The Cattle Baron. Margaret Way
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to be myself until I lost Bridget. My wife, you know.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mick.” Rosie’s green eyes lit with sympathy. “When was this?”
Mick looked down, smoothed his luxuriant mustache. “Three years, six months and ten days. Bridget would have liked you,” he told Rosie a little harshly. “Bridget loved a woman with character.”
Marley leveled his penetrating blue gaze on Rosie. “I extend my sympathies too, of course, Dempsey, but I wonder if we could keep to the agenda.”
“I thought the agenda was getting me here.” Banfield’s expression must have instantly alerted Marley that he’d said the wrong thing. “It took Miss Summers to persuade me.”
“Call her Rosie, for God’s sake, Chase,” Mick implored, frowning at Chase in amazement.
“Miss Summers is a media power, Mick,” Chase explained. “One must show respect. But getting back to King Tut, talk of an ancient Egyptian presence is old news, like the forgotten race of Pygmies that hang out in the rain forest. Someone’s always sighting one.”
“Someone always does if they have a mind to,” Rosie said, “but there were Negritos, weren’t there?” She threw herself into the argument. “I know I’ve read about them somewhere.”
“Just a small type of Aborigine, I would suggest,” Banfield said. “About five feet tall with short tight curls.”
“Actually they were first officially noted in 1958,” Marley intervened rather shortly, a veritable font of knowledge. “Anthropologist by the name of Birdsell. There were hundreds of these people in the rain forest at that time. There is evidence the so-called Negritos arrived about seven thousand years ago, while the Aboriginal presence in Australia goes back at least forty thousand years. This is all very interesting, but it’s not what we’re here to talk about.” Exasperation bit into his tone.
Banfield swiveled slightly in his chair, looking to Rosie impossibly handsome and just a touch daunting. “Not if the necklace is the best you can do. I know Porter has little items like that up his sleeve. How he got hold of it I wouldn’t know. He’s been a collector for many years. He finds ‘things’ for the very rich and gets a reward. I know he has dealings with a wealthy collector based in London. My uncle is…something of an opportunist.”
Marley tried unsuccessfully to cover up his resentment at the way the conversation had gone. “I realize that. Give me credit, Banfield. As deeply involved as your uncle is, he’s not a professional, any more than you or Roslyn here. I, however, am highly respected in my field. My views must be taken seriously.”
“C’mon,” Banfield frowned. “Tell me why I should take you seriously. You’ll have to come up with something more concrete than what you’ve got.” His tone lightened. “Are you asking us to believe the necklace Miss Summers is wearing was found on Three Moons? Did my uncle lead you to understand this? Unlike me, he has the time to play games—always for his own ends. He may be using you.”
“I can control people like your uncle.” Marley finished his drink with a grimace. “I have other things—”
“We’re going around in circles, Doctor,” Banfield said, cutting him off. “Porter wants to get back on Three Moons for some reason. Maybe he has something hidden somewhere in the house. Under the big banyan tree. Anything’s possible. It could even be gold. My family benefited greatly from the gold strikes in this area.” He paused, shaking his head. “My parents were taken from me literally overnight. I was only a boy. There was no time to fill me in on all the family secrets. I know there have to be a few. Lost hopes. Lost dreams. This part of the world might be an opulent paradise, but terrible hardships went into our pioneering past. Isn’t that so, Mick?”
“Plenty of early deaths,” Mick said. “But there are so many things you mightn’t know, Chase, that Porter would.” He brightened. “Stuff he’d make sure you’d never find out.”
Marley seized on that. “Then there’s a good chance your uncle’s right. All I’m asking is that you give me a couple of weeks….”
“To hare off on your own?” Banfield said with a flash of his brilliant eyes. “You could be killed if you’re heading up-country.” He transferred his gaze to the slender, very womanly Rosie, his attitude almost explosive. “It could be quite terrifying to get lost in the jungle.”
Rosie nodded, breaking the tension. “You’ve sold me.”
Despite himself, Banfield laughed, studying the dangerous magic of her, the warmth of her, the challenge in her almond eyes, the gorgeous clash of colors, the gleaming magnificence of the necklace around her proud throat.
“You might even run into one of those Negritos,” he drawled. “I think they were cannibals.”
“Really?” Rosie picked up her liqueur.
“He’s joking, love,” Mick assured her lightly. “He’s always joking. But I’ve been thinking—I could help out.” He looked around the table, not at all disconcerted by Chase’s quick penetrating glance. “I’m as good a bushie as your dad,” Mick pointed out.
Banfield nodded. Quite true, but Mick hadn’t handled things well for quite a while. “What about Derrilan? How does it get on?” he asked in a measured voice.
“Hell, Chase, Arnie runs the place,” Mick said sheepishly. “He’s been as good as runnin’ it since I lost Bridget. No, this sounds exciting, and I could do with a little excitement these days.”
Banfield’s eyes settled on his friend with a private message. There aren’t any pubs up-country.
“It might help me out.” Mick leaned forward to stare into Banfield’s stern but caring face.
“And it could do you a lot of harm.” Banfield wondered how long it would take Mick to hit the bottle.
“Once, you used to have great faith in me, Chase,” Mick said gruffly.
“I learned a lot from you, Mick.” In this instance, Banfield had to try not to weaken, when he normally wasn’t a man who gave way easily. “So what’s your proposal?” he asked Marley. “Is my uncle along on the trip?”
Marley’s rich voice developed a sudden coaxing charm. “I had to include him.”
“Oh, perfect!”
“And I’ve been in war zones,” Rosie reminded Chase. “If that counts for anything.”
He gave her a brief smile. “You’re forcing my hand?”
“It’s a beautiful hand.” She glanced at his right hand on the table. “Strong, lean, elegant…”
“Calluses on the other side,” he mocked, turning his hand over. “I’m a cattleman, Miss Summers.”
“Hell, yes! None better.” Mick spoke with affection and pride. “His mum and dad would’ve been so proud of him. Wonderful, just wonderful what he’s accomplished in these last years after Porter bloody near—”
Banfield leaned toward him. “Mick, we won’t waste time on Porter for the moment. I have to think about this.”
“What harm could it do?” Rosie’s eyes lit with green fire. “If your uncle can lead us to this pyramid—he swears it’s somewhere on the station—Graeme can identify it, date it. Even if it’s a wild-goose chase, which it probably is, I could turn it into a good story. Even a short documentary.”
“Get Paul Hogan back and turn it into Crocodile Dundee 3,” Banfield suggested, sitting back, his mouth twitching. “You want to fool around with crocodiles?” he asked Rosie.
“I haven’t got the nerve.” She shivered. “But Mick here seems to think he has.”
Mick crowed, but Marley was in no mood for frivolity. “A joke has its limits,” he said, sounding very professorial.