Kitabı oku: «The Cattle Baron», sayfa 3
The last time, and it had to be two years, Marley had tried calling him. No go, especially when Marley had used Porter for a reference. Now Marley had decided to show up in person with his girlfriend in tow.
Girlfriend? Surely he’d seen a photograph someplace of Marley and a wife? A little brown hen to Marley’s peacock. It could even have been on TV. Marley had made quite a few appearances after he’d discovered and dated the Winjarra paintings. Ah! He remembered now. There was a journalist involved. A young woman. Banfield started to make the connections. A redhead. His mind ranged back over Mick’s description. Masses of orange hair. Obviously she wasn’t bothered by the fact that Marley was a married man.
Well, time hadn’t changed his mind. He had no intention of allowing Dr. Marley and his girlfriend to run around Three Moons uncovering more bric-a-brac. Probably stuff buried by poor old Porter, whose imagination worked on overdrive. Porter might be obsessed with “proving” the existence of some ancient Egyptian village in the wilds of the up-country, a real no-man’s-land; Chase was far more interested in what was happening on Three Moons here and now. The mustering had to be completed before the onset of the Wet between December and March. They were well into September, spring in the state capital, Brisbane, more than a thousand miles away. Life at Three Moons was dictated by the season. The Wet and the Dry. A creek that was little more than a trickle in the Dry could become a raging torrent in the Wet. If a cyclone blew in from the Coral Sea to the east, the Timor to the north, the Indian Ocean to the west, all hell broke loose. It was either one thing or the other—drought or flood—presided over by the timeless culture of the Aborigines. Banfield had great respect for the Aborigines and great sympathy for them as they coped with the problems that beset them as traditional life broke down. It wasn’t easy trying to adapt to the white man’s culture, almost diametrically opposed to their own. Aborigines were intimately attuned to the land. They weren’t terribly receptive to material gain. But they were the backbone of the big stations, splendid stockmen, trackers, horse breakers. The bush owed them a great debt. His childhood mentor had been Moses, not his uncle Porter. Moses was Three Moon’s leading stockman, the most loyal of employees and a tribal elder. Moses had been asked to look out for him in his childhood days when he’d been running wild. Moses had taken the job very seriously. Banfield didn’t know what he would’ve done without him in those first terrible years after he’d lost his parents and Porter had withdrawn to a place inside himself that could not be reached. Moses was a remarkable man. In many ways a foster father. It was men like Moses who had helped him win the battle to reestablish Three Moons.
CHAPTER THREE
HE WAS NOSING down a sharp rise when he was snatched out of his reverie by one hell of a sight. A small white car in the distance suddenly swerved off the road and took off down the thickly vegetated slope facing the sea. He saw at once why. A wallaby was still standing foolishly on the center line. The driver of the vehicle equally foolishly had swerved to avoid the animal. Just how far should you put yourself at risk? He felt a rush of anxiety for the driver, gunning the accelerator and covering the distance in record time. The main business of life was staying alive. No one would deliberately want to hit a harmless animal, but when the alternative was careering off the road, the only safe option was to hold course. If this accident had happened a mile back, the car would have hurtled down into an old volcanic crater. As it was, with the slope nowhere near so steep, the driver had a good chance of surviving. Still, it would be one hell of an experience, crashing wildly into the brush.
His four-wheel drive with its formidable bull bar slammed to a halt at the spot where he’d seen the small car go over. The tires had left skid marks on the road, and the trail led straight over the side. God! He pushed trailing branches of bougainvillea aside, taking the blood-raising lash as they snapped back, and looked down, wincing at what he might see. Instead, he felt a rush of relief and, it had to be said, admiration. The small car had come safely to rest in a dry gully with a bed of glittering stones, narrowly missing a huge boulder a few feet away. No sign of the driver, but then, he was looking at the passenger side.
Swiftly he got on his mobile and passed a message to Chipper Murray, the local police constable, then he reached into his vehicle for a good strong rope, knotting it securely to the bull bar. He touched his neck, felt a smarting, bleeding raised welt. Mercifully the gully was bone-dry. He went over the side, working his way down in a series of jumps much like the rappelling he used to enjoy. He got down easily, covering the small clearing to the car. The birds were singing. The sky was a cloudless peacock-blue. The air was sweet with the scent of the many species of wild herbs his boots had crushed.
He was almost at the driver’s door when it suddenly opened and a young woman swung her long jean-clad legs to the ground and leaned out. “Hi!” she said in a husky but otherwise perfectly focused voice. “What did I do wrong?”
He laughed over a hard wave of relief. This was a remarkably composed woman. “Regardless of what you did wrong, you’re obviously one hell of a driver.” He approached, studying her with considerable interest. Masses of marigold hair, skin as white as a snowflake, a sprinkling of freckles standing out in high relief, extraordinary eyes, green with gold flecks in them like sunlight on a deep lagoon.
“Skills get sharpened when you’re interested in staying alive,” she answered wryly. “It was the wallaby. No one warned me the darling little thing was out there waiting for me.”
“Next time slow right down, beep your horn and let it cross,” he advised, keeping an eye on her, afraid that she might pass out from delayed reaction.
Instead, she tried ineffectively to smooth down her magnificent hair. “It happened much too fast for that.”
He nodded in appreciation. “How are you feeling?” From the look of it, shock hadn’t yet set in. Either that or she was downright fearless. Just about anybody would have been a mess.
“I’ll be fine when the adrenaline levels out.”
“Good,” he replied. “Can you stand up? I want to see if you’re still in one piece.”
He put out his arm to assist her, but she rose unaided, tried a smile and stumbled. He caught her, hauling her along his chest.
“Okay, rest a minute.” His hand somehow found the back of her head, shaping its contours as though it had found a will of its own. She smelled of sunlight, fresh air, a bowl of limes.
She wasn’t about to argue, letting her marigold head fall against his shoulder. Tall for a woman. Slight, but he could feel the luscious press of her breasts. He couldn’t decide if she was teetering on plain or was the most striking woman he had ever seen. Either way, his reaction to her was strong and immediate, or maybe he was swept up in the sheer romance of it all.
She stirred after a moment and he murmured, “Take your time. Look on the bright side.”
“Which is?” At that she lifted her head, stared up at him with sparkling eyes.
“It could have been a lot worse. In the Wet that gully runs a torrent.”
“I have to get my thrills somehow.” She leaned back slowly and steadied herself by gripping his strong rugged arms. “Where did you spring from? Thanks for coming to my rescue, by the way.”
“I was right behind you when it happened.”
“So you saw the whole thing?”
He nodded. “I pretty much had a heart attack. I’m feeling a lot better now that I know you’re safe. Look, why don’t you slip back into your car? Rest quietly. The ambulance should be here soon.”
She did a double take. “What ambulance?” Her voice, which had been vibrant and musical, turned sharp and dismayed.
He stared down at her, raising his eyebrows. “The one that’s going to take you into town. I know you’re a defensive driver at the highest level, but you’ve had one hairy ride. Shock will set in. Believe me.”
She laughed, although her temples were beaded with sweat and her skin was whiter than white. “Get on your mobile. Tell them not to come.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“I’m talking to you, aren’t I? I’m quite rational.”
“Hold out your hands,” he ordered gently.
She did so without an instant’s hesitation.
“They’re trembling.” They were, too. Beautiful hands, long-fingered, elegant, the nails unpainted, but a nice length.
“I’m a bit shaken up, that’s all.” She shrugged, more easily able to size him up now. Her first impression was of someone larger than life, a man of mythic proportions. Hercules, Apollo, a bit of both. “Listen, I don’t want any fuss. You can drive me back to town, can’t you?”
Frowning, he studied her face. “If that’s what you want, but I have my doubts I’d be doing the right thing.”
“I’ve been in worse situations.”
“Yeah? When?” he asked skeptically.
“Try East Timor. Or dodging bullets in Afghanistan when you’re trying to talk on camera.”
He gave a devastating smile of approval, looking good enough to play the hero in a big adventure movie.
“Well, that doesn’t leave me with much else to say. Hang on a second and I’ll see if I can stop the ambulance. I’m Chase Banfield. And you’re…?”
One quirky eyebrow shot up. He probably knew exactly who she was, but she identified herself, anyway.
“Roslyn Sum-m-mers.” She’d briskly put her hand in his, then dragged out her name as a jolt of electricity flared through her body. Chase Banfield. Who else? She watched him as he half turned away, punching numbers into his mobile. He was wearing jeans and a bush shirt, and James Bond couldn’t look as good in a tuxedo. Tall. A lot taller than she. About six-three. Wide-shouldered, lean-hipped. A mane of deeply waving bronze hair. A wonderful gold tone to his skin. Beautiful topaz eyes, resembling a tiger’s. A strong distinctive face, sculpted, not chiseled like her own. High cheekbones, brackets around a handsomely cut mouth. Thirty, thirty-two. A man in full possession of his space. A man on his own territory. A fighter. A cattleman with the polished speaking voice of the elite. After Porter she wasn’t prepared for his maleness, his virility and splendor.
Chase Banfield. What else was there to say? The fates had thrown them together.
“So that’s okay,” he said, pushing the mobile back into the pouch on his belt. “No ambulance. Chipper is going to take a run out, though, and see what you’ve done.”
“Whoever Chipper is.” She could feel her heartbeat gradually returning to normal.
“Chipper Murray is our local police constable,” he explained. “A good man. He sees that nothing much goes wrong around here.”
“What’s he going to do? Arrest me for creating this mess?”
“Arresting people is part of the job, but no, you have nothing to fear. He’ll have enough on his hands trying to retrieve the car. Hire car, isn’t it?”
Rosie turned her head, kicked a tire lightly. “This is going to cost a pretty penny.”
“At least it didn’t kill you. So, Roslyn, what do we do now?”
Enterprising though she was, she didn’t think she could handle Chase Banfield. He was dynamite. Rosie took a long look up the slope. “I saw the way you got down. Piece of cake.”
He groaned. “Are you serious? A piece of cake for me. I don’t know about you.”
“Watch me.”
He was beginning to wonder if he could ever stop watching her. She was dressed like him in jeans and a shirt, only, he was never so entrancingly violently colorful. Her cotton shirt was a bright saffron. She had a couple of strings of multicolored glass beads around her neck and an ornate beaten-silver belt around her narrow waist. She reminded him of a field of wild poppies waving in the sun.
“Hang on,” he said, grasping her arm. “I can’t let you go just like that.”
“Of course you can. You wouldn’t believe some of the places I’ve been and the things I’ve done.”
“It’s my rope, girl.” He spoke softly, yet she listened.
“I’m sure I can make it up that slope.” She changed tack, smiled at him appealingly.
“There’s bougainvillea at the top.” He spoke almost with disgust. “It could rip you to shreds.”
“Then you’ll just have to go up first and cut it off. I’ll bet you’ve got something to do it with.”
He nodded grimly. “That’s right.”
“I would’ve put a thousand bucks on it. Anyway, if you can get up there so can I. All I need is a hand.”
He stroked his lean bronzed cheek, taking a moment to verbalize his thoughts. “The problem is, what do we do if you faint?”
“I never faint.” She had once, but he didn’t have to know that.
“Tough girl.”
She put her hands on her slim hips. “Believe it.”
In fact, her color was coming back. Bone china as opposed to snow. “I guess I can haul you up.” He continued to stand over her. “You know anything about knots?”
Her face brightened. “Do I ever! I used to sail with my dad around Sydney Harbour.”
“Perfect!” He could see her in a T-shirt and white shorts. A tomboy with a woman’s body.
“You want me to knot the rope around my waist?”
“Uh-huh,” he drawled laconically. “Don’t rush. We’ve got time.”
Actually, they had very little time. Soon the brilliant sunset would fade to a brief mauve twilight, then total darkness would set in.
Rosie watched as he made short work of hauling himself up the slope, hand over hand, obviously a man who spent his life outdoors, rain or shine. She could never hope to emulate his prowess, but she sure as hell was going to try.
Moments later, he’d reached the top, walking to a big powerful-looking four-wheel drive with a really scary bull bar just in view. She laughed out loud when she saw him return with a yellow chain saw.
“Take care,” she called lightly, although she was serious. Not that she had reason to worry. She’d rarely met anyone who inspired such confidence.
In no time at all, he’d cleared an area of the spectacular purple bougainvillea with its lethal thorns. He gave her a brisk wave.
“Do you still want to do this?”
She looked up at him outlined against the flame-colored sky. “As long as you can,” she shouted.
“I think I’m up to it.”
“Right!” The rope firmly knotted around her waist, Rosie went forward, trying not to think about snakes. This was the Garden of Eden. There were bound to be a few lazing around. Okay, Rosie, you can do this, she urged herself. Part of the job. She had to make a huge effort all the same. She was feeling very shaky. Still, it felt good just to be alive.
Twice on the way up she lost her footing, dangling in space, swearing mildly while he held her weight and called out words of encouragement. “Come on, kid. You can do it!”
“Kid?” She was twenty-nine. Nearly an old maid, if her mother was to be believed. What she wanted, she thought suddenly, was a husband, children. Obviously, it took dangling off a precipice for that realization to hit.
At the top he grabbed her as though were she a feather pillow, while she, in an excess of joy, flung her arms around him. “Rosie,” he drawled, throwing back his bronze head and laughing. “You’ve made me proud.”
She returned his wonderfully infectious smile. “How did you know to call me Rosie?”
“Seems to suit you better than Roslyn,” he said, topaz eyes lighting on her hair. “Is that for real?”
“Goes with the freckles, doesn’t it?” she challenged.
“It’s quite possible you’ve painted them on, they’re so fetching. What are you doing here in Queensland, Rosie Summers?” All of a sudden he sounded like a detective with a suspect. Even the drawl had a sharp edge.
“Would you believe looking for you?” She’d been an investigative reporter too long not to know when it was time to be direct.
“So this was a setup?” His eyes glinted as he gazed down at her.
She considered that, rubbed her cheek. “Hey, I’m inventive, but this was sheer coincidence. It’s glorious country up here. I wanted to have a look around.”
“Then I’d advise you to have a damned good look for wallabies, kangaroos, brolgas and wild boar while you’re at it.”
“You mean they all cross the road?”
He moved abruptly, fighting a brief violent desire to kiss her. “I can’t take you to task now. You’re still very pale.”
“I know,” she answered almost apologetically. “I’ve been cursed with very white skin.”
“I’d say blessed.” His comment was as dry as ash.
“Would you?”
For the first time he got the full effect of her smile. “Spare me the seduction, entrapment, whatever,” he told her shortly, bending his strong fingers to untie the knot at her waist. He slipped the rope free, walked back to his vehicle, unfastened the other end from the bull bar and wound it into a neat coil, which he stashed away in the rear. “Come along.”
She started after him obediently. “You make me feel I should ask you what the charge is.”
“That’s because you are guilty of something, aren’t you, Rosie?” He rounded on her, making her feel incongruously as small as a marmalade kitten.
“I paid for the hire car. I didn’t steal it. Incidentally, is it all right to leave it here?”
He opened the passenger door for her and she hopped in. “It’s not going anyplace,” he muttered.
They were back on the road before he spoke again. “Aren’t you up here seeking permission for a dig? Specifically on my land?”
She swung her head in surprise, caught his accusing glance. “Aha, someone’s been talking. The question is, how did they know, let alone inform you?”
“The answer is, I have spies everywhere. This is my town.”
“You mean you own all the buildings?” she asked brightly.
“I own much of the land the town is built on. Is that enough of an answer?”
“Goodness, yes. The Banfields must be very rich.”
“You have an interest in rich men?”
“Not in cozying up to them. I’m a working girl, after all.” She paused. “Do you think you might listen to what I have to say?”
“Regarding what?” He flicked her a brief daunting glance.
“I’ve heard you’re difficult.” She made it sound like a little grumble.
“Really? I don’t hear that too often. Most people up here think I’m very reasonable.”
“Just being a Banfield might account for that. Listen, I’m not a crank.”
“Thanks for the tip,” he said dryly.
“If you know about me, you must know about Dr. Marley.”
“Aren’t you clever?” he mocked. “Marley’s the boyfriend, isn’t he? Hasn’t he got a wife?”
“He’s not the boyfriend!” Rosie burst out as though he’d offered her an insult. “And not that it’s any of your business his wife recently left him.”
“Oh, nice!” He nodded in cynical fashion. “That gives you a bit more leverage. I guess she wants to live a little, not fade away in Marley’s shadow.”
Exactly Rosie’s reflection. “You know her?” she asked in surprise.
“I once saw a photograph of her and Marley in the paper. A few years back. She seemed a repressed little soul. Too sheltered.”
Rosie had no words to deny it. “Right! But Dr. Marley is very highly regarded in his field. You know about his finding and dating of the Winjarra paintings?”
He looked at her hard. “I don’t spend all my life on a horse.”
“I love horses,” Rosie breathed, getting an instant mental picture of Chase Banfield as Alexander the Great.
“Is that so? How are you feeling now?” he added, shocked that he’d almost forgotten what she had endured.
“Light-headed.”
“When we reach town, you can get a good meal into you.”
“I could go for that,” she said, leaning her head back. “A nice dinner…”
“With Marley?” He couldn’t resist it.
Her eyes flew open. “I told you I’m not involved with him in any way other than professionally.”
“Okay.” His voice soothed. “So why are you tagging along with him?”
“I should have told you. Dr. Marley thinks highly of my persuasive powers.”
He gave a brief laugh that made her squirm. “Don’t kid yourself.”
“You’re not being very complimentary. You know what my accident means, don’t you? The fates have chosen to throw us together. I doubt if I’d have got back up the hill without you.”
“You’re dead right,” he said, sounding pretty final.
“Of course, I could have screamed for help.”
“Why do I have the feeling no one would have heard you? Though I suppose Marley would have noticed when you didn’t show up.”
She wished he’d accept that the situation with Marley was not as it obviously seemed. “Can’t we forget Dr. Marley for a minute?” Rosie asked wearily.
“No.” His answer was flat. “I had one conversation with the man. It could last me all my life.”
“Is there a reason you’re not being cooperative?” Rosie complained. “What I need from you—”
He chopped her off. “Do you honestly believe Three Moons was the site of an ancient Egyptian village?” he asked, exasperation in his tone.
Rosie had learned a long time ago to tell the truth. “I honestly don’t, but it would be one heck of a discovery if it was. As I see it, Marley’s not a fool. He’s a brilliant scholar, a renowned archaeologist. And he has something in his possession I think you should see.”
“Don’t tell me, a mummy.” A mocking smile touched his face.
Rosie shuddered. “I wouldn’t be too happy about a mummy. No, this is a scarab.”
His look clearly conveyed I could have told you that. “So where did he get it? One of his mates in Cairo?”
“Are you willing to be open-minded?” she implored.
“No.” He shook his head. “Plain enough, Rosie?”
“Something tells me you haven’t lost the spirit of inquiry, of adventure.” She turned to him earnestly. “Despite your stubbornness.”
“The answer is still no.”
Now she clicked her tongue, folded her arms across her chest. “You’re letting your dislike of the man overrule your intelligence.”
At that he laughed spontaneously. “You know I’m intelligent, do you?”
She patted his arm encouragingly. “I’m not one of those who thinks brawn can’t be matched by brain. Let him talk to you. No more than an hour. There’s only one pub in town, unless you’re staying with a friend. You have to have dinner. We’ll throw in dinner.”
His amusement was still evident. “That’s mighty generous of you, Miss Summers. I take it this dinner will be with Dr. Marley and you?”
She nodded. “And what you see might surprise you,” she said in warm inviting tones.
“What I’d like to see, Rosie, is you dressed up to dine. Not that you wouldn’t be eye-catching at any time.”
“Well, I couldn’t be beautiful, so I went for offbeat.”
“I think you managed a bit of both.”
“You’re being kind,” she said lightly, not considering her appearance a big issue.
“I hate women who push for compliments,” he teased.
“Not me!” Rosie shook her head. “My experiences have made me anything but frivolous. To get back to the subject, you’re saying you’ll have dinner with us?”
“Stop it. Too easy. You’re persuasive, all right. I can well imagine your getting all your interviewees to spill the beans, but guys like Marley and I don’t hang out together.”
“You’ve got to meet him all the same. I think he’s on to something with this theory of his. He’s obsessed with the whole idea.”
“A rich fantasy life, it’s called. I have an uncle just like him,” Chase scoffed.
“Actually, I’ve met him. Porter Banfield?” Rosie’s eyes studied his profile, seeing the family resemblance, but still not able to believe it. Could any two people be less alike?
Now she had surprised him. “Where?” he asked sharply. “Porter doesn’t get his kicks talking to young women, however scintillating. I don’t know what happened to him, but he’s one miserable bastard. A confirmed misogynist.”
“I think you’re right,” Rosie answered, nodding. “A misogynist may be misguided, emotionally bankrupt, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s stupid. He’s a Banfield, after all.”
He realized he was being thoroughly entertained. “Stop trying to butter me up, Miss Summers,” he warned. “Others have tried it before you.”
“Evidently without success.”
“You haven’t figured me out, either.”
“True, but I’m not defeated. Besides, I think you owe me something for saving my life.”
He laughed, a rich chuckle. “That kind of reasoning is beyond me. Anyway, someone would eventually have found you. I’m even coming around to thinking you could have saved yourself.”
She turned to him engagingly. “Just an hour. I swear you won’t regret it.”
Silence. “You’re doing this for Marley?” he asked finally.
“Hell, no,” Rosie crowed. “I’m doing this for myself. This is my baby. My big scoop.”
“In that case,” he told her. “I’ll come.”
BY SEVEN O’CLOCK Rosie was bathed and dressed. She hadn’t had a lot of time because Chase Banfield had insisted on dropping her at the local doctor’s to have her “checked out.” It was easier not to argue. And it was rather nice being cared for. She hadn’t had that kind of attention since she’d left home. As expected, the doctor confirmed her own evaluation of herself—she was tough, even if she didn’t look it.
Tonight she’d gone to a lot of trouble with her appearance. Banfield had wanted to see her dressed up, so dressed up she’d be. Within limits. This was a little frontier town, after all. No need for the basic black and pearls. Not that she ever wore such garb. Her mother, who was a classic dresser, always said she got her outlandish taste from Great-aunt Hester, distinguished spinster in the family, now in her ninetieth year and still painting her much-sought-after nudes. Rosie’s outfit for the evening was the best she could come up with on short notice. A hot-pink skirt and, wonder of wonders, it didn’t clash with her hair. The top, sleeveless with a V-neck that showed just a hint of cleavage, was dark-green satin. She needed something rich to go around the middle, finally settled for a Thai-silk turquoise sash that fortuitously matched the turquoise sandals she’d brought with her. She’d long ago decided not to play down her unusual looks. For most of her early life, she’d been the clumsy duckling to her mother’s elegant swan. Her height had always been a worry; her hair, a cheerful orange. Then there was the bird’s beak of a nose, the wide sweep of her jaw. Again, inherited from Great-aunt Hester. There was no way she could be like her mother. Once she understood that, she had come into her own.
“There you are, Rosie,” she applauded her reflection. “A woman every man would desire.” It even seemed as if her hair would behave. She had arranged it in a thick upturned roll at the back, making far more of an effort than she had the previous night, when she’d pulled it into a ponytail for dinner with Graeme Marley. She sprayed her wrist again with a gardenia-based perfume. Mmm, fabulous! She was feminine enough to love perfume. “Oh, Roslyn you’re such a bohemian!” She shook her head several times, but she could still hear her mother’s voice. Rosie flashed herself another one of her saucer-size smiles. Why, oh why, did she have such a wide mouth? Well, nothing she could do about that.
She was almost out of her room, feeling extraordinarily excited, when she suddenly made the decision to wear The Necklace. It was a knockout. No one besides Marley and perhaps the hawk-eyed Mr. Banfield would know what it was. Reverently, in case some long-dead ancient Egyptian lady might take it into her head to lay a curse on her, Rosie withdrew the necklace from its soft leather pouch and draped it over her hand. Wonderful workmanship using multicolored, multitextured gold, combined with the semiprecious stone lapus lazuli—the “eyes” of the flowers, five in all, shaped like the sacred lotus, which were appended from the smooth coil that encircled the neck.
She turned back to the full-length mirror, put it on. She knew she was very privileged to wear it.
She went downstairs, smiling at the owner, Lyn Delaney, an interesting woman good for an interview, although she acted a bit cagey for all her friendliness. Rosie won a “You look marvelous” from Lyn that sounded perfectly genuine. She considered that a compliment, particularly given the exotic stylishness of this little back-of-beyond pub. But then, Banfield had said he owned most of the town.
She walked beneath the gleaming fretted timber arch into the small lounge, finding it almost full. The locals all glanced up curiously. Nobody pointed, not one expression conveyed that she looked a little freakish. They all seemed friendly and cheerful, so Rosie gave them her encompassing smile.
Banfield and Marley were already seated at a table to the rear of the room, along with a third man she didn’t know. All three rose gallantly at her approach.
Marley, to her acute annoyance, bowed to kiss her cheek in much too intimate a fashion. Rosie felt like popping him one, but had to settle for discreetly moving off. Chase Banfield’s tiger eyes settled on her, moving gently, very slowly, over her face and then her body. Not transfixed by the wonderful necklace but drifting past it, as if it was just the sort of thing he expected her to wear. Introductions were made. The third man, very thin, all mustache, looked burned up inside, but charming for all that. He was one Mick Dempsey, longtime friend of the Banfield family, himself the owner of a huge cattle station called Derrilan, which he told her meant “falling stars” in the Aboriginal language. Rosie pitied him and warmed to him at the same time. A tragedy there, she thought. She was sure of it.
“All pioneering families seemed to have dreamed up romantic names for their properties,” Marley said in an indulgent voice. “Falling Stars. Three Moons!”
