Dear Reader,

High-Stakes Bride was always going to be a ranch story, because Carter Rawlings—the sixth and final member of my Down Under SAS team—has a strong link with the land. When I planned the book, the solution to who would finally tame my most elusive bachelor yet was simple—Dani Marlow, the girl next door. What I didn’t understand until I began writing was how deep the secret of Dani’s past went and just how wide-ranging the repercussions would prove to be. Dani turned out to be a headstrong, complex heroine, a fitting match for Carter, a seasoned assault specialist who is faced with the biggest challenge of his life: keeping Dani safe.

Enjoy!

Fiona Brand

High-Stakes
Bride
Fiona Brand

ISBN: 9781408946428

High-Stakes Bride

© Fiona Brand 2006

First Published in Great Britain in 2006

Harlequin (UK) Limited

Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, including without limitation xerography, photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

This ebook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated, without the prior consent of the publisher, in any form or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this work have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II B.V./S.à.r.l.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

FIONA BRAND

has always wanted to write. After working eight years for the New Zealand Forest Service as a clerk, she decided she could spend at least that much time trying to get a romance novel published. Luckily, it only took five years, not eight. Fiona lives in a subtropical fishing and diving paradise called the Bay of Islands with her two children.

Contents

About the Author

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Coming Next Month

Prologue

Twenty-two years ago, Dawson, New Zealand

Eight-year-old Dani Marlow’s eyes flicked open in the dark. Icy moonlight filtered through the thin drapes pulled across her window, turning the pink quilt on her bed a frosted grey and bleaching the floorboards silver.

The sound that had woken her came again. Not the skeletal scrape of the clump of small trees that grew outside her window, or the ancient creaking of the oak that shaded most of the front lawn, but the sharp clink of metal against metal.

Breath suspended in her throat, she lay rigid, eyes fixed on the cracked plaster of the ceiling as she strained to listen. Time passed. The wind strengthened, the cold palpable as it rattled branches and whispered through desiccated leaves. Slowly, the tension ebbed from her limbs, her lids drooped and she began the warm drift back into sleep.

Glass shattered, the sound as explosive as a gunshot, jackknifing her out of bed. Bare feet hit the icy cold of the floor and, for a terrifying moment, Dani lost the sense of where she was—and when.

Light flooded through the gap where her bedroom door stood ajar, momentarily blinding her. Blankly, she registered footsteps, the crash of overturned furniture. A dull thud followed by an anguished cry shocked her out of her immobility.

Heart pounding, she wrenched her wardrobe door wide and fumbled through layers of clothing, fighting the frantic urge to burrow into the musty storage space and hide. She hadn’t been dreaming, what was happening was real. He was here—now. Somehow he had found them again, and this time he had gotten inside the house. She didn’t understand why or how it happened, just that no matter where they moved to, sooner or later, it did.

For a frantic moment she couldn’t find what she was looking for, then her fingers closed on the stick she kept there. The wood was smooth where she’d peeled the bark away, and as heavy as a baseball bat. She had made it three months ago at the last place they had lived, when a neighbour had seen a man watching their flat and reported him to the police. They had managed to get away when the police cruiser had arrived and frightened him off. The time before they hadn’t been so lucky. Susan had ended up in hospital with cracked ribs and a concussion, and Dani had gone into care.

Stomach tight, Dani edged along the narrow hall and halted in the doorway to the kitchen. A silver shape arrowed through the air. She ducked as the kettle hit the wall, spraying water. Simultaneously a loud bang was followed by a burst of blue light as the electrical mains above her head blew, plunging the house into darkness. Soaked and shivering, blinking to clear the flash of the explosion and adjust to the much dimmer moonlight pouring through the kitchen window, Dani struggled to make sense of the black shadow grappling with her mother.

Susan Marlow, clearly visible in a long pale nightgown, struck out, knocking the shadow back and abruptly the scene made sense. The shadow was a man dressed all in black, his hands, his face—every part of him blanked out—except for a narrow strip where his eyes glittered.

He swung, his arm a blur. Susan crumpled and, with a fierce cry, Dani launched herself. The stick arced down, crashing into the only part of him she could see, his eyes. The jarring force of the blow numbed her fingers and sent the stick spinning. A split second later she was flung through the air, for a timeless moment tumbling….

When Dani came to she lay sprawled at an angle, half under the kitchen table. Pain throbbed at the back of her head as she dragged herself into a sitting position and clung to a table leg for support.

He was at the sink. He had taken off what she now realized was a balaclava and was washing his face. As he turned, the glow from a flashlight uplit a broad chest and powerful shoulders, dark hair cut close against his skull, and a face that was nightmarishly distorted. Blood streamed from a swollen, misshapen nose and a livid cut below one eye where the flesh had peeled open revealing the glistening white of bone—the effect like something out of a horror movie.

Clutching his face to stem the flow of blood, he stumbled into the tiny lounge, the flashlight beam flickering over broken furniture and shards of glass as he stepped through the window he’d smashed to get into the house and merged with the night.

Dani huddled by the kitchen table, spine jammed against the wall. Freezing cold filtered through her pajamas, spreading like liquid ice as she stared through the wreckage of their home, gaze fastened on the empty rectangle of pure black where the window frame was pushed up.

Long seconds ticked by, and slowly, minute-by-minute, the extent of her victory settled in, steadying her. For the first time she’d had the courage to hit out, and she had hurt him—enough that he’d had to leave. When she was certain he wasn’t coming back, she crawled over to Susan and her heart almost stopped. Susan was white and still, and for a terrifying moment she was certain she was dead.

Frantically, she clutched at her shoulder and shook. Susan’s head lolled, her eyes flickered and relief shuddered through Dani.

Forcing herself to her feet, she limped to the kitchen counter, reached high and grabbed the first aid box. Setting the container beside Susan, she pried off the lid, found the cotton wool and disinfectant and began dabbing at the split on Susan’s lip and the grazes on her jaw and temple. Susan flinched, but didn’t wake up.

Panic gripped Dani as she fetched a bag of frozen peas from the freezer, wrapped them in a tea towel and set the makeshift icepack against the side of Susan’s face. She should call an ambulance, but Susan had said not to call anyone because if the welfare people got to hear what was happening, they’d take her away—this time maybe for good. The same went for the police. As badly as they needed help, they didn’t need what came with it. According to Susan the paper trail left them too exposed, and he was clever. It was one of the ways he used to find them.

Stoically, Dani continued cleaning away the blood then set about making up a bed up on the floor. She didn’t know how long it would be before Susan woke up, but, in the freezing cold of a South Island winter, she had to be kept warm. Shivering, her stomach tight with fear, Dani lay under the pile of quilts with Susan, waiting for her to wake up.

Blankly, she stared at the open window.

The glass was gone, so closing it was a waste of time, but she should have pulled the curtains to help stop the cold air pouring into the house. It wasn’t snowing or sleeting, but there would be a frost; ice already glittered on the sill. Shuddering, she wrenched her gaze free. She hadn’t wanted to go near the window because somehow the magnetic black space was part of him.

With an effort of will, she forced herself to concentrate on Susan. Her breathing sounded better, although it still had a catch as if even sleeping, she was hurting.

Dani moved closer, shielding Susan from the window and the freezing stream of cold air, misery condensing into a piercing ache.

They would be all right. They just had to move again.

And this time they would disappear.

Chapter 1

Four years later, Jackson’s Ridge, New Zealand

The noonday sun burned into the darkly tanned skin of twelve-year-old Carter Rawlings’s shoulders as he slid down the steep scrub-covered hill just below his parents’ house. Grabbing the gnarled branch of a pohutukawa tree, he swung and launched off a platform of black rock that jutted out from the bank, the tip of one of the ancient lava flows that had made its mark on Jackson’s Bay and a string of other beaches stretching along the east coast of the North Island.

Wincing at the heat pouring off the sand, he loped down the beach to check out the new kid who had just moved next door.

A pair of gulls wheeled above, shrieked and swooped low, beady eyes hopeful. Carter slowed to a walk as his feet sank into the cool damp sand that delineated the high-tide mark. Keeping his gaze fixed on the thin body of the boy, he searched the pockets of his shorts. “Sorry guys, no food today.”

Normally he remembered to grab a slice of bread for the gulls, but today it had been all he was capable of to sit at the table once his chores were done and bolt down a sandwich before being excused. The new kid was the first exciting thing that had happened all summer. Maybe it shouldn’t have been, but in Jackson’s Ridge, a tiny coastal settlement that had flat-lined long before he was born, a new neighbour ranked right up there with the apocalypse.

The surf-casting rod the boy was holding flicked back, then forward. Silvery nylon filament shot out across the waves. Bait and sinker hit the surface of the water just beyond the break line and sank.

Great cast. Perfect. The kid had done it like a pro, except, Carter now realized, the boy, Dani, who had moved in the previous evening, wasn’t a “he.”

She had red hair scraped into a long plait over one shoulder and a blue T-shirt plastered against her skinny torso. Her faded cut-offs were soaked and she’d lost one of her sneakers in the tide. He caught the glint of a tiny gold stud in one lobe. A tomboy, maybe, but definitely not a boy.

He shoved his hands in the pockets of his shorts. “Hi.”

For an answer she stepped into the water foaming just inches from her feet and waded in until the water eddied around her knees. Her rod dipped as she wound in slack line; a few seconds later it shivered as something nibbled at the bait. She moved forward another step, playing the fish.

Automatically, Carter studied the swell. The waves came in in sets. Jackson’s Bay was sheltered so it wasn’t usually a problem, but every now and then a big one arrived. “Careful. There’s a rip just there, sometimes it—”

Water surged, she staggered. A second wave followed, forming a sloppy breaker, and with a yelp she went down, the rod flipping into the surf.

Carter lunged, turning side-on to the wave as his fingers latched onto her arm. The water went slack then almost instantly surged back out to sea, the pull dragging the sand from beneath his feet.

“Let go.” Staggering upright she wrenched free, dashed water from her eyes then dove into the next wave and came up with the rod.

Cool. Carter wiped salt water from his face as he watched her wind in the line. She hadn’t needed his help. “I guess your name’s Danielle.”

Her dark gaze was dismissive as she strode, dripping, from the water.

Carter didn’t let it get to him. He had never met a girl yet who could resist him, let alone one who hardly knew he existed. He was used to girls noticing him: he had killer blue eyes.

Shrugging, he trailed after her as she followed a line of scuffed footprints to a battered tackle box and a beach towel. With cursory movements she examined the chewed bait dangling from the hook and flipped the lock on the reel. His gaze fixed on the set of her jaw and the fine sprinkling of freckles across her nose.

Time for phase two. “Is Danielle your name?”

A lean tanned hand slapped the lid of the tackle box closed. “Get lost.”

Bemused, Carter watched as she snatched up the tackle box and towel, strode across the sand and took the rocky path up to the Galbraith house.

She was tall for a girl—although nowhere near as tall as he was—with a lean lanky build and a face that would have been a knockout if she hadn’t been scowling. According to his mother she was the same age as he was, which meant she’d be in his class at school.

Not Danielle, Dani.

He shrugged. The conversation hadn’t exactly been riveting, but…

He grinned as he strolled back home.

She liked him. He could tell.

“He’s a pain.” Dani ignored her mother’s frown as she propped her ancient fishing rod against the side of the house, removed the ragged shred of bait and tossed it to a hungry gull.

Jaw set, she stared at the distant view of the horizon, and the hazy line where sea met sky, her heart still pounding from the embarrassing near-death experience followed by the hike up the hill.

She had been that close to landing the fish. If what’s-his-name Rawlings hadn’t come along she would have caught it—guaranteed.

Susan sent her a warning glance. “His name’s Carter and he’s your next-door neighbour.”

For how long? “That doesn’t mean I have to like him.”

Dani wrung out her still-dripping plait, toed off her remaining sneaker and strode to her new room to change. When she was dressed, she grimaced at the pile of wet things in the laundry basket. She had lost a sneaker. Her mother had been too preoccupied to notice that detail, but when she did, she would go crazy. Susan had been out of work for the past three months, ever since her last job as a counter assistant at one of the town-and-country stores in Mason had dissolved after the business had merged with a larger firm. In theory they couldn’t afford to eat—let alone spend money on shoes.

Dani stared at the unfamiliar bedroom; the pretty bed with its white-and-green patterned quilt, the elegant lines of the dressers and the needlework sampler on the wall. Not for the first time the strangeness of moving into someone else’s home, of being surrounded with someone else’s things, hit her. She’d been used to bare rooms and minimal furniture—all of it impersonal and second-hand—of keeping clothing and possessions sparse and relationships nonexistent, so that if they had to pick up and leave in a hurry they wouldn’t lose too much. For four years the isolation of that existence had worked—until they’d landed in Mason and Susan had met Galbraith.

After years of staying on the move and never putting down roots there was no way she could like the permanence that was building here—no matter how much either of them craved it. This life—the settled-in comfort and the homeliness—just didn’t fit with the tactics that had kept them safe.

Dani trailed, barefooted, back to the kitchen, eyeing a line-up of gloomy oil paintings in the hallway and taking care not to touch any of the highly polished furniture or the pretty ornaments placed on dainty occasional tables.

Everything about the Galbraith house radiated family and permanence—from the slightly battered antiques to the family photos depicting grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins: generation upon generation of Galbraiths—so many of them that every time she looked around she felt exactly as she had when she’d lost her footing and been swept into the surf—off balance and floundering.

Eyeing the crystal chandelier that hung from the ornately molded ceiling in the dining room, she stepped into the kitchen. Her mother was placing a large bowl filled with apples in the centre of the table—one of the many little touches Susan Marlow did to make a room look just so, whether they were living in a crummy little one-bedroom flat or a caravan.

Dani glanced around the high airy room with its antique dressers and air of fading elegance. Or on an impressive homestead sited on a large sheep and cattle station.

She could see why her mother had been bowled over by Robert Galbraith and the Rawlings family next door—and why she liked it here. Who wouldn’t? As people went, they had it all: nice homes, acres of land, and their own private beach that was so mesmerizingly beautiful she had just wanted to stand there and stare.

Her mother finished setting the lunch table and stood back to admire the gleam of porcelain and old silver. She lifted a brow. “Carter’s a nice-looking boy. I think you do like him.”

Fierceness welled up in Dani. “I don’t.”

Boyfriends weren’t on her agenda—they couldn’t be. She’d seen the way girls at school mooned after them, and the way Susan had changed. If she were going to depend on anyone, it would be herself. From what she’d seen, falling in love was nothing but trouble.

The bark of dogs and the sound of footsteps on the veranda heralded Robert Galbraith’s arrival. Seconds later, he appeared in the kitchen doorway, tall and broad-shouldered, with a kind of blunt, weathered handsomeness that seemed to go hand-in-hand with the rugged contours of Galbraith Station.

Warily, Dani watched as her mother’s face lit up, and noted Galbraith’s corresponding expression. Her mother was an attractive woman, not beautiful exactly, but tall and striking, and today she looked a lot younger than thirty-five. She might not have a million dollars, but with her hair piled on top of her head and the simple but elegant clothes she was wearing, she looked it.

Galbraith set his hat on a small dresser just inside the door. Dani’s head snapped around, almost giving her whiplash as she instinctively avoided witnessing the kiss. A count to ten later, she risked a look.

Ten seconds hadn’t been long enough.

The meal stretched on interminably. Dani ate bites of her sandwich, helped down by sips of water while she observed Robert Galbraith, reluctantly fascinated. He was a new phenomenon in her life—the only man she had ever known Susan to date—and now they were living with him.

Abruptly, a nightmare image of the shadowy man cleaning up at the sink after he’d broken into their cottage made her stomach clench. She hadn’t told Susan she had seen his face, or that she had injured him. They had simply packed and run, leaving everything but the necessities behind and driving through the night.

Dani transferred her attention to Susan, her gaze fiercely protective. There was no question; they would have to leave, and the sooner the better. The risk Susan was taking was unacceptable. In every attack she had always been the focus. The only time Dani had been hurt had been when she had finally gotten up the courage to run at him and he had swatted her away like a fly.

When Galbraith finally left the lunch table, Dani began clearing dishes. As she piled plates and cutlery in the sink, the words erupted out of her. “We’re making a big mistake.”

Susan’s expression turned sharp. “For the first time in years I’m making the right choice. He’s asked me to marry him.”

Dani froze in the act of turning a tap. “Does he know?”

“No.” Susan scraped leftover food scraps into the compost bucket under the sink. “And don’t look like that, missy.”

Dani clamped her jaw and retrieved the empty salad bowl from the table. She stared at the fragile porcelain. It was so fine and translucent she could see the shadow of her fingers through it. “We’re not safe here.”

That was an understatement. They were sitting ducks. After years of lying low, of Susan working for cash under the table—even forgoing welfare payments because that would pinpoint where they were—of never forming relationships, let alone dating, the abrupt turnaround was stunning. A marriage meant legal paperwork and bank accounts. The paper trail would point a huge neon arrow in their direction.

Susan snatched the bowl and rinsed it. “Yes. We are.” The bowl hit the draining board with a clatter. Susan’s fingers gripped the edge of the bench, her face abruptly white.

Dani stared at her mother, heart pounding. Susan was tall and lean and strong. She’d worked all sorts of jobs from legal secretary to shop assistant to picking fruit. They might be poor, but she had always prided herself on having the constitution of an ox. Apart from the occasional sniffle, neither of them was ever sick. “What’s wrong?”

Susan straightened. “I’m pregnant.”

Dani stared at her mother. Of all the answers she might have expected, that hadn’t ever been one of them. Suddenly the move and the way her mother was behaving began to make sense. “Does Galbraith know?”

“His name’s Robert. And no, not yet. I’ve only just realized myself.”

The expression on her mother’s face made Dani feel even sicker. Dani’s father had left before she’d been born, the only remnant of that brief relationship a name on her birth certificate. The concept that Galbraith would willingly take on not only a wife but two children—one of them not his own—was staggering.

Her mother retrieved the salad bowl, examined it for cracks and rinsed it. “Don’t worry, we’ll manage—one way or another.”

“What if he finds out?”

Susan’s jaw tightened. “I don’t want to hear you mention him again—it’s finished. He hasn’t found us for four years. He won’t find us now.”

The snort of a horse drew Dani’s attention. She stared at the scene unfolding in the paddock immediately adjacent to the house.

Carter was outside with Galbraith and two tall bay horses. She watched as Carter swung smoothly into the saddle. Dust plumed from restless hooves as the animals paced out of an open stock gate, hard-packed muscle rippling beneath satiny skin. Two dogs trotted alongside, tongues lolling. Dani blinked, spellbound. The scene was idyllic—like everything on Galbraith—and, like the endless rhythm of the sea dragging the sand from beneath her feet, it was steadily undermining her resolve. She was used to cutting ties, the idea of holding on made her dizzy.

Dazed, Dani realized that, like Susan, she didn’t want to leave. She wanted to stay so badly it hurt.

Susan tugged at her plait. “You just wait, you’ll change your mind about boys one day.”

For a heartthrob like Carter Rawlings? She’d rather live in a soap opera.

She might be young, but ever since she was six years old and he had broken into their house for the first time, she had known that men spelled more trouble than she ever wanted to take.

In her limited experience, if you could lose them you were lucky.

Chapter 2

Present day, Jackson’s Ridge, New Zealand

The sun was high, the air rippling with heat, the breeze hot and dry as it rustled through native manuka trees and flipped a strand of hair loose from Dani Marlow’s plait. As she slid from the seat of her tractor, she noted the direction of the breeze—a southerly—not the drought-breaking northerly she and every other farmer on the East Coast needed. They’d had a dry year, followed by an even drier summer, and the disastrous weather had desiccated the soil, killed most of the grass and undermined Galbraith Station’s already shaky financial position.

Properties all up and down the coast were selling at rock-bottom prices, and the sharks were queuing—most notably a fancy out-of-town syndicate that, rumor had it, was determined to turn the small farming community of Jackson’s Ridge into an upmarket golf course and beach resort.

The Barclays, who owned a block just up the coast, were contemplating selling after a fire burnt down their barn and decimated their maize crop. Another neighbour, old Mr. Stoddard, had rung just last night to let her know that instead of the extension on his mortgage he’d requested, the bank had sent him a letter advising him that his interest rate was going up. He was hanging on, but at seventy years of age, he had better things to do than watch his cows die of thirst and fight a bank that no longer had any confidence in his ability to service his loan.

Dust whirled, peppering Dani’s eyes as she crouched down to check the underside of the tractor. It didn’t take a diesel mechanic to diagnose what was wrong with the ancient Ferguson—affectionately labeled the Dinosaur. The oil sump was leaking.

Muttering beneath her breath, she straightened and walked to the small trailer coupled to the rear of the tractor and extracted a new bolt with its accompanying nut and washer from the “breakdown” toolbox. Shoving the wisp of hair behind her ear, she grabbed a wrench, a socket and a rag streaked with oil from the last breakdown, crawled beneath the Dinosaur and turned on her back.

For the third time in a month the same bolt had worked loose, jolted out by the bone-shaking ruts and potholes of Galbraith Station’s fast-disintegrating stock roads. Each time she’d gone into town and bought a slightly larger bolt, the metal of the sump, warped with constant flexing and worn thin by extreme age, had disintegrated enough that the bolt had shaken loose. The sump itself was about to expire, but because the tractor was so old, obtaining another part would be close to impossible. She had two options: get an engineer to manufacture a part, which would cost a small fortune, or buy a new tractor, which would cost more money than she could raise this year—or the next.

Oil slid down the backs of her hands and her wrists as she pushed the sump back into place and lined up the bolt holes. With a deft movement, she slipped the bolt through and held it in place as she awkwardly reached around the solid-steel chassis to slide the washer and the nut onto the shaft of the bolt, straining until the thread caught and the nut wound smoothly on.

Clamping the wrench around the nut to hold it still, she began the delicate process of tightening the bolt, a quarter turn at a time with the socket in the confined space, careful not to stress the tired metal by screwing the bolt in too tightly. Long seconds later, arms aching, she loosened off the wrench and the socket, set the tools down in the dust and simply lay in the shadows beneath the tractor, the tautness of her muscles turning to liquid as she let herself go boneless.

She was hot, sweaty and tired, and every part of her ached. The summer had been the driest on record, and she’d been up since before dawn moving stock and checking water troughs. When she’d finished her morning round, she’d showered, changed and opened her physiotherapy practice, which occupied the old shearers’ quarters. Her last appointment had been at three, after which she’d started loading hay onto the trailer and feeding out.

Even moving the cattle every day, rotating them from field to field, and grazing what was known as the “long acre”—the roadside grass—didn’t allow her paddocks time to recover. Without rain, the grass couldn’t grow, and there simply wasn’t enough feed. She was already using her winter supply; when that was gone she would have to either start buying in feed she couldn’t afford, or sell the entire herd, including the breeding cows.

She’d done the figures for selling early, and they weren’t good. The cattle would be underweight, and the market would be low. The worst-case scenario was that she wouldn’t make enough to cover the balloon payment that was due on the mortgage. If that happened, her half-brother, David, would lose the farm and his home.

The drought had already done its damage, and every day it continued the damage increased. Now, regardless of when it rained, they had already sustained a loss; it was only the magnitude of the loss that was in question.

Letting out a breath, she let her lids drift closed. She wouldn’t sleep, but she was tired enough that the iron-hard dirt felt as soft as a feather bed. Slowly, inner tension seeped away, and her breathing evened out.

A small sound disturbed the silence. Liquid trickled down her arm. Her lids flickered.

Oil.

The Dinosaur was still leaking, this time from somewhere else, which meant the sump and the bolt could be side issues.

“Oh yeah, you’re going to die on me soon,” she muttered sleepily. “Just not yet.”

Give me a couple more weeks, then it won’t matter.

“If this rust heap is terminal,” a low male voice murmured, “it better not be in my driveway.”

Dani’s heart jolted in her chest. She hadn’t heard a vehicle, but that wasn’t surprising. The rising wind hitting the tall line of poplar trees along the roadside was loud enough to muffle most sounds and, despite her resolve, she had fallen asleep. If she’d been fully conscious there was no way her closest neighbour, Carter Rawlings, would have sneaked up on her.

Grabbing the tools, she crawled out from beneath the Dinosaur and blinked into the afternoon sun. Of course he would be standing with the sun at his back, putting her at even more of a disadvantage—as if she wasn’t utterly disadvantaged anyway in faded jeans and a T-shirt, leather boots that were crusted with dirt, and her hair scraped back in a plait.

Rising to her feet, Dani studied her neighbour and ex-ex-ex-boyfriend who, evidently, had finally decided to return to Jackson’s Ridge after yet another extended absence.

“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Commitment, himself.” And if he said, “Hi, honey, I’m home,” she wouldn’t be responsible for her actions. “Looking good, Carter.”

It was a sad fact that he was drop-dead gorgeous: tall and muscled with sun-bleached hair, a solid, nicely moulded jaw and those killer blue eyes.

Deftly, she stepped around him and replaced her tools in their box. “Long time no see.”

And wasn’t that just typical? The Rawlings family had lived next door to the Galbraiths forever, but Carter had always been too restless to stay in Jackson’s Ridge. Despite being neighbours for eighteen years, the time Dani had actually spent with Carter had been little. When Carter had turned thirteen he had gone away to boarding school. From boarding school, he had gone directly into the army, then the Special Air Service. From that point on he had become even more elusive, only returning home for brief stints to visit his parents when he had leave. And lately, over the past six years, depending on the state of their relationship, to visit her.

“I’ve been busy.”

“Evidently.” Almost a whole year busy. But for the first time since they’d started dating six years ago she’d had the luxury of not worrying about exactly what he was doing, and how dangerous it was. As far as Dani was concerned it had been a productive year.

“I rang.”

Dani wiped her hands on the rag and tossed it in the back of the trailer. “I got your messages.”

“You didn’t reply.”

She cocked her head to one side and took a second look. Whatever Carter had been up to since he’d last climbed out of her bed and walked out the door hadn’t detracted any from his appeal. Despite her detachment, her stomach did a funny little flip-flop. Her jaw tightened. She had been burned by Carter Rawlings a total of three times. As far as she was concerned, that was two times too many. The fact that the masochistic streak that kept her making the same mistake over and over was still in existence didn’t make her happy. She was thirty, supposedly intelligent and independent. As far as she was concerned she had been inoculated three times. Somewhere there had to be a rule about that, and she wasn’t about to break it.

She snapped the toolbox closed and fastened the lid. “I didn’t see any point. We broke up.”

He muttered something short and sharp beneath his breath. “Why isn’t Bill fixing the tractor?”

Dani wedged the oilcan between the toolbox and the side of the trailer so it wouldn’t shift when she negotiated the rutted drive to the house. The last thing she needed was to lose a can of oil. As inexpensive as it was, replacing it would blow her budget for the week, and with the mortgage falling due in a fortnight she was literally counting every cent. In theory she couldn’t afford to eat. “I had to let Bill go two months ago. There’s a recession, or hadn’t you noticed?”

Maybe not. By the shiny glint of his brand-new four-wheel drive, she deduced that drought, recession and bottomed-out stock prices or not, Carter was doing all right.

“I’ve noticed.” He jerked his head toward the tractor. “Why didn’t you give Geoff a call?”

Geoff was the diesel mechanic based in town. He serviced most of the farm equipment locally. “Geoff costs forty dollars an hour. Fifty-five on a call-out.”

Carter walked around the Dinosaur. Distracted, Dani noted the stiffness of his movements.

“You’re telling me you’ve been fixing the tractor yourself?”

And the farm bike and the truck. If she lost the farm, she could probably open up in competition with Geoff’s Diesels and make some real money.

Dani made a production of looking around. “Can’t see anyone else. Must have been me.”

Carter’s stare was cold and disorientingly direct. “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

Never again. “What’s the matter? You got issues with women fixing machines?”

He stared at the tractor, then glanced back at Dani. “Yes.”

The word was bitten out, clipped and cold, as if he had every right to an opinion. An involuntary shiver worked its way down her spine. She’d been angry at Carter for months—no, cancel that—years, and in all that time, she’d never imagined that he could be angry with her.

“I heard about Ellen. I’m sorry.”

She fastened the lid of the toolbox with fingers that were abruptly clumsy. The loss of her adoptive aunt, Ellen Galbraith, still cut deep. Ellen had helped her through one of the toughest times in her life, when Susan and Robert had both been killed in a car accident; it had broken her heart to let her go. “She had a heart condition.”

One that had manifested almost overnight, but must have been brewing for years. Ellen had had a bad case of the flu and had simply never gotten well. Confused by the symptoms, but suspicious, their local GP had run a series of tests, but by the time Ellen had been diagnosed as suffering from heart failure, massive damage had been done. She’d had a bypass operation, which had briefly improved her condition, but four months after the initial diagnosis, she had caught another bout of flu and slipped away in her sleep just hours later.

Clamping her jaw against the ache at the back of her throat, Dani gripped the worn steering wheel, and swung up into the Dinosaur’s seat. “I’ve got to go.”

He stepped toward the tractor, as if he was going to detain her, the motion faintly awkward.

Dani stared, arrested by the uncharacteristic clumsiness. “What’s wrong with your leg?”

His gaze jerked to hers, and there was nothing lazy, intimate or even remotely friendly in the contact. For a moment she had the uncomfortable sensation she was looking at a complete stranger. “A gunshot wound.”

For a blank moment she didn’t know what to say or how to react. Carter was in the Special Air Service. It was hard to miss that fact when his high-risk, high-adrenaline career had destroyed their relationship. But coming face-to-face with the reality of a gunshot wound was shocking.

She stared at his broad back as he limped to his truck, studying the way he moved, the kinks in his posture that told her Carter was fresh out of rehab and still healing. Ever since Carter had gone into the military she had worried about the danger—whether they were involved or not, Carter’s well-being mattered. “When?”

“Four months ago.”

Her stomach tightened. Another piece of the puzzle fell into place. Two months ago she’d heard, courtesy of Nola McKay—the owner of Nola’s Café—that Carter hadn’t just been away on an extended tour of duty, he had been missing in action. The news, delivered with a latte and the rider that he had been rescued, had shocked her, but still disconnected and numb with the grief of Ellen’s death, it had taken her another week before she’d gotten up the energy to do a search on the Internet. Eventually she had found a report that a soldier was missing in action in Borneo. The wording had been brief and clinical and hadn’t included any details. Like the high-security classification on Carter’s career, the report closed more doors than it opened.

She wished the fact that Carter had been shot didn’t affect her, but it did. The past year had been hard, and it had changed her. She knew she’d gotten quieter and more withdrawn, but, unlike Carter, she still couldn’t lay claim to being either cold or detached.

Carter eased into the driver’s seat and she remembered his opening line—the reason he had stopped and spoken to her at all: she was blocking his driveway.

Letting out a breath, she turned the key. The tractor motor turned over, coughed then caught, the rumble loud enough to preclude conversation.

Relief loosened off the tension in the pit of her stomach. Gunshot wound or not, Carter was on his own. If he wanted female company, there were plenty of women in town who would be only too pleased to soothe his hurts and massage his sore muscles; women who were younger, prettier and a whole lot more fun than she ever planned on being.

She released the clutch. “There is a rule,” she just had to keep reminding herself. “Three strikes, and you’re out.”

Chapter 3

Carter watched the retreating dust cloud, eased his leg into a more comfortable position and slammed his door closed.

The message screen of his cell phone glowed. Two missed calls and a message. The missed calls were both from his mother. Ever since he’d gotten back into the country both of his parents, who had retired to a popular resort town further up the coast a couple of years ago, had kept in daily contact. The fact that he had been taken prisoner had shaken them. The gunshot wound came a close second, but not by much. Despite his assurances, they insisted on keeping in close touch.

The text message was from Gabriel West, a longtime friend, ex–SAS sniper and leader of the private team that had flown into Borneo to rescue him.

Carter read the message and pressed Delete. Lately West had been abnormally solicitous and curious about what he was up to—and with whom. Along with everything else that had gone wrong lately, Carter was beginning to feel like he was being watched over by an overlarge hen.

Turning the key in the ignition, he manoeuvred the truck off the verge and into the entrance of his drive, barely noticing the weed-infested borders, or the fact that one of the smaller farm sheds had lost its roof in the last big storm.

He had to wonder just what he’d let slip when he’d been semi-conscious in the hospital. West was more than curious. Now he wanted to visit.

It was a fact that he did feel different. He still hadn’t figured out exactly what had changed except that for months he’d felt unsettled—in the psychologist’s jargon, “disengaged.” Even when he’d finally been declared fit enough to resume light duties—translate that as pushing paper in an office—he’d felt like a square peg trying to fit into a round hole. The psychologist had diagnosed post-traumatic shock syndrome—maybe even an early mid-life crisis.

Carter frowned as he slowed for a bend. He liked things cut-and-dried, the idea that he was suffering from something as woolly and amorphous as some kind of mental and emotional breakdown ticked him off.

It was a fact that the months spent in captivity hadn’t been a picnic. From beginning to end, what had happened had been a prime example of bad timing and bad luck.

The assignment to escort an Indonesian government official to the small village of Tengai hadn’t been high-risk, or even particularly interesting. Carter had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Two rival rebel factions had chosen that particular village to clash. When the shooting started, Carter had kept to task and protected the official, but when they had finally made it out of the building, their transport and backup were gone.

If they’d stayed inside and kept out of sight, in all probability they would have been in the clear, but one of the village children had been cut up by a ricochet and Carter had started to treat him. Two of the rebels who were still holed up in the village had accosted Carter at gunpoint, ignored the government official and demanded Carter leave with them.

They didn’t want to kidnap a bureaucrat. What they needed was a trained medic.

After stripping the official of his suit, his watch and all of his cash, the men had herded Carter into the jungle, his weaponry, communications equipment and medical kit confiscated along with his boots.

Apart from the restricted diet—crazily enough, stolen army rations—and the hours spent kicking his heels under armed guard, nothing horrific had happened. He had been too useful. He’d treated two of the rebels for gunshot wounds, delivered a baby and dealt with a minor outbreak of dysentery. When he’d finally managed to slip away at night, four months after capture, all he’d had were his clothes, a knife he’d managed to steal and the remnants of his medical kit.

Without a compass—and travelling beneath a canopy that blocked both the sun and stars, burying him in either a soupy half light or impenetrable darkness—he had ended up travelling in a circle and had practically walked back into the rebel camp. A sentry had spotted him and fired, but the fact that he’d been hit at all was a miracle, and the sentry himself didn’t register the hit. The rebels as a force were canny and elusive, but they weren’t trained soldiers. They relied on surprise and the threat of their weapons—not accuracy.

A brief search was conducted, then abandoned, and Carter was able to put some distance between himself and the camp. After that, things had gotten a little hazy. He’d injected himself with morphine, lain up for a day, strapped his leg with his shirt then started to walk. The next day he’d found a small settlement and managed to get some food and water. With the help of the village midwife he’d extracted the bullet then had spent the next three days on his back in a small tin shack fighting off a fever.

With his leg heavily bandaged and seeping, Carter had been escorted by one of the villagers to the next village further down the valley, on the verge of the Kalimantan Lowlands. It was there he’d gotten the news that a private team was looking for him—not the army rescue squad he’d expected.

Apparently, after political pressure exerted by the government official who had been left kicking his heels in Tengai, the peacekeeping unit had been forced to withdraw from Borneo. The irony that the official he had been commissioned to protect from the rebels had left him hanging out to dry wasn’t lost on Carter. Lately, with his luck, crossing the road had become dangerous.

Carter brought the truck to a halt in front of the sprawling, one-storied house, perched on a bluff above the bay. The house, which he’d bought from his parents along with the farm, was old and comfortable, hemmed by verandas and large sweeping lawns. A cooling breeze rustled through a clump of oleanders, the scent of the jasmine that grew wild in the garden filled his nostrils and over all was the fresh tang of the ocean. From where he was sitting, he could see the water, a broad sweep of blue stretching to the horizon.

Grabbing his suitcase from the back seat of the truck, he limped toward the porch, slid the key in the lock and pushed the door wide. The late-afternoon sun sent his shadow sliding over the faded hall carpet. The house was silent and deserted.

Stepping inside, he set the suitcase down and limped through to the empty kitchen, checking that the hot water was on. The couple he employed to mow the lawns and clean the house had been in. His gaze swept the clean lines of the kitchen counter and snagged on the blinking light of the answering machine. With resignation, he picked up the receiver and hit the play button.

One hang-up, two messages from an old girlfriend, Mia, wanting to know how he was after his “accident,” and a call from his C.O. wanting to set up an appointment for his next round of assessments.

Carter hit the delete button. Six weeks after being airlifted to a hospital in Darwin, Australia, he’d been put on a routine flight into Auckland and had reported to his C.O.

The debrief hadn’t been pleasant. Naturally, he had failed his medical exam. His psychological report had been even worse. His commander had been impressed by the fact that he would be able to walk without the aid of a stick, eventually, but the prognosis for resuming active service was grim.

The slug had entered at the rear of his upper thigh, ploughing south through the complex interweaving of muscles and ligaments to lodge just above his knee. It hadn’t broken his femur or nicked an artery, but it had damaged practically everything else. He had extensive soft-tissue damage to all the main muscles, which had meant fun and games for the surgeon who’d done the reconstructive surgery, and the patella ligament, which supported his knee, had been damaged.

He had been lucky. If the bullet had travelled another two inches it would have shattered his knee.

Several weeks later, after further surgery to release adhesions and nerves caught in scar tissue, he had been able to straighten his leg, and for the first time since he’d been shot he had been able to walk without the aid of a stick, albeit painfully. From then on, his progress had been rapid. He didn’t just want to walk. If he couldn’t run, he couldn’t pass the service medical exam—which meant he was finished for active duty. The bullet had missed vital organs, but it now looked as though it had taken out his career.

He could still serve in the regiment as an instructor if he wanted, but the offer hadn’t made Carter happy.

He had lost months of his life in captivity and almost as much again in and out of hospitals. Now he’d been given six weeks to improve his mobility and his attitude.

His jaw tightened as he walked out onto the veranda and stared down the winding shell path that led to the beach. He hadn’t been through months of pain and frustration to keep losing: he liked the life he’d had before and he wanted it back—and that included Dani.

If she would let him in.

She’d always been ultra independent and elusive. He’d had her door slammed in his face more than once—and always with justification. It was a fact that Special Forces was hard on relationships; his job took him away for months at a time. With the length of this last absence, he couldn’t blame her for wanting out, but that didn’t mean he was going to give up. He would bring her around—eventually.

She loved him.

All he had to do was convince her of that fact.

Dani drove the Dinosaur into the implement shed, turned off the ignition and climbed out of the bony metal seat. The silence after the loud rumbling of the engine was momentarily deafening.

She stared out into the soft early-evening light.

Carter was back. Finally.

Letting out a breath, she lowered herself onto an upturned bucket, for the moment comfortable with the dimness and the quiet.

She’d known he’d had to come back some time—she had expected him sooner than this—but still, seeing him had knocked her sideways, and finding out he had been injured had been a shock. Ever since he’d joined the army she’d nursed the fear that he’d get hurt, and now it had happened.

She shifted position and the faint twinge of stiffness in her own leg registered, and other even more unwelcome memories flooded back.

Six years ago she had been involved in a car accident that had killed both her mother and Robert Galbraith, and injured her. She had been home from Mason, taking a break from her first full year in physiotherapy practice. She had volunteered to drive Susan and Robert into town and drop them at the golf club for their weekly golf date before continuing on to pick up David, who had spent the night at a friend’s place. Out of sheer practicality they had taken Robert’s car, since he had had a trunk large enough to hold both sets of golf clubs. She could remember trying to avoid a large truck, the wheels of the car sliding in the layer of gravel on the verge. The car had fishtailed and the truck had slammed into the side of the vehicle. They’d rolled, ending upside-down in the ditch.

Dani had broken a leg and received cuts on her face and arms from the shattered windshield. Her mother, who was seated in the rear, had received the brunt of the impact from the truck and had died instantly. Robert Galbraith hadn’t lasted much longer. The ambulance medics had tried to resuscitate him on the way to the hospital, but without success. When the car had rolled, he’d sustained head injuries that meant that even if they had managed to generate a pulse, it was unlikely he would regain consciousness.

Dani hadn’t been judged to be at fault. The accident had happened on a narrow dirt road that was closer to one lane than two. There had been little room to manoeuvre, but even so, she had never been able to accept the verdict.

She had been an experienced enough driver, but most of her driving had been done on city roads, and in her own small sedan—not Robert Galbraith’s large automatic. At the time she had been feeling her way with the unfamiliar car and the road, which had recently had a new load of gravel spread on it. She had always believed that if either Robert or Susan had been behind the wheel, they would have managed the car and the slippery conditions better and so survived the crash. She wouldn’t have lost her mother and Robert—who had been the closest thing to a father she had ever known—and her much younger half-brother, David, wouldn’t have lost both his parents.

To compound her guilt, she knew that if Robert Galbraith and her mother were still alive, Galbraith Station wouldn’t be in such a shaky financial position.

With the help of a hired hand, Bill Harris, and Aunt Ellen, who had moved out of her townhouse in Mason and into Galbraith, Dani had quit her physiotherapist’s job and taken over the running of the farm while she sorted out the financial tangle of Robert Galbraith’s affairs.

Despite an outward appearance of wealth, neither Susan nor Robert had had a lot of money to spare, nor had ever imagined dying before their time—certainly not in a car accident on one of Jackson’s Ridge’s sleepiest country roads. They’d had insurance but only enough to cover the short-term debt owing on the property. Although it had been in the Galbraith family for generations, it had become heavily mortgaged through Robert’s various business ventures.

The investment structure, which had been solid while Robert was alive, had collapsed like a house of cards when he died. A kiwifruit orchard he’d had shares in had proved successful, but fluctuations in the market had eaten away the slim profits, and without Robert at the helm, the operation had eventually been sold at a small loss. The largest loss had occurred in the most lucrative of Robert’s enterprises and his pet project: his horse breaking and training business.

A renowned horse breaker, Robert had had a lengthy client list and had commanded high fees. The business, which had started out on a shoestring budget, had expanded rapidly. To cope with the demand, Susan had begun working full-time with the horses, and a large amount of investment capital had been sunk into building a set of stables and a covered training facility. While Robert had been alive the income had been steady and substantial, more than enough to cover the mortgage, but, within days of his death, the horses had been removed and the income had dried up.

The final nail in the coffin was an ostrich contract Robert had bought into just before he’d died—a deal which required the purchase of a bird a year for a further period of five years at an exorbitant fixed price. So far the venture had failed to make anything but a loss. The ostrich industry had folded, and prices for the birds and the products had plummeted, leaving investors with a financial lemon that continued to squeeze them dry. The contracts were cleverly executed and legally binding, creating a financial drag that tied investors into paying for birds that were more use in a zoo than on a farm. For years Dani and the group of investors had waited for the syndicate that had set up the farm to fold, so freeing them, but against the odds the ostrich facility continued.

The easy option would have been to sell off a parcel of land to cover the debts, but over the past few years Robert Galbraith had already sold off the maximum amount of land allowed under the local authority rules to help fund the costs of the new businesses—the farm could no longer be subdivided. Any debts now had to be met out of farm capital.

During Dani’s first interview with the bank, the possibility of bankruptcy and a mortgagee sale had been suggested, but she had refused to give in to that option. Her reaction had been knee-jerk and fierce. In his will, Robert Galbraith had entrusted her not only with David’s care, but with Galbraith Station, which had been left jointly to both her and David. If Robert and Susan had still been alive, Galbraith Station would have prospered not only in a business sense but as the warm hub of their family.

The fact that they had died and she had had a part in it haunted her. For years—a shadowy carryover from childhood—she had quietly kept a watch on Susan, Robert and David. The vigilance had been habitual and ingrained. Sometimes Susan had chided her about being overprotective, but she’d accepted the way Dani felt: they were her family, and doubly precious to her because of the past.

But no amount of checking on the people around her family or personally ensuring their safety had helped in the few seconds it had taken for Susan and Robert’s lives to end. As hard as she’d tried, she’d been powerless to save them, but she was determined to help David—and to save Galbraith.

Pushing to her feet, Dani walked out into the dusty area in front of the barn and stared at the clear blue sky. The shadows were lengthening and the air had cooled slightly, but it was still unseasonably hot.

Brown hills, the texture of the grass like velvet with the low angle of the sun, rolled into the hazy distance. Diminished as the property was, it was still substantial enough to provide a good income—provided there was rain.

The drought couldn’t have happened at a worse time. The slow death of Galbraith Station was excruciating. Sometimes she felt as if the place was sucking every last iota of strength and endurance from her.

Directly after the funeral, when the will had been read, she’d been surprised to discover shares in the station had been left to her, but once the financial situation was sorted out she would hand them over to David. He’d need every resource at his disposal to keep the property, let alone farm it, and once he’d completed his agricultural diploma, she meant to see that he got his chance.

Methodically, she checked the tractor’s diesel tank and refilled it ready for the morning. With fingers that were annoyingly clumsy, she reversed the pouring spout on the diesel container, screwed on the lid, and stored it in the corner of the shed. Picking up a rag, she wiped her hands, nose automatically wrinkling at the strong smell of the diesel.

Blankly, she stared at her hands. Her fingers were long, the shape of her hands elegant. As hard as she’d tried she could never get comfortable with the acrid smells, or with what the oil and diesel did to her skin and nails. Every now and then she rebelled and put on a coat of nail polish, only to go through the anger/denial thing when the next day the colour gradually chipped, peeled or dissolved away. Lately, she’d stopped bothering. Like her life, her beauty regime was pared down to the basics.

Absently, she strolled back to the house, taking a circuitous route through the vegetable garden. On the way she stopped to pick a lettuce, sprigs of basil and several ripe tomatoes for dinner—the habit of never walking anywhere without a purpose ingrained.

A practical task or not, for long moments she simply soaked in the pleasure of the garden, her arms filled with salad vegetables, eyes half-closed as she listened to the sound of the wind sifting through the trees and the melodic whistle of tui birds.

A faint click, as if a door had just been softly closed, jerked her head around.

Frowning, she studied the corrugated iron back of the barn, which provided a wind-shelter for the garden. The main doors, which were around the other side, were open, and usually stayed open unless the weather was wet.

On Galbraith Station theft had never been a problem; it was too isolated for casual thievery and, in any case, Jackson’s Ridge was hardly a breeding ground for criminals. The town itself was small and sleepy—a coastal hideaway that attracted a few regular holidaymakers each summer and little else. Added to that Galbraith Station was a good twenty-minute drive out of town on a dusty dirt road. Apart from the occasional boatload of picnickers who landed on the beach below the house, Dani was lucky to see a stranger. Consequently, the house and shed doors were seldom locked.

With a silent tread, she walked around the barn, straining to listen and separate the sounds that were always there: the roar of the surf, the creak as one of the branches of the flame tree in the home paddock sawed against another, the metallic clank when the wind came from the southwest and lifted a loose piece of roofing iron on the barn. This one hadn’t been a product of Mother Nature, it had been a definite click.

Her tension mounted as she examined dusty farm implements and a towering pile of hay, the spurt of fear wiping out almost two decades of a measured, safe existence, abruptly transporting her back to a time when every sound had been suspect. Nothing appeared to be missing or out of place, and there was no sign that anyone, or anything had been in the barn but dust, birds and maybe a few mice. Shaking her head, she skimmed the dark reaches of the barn.

Something flickered in the shadows. A split second later a dark form arrowed past her, narrowly missing her head. Dani ducked, adrenaline rocketing through her veins as tomatoes and herbs scattered on the dusty concrete floor.

Nesting swallows.

Letting out a breath, Dani eased the pressure on the lettuce, which was crushed against her chest, bent and retrieved a tomato. A second swallow dove down from the rafters, slicing close as it flew through the doors.

Automatically, her gaze followed the tiny bird as it arced into the sky then wheeled for another run into the barn. Grabbing the rest of the bruised tomatoes and the basil, she retreated back out into the sunlight.

“Okay, okay…I haven’t disturbed your babies.”

And nobody else had, either. The swallows were aggressive. If anybody had been in the barn the birds would have been in the air, flying, before she had gotten there. The sound she’d heard must have been either the birds or some small animal, perhaps a rat, upsetting something.

Shrugging, she started toward the house. As she reached the veranda the distinct sound of a car hitting potholes stopped her in her tracks. Opening the screen door, she deposited the vegetables on the bench and turned to see who her visitor was.

The car was shiny beige and unfamiliar. Frowning, she studied the sleek expensive lines. She was used to cars pulling up at the clinic, which was further down the drive, but not this late. Clinic hours were normally ten until three, which fitted in with her work routine and suited clients who wanted to make an appointment during their lunch break.

Dust rose in a cloud around the vehicle as she walked to meet the visitor. After the scare just moments ago, she felt tense and a little jittery. It wasn’t likely that someone arriving at her front door in daylight would give her trouble, but since Ellen had died she’d become acutely aware of her vulnerability on the isolated farm.

Lifting a hand to shade her eyes, Dani studied the man who climbed out from behind the wheel. He was tall, dark and physically imposing, with the kind of smooth good looks that would make most women look twice.

He was wearing a suit. Her stomach dropped. He wasn’t a real estate agent, his car was too clean and he didn’t have any advertising slapped on his number plate. That meant he had to be with one of the stock and station agents—or the bank.

As soon as she caught a whiff of the subtle expensive cologne he was wearing, she crossed off the stock and station agencies.

“Ms. Marlow?”

“That’s right.”

She didn’t miss the quick, male once-over he gave her. Even in a small place like Jackson’s Ridge, she had gotten used to that look long before she’d turned sixteen. Deliberately, she turned her head so he caught the scar on the right side of her jaw, the narrow slash courtesy of the accident. She generally found that took some of the icing off the cake. She might look a certain way, but that didn’t mean she was.

He introduced himself as Roger Wells, the new branch manager of Jackson’s Ridge’s only bank and slipped a business card from his wallet. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

Dani tucked the card in her jeans pocket and tried not to notice how grubby her fingers were despite the wipe with the rag. Machine oil took no prisoners. “It’s been a lot nicer in the past.”

Galbraith used to be a showplace, with a six-bedroom homestead and extensive gardens. Now the house was in need of a coat of paint and repairs to the roof and verandas, and the gardens needed a lot more care and energy than she could expend.

He shoved both hands in his pants pockets, going for the casual GQ look and achieving it. “I just took a drive down to the beach. The views are really something.”

Dani’s spine tightened. She hadn’t heard a vehicle until just now, which wasn’t surprising, because the Dinosaur made so much noise, but even so she should have heard him sooner. That meant he must have driven down one of the stock roads at the far end of the farm, turned onto the beach road then back up onto the plateau via another stock road, bypassing most of the driveway to the house. Lately she’d heard more than the usual traffic along the beach road, and some of it at night. Despite the fact that it was trespassing, normally she didn’t worry about the unauthorised access, because occasionally locals liked to surf-cast off the beach, but with the syndicate people sniffing around, she was extra wary. “Jackson’s Bay is beautiful.”

Even that was a mild understatement: it was spectacular—lonely and a little wild—a long, smooth crescent that curved into the distance and took a big bite out of the local coastline. Lately, owing to the syndicate’s interest in Jackson’s Ridge, she’d been inundated with more than the usual amount of real estate agents, all wanting her and David to sell. “So what can I do for you, Mr. Wells?” As open and pleasant as Wells seemed, it was after six, the sun was setting, and she wasn’t inclined to trust him.

White teeth gleamed. “This is just a quick call to introduce myself and let you know it’s business as usual with the bank. I like to take a personal interest in my clients.”

She just bet he did. Maybe she was being oversensitive, there was nothing in the statement to take offence at, but Roger Wells was a stark change from Harold Buckley, the previous manager. Mr. Buckley had been with the bank for as long as Dani could remember, and she’d liked him. In all those years, he had never once bothered to take a drive out to Galbraith, let alone take an uninvited tour of the property. If there was any business to be done, it had always been completed in his office during business hours.

Wells made a few bland observations about the severity of the drought and the state of the economy—nothing that Dani hadn’t tortured herself with a thousand times over already—then finally got to what really interested him, Galbraith’s stock numbers.

Setting her jaw, Dani reeled off the figures. A year ago that many head of cattle would have represented a slim, but comfortable return, but with the price of beef falling to a ten-year low, her profit margin was gone and Wells knew it. “Is there a problem with the bank financing farm mortgages? I hear Tom Stoddard’s looking at selling up.”

The blunt tactic didn’t net a return. “The bank’s commitment to farmers hasn’t changed.”

Dani kept her face expressionless. She’d seen the ad on T.V.—something about the “friendly bank.” From what she’d heard, lately, the Jackson’s Ridge bank was as friendly as a rottweiler. They had squeezed Tom so tight his options were gone.

After a few more uncomfortable pleasantries, Wells climbed back into his car and drove away. Dani watched the plume of dust until it dissipated, any appetite she’d had gone. As bland and pleasant as Wells had been, he represented trouble. He might have been on her land uninvited, but technically he owned more of Galbraith Station than either she or her brother did.

Chapter 4

The following afternoon, after taking a trip into town to buy groceries, Dani strolled down to the waterfront and met Becca McKay at Jackson’s Ridge’s only café.

Becca was the same age as Dani—a tanned, willowy blonde who’d spent most of her life travelling. Five years ago she had landed in Jackson’s Ridge for a summer and waited tables for Nola, until she’d been swept off her feet by one of the coast’s pastoral barons.

The marriage had caught everyone in Jackson’s Ridge cold. John McKay was twelve years older than Becca and a widower. To compound matters, Becca’s boss, Nola, just happened to be one of John’s sisters. Nola had had an amiable relationship with Becca until John had started turning up as a regular customer. Since then, she hadn’t been able to hide her disapproval of the age difference, or her opinion that the marriage was doomed to failure—despite the fact that John and Becca now had two children, with a third on the way.

Becca chose a table outside under a shade sail and shot her a meaningful look. “I heard Carter’s back.”

Dani pulled out a chair, sat down and braced herself. She and Becca had been friends for years, but they had differing opinions about Carter. Despite Carter’s reputation for being cool and elusive, Becca was certain he was prime husband material—for the right woman. “How did you find out?”

Becca draped a colourful fringed bag that matched the orange and pink stripes of her tank top over the back of her chair. “John had a face-to-face in the supermarket. Carter reached for a bottle of hot sauce—he was getting ketchup for the kids. How typical is that?”

Dani couldn’t help thinking that when it came to John McKay it was very typical. He was a devoted husband and father and made no bones about the fact that his wife and children came first. “Be warned. Carter Rawlings is not my favourite topic.”

“Then you’re on your own, because the whole town’s humming. Word is out that he’s got to pop the question this time.”

Dani studied the laminated menu. “He did make a proposition last time he was back, but it was more along the lines of a suggestion that it would be more convenient all around if I moved in with him. I don’t recall that a ring was part of the deal.”

Dani poured two glasses of water from the carafe on the table. There had been no moonlight, no bended knee, just pure practicality. She took a sip of water and tried to forget the moment. Carter had been on his way out the door, his bags packed, his orders and passport on his bedside table, with that cool, distant look in his gaze. As always, the exit was practiced and slick. Dani didn’t like to dwell on how many women had been put through the exact same routine. Even in Jackson’s Ridge Carter had a certain reputation, and he hadn’t earned it by being caught up in emotion. She shrugged. “I wasn’t interested. The way I saw it, it was all about convenience. His.”

Becca frowned. “Are you sure it’s finished? Don’t forget, he’s a guy. They think differently—food, sex, football, business—and not necessarily in that order.”

The screen door flipped open as Nola walked toward them with a pad.

“Twelve months sure. Carter and I broke up when he left. We’re finished.”

Nola’s expression went utterly blank. She was a dedicated lifetime member of the Carter Rawlings fan club. In her eyes he could do no wrong, whereas Dani did wrong on a regular basis—like now, for example.

Becca took one look at Nola’s face and set the menu down. “We’ll have two lattes while we figure out what else we want. Is that okay?”

Nola’s notebook snapped closed.

Becca waited until she was out of earshot. “She’s in shock.”

“I can’t think why. It’s the third time it’s happened.”

Becca’s expression was rueful. “Only the third? The moon would have to turn blue before Nola admitted she might have it wrong. Once she gets her teeth into an idea she hangs on like grim death. According to John she had a thing going with Walter Douglas from the butcher shop when they were at school. He ended up marrying someone else and Nola’s refused to date since. That’s thirty-five years on the shelf because she figures that someone else got her guy.”

The screen door to the café flipped open as a couple left.

“Talking about male cheesecake…” Becca jerked her head to indicate Roger Wells, who was seated inside near the window then averted her gaze as he pushed his chair back and strolled toward the door. She rolled her eyes. “He’s coming this way. Do I look married?”

“Becca, you’re six months pregnant. He’s got to figure that you’ve at least got a guy.”

“I guess. Plus he’s just been over the farm books. What he doesn’t know about me isn’t worth printing.” With a grin, she patted her belly. “Did I tell you it’s a girl? I had a scan on Monday. John’s over the moon.”

Roger Wells inclined his head. “Mrs. McKay, Dani.”

Becca made a face. Dani killed any hint of a smile and kept her gaze fixed on the collar of Wells’s pristine white shirt. He wasn’t wearing a suit jacket today, and looked younger and a lot more casual than he had the previous evening. With an effort, Dani made polite conversation, but her replies were forced; Wells represented the bank. No matter how charming, she couldn’t get past that fact, or the fear that missing that mortgage payment engendered. Besides, he was just a little too smooth-tongued for her liking.

Nola appeared at the screen door with a tray. Wells did the gentlemanly thing and opened the door then lifted a hand as he strolled back to the office.

Becca fanned herself. “Looks like you’ve got yourself an inside track there, girl. From what I hear, Wells is single, lonely and alone.”

Nola set the tray on the table with a sharp tap. “Better not let Carter catch him chatting you up.” She threw a dismissive glance at Wells’s retreating back, her voice pitched loud enough to carry. “Man must have a death wish.”

Dani’s jaw clamped. “Carter and I are finished. We’ve been finished for months.”

Nola’s expression didn’t flicker and Dani had to wonder if she’d even heard.

A latte was placed in front of Dani, a small star-shaped biscotti and a sachet of sugar placed neatly on the saucer. “Let’s hope he knows that.”

Becca lifted a brow. “If I were you, Nola, I’d start worrying about it when it becomes your business.”

Nola’s head swivelled. Her gaze settled on Becca like a pair of twin lasers, old issues bubbling to the surface. “All I’m saying is it’s a shame that boy has to come back from almost being killed and find out his girlfriend lost interest while he was lying in a hospital bed.”

Dani ripped open a sachet of sugar and emptied it into her cup. “Like I said before, we broke up before he left. And he’d been gone about eight months before he hit the hospital bed.”

“Hmmph.” Nola turned on her heel.

Becca let out a breath. “She didn’t know that.”

Dani shrugged. “Neither did I, until I talked to Gladys Hainey at the supermarket.”

Becca lifted her cup and took a reflective sip. “I should have kept my mouth shut.”

Dani lifted a brow. “But—?”

Becca grinned. “Uh-huh. Impossible.”

Dani cradled her cup between her fingers, and transferred her gaze to the view. The small cove the town was built around was sheltered, with rock promontories at both ends, a pretty stretch of shelly beach and enough deep water that fishing boats could tie up at the jetty. “Better drink up before Nola comes back to clean the table. You might have forgotten who owns this café, but I haven’t. Closing time could be any second.”

“Talking about closing. I heard the Barclays’ barn caught on fire last week. According to John, they lost a shed full of plant.”

Dani tensed, the memory of the fire and the swiftness with which it had spread, eating through steel and timber, wasn’t one she’d forget in a hurry. “I was there—for an appointment. The building was already ablaze when I drove in the gates. By the time the Fire Service got there it was too late, the building had burned to the ground. Luckily they’re covered by insurance.”

Twenty minutes later, John arrived to pick up Becca.

Becca eased to her feet, grimacing as she rubbed the small of her back. “Brunch. Next Sunday?”

“It’s a date.” Becca’s leisurely brunches were legendary, and usually peopled with an eclectic, sometimes oddball mix of characters. Whenever an invitation was issued, Dani always turned up. If the food itself was plain, it was a certainty the company wouldn’t be—and, as it happened, Becca was a fabulous cook. All the years she’d spent travelling hadn’t been wasted. She spoke several languages and cooked with inventive gusto. It was one of the things Nola just didn’t get about Becca—she didn’t see the interesting woman behind the pretty face.

Dani finished her coffee, hitched the strap of her purse over her shoulder and walked back toward the supermarket where she’d parked the truck. As she passed the alley that led to the back of the café, she paused. She could smell smoke.

A fragment of blackened paper with a glowing orange edge swirled in the breeze. The wisps of smoke thickened. Frowning, she stared down the narrow, potholed lane, reluctant to trespass. Nola wouldn’t thank her for poking around her property, but she couldn’t just walk away without investigating. Not after what had happened to the Barclays’ barn. From what she knew of the layout of the shops that fringed the beach and the conglomeration of houses and flats built behind them, the buildings were too close to allow for any activity like burning rubbish.

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