Required: Three Outback Brides: Cattle Rancher, Convenient Wife / In the Heart of the Outback... / Single Dad, Outback Wife. Margaret Way
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the sex should be okay. He definitely wanted children. He knew he wasn’t and never could be a hard, cruel bastard like his old man. He would be a good father to his children, not bring them up in a minefield. The Outback certainly bred hard men, tough men. But mercifully not many like his dad.
So what to do now? Rory stood up and stretched his long arms, staring down at the empty street. He had plenty of time on his hands. Why not take a run out to Jimboorie?
He might as well. Vince had given him directions. A beautiful old homestead would be worth seeing at least. It might even offer some comfort. He’d been intrigued to learn the new owner’s Christian name was Clay. Clay Cunningham. He’d only ever met one Clay in his life, but that was a Clay Dyson, the overseer on Havilah a couple of years back. A guy around his own age held in great esteem by his employer, old Colonel Forbes, ex-British Army, now deceased, who had inherited Havilah from his Australian cousin and to everyone’s astonishment had remained in the country to work it. Colonel Forbes, universally respected, had thought the world of Clay Dyson, Rory recalled. But it wasn’t that Clay. Couldn’t be. The Clay Dyson he had known had no background of money, no family name, though the word was old Colonel Forbes had remembered him in his will.
By the time he arrived on Jimboorie, a splendid property and as far out of his reach as planet Pluto, the main compound was still crowded with people but some were starting to leave making for the parking area crammed with vehicles of all makes and price tags. During the long approach to the station he had seen more than one light aircraft airborne, heading home. He made a quick tour of the very extensive gardens marvelling at the great design and the rich variety of trees, flowering plants and shrubs he presumed were drought tolerant and could withstand dust storms.
Beneath a long tunnel of cerise bouganvillea that blossomed heavily over an all but smothered green wrought-iron trellis, he passed two pretty young women from the town who smiled at him shyly in acknowledgement. He smiled back, raising a hand in salute, totally unaware it only took an instant for his smile to light up his entire face and dispel the dark, serious, brooding look he’d worn since his teens.
Jimboorie House impressed him immensely. He’d never expected it to be so big or so grand. It was huge! It rivalled if not surpassed any of the historic homesteads he had been invited into over the years. When his mother had been with them—when they were family—they had been invited everywhere as a matter or course. His beautiful mother, Laura, had been very popular, herself an excellent hostess presiding over their own handsome homestead on which she had lavished much love and care.
Why then had she abandoned them? Didn’t God decree mothers had to remain with their children? For years he and Jay had accepted the reason their father had drummed into them. City bred their mother had only awaited the opportunity when they were old enough to renounce her lonely Outback life. As young men they came to understand what life for their mother might have been like, though their father had been reasonable enough then. Well, for most of the time anyway. He had never actually laid a hand on them when their mother was around except for the odd time when she had protested so strongly he had stopped. In any event she had remarried after the divorce. That happened all the time but it was lousy for the kids.
Their father, as was to be expected given his name, his money and influence, gained custody. He had never been prepared to share it with his ex-wife. The failure of their marriage was her fault entirely. It was one of his father’s most marked characteristics, he held himself blameless in all things. Their mother alone deserved condemnation. The sharing was a bad idea anyway. Sensitive Jay had always become enormously upset when it was time to leave her. Equally upset, though he never let on, Rory behaved badly. He had to take the pain out on someone. He had chosen to take it out on his mother. After a while the visits became farther and farther in-between, then ceased altogether.
‘Didn’t I tell you?’ their father had crowed, that hard triumphant gleam in his eyes as he started all over again to trash their mother. ‘She doesn’t want you. She never did! She’s a selfish, self-centred heartless bitch! We’re well rid of her!’
Neither of them would have won a good parenting award, Rory thought. But well rid of her? People really did die from grief. All three of them, father and sons, hadn’t been able to handle her desertion. Their father, a proud and arrogant man, had never been free of his own grief and crazed thoughts of personal humiliation. Rory’s memories of his mother were so heartwrenching he rarely allowed them to touch him. He and Jay had believed their mother to be the sweetest, gentlest, funniest, mother in the world. She could always make them laugh. It just didn’t seem possible she had been faking it as their father always claimed. Nevertheless she had left, taking no account of the devastation she left behind her.
In choosing a woman of his own, Rory had long since decided he had to make absolutely sure he kept his eyes and ears open and his feet firmly on the ground. He was as susceptible to a woman’s beauty as the next man—maybe more so he thought wryly—but there was no way he was going to allow himself to be seduced by it.
Or so he thought.
Vince Dougherty caught sight of him as he was wandering the grandly proportioned rooms of the old homestead letting it work its magic on him. Whoever had been responsible for the interior decoration—probably a top city designer—had done a great job.
‘You made it!’ Vince, looking delighted—his enthusiasm was hard to resist—made a beeline for him pumping his hand as though he hadn’t seen him for weeks instead of around eight-thirty that morning. ‘What d’yah think now? Tell me.’ He poked Rory’s shoulder which was marginally better than a poke in the ribs. ‘You look like a guy with good taste.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Vince.’ Rory’s answer was laconic. ‘It’s magnificent!’ His admiration was unfeigned. ‘Definitely well worth the visit!’
Vince looked as proud as if he were the owner, decorator, landscaper, all rolled into one. The kind of guy who changed lives. ‘Told yah, didn’t I? You should have come an hour or so earlier. Meet the Cunninghams yet?’
‘Not so far.’ Rory shook his head. ‘I only came to see the house really. I’m only passing through, Vince. Just like I told you.’
‘Well, yah never know!’ Vince’s face creased into another smile. He was hoping this fine-looking young fella would stay in the district. He glanced upwards to the gallery. ‘That’s Carrie, Mrs Cunningham up there.’ Discreetly he pointed out a blond young woman with a lovely innocent face and a radiant smile. She was standing in the midst of a circle of women friends who were laughing at something she was saying, which they obviously found very funny.
Rory could understand Vince’s look of undying admiration. ‘She’s very beautiful,’ he said. ‘The house suits her perfectly.’
Vince’s big amiable face settled into an expression of pride. ‘An angel!’ he announced. ‘Clay reckons he’s the luckiest man in the world. Now how about me taking you to find him? I reckon you young blokes would get on.’
Why not? ‘Just point me in his direction, Vince,’ Rory said. ‘I see your wife beckoning to you.’
‘My little sweetheart!’ Vince exclaimed, a tag Rory had heard at least forty times during his stay. Vince and Katie were apparently right for each other. Katie wasn’t little, either. ‘Have to get back to the pub sooner or later. Try outdoors, near the fountain. Clay was there a few minutes ago. I don’t think he’s come back into the house.’
‘Will do.’ Rory tipped a finger to his temple.
It would turn out to be one of the best moves he had ever made.
The marble three-tiered fountain, monumental in size to suit the grand proportions of the house, was playing; an object of fascination for the children who had to be dragged away from the water by their mothers before they fell in or climbed in as one daring six-year-old had already done and been lightly chastised for. At such times he always remembered how his father had used to bawl him out as a child. It seemed like he had always made his father mad. Madder and madder as the years wore on. And later after their grandad died,