The Cattle Baron. Margaret Way
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desire.” It even seemed as if her hair would behave. She had arranged it in a thick upturned roll at the back, making far more of an effort than she had the previous night, when she’d pulled it into a ponytail for dinner with Graeme Marley. She sprayed her wrist again with a gardenia-based perfume. Mmm, fabulous! She was feminine enough to love perfume. “Oh, Roslyn you’re such a bohemian!” She shook her head several times, but she could still hear her mother’s voice. Rosie flashed herself another one of her saucer-size smiles. Why, oh why, did she have such a wide mouth? Well, nothing she could do about that.
She was almost out of her room, feeling extraordinarily excited, when she suddenly made the decision to wear The Necklace. It was a knockout. No one besides Marley and perhaps the hawk-eyed Mr. Banfield would know what it was. Reverently, in case some long-dead ancient Egyptian lady might take it into her head to lay a curse on her, Rosie withdrew the necklace from its soft leather pouch and draped it over her hand. Wonderful workmanship using multicolored, multitextured gold, combined with the semiprecious stone lapus lazuli—the “eyes” of the flowers, five in all, shaped like the sacred lotus, which were appended from the smooth coil that encircled the neck.
She turned back to the full-length mirror, put it on. She knew she was very privileged to wear it.
She went downstairs, smiling at the owner, Lyn Delaney, an interesting woman good for an interview, although she acted a bit cagey for all her friendliness. Rosie won a “You look marvelous” from Lyn that sounded perfectly genuine. She considered that a compliment, particularly given the exotic stylishness of this little back-of-beyond pub. But then, Banfield had said he owned most of the town.
She walked beneath the gleaming fretted timber arch into the small lounge, finding it almost full. The locals all glanced up curiously. Nobody pointed, not one expression conveyed that she looked a little freakish. They all seemed friendly and cheerful, so Rosie gave them her encompassing smile.
Banfield and Marley were already seated at a table to the rear of the room, along with a third man she didn’t know. All three rose gallantly at her approach.
Marley, to her acute annoyance, bowed to kiss her cheek in much too intimate a fashion. Rosie felt like popping him one, but had to settle for discreetly moving off. Chase Banfield’s tiger eyes settled on her, moving gently, very slowly, over her face and then her body. Not transfixed by the wonderful necklace but drifting past it, as if it was just the sort of thing he expected her to wear. Introductions were made. The third man, very thin, all mustache, looked burned up inside, but charming for all that. He was one Mick Dempsey, longtime friend of the Banfield family, himself the owner of a huge cattle station called Derrilan, which he told her meant “falling stars” in the Aboriginal language. Rosie pitied him and warmed to him at the same time. A tragedy there, she thought. She was sure of it.
“All pioneering families seemed to have dreamed up romantic names for their properties,” Marley said in an indulgent voice. “Falling Stars. Three Moons!”
“Chase tells me you had quite an exciting ride this afternoon.” Dempsey turned to Rosie with his still-attractive grin, as good as ignoring Marley, who looked irritated at not being in control of things.
Again Marley intervened, from long practice. “It’s a miracle she didn’t kill herself.” He shook his head with as much vehemence as amazement. “Women and machinery simply don’t mix.”
Banfield threw him a contemptuous look. “I wonder how well you’d have survived the ride. Miss Summers did an extraordinary job behind the wheel.”
“Ah, but she’s not the average female,” Marley said with the air of someone who knew. He touched Rosie’s hand, let his fingers linger.
What was this? Marley was allowing the others to assume an intimacy that didn’t exist. She’d have to warn him about it in a hurry. Like before they retired to their separate rooms later that night.
Rosie removed her hand carefully. “I realize my reaction was foolish, but it’s an instinctive thing to try to avoid hitting an animal.”
“There isn’t anything else to do, my dear,” Dempsey told her kindly, pulling at the rather dashing red bandanna tucked into his white shirt. “I had a good friend run into a tree avoiding a brolga that popped down in front of him.”
“I hope your friend survived,” Rosie said.
“He did, miraculously. His car was a write-off. Bull bar saved it from being ripped apart. You were very lucky Chase was driving back into town.”
“My hero!” Rosie exclaimed. “I intend to include him in my nightly prayers.”
“Include me, too, my dear,” Dempsey only half joked. “I could do with the prayers of a good woman.”
Marley, looking slightly bored, picked up the menu. “The food here is surprisingly good,” he said, the light catching the show of silver at his temples. “A bit unusual for such a remote neck of the woods.”
Patronizing idiot, Rosie thought, but Banfield said suavely, “Even our little country town can rise to a decent chef. You should try the crocodile fillet tempura, snow peas and chinois salad with a kakadu plum and wasabi dressing.”
“I’m impressed!” Rosie searched in vain for it on the menu.
“Crocodile! You’re joking.” Marley’s heavy shoulders moved beneath his summer-weight jacket.
“You’d probably think it was a delicious cut of pork,” Banfield said as he helped Rosie out by pointing to the exact spot on the menu. “Or there’s the tournedos of kangaroo,” he added smoothly.
Rosie raised her eyebrows. “I don’t fancy eating one of our national symbols. The kangaroo and the emu hold up the coat of arms.”
“They’re a bloody menace in the bush,” Mick growled, “pardon my French, and not much we can do about it. Millions of them. I figure the best way to preserve the species, and that goes for the croc, too, is to come up with some commercially viable industry. Like cattle. The public are going to get pretty intolerant of crocs otherwise. Kangaroo, by the way, tastes good. A bit gamy to some, but very tasty. I’ve had it many a time and enjoyed it, but I prefer our prime beef. We produce the world’s best.”
“So it’s tournedos of beef with potato barigoule béarnaise,” Rosie said, sounding definite. “As you’re the expert, perhaps you can enlighten me as to what a barigoule is. My French doesn’t rise to it. I can handle the béarnaise.” She turned to Banfield with a smile. He was looking incredibly handsome, not to say alluring in a sand-colored, softly constructed linen suit that sat wonderfully on his wide shoulders with a casual black cotton T-shirt beneath. The big-time cattle baron with a sophisticated edge.
He held her gaze, somewhat spellbound by her appearance, as well. This was a woman for all seasons. “A barigoule, and I know this only because I’ve had it, is a potato that’s been steeped in saffron bouillon, then scooped out and filled with béarnaise sauce,” he explained. “I can recommend it. It’s very good. Our chef is a young Vietnamese. Lyn won’t keep him long. He’s too good. Some luxury hotel down the tourist coast will offer him more scope and more money, but for the time being we’re dining out in style. I’d recommend the crab cream or the steamed scallops for starters, and as you’re obviously a girl who doesn’t have to watch her figure, the Moroccan orange tart is great.”
“I’m for the ginger ice cream,” Mick said gleefully. Chase could tell he was feeling better than he had in a long, long while. “You’re paying, aren’t you, Dr. Marley?”
Marley looked pained. “Of course.”
By the time it came to coffee, they retired to the lounge, which was now almost empty. Marley stared at Mick, obviously hoping he’d go, but Mick stayed on with reckless disregard for what the doctor wanted.
“Miss Summers tells me you have something to show me.” Banfield decided to get the ball rolling, giving Mick a quick, almost warning look.
“This mightn’t be the moment,”