by Margaret Way
It should have connected but at the last minute he rapidly sidestepped. Immediately she spun, abandoning the idea of another snap kick he might have been expecting for a good old-fashioned sock at his jaw. Bewdy! She heard with satisfaction his grunt as his neck snapped back.
Next things, in under a couple of seconds she was flat on her back, gasping for breath, with her assailant standing over her. She reacted swiftly, rolling away across the carpet runner. One strike each.
“You’re not going to hurt me, you bastard!” She was out of a crouch, back on her feet, fully in control of her body, her mind locked into self-defence. There was no place for panic. She wasn’t going down without a fight.
Trust no man. Your life could depend upon it.
He was taller than she was. Maybe by three or four inches. Rugged and rangy. He was young, too, under thirty. Good tanned skin lay taut over carved bones, thick golden-brown hair, sun-streaked blond. For a space of a breath she thought, gold eyes. Who had gold eyes? She couldn’t feel a rapist’s aura. Instead he was saying tersely, “Get a grip, girl. I’m not going to hurt you.” His expression was startled.
It took a few moments for what he was saying to sink through her consciousness.
“Who are you?” she demanded, maintaining her aggressive stance. At the same time she manoeuvred herself to the back door so she could let Rusty in.
“God!” he exhaled softly. “I had no idea you were a woman.” His voice abruptly hardened. “So what do you mean, who am I? I’m asking the questions around here. Who are you? What are you doing here and what do you want? Look, it’s okay.” He held up his hands. “How long have you been a karate cum prize fighter?”
“As long as guys like you are around!” Her face was still alight with anger, her sapphire eyes blazing. “Maybe I shouldn’t be in here, but I knocked. The door gave. I thought it would be all right if I filled my water container. It’s in the kitchen. What did you think I was going to do? Pinch your lousy possessions?”
“Could be,” he returned, a faint smile on his generous mouth.
“I’m going to let Rusty in,” she said, like Rusty was a trained killer. She flattened herself against the back door then opened it. This guy was tough. Very tough. She saw that now. There wouldn’t be a woman alive who could match his physical strength. Seconds later Rusty was inside the house, exhausted from having run back and forth finding the door locked against him.
“Sit, boy,” her assailant gave the clipped order.
Rusty sat.
Of course! It had to be his dog, though she doubted very much he could get the cattle dog to turn on her.
“Your name please?” he asked, suddenly as formal as a policeman.
“Casey McGuire.”
“No doubt of the mad McGuire clan?” He examined her from head to toe. Far from being some young guy she was all femaleness.
“No clan,” she informed him shortly. “I’m an orphan.”
“I imagine your family prefer it that way. So what are you doing around here, Casey McGuire?”
“Drivin’ through, if it’s any of your business. This your house?”
“In a manner of speaking, but I don’t live here. This house is at the disposal of our resident school master. It’s a few kilometres out of town but he doesn’t mind.”
“Doesn’t he ever lock his doors?” she asked.
“He will from now on,” he informed her. “But as you say, there’s nothing much to take. I apologise for manhandling you. I mistook you for some vagrant out to make trouble.”
“Right!” she said firmly. “Now you know different. I don’t apologise for slugging you. You asked for it.”
He laughed, stroking a hand along his strong jaw where a dark red mark was still visible. “The fact your hat fell off gave you the element of surprise, so don’t take too much credit. How many guys I wonder have a torrent of fiery hair tumbling down their back? How long did it take to grow it?”
“So what’s your name,” she replied, totally ignoring his smart aleck question. Yet all the while he was studying her intently, a small frown between his bronze brows.
“Connellan. Troy Connellan. My dad owns Vulcan Plains about 100 K’s west of here. I had to come into town so I decided to take a run out here to check on a few things. I won’t mention to Phil Carson—that’s the new headmaster—you were snooping around his place.”
She coloured. “I’m sorry. It’s hard to explain. I was just enjoying the house. And Rusty’s company.” She clicked her fingers and the blue speckled dog came to her, showing its pleasure at a few pats on the head.
“Don’t be a fool, Rusty,” Troy Connellan chided. “He might look the picture of a sweet natured dog but I’ve seen Rusty hold quite a few people at bay.”
“I’m good with animals,” she said offhandedly. “So you believe me?”
“I have to put a stop to those right hooks,” he answered sarcastically. “Yeah, I believe you. We got off to a bad start. Where are you heading?”
She shrugged. “I’m going to stop off at the town. Koomera Crossing?”
“Right.” He nodded slowly, still intently sizing her up. There was nothing lecherous about it. The considerable interest wasn’t on that account.
“Then I’m heading out to McIvor country. Murraree. That’s the name of the station, isn’t it?”
“Right again.” He narrowed his eyes. “You’re a relative of Jock’s?”
“You could say that.”
“I hope you know he’s dead?”
“So I’ve heard. But not the end of story.”
“You’ve got me intrigued, Ms McGuire.”
Something about him sent an unwelcome self-awareness crackling along her nerves. “Look, I’m a busy woman.” She said it through her teeth. “You knew Jock McIvor?”
“Lady, everyone knew Jock McIvor,” he said laconically. “You ever so slightly resemble him.”
“Do I now.” She picked up her cream Akubra and rammed it back on her head. All day her hair had been pleated for coolness, now she let it fall loose.
“Have you told the girls you’re coming?” He made a rough mocking sound like a snort.
She looked at him, thinking suddenly he was extraordinarily good-looking if you liked big dramatic hunks. He had strong distinctive features and a bump at the bridge of his aquiline nose, probably from an old break. The eyes were as gold as a jungle cat’s, thickly lashed. “This is gonna be a big surprise,” she drawled.
“I bet. Who the hell are you?”
“As I said before, none of your business, Connellan. I’ll collect my container and be on my way. Have a nice day.”
She couldn’t stop him. He walked with her to the ute.
“You’re expecting to get to Murraree in this old wreck?” he enquired, standing back to admire it.
“This old wreck has served me faithfully,” she told him tartly.
“We do have a policeman in the town. Would it pass a road worthy test?”
“You’re joking. Who the hell would care around here?”
“You’d be surprised. The fact it takes time and money to go after irresponsible idiots who find themselves broken down in the Outback doesn’t seem to bother you.”
“Look, buster!” She stuck her hands on her hips, adopting her aggressive stance. “I’m a mechanic. This here ute mightn’t look pretty but it’s well maintained. It’s not gonna break down, got it?”
“Boy do you have a chip on your shoulder.” He gave a white smile, the corners of his mouth curling up.
Fascinating. She was starting to get uncomfortable with the fact she was finding him attractive. “I don’t like being called an irresponsible idiot.”
He gave a mocking bow. “I was generalising, dear girl.”
“I’m not your dear girl. I’m not a girl at all. I’m a woman.”
“And an excellent specimen.” He gave another wide smile. “Could I interest you in a cup of coffee back in town?”
“Not likely.”
This guy was getting under her skin faster than a splinter. “How far on is Murraree?”
“Not far as the crow flies. Darn near three hours by road. I suggest you don’t drive after dark.”
“Why is that. Do you think the dark might make me jumpy?” she jeered.
“You? No. That was some punch. I’m just glad the snap kick never connected. There are kangaroos on the road. They’re as dumb as they come. I don’t think your old ute would stand up to a front end collision. I travel with a bull bar.”
“I take it that’s your 4WD beyond the gate. What did you do, pole vault the fence?”
“I wanted to surprise you. At least you closed the gate behind you. Country girl.”
She shook her head. “I’ve never been to the Outback in my life.”
His bronze brows lifted. “Jock never invite you?”
“I never had the pleasure of meeting Jock McIvor.”
“But you’re a relation?”
She laughed, despite herself. “The evidence seems to be mounting up. Do you know the McIvor heiresses?”
“Darcy, yes. But the younger one, Courtney, stayed in Brisbane with her mother. She’s only recently come back. I haven’t had the pleasure as yet. I’ve been managing one of our outstations in the Territory.”
“One of…” she scoffed. “You don’t get to be as cocky as you unless Daddy happens to be a rich old cattle baron.”
“You’re just jealous.” He shrugged. “Anyway you don’t know the amount of rubbish I have to put with.”
“And I couldn’t care less. Now would you mind taking your arm off my car. I have to be on my way to this Koomera Crossing. The last town I pulled in every last damned citizen was all eyes. You would have thought I’d come from another planet.”
“More likely every last damned person was struck by your extraordinary resemblance to Jock McIvor. It’s kinda startling. You’ve even got the cleft chin.”
“Make that a dimple.” She slipped behind the wheel. “Could you do me a favour and open the gate?”
“How could you leave Rusty behind?” he asked, amused by the way the cattle dog had taken to her.
“He’s your dog, not mine. I suppose you dumped him on the schoolteacher.”
“Fella wanted a bit of protection.”
She laughed. “It would be fair to say Rusty is a push-over.”
“Or you could melt metal?”
Casey felt heat rush through her veins. This conversation had gone far enough. “I thought you were the one who behaved like a savage.” She swung away.
“Look, I thought you were an intruder, okay?”
“I’m glad I wasn’t. Are you going to open the gate?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He gave a mocking salute. “If you stay on in town I might see you there.”
“Not if I see you first,” she called sweetly. “Bye, Rusty!” She waited until he had opened the gate fully, before revving away in a cloud of red dust and flying gravel. Rusty followed, in hot pursuit. Just as she started to worry, Connellan let out a whistle so piercing Rusty got the message and reluctantly returned home.
More amazement at Koomera Crossing. More long considering stares. More unsolicited advice not to attempt to travel after dusk, which made it even more dangerously irresistible, but she wasn’t a complete fool. She booked into the pub for the night. She could start out fresh in the morning.
By seven o’clock she was starving. She felt sure the pub didn’t run to room service but if she went down to the dining room she might run into Troy Connellan. Just the thought of him made the adrenalin kick in. His wasn’t a soothing presence. In fact, he was particularly challenging. She could still feel that steely grip on her. She supposed he had every reason to think she was a lanky young man from the back. There was her height, her long legs and her dusty cowboy garb. Her hair—what had he called it?—a fiery torrent, was pushed under her hat. So his daddy owned the schoolmaster’s house. He owned a place called Vulcan Plains and another station in the Northern Territory. Daddy had to be a rich man. A cattle baron.
Spare me from them.
Hunger got the better of her. There was a lot of her to fill. She prettied herself up with a fine cotton shirt the colour of her eyes and brand-new designer jeans, tight as leggings, slinging one of her very fancy belts around her waist. This was the sort of outfit she adopted in the pubs when she sang. People seemed to like it. Her hair she brushed until it crackled and left it to hang loose over her shoulders and down her back in deep thick waves. McIvor’s hair. She sighed and a flush of anger appeared in her cheeks. A few things he had passed on to her. As a child she had wondered where she got her red curls from. Her mother’s hair had been dark and glossy until she started not taking care of herself. Her mother had never forgotten McIvor but he had forgotten her overnight. Had her mother ever tried to contact him to tell him about the pregnancy? Casey never knew. He might have sent money or advised her mother to have an abortion. He would pay for it. He was a married man.
Her poor little mother had a higher morality.
She was hardly settled in her chair before a plump, middle-aged woman reminiscent of someone’s mother on a sitcom came up to her, beaming. “I thought it was. You’re Casey McGuire, aren’t you? I’m a fan of yours. I’ve heard you sing back in Brisbane and the Gold Coast. I’m on holiday staying with my niece. She’s over there.” She gestured towards a table. “Dee Walker, that’s my name.” She held out her hand.
What else could a girl do. Casey shook it. “Thanks for the kind words, Dee, but I won’t be doing any singing around here.”
Dee’s double chin quivered as if she might cry. “Not even if I asked you? Folks would love it.”
Casey stared up at the woman’s plum-hued hair. “I’m like you, Dee, I’m on vacation.” Dee wore a plum lipstick as well.
Dee wasn’t the sort of person who took no for an answer. She leaned her hands on the table. “Look, I’ve set myself the little task of getting you to sing. I bet hubby I could.”
“Dee, I’m about to order. I’m very hungry.”
“Later then?” Dee was nothing if not persistent. It had worked countless times in the past. People just folded before they got a migraine.
Casey wasn’t one of them. She was about to put a stop to Dee, only a voice she knew breathed over her shoulder. “Hey, sorry I’m late!” Next minute Troy Connellan dropped an audacious kiss on her cheek before taking the chair opposite her.
“Oh, I’m intruding,” Dee Walker said, looking pleasantly flustered.
“Nice to meet you, Dee,” Casey gave her a big bright smile. “Bye now.”
Dee left reluctantly while Connellan rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me. She wanted to know if that hot hair was real?”
“You’ve heard about wigs in the sticks?”
“Hell, yes. What did she want?”
For some unknown reason she told him. “She wanted me to sing a song.”
“Imagine that!” One bronze eyebrow shot up. “What are we talking about here? Grand opera, pop, rock and roll, maybe the blues?” He had already noted her speaking voice, low and rich, full of sexy modulations.
She looked at him through narrowed, hostile eyes. “I’m sorry I told you.”
He shook his head. “Contrary to what you may believe, any one of those styles is possible. You have a voice people would want to listen to. So did Jock come to think of it. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone spin a yarn like McIvor. That voice of his could weave spells.”
“Can we leave McIvor out of this?” she asked sharply
“Sounds like you don’t have a good opinion of him?”
“Go on. Dig a bit further,” she challenged.
Again he shook his head. “I’m here for a nice chat and to have a good dinner. Have you ordered yet?”
“Dee got in the way,” she said sarcastically.
“Allow me.” He held up a hand. Immediately a pretty young waitress with dyed platinum hair curling around her head, hurried to thei
r table.
“Yes, Troy?”
He smiled up at her. “How are things with you, Debby?”
“Just the same as when you left, Troy. Pretty tame, but I have dreams.”
It looked very much like Connellan was one of them, Casey thought, sitting back and listening to the exchange. It went on for a minute more before they ordered. Fresh barramundi had arrived from the Gulf, so what else? French fries, green salad on the side.
“Thanks, Debby.” Connellan handed her the menus. “We’ll let you know if we want dessert.”
“Thank you, Troy,” she said, eyes glowing, cheeks pink.
“One of your girlfriends?” Casey asked. “Or not high enough up the social scale?”
“Debby’s just a kid,” he frowned. His white shirt revealed a glimpse of broad bronzed torso, a gold ring in his ear would have finished the look off perfectly. Even his thick hair curled up from his collar.
“A kid with a crush,” Casey pointed out.” Whereas you’re exactly the age Debby is attracted to. You did a good job making her want to grow up. Fast.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. Another signal of the hand. “What’s it to be?” He turned back to Casey. “Beer or wine? I guess a glass of wine wouldn’t kill me.”
“Perhaps you should go sit at another table?” she suggested sweetly.
“Don’t be like that, McGuire. Waiter’s coming. What’s it to be?”
“A nice crisp Riesling,” she said.
The generous mouth compressed. “If they’ve got it. Crisp Riesling drinkers don’t come in all that often.”
“Try them,” she said.
The owner of the pub, a pleasant-looking man with bright blue eyes took her request very seriously. He smiled their way and waved a hand, indicating he had just what she wanted in stock.
