Читать книгу Outback Wives Wanted!: Wedding at Wangaree Valley / Bride at Briar's Ridge / Cattle Rancher, Secret Son - Margaret Way - Страница 8

BRIAR’S Ridge was into its first week of shearing. For most of the preceding week the brunt of getting the barracks ready for the shearing team had fallen on Alana. The men brought their own cook, and there was a kitchen, bathrooms, and a large communal shower room, but it all had to be cleaned, swept and dusted, mattresses aired, then beds made up with fresh sheets. Alana had had to dig deep to get through it all, but the last sheep was expected to be shorn by the end of the following week.

Wangaree, by far the biggest property in the valley, was already underway, with its shearing expected to go on for weeks.

Alana had loved shearing time from when she was a little girl, and the itinerant shearers—all regulars to Briar’s Ridge—had made a little mascot of her. An extra bonus for this week was the gratifying way her father had managed to remain sober and on the job.

When Alana wasn’t droving sheep to the shed, or taking shorn sheep back to the paddocks, part of her time was spent with the shearers—much to the delight of the men, in particular a newcomer to their ranks, with an excellent reference from a big Western Queensland station.

Even dressed in unisex jeans and a cotton shirt, there was no mistaking Alana for anything else but a beautiful, vibrant young woman with a powerful sex appeal that was entirely natural. Admiring glances came her way aplenty, but no man was fool enough to look at her directly with lust in his eyes. Alan Callaghan was still a daunting presence in the sheds and around the yards. There was her brother Kieran too, a great bloke, but fiercely protective of his sister. And then there were Alana’s dogs, a formidable pair. The upshot was that Alana went where she pleased without a moment’s hassle.

Apart from her golden beauty, the men admired her for her proven abilities and capacity for hard work. Alana could shear a sheep with the best of them. Maybe she didn’t have their strength and endurance, and she couldn’t keep up the count or the pace—she was a woman after all, very fit and in splendid shape but at the end of the day no match for a man—but she came into her own instructing her dogs to draft the sheep through the yards. It was fascinating to watch the dogs in action. Up, under, around, running along the sheeps’ backs. In the shed Alana worked hard, picking up the shorn white fleece the instant it was ready, then throwing it in a smooth arc onto a long slatted table.

That particular day when the men were more than ready for their mid-morning break—although there were no smokers any more, like in the old days, no pollution of human lungs let alone the wool—Thommo, their best and fastest shearer, even if he was the oldest, let her have a go finishing off the last sheep. Thommo had given her and Kieran lots of tips about shearing over the years, which they had taken on board.

“Come on, love. Your go,” Thommo said encouragingly.

“Thanks, Thommo.” There was still plenty to learn.

Beneath her blue shirt Alana was wearing a sports bra and a yellow singlet. All the exterior doors and windows were open, but it had grown very hot in the shed. Without a thought, unselfconsciously she ripped off her cotton shirt.

“Sheep-o!” Thommo yelled as he pulled a fairly hefty ewe from the pen. “You’re on the clock, love.”

And this, then, was how Kieran and Guy found her, when they walked down to the shed to check on how the wool was coming.

“Well under four minutes!” Thommo congratulated her, well pleased.

He took a closer look. She had freed the wool cleanly in one piece, nice and close to the loose kinky skin. He threw her a clean towel and she moved forward to catch it. Sweat was running down the side of her face from her temples, trickling into her cleavage. She was positively glowing.

Guy gave no indication of it, but he was deeply rattled. This wasn’t the Alana he had seen a few weeks back, at the party for the Hartmanns. She had been so beautiful then, in her golden-green dress, hair and make-up immaculate. This was the tomboy Alana Callaghan Guy remembered from only a handful of years before, but the luminosity she had inherited from her mother was a thousand times more potent. She didn’t seem at all uncomfortable, yet the tight yellow singlet drew attention to her small, beautifully shaped breasts, her taut midriff, tiny waist, and the slender strength of her arms. Her lovely, glossier-than-satin skin was dewed with sweat, the ponytail at her nape a damp honey-gold tangle. She looked incredibly erotic.

Guy felt a hard knot tightening in his chest. He felt a powerful impulse to strip off his own shirt and cover her up. His eyes whipped around the shed. Most of the men he knew. They were regulars on the circuit. One fellow he didn’t: young, heavy build, heavy wrists and shoulders, good-looking in a rough sort of way, dark overnight growth on his face. His response to Alana was showing only too starkly.

Guy found himself jamming his hands so they came together like fists. He loathed violence. He’d never had to employ it—he knew he commanded a lot of respect that precluded it—but he had a driving urge to run the shearer not only out of the shed but off a property that wasn’t even his. He had to force himself to calm. If he had his way, Alana would be barred from the shed.

His sister Alex had been treated like a princess from birth. Alex had never been allowed to wander at will around the shearing sheds when the men were there working. She certainly didn’t know how to shear a sheep and class the wool, much less work energetic sheep dogs. Alex’s place had been at the homestead with their mother. She had gone on to university, after which, armed with an arts degree majoring in Fine Art, she had been offered a job at arguably the best art gallery in the country, owned and run by a family friend. A smooth ride—as Alex would be the first one to admit.

Alana too had had her chance at university, but when her mother had been killed there had been nothing else for it but for her to come home. For the past three years she had been a full-time, hard-working farm girl, coping valiantly with a guilt-ridden father with a potentially fatal drinking problem. No easy life for a twenty-two-year-old girl. It came to Guy, not for the first time, that he was powerfully protective of her.

The shearers’cook, a wiry little Chinese man, entered a side door, calling out, “Smoko!” to the men. Morning tea was ready, which meant a mountain of sandwiches, fresh dampers with butter, golden honey or strawberry jam, and a gallon of billy tea.

As she towelled herself off, Alana caught sight of the two men in the main doorway. Their tall, lean figures, wide in the shoulders, narrow in the hips, were silhouetted against the brilliant sunlight.

Guy! He had only to appear and she came unstuck. Settle down, her inner voice advised. She shouldn’t let him do this to her, but so much of life just happened.

Totally unselfconscious only a few minutes before, now she threw the towel down and made a hasty grab for her shirt, pulling it on but letting it hang loose.

“Hey, Lana—want to organise some morning tea for us?” Kieran called to her in a cajoling voice. “I’ll have a few words with Thommo, then I’ll join you both back at the house. Don’t worry about Dad. He and Buddy are flat out at the Second Paddock.”

“Fine. I’ll wash up first.” She walked towards Guy, while Kieran followed the shearers outside into the sunlit courtyard.

“Morning, Guy,” she managed brightly, although her throat had gone bone-dry. “This is a surprise.” She led him off on the shortest route to the house.

Brilliantly enamelled parrots squawked overhead; and a fresh gust of wind sent spent petals flying from the seductive smelling flowers.

“I wanted to have a word with your father.”

“Oh?” She looked up at him quickly, trying to decipher what lay behind those fathomless dark eyes. He sounded very distant for Guy. Indeed, he looked daunting. His eyes were clouded—but with what? Some strong feeling, that was for sure. It unnerved her. Was it anger that overwhelmed him? If so, about what? She kept her head tilted towards him, feeling enormously heated—and it wasn’t just from her recent physical activity. Emotions were running dangerously high. She had never seen Guy this way. She tried to cover her inner agitation with whatever veneer she could muster. “What about?”

“We want to keep it to ourselves.” His expression lightened, but it still troubled her.

“Now you’ve got me really interested.”

“While keeping you out of the loop?” He gave her a faint sideways smile. “No, it’s just private stuff, Alana. Nothing to worry or concern you.” His glance swept her, increasing her jitters.

She was wearing some light gloss that made her heart-shaped mouth look moist and luscious, Guy thought. He knew there were many young men in the Valley in love with her, his own cousin included, but she wasn’t looking to get rescued from the farm. She loved Briar’s Ridge. She was a true country girl, but just too damned desirable to work with the men.

“Shearing is gruelling work,” he said, hearing it come out a lot more tersely than he’d intended.

“You mean you don’t approve of my taking part?” She stared up at him with a little questioning frown. His attitude had taken her by surprise.

He was silent a moment. “Actually, I don’t. There’s a new fellow on the team. What’s his name?”

She gave a little laugh. “Gosh, you worked that out pretty fast. He’s a New Zealander, and he’s good. Great co-ordination. I can’t remember his name. I think it’s Dean.”

“Then Dean had better keep his eyes off you.”

It was preposterous. He was jealous. “I never thought you so arrogant, Guy Radcliffe!”

His mouth compressed. “It’s not that I’m arrogant. To put it simply, I’m older and wiser than you.”

“Oh, yes! You’re my superior in every way.”

“At various times I might be. You should consider keeping your shirt on around the men.”

She made a sound of intense irritation. “What a sensible suggestion! You’re really jealous, huh?”

He shrugged a shoulder. “No, just concerned. Your father and Kieran can’t keep their eye on you all the time.”

Alana could feel her temper go from simmer to boil. “Gee, Guy, it’s so nice you called in. Don’t you think I can look after myself?”

“Sorry, Alana. You can—better than most. But I wouldn’t like to see anyone bothering you.”

“What would you do?” she challenged, thinking that the elegant Guy Radcliffe, who never raised his voice, wouldn’t be the man to cross. At that very moment the Lord of the Valley looked mighty tough.

He held a bougainvillaea bough freighted with hot pink blossom away from her head. “You’ve seen me cracking a whip haven’t you?” he asked. Whips were used by stockmen to assist in the mustering process. Alana knew better than most that it wasn’t anywhere as easy as it looked. Guy was wonderful to watch.

“I’ve got a big brother, Guy,” she pointed out sweetly.

“I don’t feel in the least brotherly.”

It took a full minute for her to respond. “How about cousinly?” she suggested.

“Not even close. Kieran is enormously protective of you, and he worries when he has to go away.”

It was the truth. “You Valley men are all so old fashioned. Don’t deny it. You are.”

He surprised her by coming to a halt, then turning her towards him. “Men have always been attracted to beautiful women, Alana. Most are civilised and keep their admiration within prescribed bounds. Some don’t.”

Her hazel eyes sparkled as she lifted her chin. “You sound like you want to sack my new man on the spot?”

“I’m going on instinct.” His dark gaze was very serious.

“What was he doing?” She broke away angrily.

“It’s called arousal,” he responded bluntly.

Alan couldn’t control her flush. “Listen, Guy,” she said tightly, “I’m confident I can handle the men, thank you very much. Our regulars wouldn’t let any new man get out of line. Besides, Dad is sober these days. He’s out and about, and Kieran is always around. I have three favourite men in my life. And, no, one of them isn’t you.”

“Lord of the Valley?” he queried, very dryly.

The fact he knew mortified her. “Okay I admit I call you that sometimes.”

“You’ve been calling me that for years,” he jeered softly.

“Be that as it may, my three favourite men are Dad, Kieran and Simon—in that order.”

He didn’t look in the least slighted. In fact he laughed, showing his beautiful even white teeth. “Then, Ms Callaghan, you’re in the best of all possible hands.”

Inside the house, Alana excused herself quickly. “I won’t be more than a few minutes. I’ll just wash up. Go into the living room. Make yourself at home.”

“Is that one of Kieran’s?” Guy made a beeline to the wall hung with a huge, unframed canvas. It was an abstract, yet unmistakably the light-filled Australian bush. It sang of it. It even seemed to smell of it. “Of course it is,” Guy muttered to himself. “Couldn’t be anyone else’s. It’s astonishing! It radiates!” He suddenly wanted to buy it, knowing if he suggested such a thing Kieran would have the painting off the wall in no time, gift-wrapped and delivered to him.

“Tell him that,” Alana called, dashing away.

God knew, Alex had tried often enough to tell him, Guy thought, studying the work of art even more intently. How did Kieran get so much light into it? Annabel Callaghan had not painted, to the best of his knowledge, but she had been a very “arty” woman, enormously gifted at craftwork. One of Annabel’s Denby cousins was a well-known painter, Marcus Denby, who had lived in England for the past thirty years. So it was in the genes, in their nature, Guy thought. Though it was only since his mother’s death that Kieran had found release in these riveting landscapes, “knocked up”—in his own words—in one of the farm sheds. Kieran painted. Alana read books. Alan drank himself to death.

Guy had known Kieran all his life. Kieran was clever, insightful, extremely hard-working but he wasn’t meant to be a sheep farmer. It was at Alex’s instigation that Guy had discovered Kieran Callaghan’s great gift. He simply hadn’t known. But Alex had. He knew Alex and Kieran, remarkably close in their teens, had long since gone their separate ways. Something hadn’t worked out, and he often felt that was a great pity. He had tried at one time to find out what the big rift had been, but both, independently of one another, had let him know he was breaching boundaries. After that he had backed off. Alex had more than her share of admirers anyway. He just hoped she wouldn’t settle for poor old Roger. Roger Westcott was a good man—they had gone to school and university together—but he wanted someone with a lot more going for him for his beautiful, artistic sister.

Guy was still standing in front of the painting when Alana flew down the staircase.

“There—what did I tell you? A few minutes!” she announced breathlessly.

He let his eyes rest on her, aware of a powerful desire to reach for her, fold her in his arms, let what might happen, happen. Instead he said lightly, “You look like you’ve had a shower.” She was wearing different clothes—a red tank top and beige shorts that showed off her long beautiful legs. Her honey-blonde hair was damp, little tendrils curling around her hairline like golden petals.

Her face lit up with a smile so beautiful it took his breath. “Just a quick one. In and out. Come through to the kitchen,” she invited, almost dancing ahead. “You like that painting of Kieran’s, don’t you?” she asked over her shoulder. The delicious scent of boronia wafted to him in her wake. Probably the soap she had used. No wonder that new shearer was drooling over her. Was there ever such a bloom on a woman?

“Kieran might be on the wrong track, sticking to wool production,” he risked saying. “He has it in him to be a very fine artist. To make it his career.”

Alana considered that quietly. “Of course he has,” she agreed, very proud of her brother’s outstanding ability. “Do you think I haven’t told him that? And I’m sure Alex is tired of telling him. I think they had a big bust-up about it.”

“When was this?” He frowned.

She met his eyes. “I have an idea Kieran might have taken to looking in on Alex whenever he’s in Sydney. They could have made up, but if they have he’s not saying. He goes there a lot at the weekends. He was there recently.”

“And he doesn’t tell you if he sees her?” Guy’s frown deepened.

“Kieran plays his cards very close to his chest when it comes to your beautiful sister,” Alana said. “There was a time they were close, but then she moved away, and now Roger Westcott is always in the picture. Alex will never be short of men in love with her. But the specific occasion I’m referring to was last Easter, when we were all in Sydney for the Royal National. They were feinting around one another like a couple of boxers.”

“Don’t they always?” Guy asked laconically. “Over the years both of them seem to have built up an impenetrable wall. Now, can I help you with anything?”

Alana laughed. “Please sit down. I’m not short, but you tower over me.”

“Kieran and I are of a height,” he pointed out reasonably, pulling out a chair. “Your dad is a big man.”

“That’s all very well, but you’re different somehow. Kieran started painting just after Mum died, when the pain was almost too much to bear. He’s very artistic, like Mum. She always used to encourage him with his drawing, from when we were kids. Kieran can draw anything. He’s marvellous with trees. A few strokes and he’s created a whole hillside of eucalypts.”

“Alex is right. He’s brilliant.”

“Hey, I’m right too,” she reminded him, pausing in what she was doing. “I know good art when I see it, thank you, Guy.”

“Of course you do.” His tone soothed. “It’s one of the reasons I admire you. You’re getting to be a woman for all seasons. All of us are right about Kieran, but Alex is the one in an ideal position to help him.”

Alana’s expression was sad. “Kieran doesn’t want to be helped, Guy.”

“What does your dad think?”

Alana set out cups, saucers and plates from her mother’s best Royal Doulton dinner set. This was Guy Radcliffe, after all. “Dad does his best to understand, but he can’t critique Kieran’s work. He can’t relate to abstract depictions. He doesn’t want to see the soul of a tree, or the spirit of the bush. He wants photographic realism. Dad is a bit out of his depth with art. He’d be the first to admit it. What do you want to talk to him about?” She changed the subject to what was really on her mind. “He hasn’t borrowed money off you, has he?” She was very fearful he had.

Guy looked back at her directly. “I thought we’d agreed it was a private matter?”

“You know everything—we’re in a lot of trouble,” she said bitterly.

“If your father needs help, I’ll give it to him,” Guy responded. “Are you going to put the coffee on?” “You’re here to give orders, are you?” “No, only trying to be helpful.”

“Dad has put his whole life into Briar’s Ridge,” she said, doing just as he suggested. “We were doing just fine until Mum died. Since then, of course, Dad has made a few really bad mistakes.”

Guy knew about all of them. “Forgive him for them, Alana. Grief is a terrible thing. The mind doesn’t function as well as it should.”

“I do forgive him,” she said, flashing her beautiful glittery eyes at Guy. “He’s my father. I love him. But Kieran and I know we may be forced to sell if we don’t do well at the coming sales. The two of us have poured so much hard work into the place—” She broke off to look at him. “I had an idea we could do something like Morgan Creek, in the next valley. What do you think?” She had intended talking to Guy about this at some stage—why not now?

“You mean offer day trips to a working station? Show tourists and visitors the ropes, let them learn about our oldest and biggest industry, give them a great barbecue lunch, let them enjoy whip cracking and boomerang-throwing and then send them on their way?”

“I’m ready to try my hand at it.”

“Alana, you’re ready to try your hand at anything,” he said, rather quellingly.

“Like Superwoman?” Her response was sharper than she intended.

“You already work far too hard. Have you given any thought as to how you’re going to fund it?” he challenged.

She gave him a look that was hurt and disgusted. “Guy, we have to fight to save this place.”

He saw behind her aggression to the pain. “Maybe your father has lost the will to fight?” he said gently. “Maybe Kieran would like a crack at another life? And you? What about you, Alana? Are you going to fight to save Briar’s Ridge, and then settle down some place else? You’ll marry. I’d be surprised if you weren’t married by this time next year.”

That made Alana grit her teeth. “Are you nuts?”

He laughed. “I can’t believe someone else hasn’t ever suggested it.”

She waved that fact away. “If you mention Simon, I tell you, you’re on very dangerous ground.”

“In that case I’d better back off. I’m fond of my cousin, Alana, but no way is he a match for you. You like bossing everyone around.”

It took her half a minute to see he was teasing. “I have to confess to bossing Simon,” she said wryly. “But in my own defence I had to do it. If you’re so fond of him, why don’t you get him away from his mother?”

Guy looked back with his usual calm concentration. “Alana, I could get him away from Rebecca—but it would take a miracle to get him away from you. Simon has invested everything in you. I don’t mean this unkindly, but he’s rather like your favourite Border Collie, Monty. He’s one-woman loyal. You’re Simon’s dearest friend, his greatest interest in life—his only love.”

She slumped into the chair opposite him, unaware that the oval neck of her tank top had dipped into her lovely young cleavage. “Once upon a time I would never have believed you. Now I think it’s scary. Simon can’t channel all his love into me. Suppose I fall in love with someone? Suppose Dad has to sell the farm and we have to move away? Suppose I die? People get killed all the time. We know that better than most people. He can’t love me. Besides, his mother wouldn’t stand for it. She’s drilled it into him that she doesn’t even approve of me as a friend. I know she’s a relative of sorts, but she’s a horrible woman. She’s all but broken Simon’s spirit.”

“Then he ought to hit on some motto—like Be A Man. Simon has to develop a little backbone, Alana,” he offered crisply, wondering if Simon had ever worked up enough courage to kiss her.

“That’s all very well for you to say. Simon is scared of his mother.” She hesitated a moment, then soldiered on, “You know Rose quite likes Simon …”

The brackets around his mouth deepened in amusement. “I can see the wheels turning in your golden head. But you can’t play matchmaker.”

“Why don’t you try your hand at it, then?” she shot back. “You’re so highly successful at everything you do.”

“Okay!” He leaned back, considering, linking his strong tanned arms behind his crow-black head. “Why don’t I show a little interest in you?” he suggested.

The expression on Alana’s face abruptly changed. “What? Pretend a romantic in … ter … est?” She stumbled over the word.

“Why make it sound like there’s more chance of getting struck by lightning?” His tone mocked. “Surely it wouldn’t be all that difficult? You’re a smart girl.”

“Men don’t like smart girls,” she said bluntly.

‘Ah, yes, but you’re as beautiful as a dream. That helps.”

Her eyes looked frightened. “Would you like to walk that by me again? I’m beautiful?”

“Would you settle for sexy?”

His gaze tantalised her. “Thanks, but no, thanks, Guy.” She whirled up from her chair. “I’ll do anything in the world for Simon except fall in love with you.”

Kieran was greeted by the incomparable aroma of rich, dark roasted coffee. Alana had made a stack of sandwiches that looked really good, as well as producing a plate of triple chocolate brownies she had made only the night before. Alana was a good cook. Their mother had seen to that. The brownies were a favourite with their father, who nowadays mostly preferred to drink than eat.

Kieran poured himself a cup of coffee, then sat down beside his sister. The pair of them were so golden they delighted the eye. “It’s good to see you, Guy.” Kieran spoke with warm sincerity. “You don’t get over often enough.”

“Things will start to slacken off as winter approaches,” Guy said. “I was admiring your new landscape in the hallway. It’s quite something.”

“It’s yours!” Kieran declared, strong white teeth biting into a ham sandwich with relish.

It was just as Guy had expected. “I’d be very happy to own it, Kieran, but I’m speaking to you as a buyer. I’d like to pay for it.”

Kieran shook his leonine mane. “That’s not going to happen. You’ve been too good to us, Guy.”

“Could you elaborate on that?” Alana looked quickly from one to the other.

“Haven’t you noticed all the nice things I do?” Guy told her smoothly. “I’ve lent you various equipment from time to time. I’ve sent wine, table grapes, our very best extra virgin olive oil. I’ve given Kieran here plenty of advice when he’s asked.”

Kieran spread his arms wide. “You’re brilliant, Guy. No wonder Lana’s little puppy dog Simon calls you The Man. If you like the painting, Guy, it’s yours. I can knock up another one.”

But Guy was minded to be serious. “You know you have a considerable gift?”

Kieran’s smiling face sobered. “My talent for painting won’t keep Briar’s Ridge going, Guy. You know that.”

“But your talent for painting might carry you far.”

“You sound just like Alex.” Kieran gulped rather than sipped at his steaming hot coffee. “If Alex had her way I’d be mounting an exhibition before the end of the year. She’s guaranteed me a sell-out.”

“Alex knows what she’s talking about,” Guy pointed out, in his quiet, authoritative voice. “She can help you.”

Kieran kept silent.

How mysterious were the connections of the heart, Guy thought.

Alana looked across the table, feeling bewildered. “Do you two know something I don’t?”

Guy managed a lazy smile. “Lots of things I expect.”

Kieran too grinned. The smiles didn’t fool her. Alana turned to her brother. “Are we in deeper than you’ve told me?” she asked, sounding worried.

“We’ll know more after the sales, Lana.” Kieran picked up another sandwich.

She drew a quick breath. “I’ve spoken to Guy about my idea of turning Briar’s Ridge into a show farm, like Morgan Creek.”

Kieran glanced across the wide pine table at Guy, then back at his sister. “Lana, we’ve been over this. It might work with a big influx of money, but even if by some miracle we could borrow it, Dad wouldn’t sit still for it. You know that. He wouldn’t want people wandering around the property. He’d hate it.”

“So we go under? Is that it?” She blinked furiously, amazed she was so emotional these days.

Kieran laid an arm around his sister’s shoulders. “We haven’t gone under yet, kiddo!” Brother and sister stayed that way for a moment, then Kieran rose, pocketing a couple of brownies. “That was great. Just what I needed.” He looked at Guy with his extraordinarily blue eyes. “Dad’s in the Second Paddock, if you want to find him. We’re supposed to have a meeting with Bob Turner at three.” Bob Turner was the local wool representative. “Want me to drop you out there?”

Guy shook his head. “I won’t keep you. I know you’ve got plenty on your hands. Any of the other locals been around yet?” he asked. The local wool growers usually turned up to check out the quality of their neighbours’ clip.

Brother and sister nodded golden heads in unison. “Harry Ainsworth and Jack Humphrey,” Kieran said. “The stack’s growing, but it’s nothing like our best quality. Dad is disappointed, though he really should have been expecting it. I’m keen to see what’s happening on Wangaree.”

Wangaree’s clip always attracted enormous interest. At the important wool sales in Sydney buyers representing the leading woollen mills and the famous fashion houses of the world usually found their clip close to perfection, which meant Guy had a good idea of what Wangaree’s clip would bring even before it was auctioned off. No matter the slump in prices, wool of the quality produced by Wangaree could be eagerly snapped up.

“Why don’t we make it one day next week?” Guy suggested. “The clip will have grown even taller by then. It’s superfine, and unbelievably white. Bring Alana. Stay to lunch. Your father is very welcome too, but I’ll speak to him myself when I drive out to see him.”

Kieran moved off with the grace of a trained athlete. “That’ll be great! By the way, I meant what I said about the painting. It’s yours. I refuse to take money for it.”

“Then I’ll just have to find another way to pay you back,” Guy called after him. “I’ll have it framed.”

“Sure.” Kieran waved a hand. “I couldn’t run to a frame. Good ones cost the earth.”

“After which I’ll hang it in a prominent place at the house,” Guy promised. “In the years to come I’ll be able to say, Yes, that’s a Callaghan. He’s a good friend of mine. I was one of the lucky ones. I got in on the ground floor.”