Marriage At Murraree. Margaret Way
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Rusty thinking she might be about to have a look outside, bounded down the short flight of steps, looking back up at her.
It was then she was caught from behind, her arms pinned and hauled behind her back. She had heard no footsteps. Nothing. There was the power of untold strength in the grip.
“What the hell are you up to, cowboy?” A man’s voice ground out. He kicked the back door shut so Rusty couldn’t come to her aid.
That was it! No one manhandled her. The fingers that encircled her wrists were like bands of steel. She could just imagine the rest of him but she wasn’t about to cringe or beg for mercy. Was there no place on earth there wasn’t violence?
She felt a surge of adrenalin, heaving with all her might to loosen the powerful grip. She was far from being a weak woman. She was strong. She’d worked out four times a week at the gym. She lifted weights. Add to that she had taken karate lessons at which she’d proved a natural. She succeeded in freeing herself to the extent one of her hands came loose. That was all she needed. She whirled, ready to defend herself with ugly memories flashing before her eyes. Under attack, she took two quick steps forward, raised her right leg to chest height then drove the ball of her foot at him in a snap kick.
It should have connected but at the last minute he rapidly sidestepped. Immediately she spun, abandoning the idea of another snap kick he might have been expecting for a good old-fashioned sock at his jaw. Bewdy! She heard with satisfaction his grunt as his neck snapped back.
Next things, in under a couple of seconds she was flat on her back, gasping for breath, with her assailant standing over her. She reacted swiftly, rolling away across the carpet runner. One strike each.
“You’re not going to hurt me, you bastard!” She was out of a crouch, back on her feet, fully in control of her body, her mind locked into self-defence. There was no place for panic. She wasn’t going down without a fight.
Trust no man. Your life could depend upon it.
He was taller than she was. Maybe by three or four inches. Rugged and rangy. He was young, too, under thirty. Good tanned skin lay taut over carved bones, thick golden-brown hair, sun-streaked blond. For a space of a breath she thought, gold eyes. Who had gold eyes? She couldn’t feel a rapist’s aura. Instead he was saying tersely, “Get a grip, girl. I’m not going to hurt you.” His expression was startled.
It took a few moments for what he was saying to sink through her consciousness.
“Who are you?” she demanded, maintaining her aggressive stance. At the same time she manoeuvred herself to the back door so she could let Rusty in.
“God!” he exhaled softly. “I had no idea you were a woman.” His voice abruptly hardened. “So what do you mean, who am I? I’m asking the questions around here. Who are you? What are you doing here and what do you want? Look, it’s okay.” He held up his hands. “How long have you been a karate cum prize fighter?”
“As long as guys like you are around!” Her face was still alight with anger, her sapphire eyes blazing. “Maybe I shouldn’t be in here, but I knocked. The door gave. I thought it would be all right if I filled my water container. It’s in the kitchen. What did you think I was going to do? Pinch your lousy possessions?”
“Could be,” he returned, a faint smile on his generous mouth.
“I’m going to let Rusty in,” she said, like Rusty was a trained killer. She flattened herself against the back door then opened it. This guy was tough. Very tough. She saw that now. There wouldn’t be a woman alive who could match his physical strength. Seconds later Rusty was inside the house, exhausted from having run back and forth finding the door locked against him.
“Sit, boy,” her assailant gave the clipped order.
Rusty sat.
Of course! It had to be his dog, though she doubted very much he could get the cattle dog to turn on her.
“Your name please?” he asked, suddenly as formal as a policeman.
“Casey McGuire.”
“No doubt of the mad McGuire clan?” He examined her from head to toe. Far from being some young guy she was all femaleness.
“No clan,” she informed him shortly. “I’m an orphan.”
“I imagine your family prefer it that way. So what are you doing around here, Casey McGuire?”
“Drivin’ through, if it’s any of your business. This your house?”
“In a manner of speaking, but I don’t live here. This house is at the disposal of our resident school master. It’s a few kilometres out of town but he doesn’t mind.”
“Doesn’t he ever lock his doors?” she asked.
“He will from now on,” he informed her. “But as you say, there’s nothing much to take. I apologise for manhandling you. I mistook you for some vagrant out to make trouble.”
“Right!” she said firmly. “Now you know different. I don’t apologise for slugging you. You asked for it.”
He laughed, stroking a hand along his strong jaw where a dark red mark was still visible. “The fact your hat fell off gave you the element of surprise, so don’t take too much credit. How many guys I wonder have a torrent of fiery hair tumbling down their back? How long did it take to grow it?”
“So what’s your name,” she replied, totally ignoring his smart aleck question. Yet all the while he was studying her intently, a small frown between his bronze brows.
“Connellan. Troy Connellan. My dad owns Vulcan Plains about 100 K’s west of here. I had to come into town so I decided to take a run out here to check on a few things. I won’t mention to Phil Carson—that’s the new headmaster—you were snooping around his place.”
She coloured. “I’m sorry. It’s hard to explain. I was just enjoying the house. And Rusty’s company.” She clicked her fingers and the blue speckled dog came to her, showing its pleasure at a few pats on the head.
“Don’t be a fool, Rusty,” Troy Connellan chided. “He might look the picture of a sweet natured dog but I’ve seen Rusty hold quite a few people at bay.”
“I’m good with animals,” she said offhandedly. “So you believe me?”
“I have to put a stop to those right hooks,” he answered sarcastically. “Yeah, I believe you. We got off to a bad start. Where are you heading?”
She shrugged. “I’m going to stop off at the town. Koomera Crossing?”
“Right.” He nodded slowly, still intently sizing her up. There was nothing lecherous about it. The considerable interest wasn’t on that account.
“Then I’m heading out to McIvor country. Murraree. That’s the name of the station, isn’t it?”
“Right again.” He narrowed his eyes. “You’re a relative of Jock’s?”
“You could say that.”
“I hope you know he’s dead?”
“So I’ve heard. But not the end of story.”
“You’ve got me intrigued, Ms McGuire.”
Something about him sent an unwelcome self-awareness crackling along her nerves. “Look, I’m a busy woman.” She said it through her teeth. “You knew Jock McIvor?”
“Lady, everyone knew Jock McIvor,” he said laconically. “You ever so slightly resemble him.”
“Do I now.” She picked up her cream Akubra and rammed it back on her head. All day her hair had been pleated for coolness, now she let it fall loose.
“Have you told the girls you’re coming?” He made a rough mocking sound like a snort.
She looked at him, thinking suddenly