A Wife At Kimbara. Margaret Way
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Dad’s pretty devoted you know.”
Sarcasm without a doubt. “I’ll tell him, Mr. Kinross.”
“I trust in time you’ll be able to call me Brod.” Again the ghost of mockery.
“My friends call me Rebecca,” Rebecca finally said.
“It suits you beautifully.”
“Why must you sound mocking?” She brought it out into the open.
“That’s very good, Miss Hunt.” He applauded. “You know how to pick up nuances.”
A sparkle of anger lit Rebecca’s eyes. She was glad he couldn’t see it. “Let’s say I know how to pick up warning signals.”
“Quite sure of that?” he responded just as coolly.
“You don’t have to tell me you don’t like me.” He could scarcely deny it after that first time.
“Why in the world wouldn’t I,” he answered and rang off with nothing resolved.
What was he getting at? Rebecca let out a short pent-up breath, replacing the receiver rather shakily. Their one and only meeting had been brief but disturbing. She remembered it vividly. It was late last month and he had flown in to Kimbara unexpectedly…
She had put on her large straw hat before venturing out into the heat of the day. Fee had had a slight headache so they had taken a break. Every chance she had she liked to explore this fantastic environment that was Kimbara. The sculptural effects of the trees, the shrubs and rocks, the undulating red dunes on the station’s south-southwestern borders. It truly was another world, the distances so immense, the light so dazzling, the colours more sun-seared than anywhere else. She loved all the burnt ochres the deep purples the glowing violets and amethysts, the grape-blues that made such a wonderful contrast to the fiery terracottas.
Stewart had promised her a trip into the desert when the worst of the heat was over and she was greatly looking forward to it. It would be too much to expect she would be granted the privilege of seeing the wild heart burst into bloom. No rains had fallen for many long months but she had seen Stewart’s collection of magnificent photographs of Kimbara under a brilliant carpet of wildflowers and marvelled at the phenomenon. Not that localised rain was even needed to make the desert bloom, he had told her. Once the floods started in the tropical far north sending waters coursing southward, thousands of square miles of the Channel Country could be irrigated. Swollen streams ran fifty miles across the plains they were so flat. It was such a fascinating land and a fascinating life. Stewart Kinross had to live like a feudal lord within his desert stronghold.
She had just reached the stables complex, which housed some wonderful horses, when she heard the clash of voices. Men’s voices not dissimilar in timbre and tone. Angry voices that made her go quiet.
“I’m not here to take orders from you,” Stewart Kinross was saying in a rasping voice.
“That’s exactly what you’re going to do unless you want to scuttle the whole project,” the other younger voice answered none too deferentially. “Face it, Dad, not everyone likes the way you operate. Jack Knowles for one and we need Jack if this enterprise is going to succeed.”
“That’s your gut feeling is it?” There was such a sneer in it Rebecca recoiled.
“You should have some,” Stewart Kinross’s son quipped, sounding to Rebecca’s ears convincingly tough.
“Don’t lecture me,” his father came back thunderously. “Your day is not yet and don’t you forget it.”
“Not with you on about it all the time,” the son retorted. “An argument, Dad. That’s the best reward I ever get. But hell, I no longer care. In case you’ve forgotten I do most of the work while you sit around enjoying the benefits.”
At that Stewart Kinross exploded but Rebecca waited for no more. She turned abruptly shocked by the palpable bitterness of the exchange. She had heard Stewart Kinross and his son weren’t close but she hadn’t been prepared for the depth of that disaffection. She had heard as well Broderick Kinross at the age of thirty ran the Kinross cattle empire from distant Marlu. Something he seemed to have confirmed. It was all very disturbing. Even as an outsider she felt the emnity. It was a new insight into Stewart Kinross as well. Fee had assured her her nephew and niece, Brod and Alison, were wonderful young people. Not that Fee had seen a great deal of them with a life based in London. But she spoke of them both with great affection.
It occurred to Rebecca for the first time, though Fee was a great talker, she was remarkably reticent about her only brother. Certainly Rebecca felt appalled by the cold venom of Stewart Kinross’s tone. She would have thought he would be immensely proud of his son.
Troubled by what she had overheard Rebecca walked quickly away. The last thing she wanted was to be seen but her efforts were doomed to failure. Both men must have moved off in her direction because a few moments later Stewart Kinross’s commanding voice required her to stop.
“Rebecca,” he called in a nice mix of authoritarian and genial host.
She turned watching them emerge from the stables complex, probably on their way back to the house.
“Stewart!” Even with her large shady hat she had to put a hand to her eyes against the brilliant sunlight.
Two men in silhouette. Both very tall, a couple of inches over six feet, one with the full substance of maturity, the other a whipcord rangy young man, both wearing the standard Akubra, the younger man with a decidedly rakish tilt. He had a great walk, she thought, putting her in mind of some actor, a kind of graceful lope.
She felt little tears in her eyes at the near unendurable light and wondered why she hadn’t brought her sunglasses.
They caught up with her easily and she had her first sight of Broderick Kinross, heir to the Kinross cattle and business empire.
She didn’t know how she had pictured him. Handsome certainly, given the family good looks but not this. He literally blazed. The blue eyes so vivid they trapped her gaze. For an instant she had the extraordinary sensation something had cut off her breath.
“Rebecca, may I introduce my son, Broderick.” Stewart Kinross looked down at her, sounding as though he preferred not to. “He’s here for an interim report to me.” He continued more briskly. “Brod, this is the very clever young woman who is writing Fee’s biography as I’m sure you’ve heard. Rebecca Hunt.”
Rebecca gave Broderick Kinross her hand perturbed by the adrenaline that was pouring into her body. She looked up into a lean, striking face, beautiful glittering blue eyes. For someone who had laboured long and hard to maintain a fail-safe cool facade she now felt bathed in heat.
“How do you do, Miss Hunt.” He was perfectly courteous, on the formal side, yet she felt the shock and hostility that was in him. Why? “When I last spoke to Fee she was very happy with the start you’ve made on the book. Obviously she has confidence in you.”
“I’m very grateful that she thought of me at all,” Rebecca said, subdued by the tingling in her hand. “I’m not terribly well-known.”
“Don’t be so modest, my dear,” Stewart Kinross responded in a voice like warmed syrup. He draped a proprietorial arm around her shoulder. Something he had never done before. “I read your biography and thoroughly enjoyed it.” Very gently he turned her around, enchanted by the way the large straw brim of her hat shadowed her face. “You really shouldn’t go wandering around in the heat. For all that charming hat you risk burning that lovely skin.”
Why the hell don’t you hug her, Brod thought with black humour.
He never thought he would live to see adoration in his father’s eyes, but this was coming mighty close. Fee had confided to him on the side “your father is quite taken with Rebecca.” More like infatuated.
Brod felt a bit shell-shocked himself and he’d had more than his share of girlfriends.
She