Snowy River Man

by Lizzy Chandler

  Snowy River Man

  Lizzy Chandler

  www.escapepublishing.com.au

  Snowy River Man

  Lizzy Chandler

  Their chance at love was lost in the harsh light of day. Is the romance of the majestic Snowy Mountains enough to heal the wounds of the past so that they get a second chance at a future?

  The last time Katrina Delaney saw Jack Fairley was the morning after a one-night stand, when she discovered he was engaged to be married. Seven years later, she dreams of a missing boy – Jack’s son. Katrina has worked with police to find missing children before, and she knows she must help. But seeing Jack again comes with its own set of dangers, and Katrina fears the risks she is taking with her heart.

  Jack Fairley’s standing in the community can’t keep his son from wandering off during a country rodeo. Frantic with worry, Jack is willing to do anything to find him, even put aside his scepticism and accept the help of a woman who sees his son in a dream. But when that woman turns out to be Katrina Delaney, he’s immediately suspicious. Neither Katrina nor Jack have any reason to trust each other, or the attraction that flares between them again. But trust they will have to, if they want any chance at love.

  About the Author

  Lizzy Chandler has written a number of novels in different genres, including romance, suspense and fantasy. Snowy River Man is the first of her novels to be published. Lizzy is passionate about social justice and mental health, and loves stories that convey the healing power of love. She shares her time between her home on Sydney’s northern beaches and living in the Blue Mountains with her partner. You can follow Lizzy on Twitter @lizzy_chandler, like her Facebook page www.facebook.com/lizzychandlerauthor and read her blog at www.lizzychandler.com .

  Acknowledgements

  For all the encouragement and support, the A-team Cathleen Ross, Kandy Shepherd and Keziah Hill; All of Us: Margaret Riseley, Lisa Chaplin, Deb Bennetto, Diane Gaston, Jacqui Stewart, Noeline Epis and Becky Wade; and Turramurra group members past and present, including Isolde Martyn, Christine Stinson, Jaye Ford, Simone Camilleri, Felicity Pulman and Anna Campbell. For always believing in me, Rodney, my mum and the rest of my huge extended family. For sharing the load so I could concentrate on my writing, everyone on the Australian Women Writers Challenge team.

  In memory of my father and nana,

  and their gift of dreaming

  Contents

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Bestselling Titles by Escape Publishing…

  Chapter 1

  ‘Daddy, wait!’

  Straddling the railing into the stockyard, Jack Fairley turned to see his tiny dark-haired son running towards him. Behind, in the bails, the wild horse snorted and stamped. Wooden tiers ringed the yard, filled with expectant friends and neighbours calling out, demanding the next event. The rider was already in the chute, preparing to be released into the arena. Soon it would be Jack’s turn, riding the silver brumby stallion.

  But first he had to attend to his son, Nick.

  Jack jumped down and landed on the hard-baked earth, a puff of dust rising from his boots, a breeze cooling the sweat on his neck. Behind him rose the rugged slopes of the Australian alpine country.

  ‘What is it, sunshine?’ he asked.

  Six-year-old Nick looked up at him with sad brown eyes. With his Akubra hat, his checked shirt, denims and riding boots, he looked every inch the little Aussie cowboy.

  ‘Grandma says if the brumby falls and goes lame, you’ll have to shoot it.’ His lower lip trembled. ‘You wouldn’t do that, would you, Daddy?’

  Jack glanced to where his mother-in-law was seated in a wicker chair at the base of the wooden grandstand. Only a Harrington would bring her own seating to the local showground. And only Gwen Harrington would speak like that to a child.

  ‘You don’t have to worry, Nick,’ he said.

  ‘But you’d never shoot a brumby, would you?’ Nick asked, his brown eyes still clouded with uncertainty.

  Jack flicked away a bush fly from beneath the rim of his Akubra. ‘If a horse gets badly injured, sometimes shooting’s the kindest way. But this horse is young and healthy. He won’t get hurt.’

  Nick didn’t look convinced.

  ‘Here.’ He hoisted his son high onto the railing and smiled. ‘Hold on tight and watch. It’s my turn soon and I have to get ready. Everything will be fine, you’ll see.’ He’d speak to his mother-in-law later.

  Jack climbed the fence and waited, shutting everything out, the noise of the spectators, the glaring sun. The wild horse nudged up hard against the sides of the chute, the whites of its eyes showing. He took a deep breath. A horse whisperer he wasn’t. But he knew how to stay on a brumby. Even a silver brumby whose wildness ran in his veins like the ice-thaw streams, like the unpredictable weather that swirled over the granite hills.

  When Jack’s turn came, he jumped onto the horse’s bare back, grabbed the rope that reined the horse and held his right arm out to balance. The handler gave the signal. The chute opened and the brumby bolted. The crowd’s roar filled his ears. He counted, one second, two, three…

  Beneath him, the stallion bucked, pranced, kicked up dust, did everything to throw its rider. Straining every muscle, Jack stayed on. Seven seconds, eight…

  The brumby tilted head down, haunches up, trying to tip him forward. Wild cheers erupted from the crowd. The brumby spun, careening toward the fence.

  They were going to crash.

  Jack yanked his leg up as the stallion slammed its rump into the wooden railing with a jarring thud. Leaping off, he was on the ground and running, his chest heaving, his heart pumping. The crowd cheered, clapped and whistled as he hurdled the fence. Men circled him, slapped him on the back with shouts of ‘Good on you, mate!’

  He’d done it!

  Covered in dust, his body still primed, Jack surveyed the sea of faces. But the one tiny face he was looking for wasn’t there.

  Nick had disappeared.

  * * *

  It was happening again.

  Katrina Delaney sat up, struggling for breath, her heart racing, her face damp with sweat. Sickening impressions swamped her brain. A child, trapped somewhere. Dim light, shadowy heights stretching above, air so thick with dust she — he — could hardly breathe.

  Pressing a hand to her forehead, she struggled to capture the dream. Already the details were fading. Her limbs ached, as if she had slept the night scrunched up in a foetal position. Falling back against her pillow, she willed her body to relax. She hated the visions, hated the reminder of how crazy they’d made her feel in the past. More than anything, she hated losing control.

  She switched on the radio. Listening to the murmur of the newsreader, she drifted. Outside the window, rigging from yacht masts jangled in the bay. She could hear the deep throb of a ferry crossing Sydney harbour to nearby Neutral Bay wharf.

  ‘To rural news now,’ the announcer intoned. ‘An all-out search effort by police and volunteer emergency services overnight has failed to turn up any sign of a six-year-old boy who went missing from a Snowy Mountains rodeo yesterday. The boy, son of prominent local grazier and horseman Jack Fairley, was last seen at a showground outside Adaminaby…’

  Katrina bolted upright.

  Jack Fairley? Had she heard right?

  She turned up the vo
lume, fearing, hoping to hear more, but the announcer had moved on to other news. Her mind spun. Jack. And the missing child…Nick. Nicholas Fairley. The name came to her as clearly as if a voice had spoken inside her head. A dark-haired boy with sad brown eyes. But the announcer hadn’t mentioned the boy’s name, had he?

  Anxiety exploded inside her. Now she knew the reason for her nightmare. Somehow, after all this time, the connection with Jack Fairley was still there. Strong enough for her to feel his distress from hundreds of miles away. His son was missing, and that meant only one thing.

  She would have to help Jack to find him.

  * * *

  Jack rolled over on the hard earth and blinked awake in the early-morning light. His eyes were gritty with exhaustion, his neck stiff from leaning against the saddle. His jeans and t-shirt were caked with sweat and dust, dampened by the cool mountain air.

  He sat up, cursing himself for having fallen asleep.

  Nick! He was still out there. The head of the rescue team would have radioed if they’d discovered anything. Jumping to his feet he looked to where he’d tethered the horse in the dark. Yesterday’s nightmare replayed in his mind as he saddled up.

  With the moon up, and long after the other searchers had stopped to camp for the night, he’d scoured the bushland gullies that surrounded the showground in ever-widening circles, moving between the river, the lake and Yarrangobilla station. Nick had to be there. He couldn’t have gone far. Not in such a short time. The pity was, parts of the terrain were so steep, the ground so rough, his son could’ve fallen into a gully and be too injured to move or call out. He prayed Nick hadn’t gone near the lake. Not when he couldn’t swim.

  Jack shut out the thought. He couldn’t bear even to consider the possibility he might lose his son.

  The radio clipped to his belt crackled to life.

  ‘Jack? Are you there, mate?’ It was Wayne, his cousin-by-marriage who had stayed back at Yarrangobilla station to support the volunteer emergency services teams.

  ‘Wayne,’ he croaked into the handset. ‘Tell me you’ve found him.’

  ‘No such luck.’ His cousin’s voice was taut with sympathy. ‘But there is one thing. A woman from Sydney phoned. Some psychic. She’s insisting on flying down to help with the search. She’s helped police before, apparently.’

  A psychic? Had it come to that?

  ‘Whatever it takes, Wayne. You deal with it,’ he said. ‘But keep it on the quiet, eh? The last thing we need is a media circus distracting the search.’

  He didn’t believe in psychics. Far from it — he was a sceptic through and through. But right now he wasn’t going to turn away anyone from the search. They needed all the volunteers they could get.

  ‘The press are already here,’ Wayne said, his voice sounding over the hiss and crackle of the radio. ‘National news teams have come over from Cooma where they’ve been covering a charity marathon event. Some big celebrity entrants, apparently. They have satellite coverage, the lot. When this woman arrives, they’ll be all over her.’

  Jack closed his eyes, feeling a dull throb at his temples. ‘Just do your best.’

  ‘Hang in there, mate,’ his cousin grunted. ‘We’ll find him.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He dropped the radio, pain kicking him in the guts. They had to find him. Whatever it took. Nick was the one good thing in his life since Ann-Marie died, the miracle to come out of all the trauma.

  A shadow crossed the clearing where the mist was lifting. His horse whinnied and stamped its hoof. Jack looked up. A cloud of huge brown-winged bogong moths fluttered overhead, as if they were trying to tell him something.

  He didn’t believe in all the New Age crap people went on with. Most psychics were just out for a buck in his view. But what if he was wrong? What if the woman could help?

  He reached for the radio to tell Wayne he’d changed his mind. It wasn’t as if he had a better plan. He’d already looked in all the obvious places. Now it was light again, the search teams would be out in force. If there was any chance at all this woman could help find his son, he’d accept the help. He was desperate.

  * * *

  Having survived the rough landing on the local airfield, still numb from the vibrations of the tiny plane, Katrina collected her hire car and braced herself for the prospect of meeting Jack Fairley on his own ground. On one side of the airfield were the flat Monaro plains, on the other, high country rising to the distant alps.

  She headed past the airfield towards the local showground. A kilometre or so past that, she came to a pair of tall gates with a sign saying ‘Yarrangobilla Station’ arching over them. Up a long drive, surrounded by a sun-brown home paddock and mature oaks and gum trees, sat a two-storey mansion surrounded by gardens. Scouring the hillsides on either side were the men and women of the emergency services crew, bright in orange overalls. Beyond dozens of haphazardly parked vehicles stood a media van, topped by a slow-turning satellite dish, ready to relay the latest news.

  Her heart sank. The boy must still be missing.

  Having manoeuvred the hire car onto a dirt shoulder, she stepped out, nervousness knotting her stomach. She hadn’t seen Jack Fairley since the Bachelor and Spinster’s Ball in Sydney seven years ago. She doubted he — or his wife — would welcome her turning up now. But a child’s life was at stake. She’d had to come. She ventured up the wide circular stone stairs and lifted the brass knocker on the double-fronted door.

  She waited, taking in the hot scented air of dust and eucalypt.

  No answer.

  Hearing voices from deep within the old house, she stepped into the cool entrance. A wide hallway stretched to the rear, a grand staircase rising on one side.

  ‘What the —?’ A red-haired, freckled stranger hobbled toward her, one leg obviously shorter than the other and the muscles wasted away. His eyes widened, as if doing a double-take. Then he shook his head. ‘Sorry. For a moment I thought I saw a ghost.’ He eyed her speculatively. ‘You’re not another journalist, are you?’

  ‘I’m Katrina Delaney.’ She smiled uncertainly. ‘I rang earlier.’

  ‘Oh, right. The psychic.’ He reached out to shake her hand. ‘Wayne Harrington, Jack Fairley’s cousin. He asked me to look after you till he gets here. To be frank, Jack’s no fan of psychics. Thinks it’s a load of crap. But I’m happy to try anything if it means we find Nick.’

  She breathed in relief. At least she didn’t have to deal with Jack straightaway. Or his scepticism.

  ‘So what’s the deal?’ Wayne ran his fingers through his hair, making it stand on end. ‘You need to see something that belongs to Nick, right? To get a feel for him?’

  It was a pretty good guess. It wasn’t how things worked for her — her gift was a lot less predictable — but it was a place to start.

  ‘It might help.’

  He swung round as a smartly dressed, blonde girl stepped into the corridor behind them.

  ‘Sandy, this is Katrina Delaney, the psychic. Show her up to Nick’s room, will you?’ He turned and winked at Katrina. ‘Sandra is Jack’s personal assistant. She’ll look after you.’

  Sandra looked at Katrina appraisingly. The girl’s own summer jacket and skirt wouldn’t have been out of place in a chic city office. By comparison, Katrina felt self-conscious in her simple linen shift and sandals.

  ‘His room’s upstairs,’ Sandra said, with a lift of her chin.

  Jack’s son’s room, Katrina discovered, occupied one entire end of the house on the second floor. It was stacked with everything a young boy might wish for: computer, TV, DVD player, iPad, Game boy, sports gear and a racing-car track. But it wasn’t just the gadgets that impressed her. The child was obviously a keen collector. One end of the room was cluttered with skulls and bones, teeth, a wombat claw, plants, rocks, and bits of rusty barbed wire twisted into fantastical shapes.

  The place was like a mini museum of natural history, the impressions overwhelming.

  Self-doubt hit her. What was she thinking? She
’d never been able to summon her visions at will. They usually came to her in dreams, or moments of reflection at odd, unpredictable intervals. What made her think she could summon another one up now?

  A framed photograph on the bookshelf caught her eye. A dark-haired woman nursing a baby. Picking up the picture, she suddenly saw why Wayne had done a double-take. It was like looking in the mirror. The woman in the photo could have been her sister, only she was taller, thinner and paler.

  ‘That’s Ann-Marie,’ Sandra began, ‘Jack’s wife who —’

  ‘Katrina?’

  The husky male voice spun her round.

  Jack Fairley, in dusty jeans and short-sleeved checked shirt, strode into the room. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a sun-bronzed complexion and tousled sandy blonde hair, he looked older, and a lifetime more experienced, than when she had seen him last.

  ‘It is you!’

  She swallowed, her heartbeat accelerating. Desire spread tendrils throughout her body. After all that had happened, just one look at him was enough to turn her on. She shouldn’t have come.

  ‘Hello, Jack,’ she said.

  This man had been her lover. Once. One crazy hot summer’s night as a teenager, when she’d made the biggest mistake in her life. She’d slept with a man she barely knew. The memory flooded back in all its vivid, sensual detail.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ He clenched his hands into fists at his sides, antagonism pulsing from him in waves.

  It was like a flicked switch, dispelling the attraction.

  ‘Ms Delaney’s a psychic, Jack,’ his assistant put in. ‘Wayne thought she might —’

  ‘Thanks, Sandra. Wayne told me. I’d like a word in private. Close the door on your way out.’

  Eyebrows raised, Sandra backed out of the room and clicked the door shut.

  Once they were alone, Katrina took in the sight of him. Lean, powerful legs and arms. Strong cheekbones, green eyes, jaw shadowed with stubble. Her heartbeat thudded. Whatever she had expected from seeing him again after seven years, that moment of instant powerful attraction hadn’t been it.