An Outback Affair/Runaway Wife/Outback Bridegroom/Outback Surrender/Home To Eden (50 page)

“And what was in it? Was it worthwhile?” Shelley felt her friend's buzz right down to her toes.

“Gold is gold, honey,” Christine said in a bright, teasing voice. “Gold and jewels. Mitch said it was quite an extraordinary feeling. He and Kyall started to whoop and jump around like a couple of kids. I can't tell you what a kick we all got out of it. Sarah and Kyall, Mitch and I. Not to
mention his parents. The great mystery has been solved and all because of you.”

“This is really, really exciting,” Shelley said, colour flaring in her cheeks. “I'm so pleased for you all. The story of the legendary cache was right after all.”

“And we're so grateful to you!” Christine leaned over to squeeze Shelley's hand. “But that's not the end of it. We're all determined you're to have your reward. A nice little nest egg like you thoroughly deserve. Everyone wants to speak to you, but as the first one to see you I've got in first.”

For a moment Shelley could scarcely control her breathing. “Christine—” embarrassed, she began to play with her spoon “—that's very kind, but you don't owe me any reward.”

“Hey, kiddo, you're going to get it. Fair's fair. Mitch is going to confirm it. The treasure would never have been discovered without you and it's very valuable.”

“All I did was point out something to Mitch. You're my friends.”

“And we love you,” replied Christine, clearly meaning it. “We owe you as well. I'll let Mitch explain it. We want you to visit Marjimba soon. Stay a few days. Mitch will collect you. You only have to say when it suits.”

“I'd love to come, Christine,” Shelley exclaimed. “In fact I'm really touched. I can't believe I've run into you today of all days. I badly need someone to talk to. Someone I trust.”

“Then fire away.” Concern clouded Christine's face. “Is it about your family situation?”

Shelley swallowed. “You know Rex Kingsley died?”

“Sure. It's all around the town. Say, Brock doesn't come into this, does he?” Christine made a shrewd guess. “I heard he's back. He always was quite a guy!”

Shelley felt herself flush.

“So, Shelley, what's been going on?” Christine asked, fixing the younger woman with a kindly, experienced eye.

Shelley told her.

“Surely Rex Kingsley didn't tell Brock one thing then do another?” Christine said finally. “That's particularly cruel, even for him.” She gazed out of the window, thinking hard. “Brock has a strong case if he goes to litigation. It seems harsh to say this, but I can't see Philip cutting it as a cattle baron. And that's awful, your family putting pressure on you to marry him. Can't Philip take no for an answer?”

“Wishing makes it true.” Shelley shrugged.

“What about Brock?”

Shelley let out a long sigh. “I couldn't help falling in love with him, Chris.”

“If he's the guy I remember…” Christine grinned. “You've got it bad, haven't you?”

“Maybe I'm being incredibly naïve?” Shelley looked over at her friend. “Maybe I'm setting myself up for a lot of pain? Brock's told me he has to put his life in order. That he can't make plans.”

“You don't think he's using you? Brock was a regular ladykiller, as I recall.”

Shelley shook her head. “No, I don't think that. Brock is tough, but he doesn't have a callous hand. He's actually very sensitive. I think he's a little in love with me as well, but I don't want him to feel trapped. He's very bitter and angry about his grandfather and the way he and his mother were treated.”

“He has every right to be,” Christine said flatly. “Rex Kingsley was a tyrant. Not that my family missed out on tyrants. My own grandmother tried to control everyone and run their lives, remember? Too much money and too much power can be a very bad thing. Gran and old Kingsley were two of a kind, yet they loathed each other They must have recognised their own worst traits in each other! Brock had a very bad time growing up. It must have left a lot of scars.”

“It has.” Shelley answered, sadness in her voice.

Christine put out a hand to cover Shelley's with her own.
“But you're a girl with the healing touch. I think of you that way. You're brave and resourceful, not to mention lovely and capable. What more could the man want? Is he coming back to stay?”

Shelley shrugged. “Who knows. I don't think I could bear it if he went away. I imagine it all depends on the final outcome of this will.”

“Would you go away with him if he asked you?” Christine gave her friend a gentle look.

“To the ends of the earth,” Shelley said simply. “There is nothing for me on Wybourne. The only way I can redeem myself with my parents is to marry Philip Kingsley and I can't do that. Even if there were no Brock, I couldn't do it.”

“So what are you going to do?” Christine stared at her. “You can always come to us while you think things through. It must be awful at home.”

“It's not the best place to be.”

“Well, my offer stands. As I said, Mitch is insistent that you visit. You can come with me now if you like. We really care about you, Shelley,” Christine said with affection. “And there's tons of room.”

Shelley bit her lip. “I really appreciate the offer, Christine. Let me think about it.”

“Sure.” Christine smiled with compassion and understanding. “You've put up with a lot. Who knows? It might work out with Brock.”

“Reckon I'm woman enough for him?” Although Shelley laughed there was naked vulnerability in her eyes.

“I'd say you're just the sort of woman he's been searching for,” Christine said supportively. “So act totally cool.”

“Not easy when one's in love and uncertain of the outcome.”

“You think I don't know that?” Christine smiled wryly. “All I can tell you is if you truly love him go after your dream.”

“Even when circumstances are loaded against me?”

“Am I correct in believing you're a fighter, Shelley?” Christine looked encouragingly into the younger woman's lustrous green eyes.

“I hope so.”

Christine smiled. “Then that's part of the job. Convincing Brock he needs you.”

 

“Eula's in town,” Mick Donovan informed her when she came down the next morning for breakfast. “Thought you might want to know, seeing you're friendly. You might be able to get a word out of her. I can't. She's very close-lipped about her employers is Eula. But she ordered up big at the store. Annie told me not a minute ago. It's hard to believe the larder is empty. Either that or they're going to give a big party now the old boy's gone.”

“Maybe the wake?” Shelley suggested.

It was mid-morning before she actually saw Eula Martin, Mulgaree's housekeeper, grey head burrowed down, coming out of Imprint, the small, well-patronised store that sold materials and patterns.

“Eula!” she called, and watched the woman look up, her kind, jovial face breaking into a wide grin.

“Shelley, love. Don't you get around, now?”

“You don't exactly stay put yourself.” Shelley went to her quickly, taking over some of the housekeeper's large number of parcels.

“Mrs Kingsley sent me in just when I was keeping an eye on things,” Eula confided, lowering her voice. “Seems to me she doesn't want me around the place.”

“So who dropped you?” Shelley asked.

“One of the men. It's a hell of a trip. I tell you, Shelley, I just can't understand Mr Kingsley doing what he done. Even given he was a wicked old devil, God rest his soul. Her ladyship couldn't wait to rid herself of me presence. I don't like the chances of holding onto me job now she's in charge.”

“Let's go and have a cup of tea,” Shelley suggested.

“Exactly what I wanted m'self,” Eula said, then dropped her bombshell. “I shoulda told Brock before this, but I took a copy of that will.”

Shelley stopped dead in her tracks. “Wh-a-a-t?” She caught Eula's arm. “Which one?”

“'Struth, love!” Eula looked at her in astonishment. “The one I signed only the other day. I expected Mr Kingsley to change everything but the cruel old tyrant didn't. Don't like his chances of gettin' through the Pearly Gates.”

Shelley scarcely heard her. “Did I understand you to say, Eula, you took a copy of the will you witnessed?”

Although Eula's plump cheeks reddened, her voice was unashamed. “I don't feel guilty and I don't feel I done nothing wrong. Mr Maitland asked me to find a manila envelope for the will—scrawled it, if you ask me, terrible handwriting—and took off down the hallway to speak to her ladyship, who seemed real upset. Hello, I said to m'self. Something's come as a shock. I acted fast. I've got ESP, I reckon. I took off for the study and ran a copy of the will on the fax machine.”

“And you weren't caught?” Shelley stared at her, her mind a riot of jumbled hopes.

“No.” Eula shook her soft grey head. “They were too busy talking. Thick as thieves, those two. Don't like 'em. He's a real fox behind those white teeth. And she's plain awful. They weren't worried about me. I'm a good cook and a good housekeeper, otherwise I'm a halfwit—in case you haven't discovered yet.”

“Listen, Eula, you're as sharp as a tack.”

“No, I'm not, love. I have to remind m'self of things all the time. I'm goin' to have a long talk to Dr Sarah about it. You know what they call it?”

“It won't hurt to talk to Sarah,” Shelley said, “but I'm sure there's nothing wrong with you, Eula. It's common to become forgetful as we get older.”

“Older? You cute little thing. How old are you now?
Twenty-one? What is it they call that memory disease again?”

“Do you mean Alzheimer's Disease, Eula?” Shelley asked in concern. “From what I know of you, you're in the clear. People do gradually lose the excellent memory they had in their youth, but it's not abnormal. Just part of ageing.”

“I hope so, love. I don't want to finish up senile.”

“Did you read the will, Eula?” Shelley asked, starting to move towards the same café she and Christine had visited the day before.

“Dear girl, would I do such a thing?” Eula made a business of rolling her eyes.

“Did you?” Shelley knew better.

“Never had enough time, love,” Eula confessed. “Plus the fact I didn't have m'glasses. I'm blind as a bat without 'em.”

“Did Mr Kingsley sign the will in your presence?”

“'Course he did,” Eula said grimly, looking Shelley right in the eye. “Wasn't he supposed to? I couldn't witness nuthin'. I'm not a rocket scientist but I'm fairly bright.”

For a few stunned moments Shelley was silenced. “And where's the copy now? Surely you've read it in the meantime? What does it say about Philip inheriting the lot? About Brock missing out?”

“When he was countin' on being reinstated? Wouldn't you? I'm gonna tell you something, love, and I don't want you to tell anyone else. Not for the minute. It'll come to me. I don't know where I hid it. See—that's what I'm talkin' about. I'm always doin' this to m'self. I hide things I don't want found and then I can't remember where I put 'em. I still can't find the only good thing I own. Ma's gold brooch. It's got little diamonds on it. It'll turn up, I suppose. It's in the house somewhere.”

“But the house is huge, Eula.” Shelley felt dismay. “There must be a trillion places to hide things. Was it the study? Did you shove it into a book?”

“Gracious, no. That's too close for comfort. It could be discovered. Don't worry, love. It'll come to me. Always does, eventually.” Eula looked troubled. “I tried to retrace me footsteps but I was dodging those two. Thought I shoved it in a Chinese vase but I didn't. That shook me. Sometimes I can remember things I did fifty years ago better than what happened the other day.”

“Don't put pressure on yourself,” Shelley advised. “Keep calm, go about your business, and it will slip into your mind.” God, I hope so, Shelley thought. “It's gone nowhere, as you say. It's in the house. So is your mother's brooch. Let's have that tea—and would you like something else? My shout. Now, it's absolutely vital you talk to Brock….”

P
HILIP
came home from Wybourne looking more relaxed and confident than Brock had ever seen him, even though arrangements were underway for their grandfather's funeral. Mercifully it wasn't going to be a huge ritual, like that of the McQueen matriarch. That event had involved the entire town of Koomera Crossing, with mourners coming from all over the vast far-flung South West. Rex Kingsley's funeral service was to be short and sweet. Just family. Employees apparently didn't count. That meant no tear-stained faces. No flowers. No eulogies. No mourners to read poems or sing songs the great man had loved.

Rex Kingsley was to be put to rest in the quite ghastly mausoleum he had erected for his son Aaron, Philip's father, despite Rex's stated wishes to be buried in Mulgaree's private cemetery, over a mile from the main compound and not within its grounds.

Aaron Kingsley's grandiose tomb, to Brock's mind, resembled something out of a vampire movie.

It was Philip, his grandfather's heir, who had decreed father should lie with son. And that was that. No one had been anywhere near the mausoleum since Aaron had been laid to rest there. Frances, Aaron's widow, never visited. Neither did Philip and, having made his grand gesture, neither had Rex Kingsley.

The whole depressing area, unnaturally cold within its dense grove of trees, though well maintained was off limits for everybody except the groundsmen who had the misfortune to work there. Station staff avoided it like the plague, especially the aboriginal stockmen, who claimed they heard voices coming from within.

“So what are you smirking about?” Brock asked, very much on edge.

“I think I can persuade Shelley to marry me, given a little time,” Philip told him with a ring of triumph. “I have her parents on-side. Amanda is pretty happy about it as well, the mercenary little bitch.”

Brock's expression turned steely. “You're dreaming.”

“Dreams do come true. Shelley will come around,” Philip said with surprising confidence, already a different man now he was out from beneath his grandfather's shadow. “She's no fool. She knows I have much to offer her. This is a turning point in both our lives. Besides, she's more than half in love with me already.”

Brock stared hard at his cousin. “Believe that and you'll believe anything. I'm starting to feel sorry for you, Phil. This big love affair is in your own mind.”

“How would you know?” Philip countered with some aggression. “You've been gone for years while Shelley and I have grown close.”

“Her family have been piling more and more pressure on her to do so. Don't you find that disgusting?”

Philip smiled as though it were funny. “I do, actually, but if it helps me I don't care. I want Shelley more than I've ever wanted anything in my life.”

“Wouldn't your mother be terribly angry?” Brock mocked.

“Oh, for Pity's sake!” Philip raised his head to glare. “Mother won't have a say. I'm thinking of asking Shelley to attend Grandfather's service. It's early days, but she should stand by me.”

With great difficulty Brock held down his temper. “You know, Phil, there's something odd about you. You're delusional. You have difficulty living with reality. You've got everything mapped out in your head. You're going to marry Shelley Logan, bring her to Mulgaree. There's only one hitch. Shelley's not going to do it. She doesn't love you, fella. Face it!”

“She will.” Philip gave him a defiant smile. “She's a stubborn little thing—that's the red hair—she likes to keep a man guessing. But I know in my heart she really cares about me.”

“I can't imagine why.”

“She's admitted it,” Philip insisted. “I know this is hard for you, Brock, seeing me get everything I want. But I want to help you.”

“How, exactly?” Brock's voice was toneless.

“We-e-ll,” Philip considered. “I'm not suggesting a partnership, but I can use you, Brock. You have skills I don't. Once Grandfather is laid to rest we can get down to discussion and reach some agreement. You've been treated unfairly. It will be in my power to make it up to you.”

Lightning flashed in Brock's silver eyes. “You don't really think I'm accepting this will?”

Philip smiled. “Not even you, Brock, would relish going to court over it. Grandfather was gravely ill. He certainly wasn't senile, but he was heavily drugged most of the time. It takes big money to hire lawyers, Brock. You don't have that kind of money. Besides, even you couldn't want all the family skeletons dragged out of the cupboard. Our family business made public. That would be dreadful. With time and good intentions there's a way out of this. You'd be doing us all a big favour if you'd accept Grandfather's wishes with good grace.”

“Sorry, Phil. No can do. And I'm not in need of your advice. Grandfather told me very plainly I was to take over the reins. He wasn't happy with you, for obvious reasons. You're not cut out for it, Phil. I'm not so much concerned with having his wishes carried out as getting my due. And, while we're on the subject, tell me—why pick on that awful mausoleum for his final resting place? Our grandfather specifically stated the private cemetery. You're not obeying his wishes. Surely that's your duty?”

Philip's expression was open and sincere. “I've thought
and thought about it, Brock. I'm sorry you don't like the idea, but it's where he should be. With his son—my father.”

“Not with his wife?” Brock countered. “Our grandmother? She's in the cemetery.”

“While Aunt Catherine lies buried in Ireland.” Bitterness mixed with shame got the better of Philip. “Grandfather never forgave you for that.”

Brock's heartbeat stumbled. It was probably true. “He told you, did he?”

“Why not? We spoke a lot about it,” Philip lied. “The mausoleum is where Grandfather belongs. A family like ours needs a centre.”

“What rubbish!” Brock shuddered visibly. He threw up his hands in disgust. “A family like ours needs light and fresh air let in.”

“Exactly!” Philip exclaimed in triumph. “That's why I'm marrying Shelley Logan.”

 

Brock finally found Shelley at Harriet Crompton's restaurant. It was closed until that evening, but through the window he could see Shelley and Harriet seated at a table, poring over a portfolio of what appeared to be Shelley's drawings.

At his first tap both women looked up, faces signalling surprise and pleasure. Harriet came to unlock the door.

“What brings you to town, Brock?” she asked, taking in his mood at a glance. His startling eyes were lustrous but she could see a storm was brewing. When he spoke, however, his voice gave nothing away.

“Better here than Mulgaree, Harriet.” He bent to kiss her cheek, a gesture that seemed as natural to him as breathing. Brock Tyson had quite a way with all women. “I wanted to have a word with Shelley.”

Shelley too saw the disturbance in him. “Is everything all right, Brock?” Shelley asked, her thankfulness at seeing him turning rapidly to anxiety.

“Perfect as soon as I can find a decent place to live,” he
drawled. “Are they your drawings, Shel? I'd love to see them.”

“Look at them now,” Harriet invited. “Shelley is a very talented young woman. She was better than me even as a child, when I was supposed to be teaching her.”

Brock pulled a chair from another table, sat down. All of the drawings were on the large sheets of white paper commonly used in transparent technique, and Shelley had brushed washes of colour onto the pen drawings.

He turned over the sheets in silence, thinking he had stepped into a desert garden after rain. He knew all these wildflowers. He knew the glorious birds. The birds were static but somehow she had given them life. He could see their brilliant wheeling, almost feel the wind beneath their wings. Others were poised on branches. Even the branches, the odd leaf or blossom used as a counterpoint, were extraordinarily lifelike. As for the flowers! They were absolutely precious. These weren't just pretty drawings but realistic, drawn with botanical precision. Delicate calabras from the ipomoea family, the exquisite cleomes, wild hibiscus, fan flowers, poppies, paper daisies—the water lilies were superb. He could almost smell their fragrance.

“I'd really like time to study these.” He stared at her. She was hypnotic. “They're marvellous. You're not only an artist, but a naturalist. They would look splendid framed, maybe a green frame, touch of gold. There's a whole collection of John Gould's Australian birds at Mulgaree. He visited somewhere around 1840, I think. Someone in the family bought them. Have you ever seen them?”

She shook her Titian head, unable to mask her pleasure at his reaction. “No, but I'd love to. Gould produced books on birds from all over the world.”

“You mean to say Philip, who seems to think you're about to marry him, hasn't ever shown you?” he asked caustically. “That's quite extraordinary, given your talent and interest in such things.”

“Philip, who is
not
about to marry me, Brock, isn't ter
ribly interested in my lifelong hobby. As far as he's concerned they're just pretty drawings—the sort of thing women like to do.”

“Then we can consider him a philistine. She's very good,” Brock said, speaking directly to Harriet as if Shelley weren't there. “Look at the wonderful detailing on this bell-flower. What are we going to do about it?”

“A showing would do nicely,” Harriet said, greatly approving of his interest and enthusiasm “That's the first step.”

Shelley surprised them both by saying, “Who knows where I'll be?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Brock shifted abruptly in his chair. He was still uneasy after his conversation with his cousin. Certainly Shelley had exhibited quite a sympathy for Philip. Was it possible she could be talked into marriage? Could she be forced, if only by the strength of her love and loyalty for her family? Very strange things happened in life.

“It doesn't matter at the moment,” Shelley said dismissively. “But it seems like a miracle you've come looking for me, Brock. I was desperate to get in contact with you. I rang Mulgaree, but as bad luck would have it I got Philip's mother. She said you weren't there and hung up.”

“Charming!” Harriet commented. “Why don't you two go off and have a cup of coffee? I'd make it for you, but I have lots of things to do for tonight and I can see you both want to be private.”

Brock stood up abruptly, tall, lean, wonderfully compelling, his hands jammed in the pockets of his jeans. “Thanks, Harriet. Any chance of finding a quiet table for me tonight? I'm staying in town.”

“So is Shelley, as it happens!” Harriet announced artlessly. “Table for two?” Harriet closed her hand around Shelley's portfolio as though she wouldn't let it get away from her.

“All right, Brock?” Shelley looked up at him as if for permission, aware he was full of tensions.

“Of course it's all right,” he clipped off. “Seven-thirty?”

“Leave it to me.”

 

They headed out together. The main street was alive with people, the air a buzz of sound. It was Wednesday, market day, and the street stalls selling all sorts of produce, fruit, flowers, plants, vegetables, preserves and all manner of arts and crafts, were set up on the pavements, flowing onto the main street itself, which had been blocked off to traffic.

“Let's grab a sandwich or something and go for a drive,” Brock said restlessly. “Obviously we've got a fair bit to talk about. What would you like?”

“Anything. Ham, chicken—I don't mind. How did you get here?”

“I drove like hell.” He brushed hair like black satin in the sun off his forehead. “I wasn't about to beg for the chopper. Phil has grown inches since we all heard the good news. He's assumed the role of Master of Mulgaree.”

“Well, I've got news for you,” Shelley burst out, staring up at him excitedly.

He scarcely heard her. His arm shot out just in time to encircle her and draw her back to safety from a kid on a bike with no business on the pavement.

“Is it good?” His gaze slashed over her, questioning what she was saying.

“It's not about me and Philip, if that's what you mean. Why are you reacting so angrily?”

“Because the bloody fool is very serious about you.”

“How could you possibly believe for a minute I might feel like that too?” Her own temper caught fire while, perversely, her great passion for him grew.

“Hey, don't let's have an argument on the pavement. Wait here and I'll go and get something for us to eat. We can fight like cat and dog after that.”

 

It took twenty minutes of driving to find a cool secluded spot next to a lagoon that had been reduced by the heat and the drought to a string of pools surrounded by wide sand and clay beaches. In the Wet the lagoon was home to thousands of nomadic water birds, but now the waters lay still, the central pool deep and dark green in the middle, fed by a subterranean spring. There were tracks of emus and kangaroos on the sand, as well as the webbed feet of birds, but they were off taking a snooze in the heat. On the opposite bank was a high rockface worn smooth by the waterfalls that cascaded down it with the rains. It was dry now, and striated with ochres.

Both of them were quiet, trying to keep their raging emotions bottled up. But confusions allied to sexual energy were humming all around them.

Brock stopped the dusty vehicle beneath the welcome shade of a magnificent gum, opening his door and taking a long swig of his drink. “I've got a rug. We can set up over there.” He indicated a cool shady spot stretching back from the sand to the trees.

“Fine.”

“So tell me,” he said, when they were seated on the rug, the neatly packed sandwiches opened up.