by Margaret Way
With an incoherent mutter he slipped his arm to her waist and hauled her into him. The whole length of their bodies fused—breast, waist, hip, thigh, long legs—as each tried desperately to meet the need to melt into the other. He compulsively plied the length of her back with his strong hand in a muted violence that had her arching her body still closer, head tilted back so he could kiss her more fully.
She wasn’t aware how long they stood like that—an eternity?—mouth hungrily taking mouth as longing broke free of its hiding place.
As an outpouring of need it was staggering. How could a kiss capture so much territory? The flesh, with its undertow of hot pulsing blood and racing nerves; the chambers of the heart; the marrow.
When he released her it was to a white-hot ringing silence. as though both were shocked by the level of arousal a single kiss had detonated.
Christine found herself staring into his face, taut with desire, blue eyes blazing.
“I think your kisses always did frighten me,” she whispered, incredibly moved.
“How?” His blue eyes scorched her.
“I used to think my soul passed into yours through my mouth,” she confessed.
“Didn’t it?” he asked tensely.
“It’s possible, Mitch, to be frightened of too much emotion. To ache with you, without you, from you.”
“So you’re now trying to tell me you were frightened all those dark starry nights?” he asked explosively.
“I used to think I was so much in love with you that I would disappear.”
His frown was bleak. “You never once said anything like that to me.”
“I’m saying it now. There was terror in it, Mitch. I was so young and inexperienced. Passion is a fever. Feel my hand; feel my cheek.” She offered her cheek to him, knowing without looking, toward the mirror her skin was incandescent with hot blood.
He didn’t trust himself to obey, but he did. His lean fingers traced the curve of her cheek, drifted to the slope of her shoulder. He was deeply desirous to cup her breasts—he could see the erect nipples peaking against the silky shirt—only that would have been total surrender. They both would have understood she had won. He wasn’t going to allow her that bitter victory.
“You taste exactly the same. Sweet on my tongue.” He forced his hands to drop. He moved back from temptation. “You’d better go to bed, Chris.” His tone was quiet, but clearly dismissive. “We have an early start in the morning.”
“They say you never forget your first love,” she murmured sadly.
“Or words to that effect.” Deliberately he kept his tone cynical, when what he really thought was this: sometimes a man never learned to love more than once.
CHAPTER FOUR
ALL the time she was dressing, Christine had the stirring lines of “Banjo” Paterson’s famous Outback poem, The Man from Snowy River running through her head. Brumby-running had a rich history in the nation, and Paterson’s poem captured the full excitement of the chase. She’d seen many brumbies trapped in roughly made “yards” over the years, had participated in musters, but this was something different again.
Lightning, though he was wild, had good thoroughbred blood in him, Mitch had said. That meant he would be faster, probably much faster than any mounted stockman. Except Zena, Mitch’s silver mare, had wings, and Wellington, her horse for the morning, was good for pace. Her excitement grew. The domestic horses enjoyed the chase as much as the riders. Station born and bred, Christine had been associated with horses for most of her life. And the brumbies had a mystique of their own. It was a marvellous sight to see them running in a herd. They were part of Outback culture and the best of them, all progeny of runaway or stolen station horses, had always been sought after.
This big black stallion, Lightning, was no exception. Helicopters and motorbikes had largely revolutionised station life, but horses, magnificent creatures that they were, were part of the nation’s heritage, forever linked with the Outback and the Australian Light Horse at war. Christine knew she would have been bitterly disappointed had Mitch not asked her to join them on the chase. At least he acknowledged she fitted into some part of his world. The land was part of them both.
Six of them rode out: Mitch, Christine, Jack Cody, the new overseer, two of the top hands—“Smiley” Jensen, of the poker face, and Abe Lovell—and the station’s finest aboriginal tracker, “Snowy” Moon, whose halo of ash-white curls made such a pleasing contrast with his dark chocolate skin.
All of them were fine horsemen, although Christine didn’t take to Jack Cody, who had assumed the coveted job of station overseer from Dave Reed, when he’d retired with a handsome annuity after forty years of service to the Claydons and Marjimba Station. He had, however, come straight from a cattle station in the Territory, highly recommended as a capable overseer.
Tall, good-looking in his way, and very fit, he was in his mid-thirties and divorced. His marriage had apparently crashed. He was respectful enough, but there was something Christine didn’t like in the length and quality of his hazel gaze. She was tempted to say something to Mitch, but decided against it. She didn’t really want to get Jack into trouble, but his gaze reminded her of the speculative stare of other men who had sexually propositioned her. Or longed to. She knew that look. The hardness behind it, the too intimate lop-sided grin.
He continued to stare when he thought she wasn’t looking, ceasing only when Mitch, who had been giving last-minute instructions to Snowy, rode back to her side.
“Before I forget, I’ve had word from Sarah,” Mitch told her. “The hospital has released Clarry.” He referred to the elderly man they had rescued in the desert. “They won’t be resuming their journey. He suffered a mild heart attack as well as concussion. Gemmima’s flying him home. Both of them send their regards. They want to keep in touch.”
“Where are they based?” Christine, seated on Wellington, who needed a good rider to control him, adjusted the red bandanna around her neck. It would be too tight when the heat mounted.
“Adelaide.”
Mitch allowed his eyes to fall on her. He was seduced all over again. She had ruled his dreams the night before to the extent that he’d woken once, heart pounding, thinking she was naked beside him. Now, in the glimmering light of dawn, she was the picture of health and vitality.
She wasn’t wearing a scrap of make-up. She didn’t need it. Just a touch of rosy lipgloss, most probably to protect the sensitive skin of her mouth. Her beautiful springy dark hair was drawn back into a plaited rope, and her skin and eyes glowed. She was a real beauty, as opposed to artificial, her sapphire eyes arresting against the jet-black of brows and lashes. Christine Reardon. His downfall.
She was smiling as she answered. “I expect they’re very grateful to you for rescuing their vehicle as well. It must have cost an arm and a leg.”
“How did you know?” He wasn’t someone who broadcast his good deeds.
“Your mother told me. She always wants me to know how kind and generous you are.”
“It’s called being a mother,” he complained, making an affectionate low clicking sound with his tongue. His mount, the splendid, very agile silver-grey mare Zena, responded. She moved off obediently, quite happy with her stablemate the big chestnut Wellington alongside.
Even at this early hour the mirage was abroad. It painted waves of blue fire at the feet of the distant hump-backed hills. The hills looked close, but Christine knew they were twenty miles to the north-west. The air was incredibly sweet, scented by the trillion fuzzy golden balls of the flowering acacias that dotted the landscape.
How I love the scent of wattle, she thought, breathing in deeply. It’s the smell of my homeland. The scent of the bush. My country. How I’ve missed it. She risked a glance at Mitch. God, he was beautiful! Happiness surged. On a scale of one to ten she was on Cloud Eleven. She was even hopeful she could win him back.
Forty minutes on and they were on the edge of a chain of lakes the Claydons called the Blue Billabon
gs: areas of oasis on the semi-arid desert fringe. Here the waters were a curious pearly green, but the lakes took their name from the exquisite dark blue and violet water lilies, with their masses of yellow stamens, that were reflected in the tranquil waters.
At this magical hour the air was alive with the extraordinary Outback bird life, especially along the lines of the creeks and billabongs. Budgerigar, zebra finches, the red-capped robins and the orange chats, brilliant lorikeets, sulphur-crested cockatoos, clouds of geese and water birds, blue kingfishers and, through the breaks in the silver-grey eucalypts, glimpses of the elegant brolgas stepping delicately along the sandy banks.
The spinifex that had stood silver against the dawn light now caught fire with the rising sun. It turned for long moments a fiery red before blazing gold. The sky above was already bright blue and cloudless as the sun established its supremacy. It gave Christine a feeling of wholeness, completeness, she had never experienced anywhere else.
“You look remarkably happy,” Mitch said, feeling the self-same peace. They were riding so close the sides of their mounts almost swished.
“You can’t imagine how I’ve missed this,” she admitted with a voluptuous sigh. “This is what makes me tick.”
One dark golden eyebrow shot up. “That’s odd—I thought you’d find it pretty hard away from the glamorous capitals of the world.”
“Do I look like I’m finding it hard?” she flashed back.
She rode beautifully. Back erect. “Oh, well, while on holiday one has to make the most of it,” he mused.
“How can I be on holiday? This is where I was born. This my world as well as yours, Mitch Claydon. Thank you very much. ‘Here I am, homeward from my wandering. Here I am homeward and my heart is healed’.”
“I wish I could say the same for mine,” he said dryly.
Instinctively she turned to him. “There’ll always be a bond between us, Mitch. You might as well accept that.”
“Oh, I do!” He shrugged. “But sometimes it catches me by surprise. Like last night.”
“I don’t regret it, do you?” Not those minutes of rapturous abandonment.
“That remains to be seen. Essentially, I can’t afford to get too close to you ever again. It’s called self-preservation. You can understand that, surely? After all, you’re bound to do the same old thing. You’ll go away.”
“Could you consider I’m tired of being Christine Reardon, public figure?” she asked.
“You mean you’re tossing up between the idea of retiring or perhaps moving to the silver screen? You’ve got a head start. You’ve got yourself an American accent when others have to study it.”
“You can’t help acquiring an accent when you spend a lot of time in a country,” she said reasonably. “Besides, I like an American accent—though there are plenty of them. Mine’s more cosmopolitan.”
“It should come in handy, should you make the move.”
She ignored the bitter mockery. “Hey, can we ride along peacefully?”
“Sure. I want your holiday to be a good one.”
She lifted a hand, whispered behind it. “I hate you, Mitch.”
“I hate you too, only you get me excited.” His gaze sparkled as it settled on her mouth.
“That’s the intention.” Her whole body was brushed with heat.
“Tell me again when we’re alone.”
“So you can put me in my place?”
“Now, Chrissy, that only makes good sense.”
By mid-morning they had made their first sighting of Lightning and his harem, along the beautiful wild banks of the Blue Billabongs—to the aboriginals on the station a home of mystical beings. Flashes of ebony, bay, bright chestnuts and creams were caught in the dancing light through the thick screening of trees.
Mitch, his expression exhilarated, a little taut, lifted a hand to signal they were off.
Where there were chases there was always danger. Brumbies were cunning. They tended to see station horses and riders a split second before they themselves were spotted, their hearing being vastly superior to humans’. It was virtually impossible to swoop upon a brumby. The wild horse had to be outrun, outclassed or penned up in some way.
They had to consider the best strategy for containing this stallion. In this landscape a lignum swamp or ravine. It was no easy task, roping a brumby, anyway, whether from the ground or, harder yet, from a galloping horse.
Lightning, the brumby leader, was showing his thoroughbred blood. Just like a racehorse, from a standing start he bounded into a gallop, instantly activating the wild herd. Christine watched as the brumbies scattered into the scrub, manes whipping, coats sleek and gleaming as they flashed through the timber, heading for what lay ahead—eroded hill country and beyond that the open plain.
They were off!
Wild gallops were nothing new to Christine. Many a time she had taken part in bush races, but she had never been able to outrun Mitch. Now Mitch, a superb horseman, was already clear in front, his mare, Zena, incredibly fit and eager for the chase. Jack Cody, the overseer, galloped past her actually taking the time to flash her a triumphant grin that held more than a hint of leer. The rest of the party were hot on her tail.
Without weight to carry the brumbies were holding their lead, except for two mothers with foals who dropped back as the rest of the herd forged ahead. The riders ignored them. It was only the black stallion they were after.
A fallen branch as big as a hurdle loomed ahead of Christine, who had decided on a shortcut as part of her tactics. It reared out of the scrub giving her a split second of panic before she sent Wellington soaring over it. She already knew the big chestnut was a clean jumper. The gelding didn’t hesitate, relishing the challenge.
More hurdles confronted her, big spreading branches, but she rode hell for leather, ducking the low-growing rungs of the mulga, keeping Mitch not all that far ahead, locked in her vision. Finally she burst out of the timber, her taut rear slamming hard into leather, breasts rising and falling, skin slick with sweat, booted feet feeling weightless in the stirrups. She was utterly intoxicated with the charge. A great flight of budgerigar formed a green and gold canopy over her, their antics keeping time with her mount.
Some of the inferior horses of Lightning’s harem, fillies and mares, were starting to fall back. The riding party galloped on past them, intent on capturing Lightning, who ran with the best of the colts—colts that in the normal course of events would one day fight him for control of the harem.
Mitch was a crack hand with the rope, but the little mob was going like the wind. The trail she had blazed on her own brought Christine out in front of all the men, including the hard-riding Cody. Wildlife darted for cover. Kangaroos and wallabies and wandering emus, those great flightless birds, pulled out their own dazzling turn of speed. The creek’s kingfishers and kookaburras, always in high spirits, chuckled at the chase, but the multitudes of sulphur-crested cockatoos adorning the trees like giant white flowers rose into the air, screeching indignantly at the galloping procession of horses.
As Christine approached Mitch at speed he indicated his intention to drive the herd towards a section of the eroded hills criss-crossed by low canyons. The wrong canyon and the brumbies would escape. The right one and they stood an excellent chance of capturing the muscular jet-coloured stallion. He had to stand seventeen hands. Proof of his good blood.
The others were thundering up to them, Snowy, the aboriginal tracker, calling out loudly and tossing his head in the direction of a particular rotund dome in the line of hump-backed hills. It glowed like a red-hot furnace in the blazing sun.
The colts were faltering. The mares had given up. The stallion was still thundering across the hard-baked sand, but as the riding party got into their line of battle, flanking the stallion, his headlong flight to escape was effectively funnelled towards the squat dome and its near neighbour, a narrow pinnacle that rose considerably higher. A narrow ravine lay between, with only one entrance, its exit blocked b
y huge boulders.
The chase was over.
Inside the rock-strewn narrow canyon the stallion turned to confront them, rearing and tossing his head. He was snorting in the wildest, most intimidating fashion Christine had ever heard. No station horse could put on a war-like display like this. One powerful front leg struck the ground, pawing over and over, issuing a warning.
“Might be a bad one, boss,” Snowy called to Mitch. “Mightn’t be worth havin’. Got that look about ’im.”
“Hell, Snowy, we’ve done our damnedest to corner him. Are you saying we should let him go?” Mitch’s reply had an edge of exasperation, particularly as he was arriving at the same conclusion.
“Uneasy, boss.” Snowy smiled grimly. “This guy a rogue. Look at da eyes. There’s a debbil in them eyes.”
“I agree.” Christine’s gaze was fixed on the stallion and his menacing attitude.
“He’s aggressive, all right,” Mitch muttered, knowing the stallion was trouble but loath to let him go free. “You don’t reckon you could tame him, Snowy?” Snowy was a marvellous horse-handler. None better.
“Concerned him no good, boss. Could be a killer.”
Christine spoke quietly. “Let him go, Mitch. I’ve got a bad feeling about this one.”
That infuriated Jack Cody. “Bugger that!” he exploded, throwing Christine a look that said women were useless except for one thing. “If Snowy can’t break him, I can.”
Mitch wheeled Zena around, staring at the overseer. Jack had not been his choice. His father had appointed him. “I don’t think I care for the prospect of your breaking him, Cody. I’m sure the stallion wouldn’t like it either. We’ve got a bit of a problem here, though. Lightning is becoming a real menace. We can’t possibly fence in our station horses. They’re used to roaming a huge area. But I won’t lose the two station mares.”
