by Margaret Way
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-Il," 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 ol 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 a book 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 terribly 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 bellflower. 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.
"You're never going to believe this-"
"Shelley," he said, taking a ham sandwich and biting into it with his white teeth, "at this stage I'm prepared to believe anything."
"Eula is in town."
"Great. Tell me something I don't know." He let his eyes move over her, caught up in a maze of emotions, amazed at their power. She beguiled him, bewitched him. He wanted to pull her down and make love to her. Over and over again. No way was Philip going to have her.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked edgily. It was as if they were circling one another.
"I've had a kind of-distressing morning," he confessed dryly. "I had to listen to Phil's deluded ramblings, for a start."
"I hope it wasn't all about me. I'm sick to death of Philip and his delusions. He's taking his grandfather's death as a signal to do what he likes. I know you're upset, but take it easy. You have to listen to this. Eula and I had a long conversation."
"Now, that's truly life-changing. Why would I possibly be interested in Eula at this point?"
"All right, if you're not going to listen-" Shelley came to her feet fast, excited and exasperated, feeling her cheeks so hot she wanted to splash them with pool water. But Brock caught her bare ankle, resting his fingers around it, sliding them seductively up her slender leg.
"Sorry, sweetheart." He stared up at her, his voice suddenly conciliatory but still with that familiar mocking touch. "Please sit down again. I really ought to curb my tongue. Eula is in town...?" he prompted.
Shelley sighed, thinking his merest touch gave her the shivers. Gracefully she eased herself down onto the rug again, her yellow cotton voile skirt that matched her sleeveless top floaty around her.
"Eula took a copy of the second will," she said, her eyes registering her hopes. "Gerald Maitland asked her to find a manila folder, and that's when she decided off her own bat she'd go a step further. While he and Philip's mother were off in a huddle Eula rushed to the study and took a copy on the fax machine."
"What an absolutely splendid idea." Brock raised his arms to the heavens. "The only trouble is, the bloody thing wasn't signed."
"Don't you believe it," she said sharply. "Eula swears it was. She's no fool. She said she witnessed your grandfather's signature."
That got his total attention. Brock stared back, abandoning his mocking attitude.
"Why hasn't this come to light? Why hasn't Eula spoken up'? Has she read it? Where the hell is it?" His black brows drew together, somehow recalling his grandfather.
Shelley didn't reply immediately. She tucked a long lock of her hair behind her ear. "She hasn't read it, Brock. She didn't have time. She hid it for safekeeping. The only thing-"
"Don't tell me," he groaned. "She doesn't know where."
"It's somewhere in the house, Brock." Shelley suddenly realized he knew a lot more about Eula than she did.
"Dearest girl," he said, almost kindly, "that would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. Always assuming the needle has anything at all new to tell us."
"I'm betting it has a lot to tell us," Shelley said.
"If we can only discover where she buried it." Brock joined his hands. "Let us pray." He intoned. Then, in an entirely different razor-sharp voice, "Shelley, what do you suppose it means?"
"It means your grandfather's high-minded solicitor was lying," she said vigorously. "Surely that's a grave mistake for a lawyer? Though I suspect they do it all the time. Philip's mother, if she's his lover-"
"She is," he said in an unforgiving voice.
"-is in on it. They're both guilty of God knows how many serious charges."
"People are likely to do anything when there's a great deal of money involved," he observed grimly.
"I don't think Philip was in on any plan."
"There you go again! Defending the bastard."
"Any minute now I might have to tell you to go wash your mouth out with soap. Believe it or not, that's what my father said to me only yesterday." The memory stung her.
"Shelley, you'll have to find the strength to get shot of your family."
"What about yours?" she retaliated. "They're worse than mine."
"Agreed. Is there any possibility at all they could force you to marry Philip?" he asked with his brooding silver stare. "Play on your loyalty?"
"None whatsoever. I think I might take a trip to clear my head. And I could be coming into some money. Remember the legend of the Claydon Treasure?"
He raised his brows. "Who doesn't? Don't tell me you'
ve found it," he scoffed.
"Mitch and Kyall McQueen found it," she told him severely. "Christine told me. She and Mitch are married now."
"Yes, I know. They were always meant for each other. But what does this have to do with you?" he questioned.
"I was the one who gave them the vital clue. I interpreted what I saw on the old map. One of those extraordinary things I do," she half joked. "I told Mitch the outline of a billabong reminded me of a turtle. And that's where it was-buried in Turtle Creek. It's gold, Brock Tyson. Gold. And I'm to have a reward. My friends insist."
He was still for a moment, staring at her. "You are a one to pull out miracles. That's quite a story. I know my grandfather believed in the Claydon Treasure. He would have had a few hiding places of his own in his time. So this reenforces our faith in the old legends."
