The Cattleman's Bride. Joan Kilby
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I’d go off my nut cooped up in a city.”
She wandered back and leaned against a pillar, gazing down at him. “What did you do before you came to Burrinbilli?”
“I was a stockman in far north Queensland on a station owned by a large pastoral company.”
“And before that?”
“Did some traveling. Before that I was a jackaroo on my uncle’s station near Hughenden. That’s where I grew up.” In the deep dusk of the gum trees a kookaburra made its laughing call. Another chimed in, and another. You don’t hear that in the city. “I had a friend as a kid, an aboriginal from the local community. He and I would go out in the desert. His grandfather taught him how to track and find water and hunt. And he taught me.”
Her eyes widened. “Did you, like, eat grubs and things?”
“That’s right.” He couldn’t resist teasing her. “Moreton Bay bugs are my favorite. We’ll have them sometime while you’re here.” He smiled, knowing it was too dark for her to see the twinkle in his eyes.
She shuddered. “Ugh. I guess I’d eat bugs if I were starving, but only then.”
He laughed. Then drained his coffee and got to his feet. “Reckon I’ll turn in. Sunrise comes pretty early.” He paused at the doorway. “You planning on staying up awhile?”
“Well…”
“Because if you go for a stroll at night, mind you take a torch. Brown snakes usually go to sleep at sundown, but death adders and mulgas are out and about.”
“Death adders? Mulgas? Those are poisonous, right?”
“Most snakes in Australia are.”
Sarah scrambled to her feet. “Actually, I’m feeling pretty tired after my long trip.”
“Thought you might be.”
As she went past him into the house the overhead light illuminated her bare freckled shoulder and the scent of her warm skin reached his nostrils, reminding him it had been a long time since he’d held a woman in his arms.
It would be a while longer, he thought, sliding the door shut behind him.
And it wouldn’t be this woman, tempting though she was.
Pity.
LATE THE FOLLOWING afternoon Sarah was in her room, going over the list of items she wanted to buy for the house. Now that she was part owner she ought to do her bit to take care of the place—if Luke let her. Real money needed to go toward machinery or a bull, but fresh paint and new fabric could make a big difference for relatively little expense. She’d found an old sewing machine on the floor of the linen closet and although she was no seamstress she could manage curtains and cushion covers.
She heard the sliding door to the kitchen open and checked her watch. Five o’clock. Luke was in from the cattle run to go and get Becka. He’d asked Sarah this morning if she wanted to go with him and look over the property. Maybe tomorrow, she’d answered, not meeting his eye.
Sarah went down the hall and paused in the kitchen doorway. Luke had stripped off his shirt and was bent over the kitchen sink, sluicing hot soapy water over his head and arms. She’d never been one for westerns, and the popular appeal of cowboys escaped her, but the sheer physicality of his broad shoulders, lean muscled back and strong arms left her blinking like a cursor on a blank screen.
He reached blindly for a towel and blotted the water from his face and hair. Opening his eyes, he saw her and for an instant froze, towel clutched against his chest. “G’day.”
“Hi.” She folded and refolded her list. “Are you going to get Becka?”
He nodded and reached for his shirt, bunching it in his fist. “Want to come?”
“No. Thanks.” She noted the odd, intense light in his eyes and wondered if it was obvious she found him attractive. “I thought I’d make dinner if you would show me how to work the woodstove.”
“Nothing wrong with the electric stove.”
“Let’s just say the woodstove inspires me. Mind if I raid the pantry?”
One corner of his mouth lifted as he slicked back his damp sun-streaked hair. “Go for your life.”
LUKE PULLED INTO Abby’s driveway and jumped out of the car. Doors were never locked in Murrum and friends and family didn’t wait for a formal invitation, so he knocked once on the front door and went in. “Abby? Becka?”
No answer.
He wandered through the kitchen and looked out the window into the backyard. Becka and Abby were on their knees in the vegetable patch, staking up tomatoes. Stepping out the back door, he called, “G’day.”
Abby glanced up and pushed a strand of gray hair off her forehead. “Hello, Luke. We’re almost done.”
He glanced eagerly at Becka, ashamed at how much he longed for her to run to him the way she used to. Daddy, Daddy, see what I did.
Now she only glanced up without smiling before going back to the tomatoes. Any encouragement at all and he would have given them a hand. But he might as well not have been there for all the notice they took of him.
“Don’t mind me,” he muttered, and retreated into the house.
He helped himself to a glass of water from the tap and sat at the kitchen table. There was the usual clutter: a stack of paid bills, Becka’s hair ribbons, a half-done crossword puzzle. At the end of the table, above the salt and pepper shakers and the tomato sauce bottle, hung one of Caroline’s watercolors of a desert landscape. A mutual love of the desert had brought them together, but it hadn’t been enough to bind them. Nor had his love.
The painting reminded him that this house had been hers before she’d died. Abby had taken it over, as she’d taken Becka over.
Idly, he flipped open the photo album. There were Caroline and her parents, Caroline and Abby…He turned the page to see old photos of Abby as a young woman. She wasn’t unattractive really, although her one brown eye and one blue eye were disconcerting. Too bad she’d never married and had children of her own since she loved them so much. He seemed to recall Caroline’s saying something about her being in love with Len and never getting over it.
He flipped the pages. Caroline painting. Caroline pregnant. They hadn’t planned to have a baby, but when she’d gotten pregnant he’d thought they would be a family. Turned out she’d wanted to travel, not settle down.
Luke flipped another page, to find an unsealed envelope tucked into the crack. He slipped out the photo that was inside—one taken of Caroline in the hospital after she’d had Becka. He frowned. Something was odd about this. He peered closer, hardly believing his eyes.
Caroline’s face had been cut out of the photo and a picture of Abby inserted in its place.
Oh, God. He dropped the photo and jumped to his feet. Though the room was stifling, a chill swept over his body. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath.
Unbelievable. Impossible.
He looked again.
It was true. He thought he was going to be sick right here on Abby’s kitchen floor.
Voices at the door. He crammed the photo back in the envelope and slammed the album shut.
Abby came through, smiling, scraping the red earth from her feet. “All done. Time for a cuppa before you go?”
His mouth was dry. He couldn’t say a word. Abby, humming, ran water into the electric kettle. She was so familiar, yet suddenly a stranger.
Becka. His baby. All blond ponytail and coltish legs under her shorts. What lies had Abby told her?
“Becka, get your things. It’s time to go.”
“Relax,