by Margaret Way
Stockmen on the ground looked up and waved their dusty hats as they made their passes over campsites and holding yards where fat cattle were penned almost bumper to bumper. In the middle distance a big mob was moving like the giant Rainbow Snake of aboriginal legend, twisting and turning as they made their way to one of the billabongs with a couple of stockmen riding back and forth among them, urging the beasts on and keeping them in an orderly formation. They didn’t look as if they needed much urging, Francesca thought.
Away on the western border of the station, the midday heat was reflected off the ramparts of the Hill Country, with its turrets, minarets and crenellations, its secret caves with their well-guarded aboriginal rock paintings. At this time of day the eroded hills with their fantastic shapes glowed furnace-red. Early morning they were a soft light pink that deepened during the morning to rose, and then the fiery red of high noon. Late afternoon they changed to a haunting deep purple, incredible against the flaming backdrop of the sunset, then, as the sun dropped towards the horizon, faded to a misty lilac. Night fell abruptly in the Outback, like a vast black velvet curtain decorated with a billion desert stars. Now, in the noon fire, the whole area was bathed in the shimmery veil of mirage.
Francesca felt so thrilled to be back she was a little shaky with it. She knew she had to relax, but her whole body was zinging. Two days alone with Bryn! What ecstasy! She hadn’t told him Carina had called in to the office to see her. By the same token, she hadn’t questioned him in any way regarding Carina, much less mentioned how it had hurt her—hurt like the very devil—to hear he had told Carina about their planned weekend on the station they now jointly owned and that they were back in contact. She wasn’t looking for conflict. In a way she was considering opting out of the whole business of Bryn, Carina and herself. The infamous love triangle. Carina wasn’t cured any more than she was. They were both hopelessly in love with Bryn. But she wanted more than anything to cherish this time they would have together. Life being what it was, it might be all she was going to get.
‘Homestead coming up now.’ Bryn turned his head towards her. What was he really saying to her with that beautiful heart-wrenching smile?
She smiled back. She was a woman in love. She didn’t even care if she wasn’t disguising the fact all that well. Most probably she was giving herself away with the flush in her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes. Every second she had with the man she loved was important. Love, the most powerful of all alchemies, made it very difficult to get and then keep one’s bearings.
On the ground he caught her hand, walking her to the waiting station Jeep. Her faint trembling was conveying itself to him like a warm vibration. He had always felt immensely protective of Francesca when she was a child, then right through adolescence, and even now when she was all grown up. A woman.
‘You’re trembling, Francey. What’s the matter?’ He looked down at her, knowing he wanted her more than anything else in the world. Knowing too, he had reached the point where he was past pretending. But he had to tread carefully. The last thing he could afford to do was startle her like one could spook a nervous, high-strung filly. So he waited. It would be so much better for her to come to him.
The voice that he found so alluring was full of excitement. ‘Nothing’s the matter. I feel great. You know how I love this place.’
‘Best place in the world!’ he confirmed.
‘You don’t know how much joy it gives me to know we’re of the same mind.’
She turned up her face to him so trustingly. It was a poetic face, he thought. Lyrical in style, the contours delicate where Carina’s were bold and arresting. His mother always said Francesca reminded her of one of her favourite actresses, who had died in the mid l960s: Vivien Leigh—Lady Olivier. One of the reasons he had bought the DVD of Gone With the Wind had been to see if Francesca was really as much like Vivien Leigh as his mother always claimed. She was. The resemblance lay in the high-arching black brows, the light eyes, the sensitive cut of the mouth, the curling cloud of dark hair, and again that delicate bone structure.
‘Why are you staring at me like that?’ She gave him a smile that tore at his heart. ‘It’s really me.’
‘It is indeed.’ How could a woman project such sensuality and an airy lightness of manner at one and the same time? He moved, rather abruptly, to open the passenger door for her.
Francesca followed, a little puzzled by his reaction. Today he wore a light blue and white checked open-necked shirt and blue jeans, the short sleeves of his shirt exposing the sleek muscles in his darkly tanned upper arms. He was a beautiful man. How many years now was it she had been sketching Bryn? She’d lost count. He was a marvellous subject, and one of her strengths was capturing the essence of her sitter, whether they were aware she was sketching them or not, which was often the case. Bryn actually owned dozens of her sketches; had grabbed them off her. Many he’d had framed in ebony and hung in groups. But he didn’t possess a single sketch she had made of him. His mother had many. So did Lady Macallan. Both women had told her they treasured them.
‘This is Bryn!’ Annette always said, with motherly pride in her eyes.
As she went to get in the Jeep, Bryn laid his hand briefly on her shoulder. ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’
At once she drew back, stifling a gasp. No, no, Bryn! Don’t spoil it.
‘It’s not that bad.’ He frowned, taken aback by the play of emotion across her face. Was it distress? What did she think he was going to say? ‘I gave Jili and Jacob the weekend off to spend in the Alice,’ he quickly explained. ‘I think we can survive without them, don’t you?’
‘You did what?’ Surprise filled her voice as enormous relief pumped in.
‘You have some objection?’
‘I thought we were equal partners?’ She was struggling against the compulsion to simply fold herself against him, to surrender to the blazing force that was in him, let it scorch her. But she had to be careful. She had to think everything through. Wasn’t it a woman’s unattainability that made her so desirable? History certainly suggested it.
‘We are. I hope we always will be.’
‘You mean that?’
‘Don’t you?’ He pinned her gaze, his own fathomless.
‘Nothing is going to change me,’ she answered briskly, thinking that was the way to go. ‘And that’s fine about Jili and Jacob. No problem!’ How could she say that, when the piece of news had had a tremendous impact on her? They would be quite alone. And he had planned it that way.
‘Then why are you looking so unnerved?’ He tucked a stray raven lock behind her ear.
‘Well, it was kind of a bolt from the blue, Bryn.’ She turned to slide into the waiting vehicle. ‘I wish I could tell you otherwise, but I’m not much of a cook,’ she tacked on when he was behind the wheel.
His laugh came from deep in his throat. ‘It was never your cooking skills, Francey, that attracted my attention.’
She belted herself in, and then smoothed back her long hair, giving herself time to settle. ‘I didn’t know I had.’
‘That is just so untrue, Francey,’ he mocked. ‘Quite beneath you, in fact. We’ve always had a connection.’ He turned on the ignition. ‘God, it’s good to be back. It’s a magnificent day.’
‘It is indeed!’ The air was so pure, so dry, so bush aromatic—and the space and the freedom! It was like no place else. And, let’s face it, she was thrilled to the core to be sharing these precious days with him. Separate rooms? She could feel the yearning that was in her shooting off her like sparks.
‘Jili will have left plenty of food for us,’ he was saying. ‘We’ll have lunch. Go for a drive around the main areas. Check everything out. Catch up with the men. I’m not all that happy about Roy Forster staying on as overseer.’ He cast her a questioning glance.
‘Me either,’ Francesca said. ‘Forster was Grandfather’s choice. A real yes-man. Jacob would be a better choice for the job. Roy pretty much relies on Jacob anyway. But how do w
e go about demoting Roy? I wouldn’t want to sack him. He’s competent enough—’
‘But not the right man for the job,’ Bryn finished off for her. ‘What about if we shift him to one of the other stations, say Kurrawana in the Gulf?’
‘You’ve thought about it?’
‘Yes.’
‘He mightn’t want to go.’
‘On the other hand he might jump at it. Let me handle it,’ Bryn said.
‘Yes, boss.’ A little dryness escaped her, when in reality she was in awe of his many skills, all of which he had mastered. Everything Bryn did was done not only with the highest level of competence, but with considerable flair.
‘You don’t like that idea?’ A black brow shot up.
She slanted him a smile. ‘What? You calling the shots? Only teasing, Bryn—though you do give orders to the manner born. Grandfather wanted you to run the whole operation.’
‘You’ll be consulted all along the way. That’s a promise. No decision will be made without your approval. I won’t take anything on alone.’
‘That’s great to know. But I trust you, Bryn. I know you’ll be working hard to bring Daramba back to what it was. It has deteriorated a bit.’
‘It will be a whole different story when Jacob takes over,’ Bryn said.
The hours were passing far too swiftly for Francesca. It was a marvellous experience to be with Bryn. They both had quick, curious minds, both were keenly observant, so they were able to spend the afternoon in stimulating discussion. It was uncanny, really, the way they kept arriving at the same conclusions.
Francesca took great satisfaction from the fact that Bryn listened carefully to every suggestion she had to make. And most of them he seemed prepared to take on board. It occurred to her in hindsight that on those rare occasions when she had got into discussion with her grandfather he had listened too. How odd to think of that now. But, unlike her grandfather, Bryn’s manner with the station staff was relaxed and friendly. She could see how well they responded to it, without ever overstepping the line. Never in all the years had any member of her family joined the men for their tea break, but she and Bryn did so now, enjoying the smoky billy tea and the freshly baked damper that the men had liberally smeared with homemade rosella jam or bush honey.
There was a new stockman in the team, Vance Bormann, a big man, bulky on top but by no means overweight, more like a prize fighter, with a swarthy face, weathered skin and a full, macho-looking moustache. He wore his battered black Akubra low over heavy-lidded dark eyes. Roy Forster had taken him on only a few weeks back. The general opinion was the man was good at his job. Francesca, on the other hand, was none too sure she liked the look of him—a woman’s opinion? In fact she had a vague feeling she had seen him some place before. She couldn’t for the life of her think where or when. Maybe he reminded her of some cowboy in the old Westerns? The guy who was always the baddie.
She found herself sitting in court, surrounded by station employees she had known for years, talking in particular to one of the stockmen she had favoured from childhood. Taree Newton—part aboriginal, his hair now a mass of pure white curls—was a man who could handle any animal on the station and fix any piece of machinery, and he could tell wonderful stories of the Dreamtime and ‘other-world’ matters, some of which as a child she had found deliciously scary.
‘Catch up with me, little’ un,’ Taree used to call to her as she tagged after him. ‘Catch up with me.’ Taree, her guardian angel. He had always been on the move, with a string of jobs to do. ‘Plenty a work, Missy Francey. Too much work.’ But he had always found time for her, keeping the keenest eye on her. Aunt Elizabeth had used to call Taree ‘Francey’s nanny’.
She noticed Bryn had taken Roy Forster aside, no doubt to discuss Roy’s future. There would always be a place for Roy within the pastoral chain, but unquestionably Jacob would fill the role of overseer here a good deal better. Jili would be thrilled! She glanced up to catch Vance Bormann staring at her. She had the impression he had been observing her long and hard. He was very much a stranger, for all her feeling that she had sighted him before. When he realised she was aware of his staring, he swiftly rose from where he had been sitting, going back through the trees as if he were ready to continue work. It wasn’t unnatural for a man to stare at a woman. She had received plenty of attention from the male sex for years now. But this was the first time she had thought there was something sinister about it. Surely not? If she mentioned it to Bryn she knew the likely consequence would be the man would be out of a job. Maybe it was his rather unfortunate looks? But wasn’t it unfair judging a book by its cover?
Late afternoon, as the heat of the blazing sun was abating, they took the horses out. She a glossy-flanked liver-chestnut mare called Jalilah; he a big black gelding, Cosmo, with a white blaze and white socks—both ex-racehorses, alert and very fast when underway.
Francesca’s face shone with pleasure. She had so missed not being able to go for a ride. Now she revelled in the scent of horseflesh, the scent of leather, the scent of the still blossoming bush. Bryn rode close beside her, his hands easy on the reins. He was an experienced rider, as she was, though both of them knew he would always beat her in a race. Initially the horses were restless—Jalilah particularly skittish, having been cooped up for too long—so once away from the home compound and out onto the flats they gave the horses their heads.
Manes and tails streamed like pennants in the wind as they headed out to the first line of billabongs. Sunset wasn’t that far off. Afterwards the world would swiftly turn from delicate mauve to pitch-black. They would need to be back within the compound by then.
Not far from their destination the mare, high-strung at the best of times, was spooked by a pair of wallabies that shot up out of nowhere and then bounded away. The mare reared, forelegs folded up under her, but Francesca, leg and thigh muscles working, got her quickly under control, to the point where the mare steadied, dancing nervily on the highly coloured red sand laced with water-storing pink parakeelya, and the bright green spinifex that would soon turn to a scorched gold.
The hills in the distance that had appeared so solid and so glowing a red at noon now appeared to be floating free of the ground, their bases disguised by the thick silver-grey mist formed by condensation from the many rock pools. Without so much as a word to the other, in silent communication they rode down on Kala-Guli Creek, the prettiest and most secluded spring-fed pool on the entire station. Unless one knew exactly where to find Kala-Guli, any visitor unfamiliar with the vast landscape could ride on unawares. Not all of these beautiful hidden pools, however, were safe. Many a poor beast had been sucked in and lost for ever in the quicksand that often lurked where there was plenty of underground water.
It had been suggested at one time that was the way Gulla Nolan had disappeared, but those who had known Gulla refused point-blank to go along with the theory. Gulla had known this country like the back of his hand. If Gulla had been sucked into quicksand he would have been dragged there, hands and feet tightly bound. At various times over the years Francesca had fancied she’d heard Gulla’s cries of terror, amplified by the desert wind. But then, as Carina had frequently told her scornfully, she had way too much imagination.
White cockatoos appeared in magic droves, settling like winged angels in the trees. Bryn and Francesca dismounted, tethered their horses, stretched their limbs, then walked down towards the waterline, with bushy ferns and brittle ground cover grasses snagging the hems of their jeans. Butterflies of many colours, beautiful to the eye, drifted about like petals, luminous when slanting rays of sunlight caught their wings. Francesca trailed a hand over a native honeysuckle, a brilliant yellow with a honeysuckle’s true perfume. The creek was several feet below the level of the plain throughout its course. Here the heated air off the grasslands turned balmy, perfumed with the scent of hundreds and hundreds of wild lilies, purple in colour, which grew in profusion along the banks of the long, narrow stream. It was enormously refreshing
after the dazzling power of the sun.
‘Man finds his true home in nature,’ Bryn commented, lending a hand to her as they moved down a fairly steep and slippery slope.
‘I suppose that’s where we’re closest to God.’
He gave her a half-smile, feeling a profound tenderness for her and her strong spiritual beliefs. ‘Do you ever pray for me, Francey?’ he asked.
Of course she prayed for him. He was so very special to her. ‘What do you think?’ she replied, eyes sparkling.
‘I think I may be in need of it.’ He tightened his hold on her as they moved further down the bank, where little wildflowers similar to pansies showed their velvety faces.
‘Me too,’ she said, and it wasn’t banter.
And there were the moss-covered rocks of various shapes and sizes she so loved and had often sketched. Some, shelf-like, jutted out into the water, forming a natural sunbathing area. How they had used it when they were young! Only now the feathery acacias fanned right out over the creek from both sides, dipping in low arches like weeping willows, their branches cascading to within touching distance. Here too a white mist hung low, like a smoky haze over the stream for as far as they could see. By the time they stood on the golden stretch of dry sand a flock of finches had zoomed down over the water, drinking their fill, then rising in a whirr of tiny wings. It all added to the extraordinary fascination of the place.
‘This is exquisite, isn’t it?’ she breathed quietly, letting the fresh coolness get to her and her heated skin. The creek was completely deserted, except for them and the colonies of birds. Brilliant little lorikeets, rising flashes of sapphire, ruby and emerald, darted and wheeled through the branches above them. ‘It looks like it has been here since the beginning of time.’
For answer, Bryn began to unbutton his shirt. ‘Let’s take a quick dip,’ he suggested. ‘It looks so darn inviting.’
She drew in her breath sharply, her whole body tensing, the lower half of her body flooded with sexual heat like spiralling little flames. ‘Are you serious?’
