing the valley. She exulted at the show, but her mother had trembled.
Now, a watery sun eased out of the dawn, and the early winter snowcaps of the mountains were hidden in thick pearl clouds. It was so quiet, the silence surged at her. She strained to see the snaking river below. Her eyes prickled and blurred, like the mist that snagged on the tops of the trees on the foothills.
She could not lose this. Her whole aimless existence came down to this, the panorama laid out in front of her. She had carried it all over the world inside her, and it far surpassed any landscape she had seen. Somehow, this view intermingled with her need to belong. Her last resort.
In truth, she knew that the times up here with her mother were the last times she had felt truly cherished. Had felt lovable.
Monty nickered and blew and was answered in kind. Alarmed, Lucy craned her neck around the gorse in time to see Ethan Rae dismount from Tilly, one of Summerhill’s mares. A jolt of pleased agitation surged through her. Would this man not leave her in peace?
Ethan walked straight up to Monty and placed a confident hand on the gelding’s neck.
Fighting a wild urge to stay hidden, Lucy slid along on her bottom to the entrance, then stood, using her arm to brush back the gorse. She didn’t want him to worry. “How did you find your way up here?” she called.
His dark head snapped up and swiveled to find her. Was it pleasure causing her blood to race in her veins, or irritation at being disturbed while in an emotional mood?
“Followed you when you left the pool.” He turned his back momentarily to loop his mare’s reins around her neck and give Monty another pat.
As he approached, he made a thorough perusal of her warm sheepskin jacket and riding boots over black denims. “Beautiful place.”
Lucy nodded. “My special place.”
“Can see why.”
She noticed he was still looking at her rather than the view. “I used to come up here with my mother.”
Lucy tugged off her gloves, tossed them down and dug her bare hands deep into her pockets. Without invitation, he sat himself down on her rock. It was a big rock with more than enough room for two, but she remained on her feet. Somehow sharing her rock in this place, her special place, seemed too…intimate. Especially with someone who tickled her hormones the way he did.
If he had even an inkling of the thoughts racing through her mind, he seemed at ease with it. He made himself comfortable and peered up at her. “Are you like your mother?”
She kicked her toe into a tussock. “Physically.” Too much, she thought. She nearly smiled, remembering Ellie’s screams, as if there’d been a murder, when she’d found Lucy in the kitchen, scissors in hand and a pile of silvery locks slithering around her feet.
“Are you close?”
Lucy felt her mother’s hands in her hair, braiding it. Remembered the smell of the rose-scented lotion she liked to wear. “I thought so.”
There were many happy memories. All the neighboring farms got together and helped each other at busy times. The big old table in the dining room was often crammed to over-capacity, and elbows cracked and nudged. Loud and raucous laughter rang out, exciting the array of dogs banished to the step. And Thomas would be at the head of the table, louder and happier than everyone.
“I haven’t seen her since she left.”
He raised his dark brows.
“I was eight,” she told him. “She ran off with one of the cowhands.” She folded her arms around herself. “She was twenty years younger than Dad,” she told him, as if to qualify it.
In the pause that followed, Lucy felt a confusing disquiet that she had just divulged her mother’s true behavior to a virtual stranger. It had long been her way to make up the most extravagant fairy tales to her foreign friends. Her loving indulgent parents. Wonderful home-life. Mother-daughter shopping excursions to London and Paris.
Somehow it seemed wrong to lie here, in this place. Maybe it was because it was not only the last place she had felt lovable, but also honest.
Ethan nodded. “He never remarried?”
“No. It knocked the stuffing out of him.”
Belle’s defection had stunned the small community where the McKinlays were practically royalty. Thomas McKinlay was a big man in the district. Many had warned him about taking such a young bride.
“You were close to your father?” he asked.
Lucy considered. Close? After his stroke, he could hardly tell her he didn’t want her around. When her mother had left, so had he in a sense. His withdrawal from her was nearly complete, as if she wasn’t worthy of his regard. “Not really. Not since I was little.” She shrugged and turned away. “I looked too much like Mum.”
Cutting her hair short hadn’t changed anything. Not in her father’s embittered eyes. “It wasn’t his fault. He was heartbroken. Humiliated. Before he had the stroke six months ago, I hadn’t really been home, except for the odd weekend, since I was sent away to boarding school.”
She liked it that he didn’t mutter trite platitudes. Why should he care that her parents hadn’t loved her?
“Were you good at school?”
Distracted by his interest, she eased down onto the rock, careful to keep plenty of distance between them. “Terrible.” She grinned. “I mean, really.”
“Academically or behaviorally?”
“Both. I’m dyslexic.”
Ethan blew out a long breath. “Not a hanging offence.”
She pointed her pert nose in the air and put on an aristocratic tone. “Not allowed at my school. It didn’t happen to high-class, privately educated ‘gels’ like me. And we dyslexics became expert at covering it up.”
“How?”
“By being naughty, of course,” Lucy replied promptly.
Like most dyslexics, she had mastered any number of ways to cover up her disability so as not to be singled out as different. Usually, this involved getting into trouble or charming people. She laughed a lot, chattered a lot and found that teachers and schoolmates overlooked homework not done, exams failed or not attended.
“Not one teacher tried…?”
“Listen, I was rich. I suppose they thought I’d be all right. We high-class ‘gels’ are only biding our time till our posh wedding to some rich guy anyway, right?” She laughed. “Who needs education?”
Ethan drew his knees up and wrapped his arms around them. “Yesterday—you said you’d mixed up the times.”
Lucy rolled her eyes. Because of his reaction last night, she didn’t feel embarrassed. “See, it seems perfectly logical to someone like me to take the seven out of seventeen hundred hours and translate that to 7:00 p.m.”
He nodded, a smile tugging the corner of his mouth. “Of course. My fault.”
She liked him for saying that, even though it wasn’t true. Then she remembered who he worked for. “You don’t have to worry, Ethan. Tom takes care o
f all the office stuff, the bookings and so on. Yesterday was just a misunderstanding. It was me that goofed.”
He held up his hands. “Not worried.”
A faint pole of yellow light slanted between them from the entrance, distracting her. She pushed herself to her feet. “The sun’s arrived.”
Ethan watched her walk away to stand at the edge of the gorge. “Poor little rich girl” went through his mind. Beauty, money, prestige. But it wasn’t all roses in this garden of Eden. Dyslexic. Cut off from the love she craved, the love of her parents. Maybe, he thought, the two of them were not so different after all.
Except that she still found it within herself to be loyal toward her jerk of a brother and compassionate in the face of her parents’ indifference. Could he?
His own proud and aloof attitude toward his father had never softened over the years. He had long ignored the resignation in his father’s voice when Ethan once again cancelled a family dinner or rushed off ten minutes after arriving.
He knew he didn’t have it in him, like Lucy, to be compassionate toward a man he had no respect for, purely because that man was his father.
“Look!” Her voice, girlishly excited, roused him. He rose from the rock and walked to her.
“A rainbow.” She pointed out over the valley, squinting a little in the silvery haze.
Ethan exhaled, coming level with her. “You can see forever.”
Lucy nodded and let her head loll back a little.
“Where does your place end?”
Her arm, still outstretched, made a long sweep. They stood at the head of the valley with the Alps at the far end. It was not a picture-perfect postcard; it was too rugged. The mountains jutted from the milky water of the winding river. Gouges, crude and immense, were hewn into closer, dun-coloured foothills that had their own kind of magnificence. Great swatches of dark, dull green denoted forest that halted and then started up again without any sort of order.
He could barely take it all in. The vision seemed magnified, too big for a country the size of New Zealand. A long-buried scrap of wonder rose up from his jaded mind and soared from the bottom of the far-off rainbow, which curved down to kiss the silvery rock, to the hazy tips of the mountains.
It was another world from the one he knew. He was used to taming land. It was his profession. But the lands that attracted tourists were calm and tranquil places. There was no calmness here, it was savage in parts.
He was reminded of his childish pledge, at the age of twelve, that one day he would farm. The land he had grown up on was cruel, endless and dry, spirit-sapping. He and his father had not been good enough to save it. Somehow he had always wanted to put that right.
And his time was coming, he knew. Once Turtle Island was done and dusted, he would have the rest of his life to search for the perfect piece of land, the perfect wife and set about proving he could be a better farmer, husband and father than his own father had been.
The vista soared and roared. He turned to look at Lucy. The wind, stronger here at the edge, lifted her pale hair toward the weak sun. It sparkled and he could not help himself—he who maintained control in every situation, who never lost sight of his goals. He reached out and touched her hair and she turned to face him with a soft cry of surprise that was stolen by the fitful breeze.
It almost burned him, the look on her face of pride and ownership and fierce love for this land of hers. She was part of it. She was nature, but not in a robust way—more childlike. The blue haze of the mountains shone in her eyes. The silver of scree and rock were mirrored in her hair. She moved with the graceful sway of the trees. She would change with the seasons and the ebb of the atmosphere, and he admired that—wanted that—because he and his father had failed so abysmally.
Entranced, he moved toward her, wondering if she realized that he was going to kiss her. His fingers laced through her hair. His other hand pulled on the side of her open jacket, his eyes on hers, clearly signaling his intention.
She did not step back, although her arms seemed to clamp to her sides.
Oh yes, I am going to kiss you, Lucy McKinlay, right or wrong. It was a rare moment in Ethan’s life. He knew he’d spend a lifetime wondering if he did not go with the instinct driving him right now.
His mouth descended onto hers and the first touch of her slowed him down. There was no hurry. If he had to do this, he would do it properly.
With his tongue he traced the shape of her small mouth, lingering in the bow in the center of her top lip. Cool in the morning chill, and incredibly soft. He coaxed her lips apart and thought of nature—cold morning air, snow on your tongue, fresh-cut grass. The swirling sea-colors of her outfit last night as she moved around the bar, bending and straightening, smiling and chatting. That vision had kept him awake for most of the night, so restless that he was compelled to take an early-morning swim. And to knock himself out trying to impress her when he saw her at the door to the pool.
Lucy’s mouth kissed back, warming and accepting. Her tongue did not shy from his, her breath shuddered into his mouth. Her hair was as soft and fine as he had ever felt. His fingers threaded through it, discovering the shape of her skull, making her gasp when he massaged the base of it. He wanted more, but it wasn’t so much carnal or wanting to go farther, as it was just to continue. The taste of her, the feel of her skin, it all combined into a whole delicious addictive feast.
But her arms were rigid at her sides. It was that fact that pricked his comprehension, brought him back through the clouds. His hands moved to her shoulders and ran lightly down her arms, as if to thaw their stiffness. He leaned back slightly, a little breathless but wanting to see her response.
Her eyes remained closed. She captured her bottom lip with small white teeth and drew it into her mouth, inhaling. Then her eyes opened and slowly focused on him.
Heavy-lidded and fringed by light-brown lashes that seemed longer at the outer corners, there was real depth in those lovely blue eyes. Surprise. Embers of heat going up in a little shower of sparks. He’d thought her unresponsive. Afraid, even, when he’d felt the tension in her arms. She wasn’t. A strong tremor rolled through her slender body, still pressed up against his. She was holding back, but she was as affected as he was. Her hands fisted and she pulled them back behind her, as if that might stop the trembling.
Lucy McKinlay might be innocent. She might even be a common gold digger. But he had never wanted to claim and tame someone so much.
“I—we—we’ll be late for breakfast,” she whispered and pulled dazedly from his embrace, took a couple of unfirm steps back.
As if waking from a dream, he squinted at her, wondering what on earth had just possessed him.
“I must get back.” Distance had made her stronger, firmer.
She turned her back on him. He watched her walk to her horse, take some time inspecting the saddle, crooning to the animal. Her hat and gloves were next for a fastidious inspection before being tugged on—and all without looking at him once. Finally she mounted and nudged her horse with the slightest pressure of her legs and moved to Ethan’s mare, leaning down to collect the reins. “Are you coming down now?”
He took the reins she held out and nodded curtly, telling himself he was relieved she did not want to talk about what had just occurred. He needed time to sort it out in his head. Not given to uncontrollable urges, he had to wonder if the magic of the landscape had somehow drugged him.
Four
Ethan had scheduled a meeting with Magnus after lunch. On the way to the conference facility, he paused by the front door to look out onto the veranda. Juliette lounged on a hammock-chair that rocked gently as she moved her crossed ankles in a lazy circular motion. She read aloud from a glossy brochure or magazine. Lucy listened from the bench seat, her bare feet tucked up under her.
From twenty feet away, she looked like anyone else. You had to get close to appreciate the silky radiance of her skin, the warmth and sparkle of her eyes.
Correction. You had to g
et close enough to touch her on a hilltop with a magical view to get really carried away. He was still shaking his head over his impetuous actions that morning. Perhaps it was the contrast between her and the type of women he usually came into contact with.
Women like Juliette.
His eyes narrowed as he studied the new Mrs. Magnus Anderson. Growing up in Australia, he was used to tanned and toned athletic girls. As he got older and traveled all corners of the world, he was confronted with more tanned and toned women, but with a subtle difference. They got their tan and their tone from the beauty parlor and the personal trainer.
Sleek and bronzed. Stylishly dressed. Immaculately made-up and coiffed. The perfect companion. He stared hard at her. What was she hiding? And what were her intentions toward Magnus?
With a start, he realised that Lucy was looking right at him. He met her eyes and all thoughts of Juliette were whisked away.
He did not smile in greeting. So they had a secret to share, a bit of a kiss when they’d only just met. Good sense told him to step back. It wasn’t his style to deliberately hurt, confuse or treat women carelessly. With little time to socialize, he made sure his partners knew the score. No romance. No promise of anything more. The few women he dated were of similar disposition to him: ambitious, busy, on the way up with no time to spare.
There was something vulnerable about that doll-like mouth, something that both drew him to her and warned him off. She had not smiled and from where he stood, he could not read her expression. Then she nodded and turned back to Juliette.
Magnus was in an exuberant mood. Ethan tossed his briefcase on the table and poured himself a coffee, and for the next hour or so, they went through every detail of the successful completion of the Middle Eastern resort.
At the conclusion, Ethan stretched and stood to refill his cup. Magnus sorted the sheaf of papers in front of him and fussed in his top pocket for a cigar, which he clamped down on enthusiastically. It was in deference to his doctor, Ethan knew, that he only actually smoked one cigar a day, but he chomped through four or five others.