Читать книгу A Wife At Kimbara - Margaret Way - Страница 8

BROD strode from the blinding light of the compound into the welcoming gloom of the old homestead’s hallway. His whole body was sheened with sweat and his denim shirt covered in dust and grass stains. He and his men had been up since dawn driving a herd of uncooperative cattle from drying Egret Creek to Three Moons, a chain of billabongs some miles off.

It had been a long hot slog filled with plenty of curses and frustration as several beasts in turn tried to break away from the herd. Dumber than dumb in some situations cattle had a decided ability to hold their own in the bush.

He could do with a good scrub but there was scant time for that. His schedule was as hectic as ever. He’d almost forgotten, the station vet was flying in this afternoon to give another section of the herd a general check over. That was about three o’clock. He had time to grab a sandwich and a cup of tea and return to the holding yard they’d set up under the gum trees.

Now he focused on the stack of mail neatly piled on top of the rough pine bench that served as a console. No Kimbara this he thought with bleak humour. Definitely not the splendid historic homestead of his birth.

His father resided on Kimbara. Stewart Kinross. Lord of the Desert. Leaving his only son to slave his guts out running the cattle chain while he claimed all the glory. Not that there weren’t quite a few people in the know. Not that it bothered him all that much he thought swivelling to throw his black Akubra onto a peg on the wall. It landed unerringly on the target as it always did but he paid no attention. His day would come. He and Ally together had quite a stake in the diverse Kinross enterprises with ancestral Kimbara, the flagship of the Kinross cattle empire the jewel in the crown.

Grandad Kinross, legendary hero, had seen to that, never blind to his son Stewart’s true nature. Andrew Kinross was long gone while his grandson lived a near outcast on Marlu for the past five years. In fact it had been since Alison, hiding her heartache over the breakup of her passionate romance with Rafe Cameron, left home for the Big Smoke, the name the Outback bestowed on big bustling cosmopolitan Sydney.

Alison said then she wanted to try her hand at acting like their celebrated Aunt Fee who had taken off at eighteen full of wild dreams of making a brilliant career for herself on the London stage. And wonder of wonders Fee had actually succeeded despite a well publicised out of control love life. Now she was back on Kimbara writing her sensational memoirs.

Fee was quite a character, too famous to qualify for black sheep of the family but with two big-time broken marriages behind her and the legacy of an exquisite English rose of a daughter. Lady Francesca de Lyle, no less. His and Ally’s cousin and from what they’d seen of her as good as she was beautiful. Couldn’t have been easy with the arty oversexed Fee for a mother.

Now Fee was telling all, convinced her biography would be a huge success in the hands of one Rebecca Hunt, an award-winning young journalist from Sydney with another well received biography of a retired Australian diva under her belt.

Just to think of Rebecca Hunt lit a dangerous flame somewhere inside him. Such was the power of a woman’s beauty he thought disgustedly when he distrusted her like hell. He had no difficulty summoning up her image. Satiny black hair framing a lily cool face, but with one hell of a seductive mouth. The mouth was a dead give-away. Yet she was so utterly immaculate and self-possessed she was darn near mysterious. He could never imagine someone like him for instance mussing that sleek hair or laying a finger on her magnolia flesh. She was way too perfect for him. Brod gave an involuntary laugh the fall of light in the hall giving his lean handsome features a brooding hawklike quality. In reality the patrician Miss Hunt was just another mightily ambitious woman.

It wasn’t his father that had her in thrall. No way would he accept that. Not that his father wasn’t a big handsome guy, assured, cultivated, filthy rich, fifty-five and looking a good ten years younger. Forget the meanness there. No it was the wild splendour of Kimbara that interested Miss Hunt, of the large ravishing grey eyes. Eyes like the still crystal waters of a hidden rock pool, yet he had divined instantly Miss Hunt would discard her promising little career any day to become mistress of Kimbara. From a fledgling career to riches beyond her imaginings. Only one catch: She could only have it all while his father lived. After that it was his turn.

The Kinross tradition had never been broken. Kimbara, the Kinross’s ancestral home was passed directly from father to firstborn son. No one had ever abdicated in favour of a brother though Andrew Kinross had been a second son, surviving the Second World War when his elder brother James hadn’t. James had died in his brother’s arms in a far distant desert, very different from their own. One of the countless terrible tragedies of war.

Shaking his head sadly, Brod moved to pick up the mail riffling through it. It had been flown in that day while he was far out on the run. Wally his loyal, part aboriginal ex-stockman had brought it up. Since he had badly smashed his leg in a fall from his horse, Wally’s duties revolved around the small homestead and the homestead’s vegetable garden, which was currently thriving. Wally wasn’t turning into a bad cook, either. At any rate better than him.

Only one piece of correspondence really caught his eye and somehow he had been expecting it. He ripped it open smiling grimly at the contents. Why would the old man contact him directly when he was so good at letters? He took a harsh breath. No “Dear Brod.” Nothing like that. No enquires as to his health. It appeared his father had arranged a gala event to impress and entertain Miss Hunt. A polo weekend at the end of the month. In other words ten days’ time. Matches starting Saturday morning with the main event 3:00 p.m. Usual gala ball in the Great Hall Saturday night.

His father would naturally captain the main team, read, hand-pick the best players. His son Brod would be allowed to captain the other. His father hated like hell that his son was so damned good if a bit on the wild side. God pity him, his father seemed to hate everything he did even as the chain thrived. If the truth be known his father didn’t look on him as a son at all. Since he had grown to manhood his father had treated him more like a rival. An enemy at the gate. It was all so bloody bizarre. Small wonder he and Ally were emotionally scarred, but both of them had confronted it.

Their mother had run off when he was only nine and Ally a vulnerable little four-year-old. How could she have done it? Not that he and Ally didn’t come to understand it in time. Getting to know their father so well, his black moods, the colossal arrogance, the coldness and the biting tongue they reckoned their mother had been driven to it. Maybe she would have fought for their custody as she swore she would but then she had gotten herself killed in a car smash less than a year later. He vividly remembered the day his father had called him into his study to tell him about the accident.

“No one gets away from me,” Stewart Kinross had said with a chilling smile on his face.

That was Brod’s father.

He shook his head in despair. At least he and Ally, the closest of siblings, had had Grandfather Kinross to turn to. For a while. A finer man had never been born. The best thing that had ever been said to him had come from one of his grandfather’s closest friends, Sir Jock McTavish.

“You have all your Granddaddy’s great fighting heart and spirit, Broderick. I know you’re going to live up to the legend!”

Jock McTavish knew how to size a man up. In the many shattering confrontations Brod had had with his father over the years he tried to hold fast to Sir Jock’s words. It hadn’t been easy when his father had never ceased trying to grind him down.

Brod sighed and thrust his father’s letter into the pocket of his jeans. He had no desire to travel so far, he told himself. It was one hell of an overland trek from Marlu to the Kinross stronghold in the Channel Country in the far south west of the giant state of Queensland. Plus he was too damned busy. If he went at all he would have to fly. His father sure hadn’t offered to pick him up in the Beech Baron. He’d have to call up the Camerons as he did frequently even after Ally’s breakup with Rafe.

He’d grown up with the Cameron brothers, Rafe and Grant. The history of the Kinross and Cameron families was the history of the Outback. It was their Scottish ancestors themselves, close friends from childhood who had pioneered the fabled region in the process turning themselves into cattle barons. Both dynasties had survived. Not only survived, flourished.

Sudden frustration seized him. He remembered as vividly as yesterday the time Ally had come to tell him she couldn’t marry Rafe. She was going away. A journey of self-discovery she called it. Her romance with Rafe was simply too overwhelming for comfort.

“But hell, Ally, you love him!” He could hear his own disbelieving voice. “And he sure as hell is crazy about you.”

“I love him with every breath that’s in me,” Ally had responded passionately, fiercely wiping tears from her face. “But you don’t know what it’s like, Brod. All the girls fall for you, but not a one of them has touched your heart. Rafe squeezes the heart out of me, do you see? I’m sick of him and sick with him. He’s more than I can take on.”

Bewildered he had ploughed on. “So he’s forceful? A man’s man. He’s not in the least like our father. There’s nothing dark and frightening about Rafe, if that’s what you’re worried about. He’s one hell of a guy. What’s got into you, Ally? Rafe is my best friend. The Kinross’es and the Camerons are damned near related. We all thought your marriage to Rafe would finally unite our two families. Even the old man is all for it going ahead. Marvellous choice and all that. Couldn’t be more suitable.” He aped his father’s deep, polished tones.

“I can’t do it, Brod,” Ally had insisted. “Not yet. I have to learn a lot more about myself before I take on Rafe. I’m terribly sorry to disappoint you. Father will be furious.” Her beautiful clear green eyes darkened at the prospect.

He had taken her in his arms then, hugging her to him. “You could never disappoint me, Ally,” he told her. “My love for you is too great. My respect for your wisdom and spirit. Maybe its because you’re so young. Barely twenty. You have your whole life in front of you. Go with my blessing but for God’s sake come back to Rafe.”

“If he’ll have me.” Ally had tried to smile through her tears.

It hadn’t happened. Rafe had never seriously been drawn to another woman but the one person they never talked about was Alison. That subject was taboo. Tough, self-sufficient as he was giving no sign of hurting, Brod knew. Ally had dealt his friend a near mortal blow.

Momentarily disconsolate he stared sightless through the open doorway. Five years later and Ally still hadn’t returned home. Ally like Fee had developed quite a talent for acting. Something in the genes. Ally had just won a Logie for best actress in a TV series drama playing a young doctor in a country town. She was enormously popular for her beauty and charm, the way she gave such life and conviction to her frequently affecting role. He was full of admiration for her but he really missed her; the comfort and humour of her company. God knows how Rafe, being Rafe, coped with the bitterness of rejection that must have accumulated in his heart? He didn’t take it out on him though Grant, the younger brother had been known to fire off a few salvos. Rafe and Grant were as close as he and Ally. To hurt one was to hurt the other. Both brothers would be certain starters in the main polo match the coming Saturday afternoon. Both excellent players though Rafe had the edge. But neither was going to faze him.

He liked the going tough and dangerous and he didn’t think he’d have too much trouble persuading one or both to join his team despite his father and he’d need their help getting to Kimbara.

The Cameron’s historic station Opal Plains bordered Kimbara on its north-northeast border. Grant ran a helicopter service from Opal that covered their part of Outback while Rafe was master of the vast station. Aristocrats of the Outback, the press called all three of them. They presented a polished front to the world, but there had been plenty of sadness and tragedy in their lives.

No, even if he could cadge a ride with Rafe and Grant he had no desire to confront either his father or the magnolia skinned Rebecca. If the truth be told he couldn’t bear to see them together. His father showing that seemingly flawless young woman all the exquisite care and consideration he had never accorded his daughter, let alone his wife.

Often to amuse as much as torment himself he conjured up the ridiculous picture of Stewart Kinross down on his knees before the luminous eyed Miss Hunt begging for her hand in marriage. His father so rich and powerful he thought he was invincible. So sure of his virility, he thought he possessed such sexual magnetism he could easily attract a woman half his age. If it weren’t so damned likely it would be funny. Women couldn’t resist power and money. Especially not adventuresses.

He’d have to find out a little bit more about Miss Rebecca Hunt, he decided. She was remarkably close lipped about her past though he knew from the blurb on the back of the recent biography she’d been born in Sydney in 1973. That made her twenty-seven. Three years younger than he. The rest went on to list the not inconsiderable achievements of her short career.

She had been named Young Journalist of the year at the age of twenty-four. She’d worked with the Australian Broadcasting Commission, SBS and Channel 9. Two years with the British Press. A book of interviews with the rich and famous. The diva’s biography. Now Aunt Fee.

Next to nothing about her private life, though. It might have been as blank as a nun’s only Miss Rebecca Hunt behind the cool facade was so absolutely fascinating she couldn’t have escaped at least a few sexual encounters. If she was footloose it had to be by choice. Was she waiting for the right man? Charming, clever, rich and powerful.

Most people thought Stewart Kinross was just that, until little bits of him occasionally seeped out. The ego, the self-centeredness, the caustic tongue. But when he set out to, Brod had to admit, his father could be dazzling. A young woman like Miss Rebecca Hunt was bound to be socially ambitious. If she took on his father she would get more than she bargained for, the conniving little witch. He almost felt a stab of pity.

No, he didn’t want to go, he told himself, suddenly realising he wanted to go very much.