Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Copyright

“You look less like aborn-and-bredschoolmarm than youdid this morning.”

Cliff’s gaze rested on her loose hair that had a tendency to be full and wayward when unconfined.

A tinge of color stole into Sarah’s cheeks, but she forced herself to say coolly, “Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Wyatt. I adjusted to not being a raving beauty years ago.”

LINDSAY ARMSTRONG

was born in South Africa but now lives in Australia with her New Zealand-born husband and their five children. They have lived in nearly every state of Australia and tried their hand at some unusual—for them—occupations, such as farming and horse training—all grist to the mill for a writer! Lindsay started writing romances when their youngest child began school and she was left feeling at a loose end. She is still doing it and loving it.

Trial By Marriage
Lindsay Armstrong

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

‘HOW do you do, Ms Sutherland? Sit down, please.’

Sarah Sutherland hesitated briefly and blinked a couple of times. She’d just been introduced to Cliff Wyatt and found the experience a little breathtaking. So she sat in front of the old oak desk, unable to think of anything to say, and waited for him to continue.

He did, after a slight pause, during which she felt as if every detail of her person had been thoroughly scrutinised. He said, directing his gaze back to her rather delicate oval face dominated by a pair of horn- rimmed spectacles, ‘As you know I’ve taken over Edgeleigh Station and, as you’ve probably divined, a few changes will need to be made. A combination of drought, low beef prices, old-fashioned methods and so on have seen the property run at a loss lately so some economies are required. Therefore, can you give me three good reasons for keeping you on?’

Sarah stared at Cliff Wyatt with widening eyes—he was not sitting as she was now but resting his tall frame negligently against a window-frame behind his chair and he was probably, she thought, still a bit dazedly, the best-looking man she’d seen for years. He had thick, dark hair, dark eyes, good-looking features with a faintly olive skin, a well-cut mouth and the kind of physique that would have done an athlete proud— very wide shoulders, narrow hips, long legs and he had to be at least six feet six.

And second impressions, she realised, reinforced his good looks, because there was an aura about him, in his impeccable yellow Lacoste shirt and beautifully tailored khaki trousers, of raw power combined with sophistication, the aura of a man you would be foolish to tangle with, of intellect, of charm if you were lucky, scorn if you weren’t. And there was little charm being directed at her at present, she decided. Rather a businesslike and indifferent manner, as indeed his question had conveyed.

She sat up straighter, remembering that question. ‘I can give you a dozen good reasons, Mr Wyatt,’ she said tartly, ‘plus another recurring dozen or so, but, if you can’t see the advantage of having a proper school and a resident teacher on a property this size and this remote, I could be wasting my time.’

He raised an eyebrow and murmured, "Spoken like a true school-marm. Well—he pulled out the chair and sat down himself ‘—let’s proceed on your as- sumption that I’m dense and a Philistine. In other words, do enlighten me. But I would just like to state that I’m all for education and my question was not based on an indifference to good schooling.’ He picked up a pen, dangled it between his long fingers and re- garded her with a sort of pensive arrogance that caused her some more annoyance.

So she said thoughtfully, "I read somewhere that it’s a grave insult to the Philistines to regard them as ignorant, uncultured and unartistic but, since you brought it up in that context and as applied to yourself, all right. The School of the Air does a won- derful job but it’s an alternative when the proper fa- cilities are not available. In this case, the facilities are already here, thanks to the care and consideration of the previous owners.’ She shot him an ironic little look from behind her horn-rimmed glasses and went on evenly, ‘I can also guarantee that all of my pupils have benefited from my personal tuition, and, if you don’t believe me, check with their parents. Of course…’ she paused and regarded Cliff Wyatt steadily ‘… if you can’t afford me, that’s another matter.’

The expression in Cliff Wyatt’s fine dark eyes didn’t change as he said musingly, ‘You’re handy with, your tongue, I see, Ms Sutherland. I always did believe school-marms were born and not made. Why…’ he paused and looked her over consideringly again, taking in her plain white cotton shirt, her jeans and boots, her lack of make-up and any sort of artifice, her glasses, her long chestnut hair worn with a fringe and tied back with a rubber band ‘… you even look like the kind of spinster that is born so admirably to the vocation. You are, I gather, a confirmed spinster?’ he added, looking fleetingly down at the papers in front of him, and continued before she could speak, ‘Ah, yes, twenty-six and unmarried, never married and never likely to be, perhaps. No, it doesn’t say that here; it’s just my intuition,’ he said gently as her mouth fell open. ‘But you wouldn’t be a bad-looking girl if you took some trouble, you know. A bit thin, a bit intense maybe—the two do often go together— but nice skin and hair and—’He stopped unhur- riedly as Sarah rose and slammed a fist on to the desk so that all his papers jumped.

Nor did he look at all perturbed as she said through her teeth, ‘How dare you? I should like nothing better than to—punch you in the mouth!’

He smiled for the first time. ‘Now that would be interesting but perhaps a little unequal. For one thing, I don’t know about picking you up with one hand but I certainly could with two so I really think we’d be better off to continue trading insults rather than blows. Do you—’he looked at her quizzically ‘—make a habit of going around offering to beat people up?’

Sarah drew a deep, shaky breath and sat down rather suddenly, as it occurred to her to wonder whether she’d gone mad. ‘No,’ she said curtly, and breathed deeply again. ‘No,’ she said again, more col- lectedly although she was still angry, ‘but I must confess that I’ve never been insulted quite like this before—do you make a habit of going around of- fering verbal abuse to all and sundry in this manner, Mr Wyatt?’

‘Not usually,’ he replied with a sudden grin and lay back in his chair. ‘I do believe the first shot in this little war was yours, however.’

‘I hesitate to contradict you,’ Sarah retorted, ‘but you immediately put me on the defensive by implying that there might be no good reason to keep the school going and then uttering offensive remarks about school-marms!’

‘That’s all?’ he murmured, but as she opened her mouth and closed it immediately he went on with only a wicked little glint in his eye, ‘As to good reasons or otherwise, may I make a couple of points? There will be no school even to argue about if Edgeleigh goes broke, so I can’t afford too many philanthropic ges- tures and I need to make some rapid decisions as the new owner and employer.’ He smiled faintly. ‘As an employer it’s handy to get to the heart of things as swiftly as possible and that’s often done best in a direct, no-nonsense manner. But now that I’ve met you, Miss Sutherland, and incidentally been told by at least three pairs of parents that you’re an excellent teacher and they don’t know what they’d do without you, as well as having seen your—impassioned stance on the subject, you may stay. For the time being.’

‘Did you… did you,’ Sarah tried again, "try to un- settle, not to mention antagonise, all your other em- ployees in your capacity as a direct, no-nonsense employer this morning, Mr Wyatt? Or was it only me?’

‘Now why should you imagine I would single you out for special treatment, Miss Sutherland?’ he countered.

‘Because of an innate aversion to spinsters such as only aggressively, unpleasantly macho men can have?’ Sarah suggested with withering scorn.

‘Dear me.’ Cliff Wyatt sat up and looked at her with lazy amusement. ‘I perceive some interesting times ahead of us, Miss Sutherland. It would be funny if we discovered we weren’t at cross purposes at all, wouldn’t it?’

‘I have no idea what you mean.’

‘I wonder?’ He shrugged. ‘In the meantime perhaps I should confine myself to running the place and you to your school. That way we might manage to…limit this conflict before it gets out of hand. I take it you are going to stay?’ He looked at her quizzically again.

Sarah bit her lip and tried to stop herself but rarely had her emotions been so turbulent and she heard herself say caustically, ‘I guess so but I shall certainly do all in my power to stay out of your way.’

‘Good.’ He stood up. ‘You’ll have two new pupils, incidentally.’

‘Oh?’

‘My sister’s children. She’ll be living here with me for the time being. She and her husband have split up. They’re six and seven. Would you care to be in- troduced now or would you like time to calm down and wrest your thoughts from the frustrations of ag- gressively, unpleasantly macho men?’

Sarah’s lips parted and her eyes sparked danger- ously behind her glasses but as she opened her mouth to speak the door flew open and four people entered the study.

‘Well, that takes care of that,’ Cliff Wyatt mur- mured. ‘Miss Sutherland, may I introduce you to my sister Amy, my niece and nephew, Sally and Ben, and Wendy Wilson? Amy, this is… Sarah, I believe, Sutherland, the schoolteacher.’

The next few minutes were confused but Sarah was conscious of several overriding impressions—that Amy Weston and Wendy Wilson, who was apparently her best friend, were both glossy, beautifully groomed and clothed girls who couldn’t have looked more out of place on a cattle station if they’d tried in their de- signer gear, with their long, painted nails, flimsy sandals and expertly applied make-up. They were also striking contrasts, with Amy being a delicate honey- blonde, about five feet two, while Wendy was dark, taller with a stunning figure and beautiful yet curi- ously worldly green eyes.

Sally and Ben were both fair and blue-eyed like their mother, but, whereas Sally hung back shyly, Ben caused Sarah to smile inwardly as she recognised all the signs of an energetic, dare-devil, naughty-as-they- come little boy.

And once the rather confused greetings had taken place Amy said, ‘Well, thank heavens there’s a school, but honestly, Cliff, this place is unbelievable! The house is archaic and there are workmen everywhere, and it’s so…’ She gestured helplessly. ‘It’s… We might as well be stuck out beyond the black stump! I didn’t realise it was this far away, and this bush,’ she said intensely.

‘But I warned you, Amy,’ Cliff Wyatt said im- patiently. ‘Although the house will be finished shortly and there are all sorts of mod cons going in. Besides which you have a housekeeper so you won’t really have to lift a finger, little though you’re capable of it,’ he said drily, and added, ‘Tell me this, would you rather have stayed, perhaps languished is a better word, alone in Brisbane since you tell me you have no intention of going back to Coorilla?’

Amy disregarded the insults entirely and looked wistful. ‘At least I could go shopping in Brisbane. And I’ve just met the housekeeper, Cliff,’ she added with more spirit. ‘She… well, I’m lost for words!’

Wendy Wilson stirred. ‘She’s probably got a heart of gold underneath that mountainous frame and peculiar—er—manner,’ she suggested in a husky, oddly sexy voice.

‘She has,’ Sarah said.

All eyes switched to her and it interested Sarah to note that it was Wendy, not Amy, who drawled, ‘You could probably help us out a bit, Miss Sutherland. As you see we rather feel like fish out of water at the moment. Would you mind… helping us to find our feet among the locals a bit?’

‘Not at all,’ Sarah said although she knew that most of the locals would view both girls with the utmost suspicion, possibly for a good long time. She also started to feel annoyed again because the other girl was assessing her quite openly and contriving to make her feel aware that she was neither groomed nor glossy as well as very much an employee.

‘Then that’s settled,’ Cliff Wyatt said firmly. ‘Take ‘em away if you wouldn’t mind, Miss Sutherland; I have enough to do as it is. Oh, I’d like to check the schoolhouse out, though, and all the facilities you’re so proud of… uh, say around four this afternoon? I’ll meet you there.’ And he turned away and picked up the phone.

‘Cliff can be impossible at times,’ Amy said disconsolately.

They were in the huge homestead kitchen where Sarah had led them. Edgeleigh homestead was a rather lovely if dilapidated example of Queensland colonial architecture, with spacious, high-ceilinged rooms, deep verandas running around it and a steep green roof. Because she’d become friends with the previous owners, Sarah knew the house well and she was re- lieved to see that the mod cons Cliff Wyatt had men- tioned applied only to bathrooms and the kitchen and that the rest of the house was being restored to its former glory, with fresh paint and repairs being made in character with the style of the period.

‘Cliff is in the position of being able to do as he likes,’ Wendy Wilson said a shade drily. ‘And you have to admit you’d have been miserable on your own in Brisbane, darling.’

‘I suppose so.’ Tears sparkled momentarily on Amy’s lashes then she sniffed resolutely. ‘Are you sure you can only stay for a week, though, Wendy? This place—’ she looked around ‘—well, I’ve got the feeling it’s going to defeat me.’

‘I like it!’ Ben pronounced.

Wendy looked around thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps I can squeeze in another week. Well, Miss Sutherland, the housekeeper who gave Amy such a fright appears to have gone walkabout.’

‘Do call me Sarah,’ Sarah murmured. ‘Mrs Tibbs will have gone to collect the milk; she always does at this time. Would you like to come and see the schoolhouse?’

‘I don’t want to start school today!’ Ben declared.

‘Oh, there’s no chance of that,’ Sarah replied. ‘It’s Saturday.’

Several hours later Sarah sat on the front steps of her very basic wooden cottage that adjoined the school- house and watched the Land Rover, with Wendy Wilson at the wheel, drive away. She’d not only given Wendy, Amy and co. a tour of the schoolhouse but had borrowed one of the property vehicles so that she could introduce them to the wives and show them the mustering yards, the horse paddocks, the machinery shed and so on. Whether it had been a success, whether she had accomplished what Cliff Wyatt had expected her to was debatable.

There were ten men employed permanently on Edgeleigh, four of them with wives who between them provided her twelve regular pupils, and there was Mrs Tibbs, an institution on the property. She was a huge, formidable woman who could rope a calf single- handedly yet had the lightest hand for making pastry and, although no one called her anything but Mrs Tibbs, the whereabouts of Mr Tibbs remained a mystery. They’d finally run her to ground at the cottage of Jean Lawson, wife of the station foreman, and Sarah had attempted to establish some sort of bridge between the newcomers and the two old hands, but although Jean Lawson had tried her hardest Mrs Tibbs had remained inscrutable and unforth- coming—although she had, Sarah had noticed, al- lowed her gaze to rest on the children, particularly Sally, several times. Mrs Tibbs had a very soft spot for children.

Well, I can’t do any more, Sarah thought, and shook her head ruefully. As a matter of fact he’s jolly lucky I did as much after what he said to me, let alone Ms Wendy Wilson’s patronising ways…

And she fell to thinking about her new employer. He would be in his middle thirties, she judged, and immediately thought bitterly, Why didn’t I make some comment about him not being married, which he ob- viously isn’t? In fact I’ve been told he isn’t by everyone who got into such a flutter when he bought the place!

She grimaced then propped her chin on her hands and let her mind roam backwards. As soon as it was known that Edgeleigh had changed hands much speculation had taken place. Once it had become known that the wealthy Wyatt family had bought it, the speculation had become tinged with reverence. Sarah herself had had no knowledge of them but then she was not even a Queenslander, let alone an expert on the great pastoral families of the state. But she’d swiftly become apprised of the fact that they owned other stations—Coorilla had been mentioned often in the context of being a showplace and the Wyatts’ home base—and it had been said that if anyone could turn Edgeleigh’s fortunes around Cliff Wyatt was the one.

‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ she murmured drily to herself; ‘but that doesn’t mean to say he’s anything but a thoroughly unpleasant macho type of man.’ Then she sighed and looked around. Edgeleigh had been her home for the past year; situated in western Queensland, it spanned thousands of acres and ran thousands of head of cattle. It was intensely hot in summer and could be brisk and chilly in winter, with cold nights. It was not the most beautiful place on earth unless you appreciated the often dry and arid countryside and to do that you needed a fairly subtle eye for colour. The greens weren’t lush and brilliant and sandy brown predominated but there were shades of it that were sometimes closer to ochre, sometimes blindingly pale, and shades of blue to the sky that could be breathtaking. There was always an unlimited feeling of space. And in spring there was the unbe- lievable glory of the wild flowers that bloomed and cloaked the earth in blues and yellows, purples and pinks…

But it wasn’t only the colours and space Sarah had become addicted to, it was the freedom of having her own school, she had to acknowledge, and she caught her breath suddenly, knowing it would be an awful wrench to leave.

At twenty-six, she had no steady relationship with a man, it was true, but she rarely felt it as a lack in her life. For one thing she had reason to be somewhat cynical about what went on between men and women; for another she was passionate about teaching and knowledge—for yet another she was heavily into cre- ative arts such as papier mûché, rug-making, de- coupage et cetera, she was a fine seamstress, a creative cook, she loved growing things and grew her own herbs and anything else she could get to grow in pots, and she was the one who always got landed with any sick or stray wildlife such as orphaned baby kanga- roos or koalas, and birds with broken wings.

Consequently her cottage was a riot of colour from her artistic and potted gardening endeavours—indeed they spilled over into the schoolhouse next door—and more often than not there was an inquisitive lame joey about the place, and she rarely had a free moment.

Yes, very hard to leave, she mused with a sigh, and thought of “her” school. Although the permanent number of pupils was twelve currently, she had a wandering population that sometimes doubled the ranks, of children and even occasionally adults from the mostly aboriginal pool of stockmen and ringers who came and went like the seasons. She never turned anyone away even when she knew they’d be here today gone tomorrow, and it was amazing how many of those children turned up again and again. But for her twelve permanents, she was more than just the teacher; she was the confidante of their parents, often the babysitter, sometimes the relief nurse, the adviser who knew a bit about the big cities some of them had never seen, and lots more.

At present she was even the dressmaker, she thought with a wry little smile as she got up and wandered inside towards an improvised dressmaker’s dummy, drew the protective sheet aside and contemplated the wedding-dress she was making for Cindy Lawson, just eighteen, about to be married to a stockman from a neighbouring station and determined to be married in a dress that would be remembered for years on Edgeleigh. It had everything, this dress, or would have when finished, Sarah thought ruefully. The basic white taffeta was in the process of being embellished with lace, with sequins and pearl beads, with ruffles and frills and bows, and it had underskirts of billowing net. And if I don’t take a stand soon, poor Cindy will be so buried by it all, we won’t even see her, she re- flected. But at least it is all nicely sewn, she thought as she fingered a sleeve absently, and found her mind for some reason of its own returning to Cliff Wyatt— and the uncomfortable feeling she had that he’d all too readily realised his first effect on her. And that a couple of his subsequent obscure remarks had been subtle allusions to it.

Which makes him no more likeable, she thought, then glanced at her watch and decided to spend the next hour until four o’clock making sure the school- house was in tip-top condition.

It was a waste of time. By four-thirty he hadn’t ap- peared, by five-thirty she decided he wasn’t going to appear although she hadn’t hung around the school house all that time, but at six she closed her front door firmly against the rising chill of an autumn dusk. She prepared a chicken casserole using herbs, bacon and mushrooms, indulged herself in a rare treat—a glass of wine to soothe her feeling of being ill-used by an arrogant man—put a compact disc of Bach on to the player to help the wine along, pulled the rubber band out of her hair and ran her fingers through it, and started to sew the last, the very last, she told herself firmly, of the pearl beads on to Cindy Lawson’s wedding-dress while her casserole cooked.

So engrossed did she become in the delicate work that when a knock sounded on her door she called absently to come in, thinking it must be one of her pupils or their parents. So she got the surprise of her life when a light, lazy voice she remembered all too well said with reverence, ‘Hallelujah! Is it possible I’ve done you a grave injustice, Miss Sutherland?’

She swung round from the dressmaker’s dummy convulsively to see Cliff Wyatt standing just inside the front door, his dark gaze riveted upon the wedding-dress. ‘What a—concoction!’ he added wryly, and drew his gaze from it to her, standing in her socks. ‘But you know’ he mused as he took in her loose hair and the lovely pink and gold quilted sleeveless jacket she’d put on for warmth, ‘I could picture you in something… simpler?’

Sarah closed her mouth with a click, bit the cotton thread and put her needle carefully into a pin-cushion before she said arctically, ‘It’s not mine, Mr Wyatt, so neither did you do me an injustice nor are any as- persions you care to cast at my taste in fashion going to do anything other than bounce harmlessly off me.’

‘My apologies,’ he said gravely. ‘So you make wedding-dresses in your spare time?’

‘No, I don’t,’ she said crossly. ‘Well, I am doing this one in my spare time but it’s the first. It’s Cindy Lawson’s. You may have noticed that this part of the world is not densely populated by dressmakers so I… well, offered to help out.’

He laughed. ‘As a matter of fact I’ve had that fact rammed down my throat with monotonous, mad- dening consistency today—I mean the lack of dress- makers, hairdressers, beauticians, manicurists, boutiques—and the like. My sister does not believe she can live without them these days,’ he added with less than humour.

‘Well, I should have thought that would have been obvious to you before today,’ Sarah said candidly.

‘True,’ he agreed drily. ‘What was not so obvious was that she would take it into her head at this highly inconvenient time to decide she was a much maligned wife and to come running home to me.’

Sarah shrugged as if it was none of her business, which it wasn’t, and said curtly, ‘If you’ve come to check out the schoolhouse, it’s all locked up and you’re about three hours late.’

‘It seems I need to apologise again,’ he replied pleasantly, ‘which I do. I got caught up in other things and away from a phone.’

‘Oh.’ Sarah gazed at him and discovered what it felt like to have the wind taken out of your sails. ‘Well…’ she paused, then reached for her boots ‘… I suppose I could unlock it—uh—my casserole! If you wouldn’t mind waiting while I take it out of the oven—.’

‘No, don’t do that—is that what’s creating such a delicious aroma?—and don’t bother to struggle into your boots again,’ he said politely. ‘I really only came to explain that I’d been held up; we can do our tour another time. But there is something you could do for me,’ he said, his gaze wandering around the colourful room and coming to rest on the open wine bottle on the counter that divided the living-area from the kitchen. ‘You could offer me a drink.’

Sarah blinked then took her glasses off and rubbed her eyes. ‘You… want to sit down and have a drink with me?’ she said cautiously as she put her glasses back on.

‘Why not?’ he queried. ‘It sounds like an essen- tially civilised thing to do. I also like Bach.’

‘Very well,’ Sarah said with a little tilt of her chin, because although there was no outward manifestation of it she knew perfectly well that he was laughing at her and would succeed in making her feel churlish and petty if she expressed any further reluctance- damn him! she thought darkly. ‘I was having a glass of wine; it’s nothing outstanding but it’s all there is—.’

‘So you better just drink it and behave yourself, Mr Wyatt,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll do my best, ma’am.’ And he had the gall to sit himself down in an armchair and offer her a bland, innocent expression.

She went to get another glass with all the com- posure she could muster, and took her casserole out anyway because it was ready. But finally there was nothing left to do but sit down opposite him after handing him his glass, and rack her brains for some- thing to say.

He said it for her. ‘Were you born to this kind of life, Miss Sutherland?’

Surprise caused her to lift an eyebrow. ‘No. Why do you ask?’

‘You seem to be extremely competent at it.’

‘I like it,’ Sarah said slowly. ‘For one thing,’ she went on with a little spark of irony in her blue eyes, ‘as you so rightly surmised, I’m… well, I love teaching—’

‘You could teach just as well in a city.’

‘But I couldn’t have my own school.’

‘I see,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘But there must be other things you like about the place?’

‘Oh, there are. They’re just a bit hard to put into words,’ she said non-committally and sipped her wine.

His lips twisted. ‘I wouldn’t have thought that was often a problem for you.’ And he waited.

Sarah frowned then said with some asperity, ‘Why do I get the feeling this is lapsing into the kind of discussion we had this morning?’

‘It could be,’ he drawled, ‘that, while I’m trying to draw you out in a very friendly sort of manner, you are resisting strongly. Very strongly for the rather small person you are, in fact. But of course I should have realised that smallness in stature and smallness of spirit are two very different things; indeed, I should have realised it from the moment you offered to punch me in the mouth.’

Sarah stared at him steadily for a long moment but no blinding revelations came her way. He looked only minimally less vital than he had in the morning—as if he was enjoying the opportunity to relax—and he looked absolutely no less wildly attractive for being able to rest his broad shoulders lazily back in her arm chair, stretch his long legs out and return her steady regard with just the suspicion of a wickedly amused little glint in his dark eyes. She said at last, ‘Perhaps I don’t forgive and forget that easily.’

‘Ah. Well, may I say that you look much less like a born and bred school-marm than you did this morning?’ His gaze rested on her loose hair that had a tendency to be full and wayward when unconfined and show off the golden glints in its brownness more, as well as highlight her delicate bone-structure, then his gaze drifted to her hands, which were slim and elegant, and her narrow, also elegant feet in plain white socks—which she immediately tried to tuck out of sight. ‘Yes,’ he mused, ‘not so prim and proper or fighting mad. Have you ever thought of wearing contact lenses? Your eyes are a rather lovely blue.’

A tinge of colour stole into Sarah’s cheeks but she forced herself to say coolly, ‘Flattery will get you no- where, Mr Wyatt. I adjusted to not being a raving beauty years ago.’

‘There’s that old saying about beauty being in the eye of the beholder,’ he murmured thoughtfully. ‘It seems rather—inexplicable to me that your domes- ticity alone hasn’t made some man want to take you for his wife.’

The colour in her cheeks increased. ‘If that’s trying to draw me out in a very friendly manner,’ she said curtly, ‘I’d hate to think how you’d do it when you’re feeling hostile.’

He shrugged and looked at her with a faint, genuine frown. ‘I don’t know why but you strike me as some- thing of an enigma, Miss Sutherland.’

‘No, I’m not, I’m perfectly normal!’ she was goaded into saying. ‘However I may look to you, for example,’ she went on scathingly, ‘I would rather die than be married for my domesticity.’

‘So you believe in love, grand passions—and all that kind of thing?’

‘Yes…’ Sarah stopped and bit her lip.

‘Has it ever happened for you?’

‘No… look, why are we talking about it?’ she said with a mixture of confusion and irritation. ‘It’s got nothing whatsoever to do with you!’

‘All the same, it relieves my mind,’ he said sweetly, and drained his glass. ‘I don’t suppose…’ he paused and glanced at her assessingly’… it would cross your mind to offer me some of that tantalising casserole?’

‘It would not. Why don’t you go home? I’m sure Mrs Tibbs has something just as tantalising.’

‘Ah, home and Mrs Tibbs,’ he mused. ‘Amy was in tears the last time I looked in, so was Sally in sym- pathy—a habit of little girls, one wonders? Be that as it may, Wendy and Mrs Tibbs were circling each other like wary tigresses and Ben had allowed the bathtub to overflow. Not an essentially peaceful place, home, at the moment.’

‘My heart bleeds for you.’

He laughed and his dark eyes were so amused that it did something quite strange to Sarah, she dis- covered; it made her feel oddly breathless for one thing. He also said, ‘You’re certainly a worthy op- ponent, Miss Sutherland—OK, I’ll consider myself banished. Goodnight.’ And he got up with all the easy grace he was capable of. ‘Uh—I thought of having a barbecue tomorrow night, for everyone on the property. Care to come?’

‘I… thank you very much,’ Sarah said stiffly.

‘Good girl,’ he responded lightly. ‘You wouldn’t do me another favour, would you?’

Sarah rose too and looked at him warily.

He smiled faintly. The room wasn’t large and they were standing quite close together so she had to look up at him from her height of five feet three, and was unaccountably struck by the memory of him saying that, if he couldn’t pick her up with one hand, he certainly could with two, and by the little tremor that the thought of it sent through her body.

‘What?’ she said tersely as all this occurred to her.

‘Oh, nothing desperate or dangerous,’ he said gravely, his eyes taking in the wary, troubled expression in hers. ‘Not even anything mildly or wildly immoral.’

She could have shot herself as she blushed vividly this time.

‘No,’ he went on. ‘I just wondered if you would be so good as to…liaise, I guess is the right word, be- tween Amy and Mrs Tibbs and whoever else needs to be liaised with to make this barbecue a success. I would like to think it might be instrumental in helping us all to get to know each other better and, conse- quently, working together better.’

‘All right,’ Sarah said.

‘Thanks. Goodnight, Miss Sutherland,’ he said formally, but what lurked in his eyes was that wicked amusement again and, to her horror, Sarah dis- covered she had absolutely no answer for it other than to turn away with a muttered goodnight herself.

It was while she was eating her dinner that she dis- covered to her further horror that she felt unsettled and lonely. But why you should be feeling like this after encountering a man who is quite shamelessly taking advantage of the effect he probably has on every woman he comes in contact with is a mystery! she thought angrily. And he is doing that. Why else would he say the things he has, express any kind of interest in me? No, it’s got to be… a game. And even if I did sort of fuel it this morning, I had cause!

‘So,’ she murmured militantly, ‘don’t think you’re going to get the better of me, Mr Cliff Wyatt!’

CHAPTER TWO

‘THIS is very kind of you, Sarah,’ Wendy Wilson said.

‘Not at all,’ Sarah replied as she sat at the home- stead kitchen table drinking some of Mrs Tibbs’ ex- cellent coffee the next morning. ‘Mr Wyatt asked me to help out if I could.’

‘Did he indeed?’ For some reason Wendy’s green eyes rested on Sarah with, if she wasn’t imagining it, Sarah thought, a tinge of hostility in them.

Although it was ten o’clock, Amy appeared not to have risen yet and it was Mrs Tibbs who had given the children breakfast and made them some play dough to occupy themselves with. ‘Amy,’ Wendy went on to say, ‘was so upset last night, we decided to let her sleep in this morning. I gather you’ve been ap- prised of her break-up with her husband?’

‘Yes. I’m very sorry,’ Sarah said quietly.

‘And I don’t suppose she’ll want to be too bothered with this barbecue so I’ll be deputising for her. If you could tell me what needs to be done Sarah, I’ll get working.’

‘All right.’ Sarah hid any surprise she might have felt; there was actually little because it hadn’t been hard to see from the barest acquaintance that Wendy was a much more determined and capable person than her best friend. She also looked far less exotic this morning in a pair of well-cut brown corduroy trousers, polished brown moccasins and a lightweight green jumper. Her lovely dark hair was also tied back and her nails, Sarah particularly noticed, had been filed to neat, shorter ovals and the fire-engine-red polish replaced by a colourless one. ‘If we give Jim Lawson a buzz, he can organise a couple of men to dig the barbecue pits, get the coals going and set up the spits. I—’

But Wendy immediately walked over to the phone on the wall, consulted the list of numbers stuck beside it and proceeded to call up the Lawsons.

Sarah couldn’t help raising an eyebrow, secretly, she hoped, but discovered Mrs Tibbs looking her way with a similar expression of ‘you don’t say!’ in her eyes. She then turned back to her sink.

It took ten minutes for Wendy and Jim Lawson to make the arrangements for the pits. Wendy particu- larly wanted to know where they would be dug, and why they would be dug in such a spot. Jim had ob- viously suggested the usual place—the square in front of the machinery shed which had some grass, a couple of huge old peppercorn trees and some permanent tables and benches, and which was the general gath- ering place, even the hub or the heart of the property—whereas Wendy had thought the home- stead back garden more appropriate. But she finally conceded and it was arranged that they should be able to start eating at five o’clock. She came back to the kitchen table and said, ‘Well, I gather the practice is to spit-roast the meat—Mrs Tibbs, would you be so kind as to select the meat from the cold room? Two men will be up to collect it. That leaves the salads, I guess,’ she added.

Mrs Tibbs snorted. ‘Salads! We’re not feeding a party of namby-pamby fancy people on this station, miss. Salads, my word!’ And she crossed her arms that were like sides of meat themselves in a gesture of outrage.

‘My mistake,’ Wendy murmured. ‘What do we eat on this here station?’

Sarah intervened hastily as Mrs Tibbs opened her mouth. ‘Rice is very popular. We generally have a few pots of curry or goulash, Jean Lawson makes a par- ticularly fine potato casserole and Mrs Tibbs does a tasty dish of ground maize meal that she serves with gravy.’

‘Very well,’ Wendy said with just the faintest ex- pression of distaste at the mention of maize meal. ‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind ringing the Lawsons back, Sarah, and asking Jean to do her potatoes? Is it anyone’s special prerogative to make the curry or goulash?’

‘I make the goulash or the curry, whichever I decide on,’ Mrs Tibbs pronounced, arms still akimbo.

‘Then I’ve had a wonderful idea,’ Wendy said in- geniously. ‘I make a really mean curry, Mrs Tibbs, so why don’t you do the goulash?’

‘You mean you want to make curry here in my kitchen?’

‘Yes, but I tell you what—if you don’t think it’s up to your curry, Mrs Tibbs, I’ll feed it to the pigs or whatever you’ve got here as an equivalent.’

‘Is that like a bet, miss?’ Mrs Tibbs enquired expressionlessly.

‘Yes.’

‘You’re on!’

‘Good. Now rice—’

‘I’ll do the rice,’ Sarah said as she struggled not to laugh.

‘Excellent.’ Wendy looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘What does everyone drink?’

‘Beer,’ both Sarah and Mrs Tibbs replied, although Mrs Tibbs added,

‘And you don’t want to go suggesting spirits or gut- rotting wine, miss. Many a fight has started that way!’

Wendy grimaced but said nothing further on the subject. ‘How many people will there be, do you think?’

‘Uh… ten, twenty-three, twenty-seven—about thirty-two; there are a couple of ringers in the camp but fourteen of those will be kids,’ Sarah said.

‘What a thought,’ Wendy murmured.

‘It’s all right. I usually take care of the kids. We play games and so on until the food is ready. If we’re eating at five we generally collect an hour or so earlier—’ Sarah stopped as Amy trailed into the kitchen in a beautiful silk housecoat but sporting a pale, woebegone expression.

‘I suppose it’s too much to hope this barbecue is off?’ she said petulantly.

At four o’clock that afternoon Sarah was at the bar- becue area, as were most of the other employees, but there was no sign of the homestead party as yet. And she detected a certain amount of tension that was not normally present as smoke drifted through the air and the roasting carcasses were turned slowly on their spits.

It was a beautiful afternoon as the sun started to sink, with a few streaks of cloud in a sky tinged with apricot, and most of the men, cattlemen born and bred, discarded their tall hats which normally ap- peared glued to their heads. Most of them also wore boots with heels and silver-studded belts and, looking around, you couldn’t doubt this was cowboy country, Queensland style, because, although Edgeleigh now possessed a helicopter with the word ‘WYATT’ painted on its side, a lot of the men had been born and bred to a saddle as well and the night paddocks with their complement of horses were not far away.

For a couple of minutes Sarah stopped what she was doing—arranging dishes on one of the wooden tables—and looked around a little dreamily. It was romantic to be stuck out so far away from anywhere, with these people with their slower but not necessarily less wise speech, their far-seeing eyes, their simple ways.

Then she noticed two Land Rovers approaching from the homestead, and everyone sat up.

It was Cliff Wyatt who contrived to break the ice in a masterly exhibition that Sarah could only ap- plaud secretly and wonder how he’d done it. But the fact remained that in ten minutes or so he had everyone drinking and talking, he had Amy placed between Jean and Cindy Lawson and he himself with a beer in hand, and was surrounded by the men.

‘Not bad,’ Mrs Tibbs remarked, plonking a pot down next to Sarah’s rice. ‘Him I could get along with. Her—that’s another matter,’ she added darkly.

‘Amy?’

‘Not She won’t stay long—the other one, with the green eyes like a cat.’

‘Well, she’s definitely not staying long,’ Sarah of- fered, and had Mrs Tibbs look at her with severe con- tempt. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she queried with a smile curving her lips. ‘Wasn’t her curry any good?’

‘Her curry is bloody good,’ Mrs Tibbs said. ‘That doesn’t mean I have to like her.’

‘I still don’t see how it’s going to be a problem,’ Sarah said with a faint frown.

‘Then I’ll spell it out for you even though you’re the teacher round here—she plans to be Mrs Cliff Wyatt one day, you mark my words.’

Sarah’s lips parted and her eyes widened. ‘Oh…’ she said very slowly.

‘Yep, makes sense, doesn’t it? Well, maybe not to the likes of you, right off, leastwise, being a bit naive on these subjects—’

‘I am not!’ Sarah protested.

‘Course you are,’ Mrs Tibbs replied indulgently. ‘Hasn’t the veterinarian been making eyes at you for months—but have you noticed? Seems to me not.’

Sarah swallowed in an unusually flustered way as she thought of Tim Markwell, whom she liked, but not in that way. ‘He hasn’t!’

‘Who hasn’t?’ Wendy Wilson asked as she de- livered another pot to the table from the Land Rover. ‘My curry,’ she added gently. ‘Mrs Tibbs has allowed me to present it. Sarah, you can do either of two things for me—help Amy out a bit or help Sally and Ben out by starting to organise the kids.’

Sarah controlled an urge to tell Wendy Wilson to go to hell and said stiffly, ‘Right, I’ll do the kids.’

Whereas Mrs Tibbs said to the world at large, ‘What did I tell you?’

It was a successful barbecue. Almost from the first Ben joined in the games with vigour and initiative and even Sally released Sarah’s hand eventually and con- sented to be part of things. And when the meal was served Sarah had them all sitting in a ring so that they ate in a fairly orderly manner but with much en- joyment and it was only when they’d all finished that she released them to run wild a bit in the firelit darkness to play an energetic game of Cowboys and Indians. And Wendy contrived to hold court with the wives and older daughters in an exhibition almost as masterly as Cliff Wyatt’s that all the same irritated Sarah for reasons that weren’t that easy to identify. At least, she did acknowledge honestly to herself, the other girl rubbed her up the wrong way, so whatever she did would probably be irritating, however well she did it.

But surely why this was so could have nothing to do with Wendy’s ambition to be Mrs Cliff Wyatt— or could it? she asked herself once then shook her head in a gesture of disbelief, but added to herself, I don’t even know if it’s true and not an odd fancy of Mrs Tibbs’! But the irony of that thought made her feel curiously uncomfortable so she resolutely closed her mind to the whole subject.

It was a lot harder to keep her mind closed when she was presented with undeniable verification of Mrs Tibbs’ theory that same evening.

She’d helped Mrs Tibbs clear up after the bar- becue—Amy had taken herself and the children to bed and Wendy and Cliff had disappeared. And after they’d scoured the last pot they had a cup of tea in the big kitchen, then Sarah yawned, said goodnight and let herself out of the back door to make her way home. It was about a quarter of a mile to her cottage and she pulled her jacket around her and rubbed her hands as she descended the back steps and walked around the house. The night was clear, starry and cold and she walked soundlessly on the grass for a few yards until she heard voices and stopped uncertainly. They were coming from above and in front of her, from the veranda, and she immediately recognised Wendy’s voice—not only her voice but what she was saying and the way she was saying it…

‘You must admit I did well tonight, darling.’

‘Very well,’ Cliff Wyatt answered.

‘Surely I deserve a bit more than that for… slaying so many dragons in a manner of speaking?’ Every husky, sexy intonation of Wendy’s voice carried clearly on the cold night air.

‘What did you have in mind?’

‘This,’ she said, and Sarah couldn’t help herself. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness and she could see both Wendy and Cliff Wyatt—not in any great detail but their outlines—and she saw Wendy move into his arms and gaze up into his eyes. They stood like that for a long moment then she saw Cliff Wyatt’s dark head lower to the paler glimmer of Wendy’s up- turned face and their lips meet.

That was when she turned and slipped away around the other side of the house.

‘But do you believe in Father Christmas, Miss Sutherland?’ Billy Pascoe said. He was a thin, in- tense, trouble-prone child with awkward dark hair that seemed to grow straight upwards and resisted his mother’s every attempt to tame it.

‘Well, it’s generally only little people who believe in Father Christmas, the tooth fairy and the Easter Bunny, Billy, but I must admit that last Christmas I could have sworn I saw someone who looked exactly like Father Christmas getting around Edgeleigh on a horse—.’

‘You always tell us we’re not allowed to swear, miss!’

‘Yes, I do but this is a different kind of swearing and has nothing to do with the saying of rude words—.’

‘Anyway, he’s supposed to be on a reindeer and that was—’

‘Perhaps his reindeer were sick, Billy,’ Sarah inter- posed smoothly. ‘And now, as it’s two minutes to three and nearly time for the bell, you can collect the art books, Billy—Billy,’ she said calmly, and outstared him firmly until he subsided grudgingly and did as he was told. ‘And you, Ben, can put away the paints.’

Ben sprang up and did so obligingly—anything to do with art and painting appealed to Ben—then he said, looking over Sarah’s shoulder. ‘Oh, here’s Uncle Cliff!’

Sarah didn’t turn but reached for the bell and swung it. ‘All right, off you go.’

Cliff Wyatt waited until they’d all tumbled out of the schoolhouse before he said anything. Then he strolled in front of her and remarked, ‘That was a masterpiece of diplomacy, Miss Sutherland. I quite thought he’d got you over the matter of swearing.’

Sarah grimaced. ‘It’s the likes of Billy Pascoe who keep teachers honest. How long were you there?’

He grinned. ‘Not long—you seem to have a large proportion of under-nines in your school.’

‘I have three teenagers actually but there’s an exam coming up so I gave them study leave after lunch. It’s easier for them to work at home sometimes.’

‘Any budding geniuses?’ he queried.

Sarah shrugged. ‘I don’t know about that but Donald Laws on, Cindy’s brother, is very bright and should be able to go on to university—with a bit of luck.’

‘Such as?’

‘His father’s approval,’ she said quietly. ‘Jim is still a bit staggered, I think, to find he has a son who is more interested in the Theory of Relativity than cattle. And, to be honest, I’m getting out of my depth a little. He should be at a proper high school with a science

department but—’ she smiled briefly ‘—I’m sure

they’ll work it out. Have you come for your tour of the facilities? Where would you like to start?’ she added briskly.

He studied her for a moment with a faint frown in his eyes then said, ‘Perhaps not.’

Sarah eyed him exasperatedly. ‘Why not?’

‘I don’t think this would be a good time for it.’

‘It’s a much better time now that school’s finished rather than sneaking up on me when I’ve got Billy Pascoe pinning me to the wall about Father Christmas in front of a whole lot of younger kids,’ she said crossly.

‘So that’s why you’re angry? But I thought you handled it very well—’

‘I’m not—angry,’ Sarah denied frustratedly and none too truthfully.

‘Constrained, then?’ he suggested. ‘As if I’ve done something to alienate you further?’

Sarah stared at him and discovered that her heart was beating oddly with a little pulse of panic. Surely he couldn’t have divined her peculiarly ambiguous state of mind since she’d witnessed him kissing Wendy Wilson on the veranda last night?

‘You’d be better off telling me,’ he said after a strangely tense little pause.

Sarah came to life. ‘No! I mean no, there’s nothing. Look, I’m quite fine actually so why don’t we get it over and done with… ?’ She trailed off on a lowering note as she realised how that sounded. ‘Oh, hell,’ she added hollowly, ‘perhaps you’re right.’

What he would have said then was to remain a mystery because as he looked her over with the frown still in his eyes Ben and Sally popped back into the schoolhouse demanding to know if he’d come to fetch them or what. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly, ‘why not?’ And added expressionlessly, ‘Another day, then, Miss Sutherland?’

‘Thank you. Yes. Whenever it suits you,’ Sarah said and groaned inwardly at how craven that sounded.

It was two weeks before she had anything more than passing contact with Cliff Wyatt but it was impossible to be unaware of his presence daily on the property. Her pupils and their parents were full of his doings, the changes he was making, and there was an air of hope and expectancy about the place rather than the sad feeling of whistling against the wind that had pre- vailed before it was sold.

It also became evident that Cliff Wyatt was not all sweetness and light, as Sarah could have told them, but an exacting boss who expected everyone to give their best and who could be coldly, cuttingly and sar- donically unpleasant in a devastatingly accurate manner when they didn’t. Nevertheless, this on the whole engendered a spirit of respect, she judged—and discovered that that irritated her as well.

All in all, she thought with a sigh once, the wretched man has contrived to set me on an uneven keel and I can’t seem to right myself. If I didn’t have to hear so much about him it might help and, of course, if I didn’t have to see him at all, that would help even more…

But it was not so easy to avoid seeing Cliff Wyatt although it was generally at a distance, but, even so, his height and easy carriage made him unmistakable, as did his air of authority, and, whether he was riding a horse, climbing into the helicopter which he piloted himself sometimes or simply striding to and from the homestead, she not only saw him often but felt the same stupid impact as she had the first time she’d laid eyes on him.

Of course it has to go away, she told herself more than once. I’m twenty-six! I’m not a giddy girl—and I don’t like him. You simply can’t be a rational adult and be obsessed with a man you don’t like…

That was how, unfortunately, as it turned out, on one of the occasions when she did come into contact with him briefly she also came to be more friendly than usual towards Tim Markwell, the vet, who was with him when they all met as she was shepherding the children back from a ramble they’d taken as part of a nature-study class.

Tim was not as tall as Cliff Wyatt but good-looking in a quiet way with a kind, gentle manner towards animals and humans alike. He flew his own plane from Longreach where he was based and his surgery covered hundreds of square miles. He was in his early thirties, she judged, and it was only after she’d bestowed a particularly warm smile upon him that she found herself hoping against hope that Mrs Tibbs had been wrong, and remembering uneasily that she’d been right about Wendy Wilson, though.

‘Hi, Sarah,’ Tim said easily but with a faint tinge of surprise in his eyes. ‘Been studying the local flora and fauna?’

‘Yes,’ she said wryly, ‘and I’m all talked out on the subject.’ In fact she did feel a bit tired, she realised, but for no real reason that she could fathom.

‘Why don’t you give them an early day?’ Cliff Wyatt suggested after subjecting her to a penetrating scrutiny.

‘Oh, no.’ Sarah looked shocked. ‘I couldn’t do that!’

‘Ah, but I could,’ he said, and turned to address the group of kids, who, delighted at their stroke of good fortune, needed no further invitation to scamper off delightedly.

‘How could you do that?’ Sarah said incredulously.

‘It was quite simple,’ he replied gravely but with a tinge of irony.

‘Well, you shouldn’t have!’

‘Why not? A couple of hours off isn’t going to harm them and it might even do you a bit of good.’

‘But it’s undermining my authority!’

‘I doubt it,’ he drawled. ‘Don’t you think you’re over-reacting?’ he added politely but in a way that somehow caused her to squirm inwardly and feel shrewish, and also added force to his point that she needed a break.

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ she said abruptly and turned away.

‘Oh, by the way, Sarah,’ Tim said. ‘That sick wombat that I took to the surgery has recovered com- pletely and is in a fair way to becoming the bane of my life! He eats shoes and socks.’

Sarah turned back with a smile lighting her face. ‘Oh, I’m so pleased, Tim! Not about the shoes and socks but that he’s recovered. What will you do with him?’

‘I’ve got the feeling I’m stuck with him,’ Tim said ruefully. ‘Unless you’d like him back?’

Sarah grimaced. ‘I’m not sure that I could cope with a naughty wombat on top of—well, some naughty kids.’

‘Then I’ll spare you that fate!’

She spent that afternoon working on Cindy’s dress and taking herself to task over the image she ap- peared to be projecting of a slightly rattled teacher.

Three days later she was summoned to the home- stead and arrived to find Amy in tears, Wendy still in residence and Cliff Wyatt in an unpleasant, cutting mood.

‘Sit down, Sarah.’ They were assembled in the main lounge-cum-dining-room, a large, graceful room with a high ceiling and a wooden archway dividing it. The furniture, she noted in a quick glance around, was beautiful; there was a round mahogony dining-table with a central pedastal and eight chairs, a studded leather lounge suite and two exquisite Persian carpets on the restored wooden floor.

‘We’ve asked you to come up and give us your opinion as to whether Sally and Ben can be left here for a couple of weeks without their mother,’ Cliff Wyatt said.

Sarah blinked and Amy said tearfully, ‘Do you have to make it sound so awful? As if I really am aban- doning them?’

‘I’m not doing anything of the kind,’ he replied in clipped tones.’ What would be quite ridiculous, to my mind, is the idea of you carting them off for an in- definite period, upsetting their schooling and gen- erally unsettling them all round while you try to get

your life back together. Sarah—’ he turned to her

‘—as if it isn’t obvious, how are they settling in?’

Sarah said slowly, ‘Very well. Ben can be a bit of a handful at times but that’s nothing unusual for little boys, especially bright little boys. And now I’ve dis- covered he has quite a flair for art and loves to paint I’ve been giving him some extra art lessons, which he loves. As for Sally, she’s made a friend, they’re in- separable actually, and got over a lot of her shyness. I’d say they’re both happy and well-adjusted at the moment.’

‘And we can’t lay much of the responsibility for that at your door these days, Amy,’ her brother said pointedly.

The result was inevitable. Amy started to sob con- vulsively and Wendy murmured, ‘Cliff, I don’t think this is helping much.’

Sarah stood up. ‘I’ll—’

‘Sit down,’ Cliff Wyatt ordered.

But Sarah stood her ground with a little glint of anger in her eyes. ‘This has nothing to do with me,’ she replied evenly, and in truth, although she couldn’t help feeling some impatience with the ever-tearful Amy, she also couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for her.

‘It has in the sense that if Amy could be assured of your interest in Sally and Ben she might go with a clearer conscience.’

Sarah returned his hard, probing look with a rather old-fashioned one of her own. ‘Naturally I’m interested in them,’ she said stiffly, ‘and if Mrs Tibbs needs a hand at all I’d be happy to help—.’

‘Good, that’s settled, then,’ Cliff Wyatt said decis- ively but Amy only sobbed harder and Sarah glared at him then walked over to the other girl and said gently,

‘They’ll be fine with us for a while, Amy. But I think you should let them know that it won’t be for long, and you should make every effort to be calm and loving before you go.’

‘I’ll try—I will!’ Amy wailed. ‘Oh, thank you, Sarah! I know Mrs Tibbs is very good with them but you’re such a sensible sort of person. I’ve watched you with the kids and so on…’ And she resolutely blew her nose, swallowed several times and managed a shaky smile.

‘The very personification of it,’ Cliff Wyatt mur- mured, while Sarah thought two thoughts—that she’d been unaware of Amy’s approval or that she’d even been interested enough to notice anything, and, sec- ondly, to wonder what she was getting herself into.

CHAPTER THREE

AMY and Wendy departed a day and a half later and for the next couple of days Sarah watched Ben and Sally with extra care but could detect no trauma. And on the third day after their mother’s departure they arrived at school, bustling with importance and an invitation for Sarah to have dinner that night at the homestead.

She groaned inwardly but, looking at their eager faces, knew she couldn’t refuse although she would have dearly loved to because she was still filled with indignation directed squarely towards Cliff Wyatt for his high-handed ways.

But the early dinner they shared with the children was a pleasant meal, and something became obvious that hadn’t occurred to her before—Sally and Ben were clearly very fond of their uncle. And she helped Mrs Tibbs put them to bed, read them a story then went to find her host to bid him goodnight, only to find that Mrs Tibbs had made coffee for them and served it in the lounge.

‘I—,’

‘Sit down, Sarah,’ Cliff Wyatt said with a tinge of humour. ‘There’s no need to dash off; I’m really not the ogre you take me for.’

She hesitated but as he poured her coffee she sat and accepted it with a quiet word of thanks.

‘So. No problems with our temporary orphans, I gather?’

‘None that I can see,’ she replied. ‘Has… have you heard from Amy?’

‘Yes. She rings every day. She’s staying with Wendy but I’m not sure that’s such a good thing.’

Sarah raised an eyebrow at him.

‘Wendy is a very…assured person,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Amy never has been and for her to try to practise Wendy’s philosophies regarding love, men and marriage…’ He shrugged.

‘They seem to be such good friends, though.’

‘They’ve known each other since primary school but, whereas Amy got herself into marriage and motherhood when she might have been too young to know what she was doing, Wendy has been a career girl. To date,’ he added.

Sarah frowned faintly as she tried to analyse his tone but it proved impossible so she sat in silence for a while then heard herself say, a little to her surprise, ‘What’s Amy’s husband like?’

It took about a minute for Cliff Wyatt to reply. Then he said drily, ‘The strange thing is, he’s a good friend of mine and works for me.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yes,’ Cliff agreed wryly. ‘Rather awkward. And, while he may not be the finest husband in the world, he’s not an ogre either. But something has gone out of it for them obviously and she is my sister.’

‘I’m glad to hear you say that,’ Sarah murmured.

He glinted an amused look across at her. ‘What prompted that? Your membership of the universal club of women? Or the conviction that blood should be thicker than water?’

‘Both probably,’ Sarah said caustically.

‘So if I were to tell you that my real conviction on the subject of Amy and Ross is that it’s about time she settled down and stopped looking for moonlight and roses around every corner, stopped worrying more about hairdressers and clothes than being a mother and a wife she would be a lot better off—if I were to tell you all that, no doubt you’d take instant umbrage?’

Sarah looked across at him coolly. ‘Not at all. But I would make the comment that it’s probably im- possible to know exactly what goes on between a man and a woman and only a fool would imagine he does.’

‘Ah, well, I’d be surprised if I was wrong but,’ he drawled, apparently in no way put out, ‘that’s quite a list you’re compiling, Sarah.’

She frowned. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘You’ve called me a fool, an underminer of your authority—oh, and let’s not forget what an aggres- sively, unpleasantly macho type I am. But tell me something—what goes on between you and Tim Markwell?’

The unexpectedness of it caused Sarah some con- fusion and caused some colour to come to her cheeks. ‘That’s none of your business… nothing!’ she said disjointedly.

‘Then there’s no need to protest so much,’ he said lazily. ‘But I thought you’d be quite well-suited.’

Sheer anger all but took Sarah’s breath away. ‘You know nothing about it,’ she shot at him. ‘You’re just being…’

He lifted a wry eyebrow and waited a moment. ‘Another damning epithet? I don’t mind, you know. In fact I enjoy our little sparring matches.’

Sarah ground her teeth but before she could say anything he went on leisurely, ‘I’m just not quite sure why I have this—ability to enrage you so much whereas Tim apparently doesn’t. Hence my question.’

‘Every second thing you say is calculated to enrage me one way or another,’ Sarah replied coldly.

He laughed softly. ‘So it would seem. But in point of fact, for example, I’d be much happier to see Amy spending some time here with you and getting down to a few of the basics of life—now that surely has to be a compliment?’

Sarah stood up. ‘Depends which way you look at it,’ she said. ‘If you’re implying, for example, that I’m such a down-to-earth, mundane sort of person for whom moonlight and roses might never exist—’

‘Sarah—’ he stood up as well and looked down

at her gravely ‘—I think you should give Tim a bit more encouragement—I say that because it seems to me you’re exhibiting all the classic symptoms of a girl who has gone too much the other way—the opposite way to Amy, I mean—and that you’re actually dying for a bit of moonlight and roses.’

Sarah’s lips parted and she was struck speechless by his sheer effrontery, speechless but stiff with outrage that was stamped into every taut line of her body. She longed to hit him.

‘And that,’ he murmured, his gaze suddenly nar- rowed and rather intent, ‘is where you slap my face, I gather, Miss Sutherland. Now what would be a fitting finale to such a scenario? I could always re- taliate by pulling you into my arms and kissing you breathless.’

‘D-don’t you dare!’ she stammered.

‘Why not?’ he drawled. ‘I’m quite as capable as Tim Markwell of providing some moonlight and roses, I should imagine—why don’t we put it to the test?’ And, without waiting for a reply and before she could guess his intentions, he removed her glasses so that not only was she besieged by a maelstrom of emotions but she was suddenly at the acute disadvantage of having to peer up at him short-sightedly. Nor was anything relieved when he said softly, ‘That’s much better, and much more comfortable for doing this, I’m sure.’

‘This’, as she moved convulsively and opened her mouth agitatedly, was to be drawn into his arms and have his lips seek hers.

‘No, no!’ she protested. ‘You mustn’t—Mr Wyatt! Please…’

‘You’re probably quite right—I shouldn’t,’ he said against the corner of her mouth as he moved his hands on her back. ‘But the fact remains I’m going to—I don’t know why but you rather intrigue me, Miss Sutherland. Is it possible that you’re still a virgin?’

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