by Margaret Way
If it weren’t so serious she would have laughed. She ignored Mitch’s order. Head down, she darted behind him to the side of the road, where he bent to pick up a handful of large pebbles.
“Go on, then—pelt them,” he snapped when he saw her.
“Pelt them yourself.” With a rush of adrenalin, Christine took aim.
Neither of them, with all their childhood practice, had ever been known to miss. The whizzing pebbles found their solid targets as they bounded back and forth, but as the stones hit and then clattered to the road the kangaroos showed they weren’t all that stupid. They began keeping out of range.
To start with, they could damage the plane, she thought. There were quite a few adult males, standing six feet and weighing around one hundred pounds out there, but the big fella, the leader, had to be at least seven feet tall and considerably heavier. They could surround them. Prevent a take-off. It would have been humorous—their antics were entertaining—except kangaroos were highly unpredictable.
To add to the general confusion the elderly woman had entered the fray, yelling her head off and pitching a few pebbles that accidentally hit Mitch.
“To hell with this!” Mitch shouted. “I’m off before I get stoned by the old girl. Hold the fort. I’m going to fire off a few shots.”
He made short work of getting his hands on the .22 rifle inside the plane, firing a few rounds to puncture the air. That put the kangaroos into another spin. It was quite a spectacle to see them bound off in a group for the wide open spaces, following up Big Red, who’d had just about enough of the rain of pebbles and the cracking gunshots.
“Thank God for that!” Mitch said laconically, stroking his chin. “It wouldn’t surprise me if the ’roos were the cause of the accident. The driver may have taken fright and careened off the road.”
Which was exactly what had happened, the wiry grey-haired woman told them disgustedly. She was well into her sixties but with something very spry about her. She had a darkening bruise beneath one of her otherwise bright eyes, but she appeared okay if a little excitable.
“Thank the good Lord you’re here,” she said fervently, blessing herself. “He always proves Himself, you know. “’Course, Clarry and I are a couple of the faithful. I’m Gemmima, by the way. Mima to Clarry. How in the world did you land that big plane on this narrow road?”
“As best I could, ma’am.” Mitch gave her a smile. “We’d better take a look at Clarry. That’s your husband?”
“He’s not me toy boy, love.” Gemmima’s voice was full of humour. She started to walk alongside Mitch and Christine as they headed swiftly towards the vehicle.
“He’s been slipping in and out of consciousness,” she told them. “Concussed, I’d say, or God forbid he’s had a bit of a heart attack. I dunno. He hit his head badly on the windscreen. I climbed out. He couldn’t.” She started to wring her hands, making a curious wailing sound. “Poor old Clarry! I told him to wait until the ‘roos left the road, but he decided to make a dash for it.”
“How are you going to get Clarry out?” Christine asked Mitch beneath her breath.
“I don’t know yet. Depends what condition he’s in. I might have to drag him.”
“Could we right the vehicle? Bounce it? Rock it?”
“I don’t know that either.” He looked grim.
“You have no idea?”
“Listen, I’m open to suggestions,” he said testily.
“Okay. Okay.”
“It might be possible,” he mused. “It hasn’t canted that much. By the time you throw in your considerable bodyweight…”
“Funny.” They were sparring like in the old days.
When they looked in the vehicle a small gasp broke from Christine’s lips. It was obvious that when the accident had happened Clarry had been pitched forward over the steering wheel, cracking his head and face into the windscreen. His forehead looked red raw, a mess of scrapes. He was older than Gemmima by a good few years, or appeared to be—old-timers exploring the Outback, not fully aware there could be an accident just waiting around the bend.
Along this stretch wild camels roamed. They moved in large groups and they too could cause big problems for the unwary tourist, station-bred Christine well knew.
“He’s out of it, poor devil,” Mitch said, making a swift examination. As a cattleman on a remote station he’d found it advisable to complete first aid and paramedic courses, simply to be able to cope with accidents when they happened. Looking after his men was a big responsibility. “Breathing’s a bit laboured. His neck looks okay. A bad concussion, I’d say. He was lucky. He’s a bit on the frail side. I can’t do much for him except get him back to Koomera Crossing ASAP. Less time than the Flying Doctor would take to get here anyway.”
He looked across at Christine’s alert face. “Meantime, you get on the radio and relay the message. They need the crew standing by. Tell them concussion, possible heat exhaustion. Head injury, but it doesn’t look significant.”
Christine broke into a run and after a minute Gemmima ran after her.
By the time they returned Mitch had performed a minor miracle. He had Clarry lying out on the road, with a rug that must have been in the vehicle spread beneath him.
Gemmima let out a loud whoop. “Gee, that’s great! Are yah dreamin’, Clarry?” She stared down at the man on the rug.
“No, he’s conscious—aren’t you, Clarry?” Mitch bent over the man. “Just doing a bit of drifting.”
“What happened?” Clarry suddenly asked, sounding very dazed but coherent.
“We got beat up by a lot of kangaroos.” Gemmima had her husband’s trembling hand firmly between hers. “Or the car did. But God’s turned His face to us, Clarry. We’ve got these angels here.”
Mitch gave her his beautiful white smile. “No one has ever called us angels before.”
“You’ve got wings, haven’t yah? Further, I have a feelin’ you do lots of good things.” Gemmima squinted up at Christine. “You sure are a good-looking girl. A bit tall, but I kinda like it. That plait of yours is like a rope. I used to have hair like that, believe it or not. I bet your husband loves to brush it. Reckon you’re newly-weds.”
Christine blushed hotly, not trusting herself to look at the sardonic Mitch. “I have to own up, Gemmima, he’s not my husband.”
“Soon will be, if I’m not mistaken.” Gemmima squatted down by her husband, who smiled at her tenderly. “I can see it in your faces. I know these things. Clarry could tell yah if he wasn’t so shook up.”
“I think you’re a woman who puts a positive spin on everything, Gemmima,” Mitch said in a smooth, pleasant voice. “Now, I want you to go ahead with Chris. I’m going to get Clarry to the plane.”
“Good on yah!” said Gemmima, rising unaided and taking Christine’s hand. “He’s a real Outback hero. No wonder you’re in love with him.” She gave Christine a warm smile. “I’m goin’ to be praying for you two.”
“Make it a thousand Our Fathers,” Mitch suggested. “How are you feeling now, Clarry?” he asked as the women moved off.
“Gettin’ there.” Clarry grimaced.
“Not too good?”
“I’m seein’ two of yah, not one.”
“Concussion,” Mitch said, not wanting to worry the man. “Now, I’m going to lift you and carry you back to the plane. Tell me if you’re in any pain.”
“I’ll be okay, if you just take it easy,” Clarry maintained. “Don’t reckon I could walk.”
“You don’t have to.” Mitch gave him a wry grin. “Just relax and enjoy the ride.”
CHAPTER THREE
UNLIKE Wunnamurra, the reigning queen of homesteads, Marjimba Station hadn’t changed all that much since Mitch’s grandfather’s day, Christine thought. Captain Douglas Claydon, awarded the Military Medal for bravery in the field, had returned home from war in the North African desert to marry his faithful Kathleen and add an extra wing. The new wing was to house his parents while he and Kathleen took over
the main house to raise a family.
Douglas had hoped for much needed sons, to love and take pride in. They would help him run Marjimba Station, while his daughters would delight him with their accomplishments and marry well, preferably into landed families like themselves. What he and Kathleen got was one fine son, always his favourite, and four clever daughters who lived in their brother’s shadow but did go on to marry into suitable pastoral families. This had created a powerful network through kinship of landed people who could depend on one another through thick and thin, people who quietly helped one another out when times were tough.
The Claydons and their extended family were universally liked and respected. Family partnerships had been formed to ensure prosperity for them all, new ventures undertaken to carry the cattle chain through the lean times. They had invested heavily in mining and mineral exploration, then cotton, taking a lead from Christine’s own family, the McQueens. The name of the game was diversification for both families, though they had one powerful thing in common. They loved the land with a passion.
Christine stood in the burnished sunlight of the driveway, with the rush of green and gold budgerigar overhead, looking at the rambling white homestead that was the Claydon family home. It was set in a grove of magnificent date palms and fiery Outback flora. Unlike Wunnamurra, which was two-storeyed, Marjimba was a large low-lying building. Two wings jutted out at an angle from the original central structure to form what looked like three separate pyramids with wraparound verandahs. All three sections were reached by a short flight of stone steps. Mitch, she knew, had had the whole west wing to himself since he’d turned fourteen and been judged a man.
The first time they’d made love had been in his bedroom after a ball the Claydons had hosted. She remembered the whole experience as though it were yesterday. The white heat, the hot blood, the thudding heart. Pure desire. She held it all fast in the citadel of her heart. The memory would never go away; like haunting melodies remained in the mind.
She had easily been the most noticeable girl there that night. She’d said it was because of her height. Mitch had said it was because she was just so darn beautiful.
“Your eyes are like liquid sapphires; your skin has the lustre of a pearl; your mouth is as red as rubies.” He had waxed lyrical as his desire increased. “I can see the cleft between your breasts, now the flush on your cheeks!”
Mitch! He’d been giddy with love for her. Her heart in his hands.
Her ballgown had been the same colour as her eyes, a deep blue silk-taffeta, daringly strapless with a tight bodice, tiny waist and a wonderful billowing skirt. Her grandmother, Ruth, had actually let her wear some family jewellery—more for showing off the family possessions than from affection—a perfect sapphire as big as a walnut on a diamond chain. There had been pendant earrings to match, that when she had danced bounced against her cheeks, sending out chinks of light. Even her mother had seemed deeply impressed, and her father content to put his arm around her and kiss her cheek, murmuring, “My beautiful girl!”
Mitch had been her date. Mitch had always been her date. And that night she’d fought such a physical battle against temptation, desperate to behave as expected of her when all her senses and those she hadn’t even known she possessed stirred unbidden. That night Mitch had become her first lover. He’d given her the sexual rapture she’d thought she couldn’t live without but very sadly did.
Her mental images were so luminous she could have moaned aloud: Mitch holding her passionately in the dark—“I can’t, Chris, I can’t, I can’t. I can’t wait any longer. I love you. I’m mad about you. I’ve got protection. I promise I’ll never let anything bad happen to you. My love. My love.”
The agony in his voice had rendered her incandescent, both of them gasping and stumbling, blindly, intensely kissing, hoping, hoping to reach the west wing and his bedroom before someone discovered them. No one who hadn’t experienced passionate love could imagine the force of it. If you wanted someone, truly wanted someone, you were lost. If you loved them as she had loved Mitch they entered your psyche.
She had returned his fevered kisses, pressing her body cased in its beautiful gown into his, deliberately inciting him so he hauled her onto the bed. She had felt the thrilling physical sensations in her breasts, in her stomach, the knife-edge between her legs, the strong pull on her womb.
Mitch—his mouth moving all over her face, her neck, the swell of her breasts. She remembered the smell of his skin, the taste of him, his tongue caressing hers. At nineteen, two years older than she, he was the most skilful lover, expertly playing her nerves and sinews like the strings on a violin.
It had been ecstasy and terror. An extravagant blend of both. A giant leap to another level of their extraordinary relationship begun when they were children. In the end she couldn’t have stopped him even if she had wanted to. She’d known he couldn’t stop himself. It had been delirium. Her first sexual experience. The one against which all others had been judged. And found wanting.
She didn’t know whether to laugh or weep. She could simply say she was a one-man woman…
“Say, what’s wrong?” Mitch demanded. He’d been assembling her baggage and placing it up on the verandah. Now he came alongside, struck by her preoccupation with the west wing.
“Good question.” She lowered her thick eyelashes before he caught any residual emotion in her gaze.
“Looks like you were thrown by a few memories?” he remarked tersely. As youngsters they’d prided themselves on being able to read each other’s thoughts.
“Okay, so it was the most exciting night of my life.” She didn’t attempt to hide her patently obvious thoughts. “The first time we made love.”
“Chrissy, Chrissy, is that supposed to upset me?” he asked, leaning back against the Jeep and jamming his hands in his pockets. “I’m quite sure you’ve enjoyed a good sex-life these past years.”
“Me?” She gave a little self-mocking grimace. “I live like a nun.”
“Not believeable, kiddo,” he clipped, raking her with his eyes. “Unless you’ve totally changed. The least you can do is show me what you’ve learned.”
Her heart twisted at his insolence. Even simple friendship seemed to be out of the question. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you give me to understand I’d better back off?”
“We’re grown-ups, aren’t we?” he countered, staring her down. “I don’t get a lot of fun way out here, Chrissy. What I meant was that you’ll never get me to the altar again.”
“I didn’t get you there the first time,” she reminded him tartly.
“Now that’s a rotten answer. You women are so cruel. You were seriously contemplating it. We made love every time we could. In barns, around corners, every bend of the creek, our lily pond. It was love, wasn’t it?”
She looked straight into his blissful blue eyes. “It was more like a freefall through space.”
He didn’t move, but glanced away abruptly, adjusting the tilt of his akubra on his gold-fire hair. “The symbolism, my dear Chrissy, isn’t lost on me. But if you’d like to sneak into my room one night while you’re here, I’m sure we can work something out. It’s just that we’ll never be what we were again.”
She shoved on her sunglasses. “I agree. I won’t be tempted either.”
“What, you’re in denial?”
She had started walking; now she halted abruptly, coming within inches of his taunting face.
“How come you can’t commit to anyone?”
“Spoken by the woman who dumped me.” Languidly he pushed a stray silky lock behind her ear. “I was only having you on, Chrissy. You won’t get your head on my pillow again. Never!”
“Who says?” she challenged, holding the blue gaze.
“I say.”
“Listen, Mitch Claydon, don’t ever use a sentence that ends in ‘never’ with me.”
He gave a low whistle, then his marvellous smile. “You know, Chrissy, it’s really weird, but you sou
nd just like you used to when you were about sixteen.”
“And you were already in love with me.”
“True.” His eyes darkened to turquoise and she felt his instant withdrawal. “I’ve been through that once. I don’t plan on doing it twice. Now, let’s go inside before this conversation starts getting really rough.”
Julanne Claydon loved having Christine in the house. She’d been badly missing her daughter, India, presently living in London, but Christine was surely the next best thing.
Christine knew life could be very lonely for station women, so she did all the things she knew Julanne loved. They took long walks together, or drove to a cool shady picnic spot beside a water lily-filled lagoon. They enjoyed being quiet together or chatting companionably. They listened to music together—Christine had brought over a whole range of CDs—and they played chess just like in the old days.
Both of them loved games of strategy. Christine, to whom winning wasn’t as important as enjoying the game, was still amused by Julanne’s competitiveness. She never gave up. Afterwards they always had tea, accompanied by a slice of delicious freshly baked cake. Christine always said if she stayed much longer she’d get fat.
“Do racehorses put on weight?” Julanne would reply.
“She’s every bit as down to earth and sunny-natured as when she was a child,” Julanne confided to Mitch one evening, when he called to say goodnight. “Success hasn’t gone to her head at all! She enjoys the same old things: having dinner with the family, catching up on all the gossip, the latest news about mutual friends, who’s had a baby who’s expecting one, the inevitable losses in families—all the sorts of things India never really enjoys talking about much.”
“India was always preoccupied with Kyall,” Mitch pointed out dryly. He watched his mother, glowingly serene, as she brushed out the thick, curling, sun-streaked blonde hair that had once been as golden as his own. “Kyall was the centre of her life.”
“I blame Ruth for that.” Julanne brushed harder. “And myself too, of course. I failed India by allowing her to believe she had a chance.”
