“You were born to grandeur.”

Grant’s voice deepened. “The daughter of an earl. Journeying to the Outback is an escape for you. I could fall in love with you then you’d go off home to Daddy, back to your own world.”

“So what’s the solution?” Francesca was compelled to clutch him for support.

“Neither of us allows ourselves to get carried away,” he said brusquely. “You’re so beautiful. But I don’t think your father would get a big kick out of knowing you were dallying with a rough-around-the-edges man from the Outback.”

It in no way described him. “Rugged, Grant. Never rough. I like you. Temper and all. I like the way you hit on an idea and go for it. What I don’t like is the way you see me as a threat.”

He could see the hurt in her eyes but he was compelled to speak. “Because you are a threat, Francesca. A real threat. To us both.”

Dear Reader,

Ever since I can remember, our legendary Outback has had an almost mystical grip on me. The cattlemen have become cultural heroes, figures of romance, excitement and adventure. These tough, dynamic, sometimes dangerous men carved out their destinies in this new world of Australia as they drove deeper and deeper into the uncompromising Wild Heart with its extremes of stark grandeur and bleached cruelty.

The type of man I like to write about is a unique and definable breed—rugged, masculine and full of vigor. This Outback man is strong yet sensitive, courageous enough to battle all the odds in order to claim the woman of his dreams.

The English Bride is the third of three linked books in which I explore the friendships, loves, rivalries and reconciliations between two great Australian pioneering families. They are truly LEGENDS OF THE OUTBACK.

The English Bride
Margaret Way

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS getting on towards late afternoon when Grant Cameron set the chopper down on the rear lawn of Kimbara as sweetly as a pelican setting down on a lagoon. Winds created by the whirling fanlike rotor stirred up a mini dust storm mixed with grass clippings and a sea of spent blossom from the nearby bauhinias but that quickly abated as the long blades wound to a standstill. Grant completed his interior checks and took off his headset, preparatory to jumping down onto the grass.

This was historic Kimbara Station, desert stronghold of the Kinross family since the early days of settlement; the nearest neighbour to his own family station, Opal Downs, some hundred miles to the north-east.

His older brother, Rafe, much loved and much respected, was currently on honeymoon in the United States with his new bride and love of his life, Alison Cameron, nee Kinross. Rafe ran the station. He, Grant, was making a very successful business out of his own aerial mustering service, operating out of Opal. It had suited both brothers well. Rafe was the cattleman. He was the pilot.

He’d always been mad about aircraft even since he’d been a kid. Even the inconsolable grief of losing their beloved parents to a light aircraft crash hadn’t killed his love of flying. With an outback so vast flying was a way of life in Australia. The tragedy had to be survived.

Grant reached for his akubra and slung it on at an unconsciously rakish angle. The sun still had a powerful kick in it and he couldn’t altogether forget his tawny colouring, a Cameron trademark. “A pride of lions” was the way people used to describe his dad, Douglas Cameron, and his two sons, Rafe and Grant.

A pride of lions!

For a moment a terrible sadness constricted his chest. He wished with all his heart his dad was still alive. Mum and Dad. They never got to see him make such a success of himself. They would have been proud. He had always been the younger brother, a bit of a wildcat trying to develop in his brother’s shadow. Rafe was born responsible, ready to take over from their father.

Out of the helicopter Grant made a quick circuit of the aircraft, his eyes always checking for the slightest sign of possible trouble though the fleet was scrupulously maintained. The yellow fuselage with its broad blue stripe and company logo in blue and gold gave off a crackle as the metal cooled down. He patted the insignia with satisfaction and made off for the house.

It had been an exhausting day driving a whole heap of cantankerous, overheated cattle in from the isolated Sixty Mile out near Jarajara, a single huge sentinel granite dome that marked Kimbara’s western border to the camp Brod’s men had set up out near Mareeba Waters with its winding water courses. Camp would be shifted as the muster went on. The men were expected to be out for the best past of three weeks. What he needed now was a long cold beer and to feast his tired eyes on a beautiful woman.

Francesca

Not necessarily in that order he thought dryly. Francesca was occupying far too many of his thoughts these days. Lady Francesca de Lyle, first cousin to Brod Kinross, master of Kimbara and brother to Ally, his new sister-in-law. Cameron and Kinross were legendary names in this part of the world, pioneering giants.

Now with the marriage of Rafe and Alison the two families were finally united to everyone’s great satisfaction except maybe Lainie Rhodes of Victoria Springs who had nurtured an outsize crush on Rafe since puberty struck her. Not that Lainie wasn’t good marriage material but there had never been anyone else for Rafe but his Ally.

The unbreakable bond between them had been forged in their childhood out of tempered steel. Now they were man and wife, deliriously happy from all accounts but Grant realised full well he had better start making plans.

Big as Opal’s homestead was he had no intention of intruding on his brother’s and Ally’s privacy. They would want the homestead to themselves no matter how much they tried to reassure him Opal was as much his home as theirs. A big share of Opal Station maybe, which had financed his aerial muster business, but the homestead was for the newlyweds. He was determined on that. Besides Ally had lots of plans for doing the place up and he guessed it needed it.

What would it be like to be married? Grant mused as he strode past the original old kitchens and servants’ quarters. Long out-of-date they were perfectly maintained for their historic value. Shrubs surrounded these outbuildings, light filtering trees, the whole linked to the Big House by the long covered walkway he now took.

What would it be like to come home each night to a woman he could take to his heart, to his bed? A woman to share his hopes and dreams, his profoundest inner expectations. A woman he belonged with as surely as she belonged with him.

The first time he met Francesca de Lyle when he was in his teens he had felt an instant click, a deep rapport, now years later he was well into fantasising about her. Why then was he so persuaded an intimate relationship with Francesca could only bring danger to them both? Maybe he wasn’t ready for any deep relationship after all. Hell, wasn’t he too damned busy to commit. Nothing should be on his mind but work. Building up the business. He had such ideas.

A branch of Cameron Airways was now carrying mail and freight but he’d had recent discussions in Brisbane the state capital a good thousand miles away, with Drew Forsythe of Trans Continental Resources regarding building a helicopter fleet for use in minerals, oil and natural gas exploration.

He’d met the very high profile Forsythe and his beautiful wife, Eve, on several occasions but that was the first time they’d ever got into really talking business. And he had Francesca of all people to thank for that.

Never one, apparently, to let a good public relations opportunity go by, Francesca who had struck an immediate chord with the Forsythes when they had all been seated together at a charity banquet had brought up the idea in the course of an enjoyable evening.

Beautiful blue eyes sparkling she put it to Forsythe: “Doesn’t this make good sense to you? Grant knows the Interior like the back of his hand and he’s absolutely committed to the big picture, isn’t that right, Grant?” She had leaned back towards him then, so heart stoppingly graceful in her strapless satin gown, her lovely cool, clear English voice, full of support and encouragement. Ah, the bright aura of breeding and privilege!

And she was clever. If some sort of a deal ever came off, and he was working on it right now, he owed her. A glorious romantic weekend away together, he fantasised. One of those jewel-like Barrier Reef islands that had those luxurious little self-contained bungalows down near the beach. Though he would have to watch her in the hot Queensland sun. She had the flawless porcelain complexion that so often set off Titian hair. How strange she should want to fit into his background on the fringe of the great desert heart. It was almost like trying to grow an exquisite pink rosebush on the banks of a dried-up clay pan. For all his deep and immediate attraction to her they were an impossible match. And he better not lose sight of it.

He lost sight of it less than two minutes later when Francesca herself appeared, running down the side verandah and leaning over the white wrought-iron balustrade wreathed with a prolific lilac trumpeted vine that gave off a seductive fragrance in the golden heat.

“Grant!” she called, waving happily. “How lovely to see you. Of course I heard the chopper.” A singing sweetness showed in every line of her body. Sweetness and excitement.

“Come here,” he ordered very gently as he came alongside, reaching up a long arm to pull her lovely head down to him. Despite all the little lectures he gave himself, despite all natural caution, every atom of his being was focused on kissing her. He even murmured her name unknowingly as he put his mouth over hers, sensation beating through him like the powerful whoosh of a rotor. What in hell made him do it? But he was a man and keenly physical.

When he let her go she was breathless, trying not to tremble, a deep pink colour running across the fine skin of her cheeks, sparkling lights in the depths of her eyes. Her beautiful flame-coloured hair had come loose from its clasp and spilled around her face and over her shoulders. “That’s some greeting!” Her voice was little more than a soft tremble.

“You shouldn’t look at me that way,” he warned, still feeling ripples of pleasure moving down through his body, pooling in his loins.

“What way?” She gave a shaky laugh, feeling enslaved by his enormous dash, moving back along the wide verandah as he resumed his journey to the front of the house.

“You know, Francesca,” he half growled, half mocked. “Lord are you a sight for sore eyes!” He ran his gaze over her, from the tip of her radiant head to her toes. His hazel eyes, which could turn grey or green according to his mood, were now a clear green beneath the brim of his black akubra. They scanned her face, her swan’s neck, the slender body with its willow waist, her light limbs, a muscle in his hard jaw lightly flicking.

It was impossible to cast his glance away so caught up was he in her feminine beauty, the soft ravishing prettiness he found irresistible. She was wearing riding gear. Such riding gear! The aristocratic young English lady from the grand stately home and one of the most egalitarian young women he had ever known.

Her short-sleeved cream silk blouse lightly skimmed her delicate breasts and was tucked into tight-fitting cream jodhpurs. Highly polished, very expensive, tan coloured riding boots adorned her small feet. There wasn’t an ounce of excess weight on her. She had the neatest, sleekest little butt and good straight legs. It nearly mesmerised him just to see her move along the verandah, near dancing to keep up with him. To his overheated mind, and body, make no mistake about it it thrummed like electricity, she appeared to be floating, so lightly were her feet touching the timber floor-boards.

“A hard day?” Francesca asked him as he mounted the short flight of stone steps to the verandah, excited, not her usual calm, contained self at all.

He leaned against the rail with slouching elegance, smiling at her with the unblinking cat’s eyes she found so wildly attractive. “I’m over it now I’ve seen you,” he drawled. He was, too. “What have you been doing with yourself all day?”

“Come and I’ll tell you.” She indicated the comfortable white wicker furniture. “I expect you’d like a cold beer? Brod always does.”

He nodded and took off his hat using it like a Frisbee to skim unerringly onto the head of a wooden sculpture.

“Rebecca will be here in a moment,” Francesca slid into the chair he held out for her. Rebecca was mistress of Kimbara, Brod’s new wife. “We’ve been organising a picnic race meeting for most of the day. We thought it would be a change from the usual polo. Rebecca worries about Brod when he plays. He’s such a daredevil. For that matter so are you.” She actually shivered at some of her recollections. Polo was a dangerous game. Especially the way these fellows played it.

“So you worry about me as well?” He held her with his eyes.

“I worry about you all,” she returned lightly before she drowned in his expression. It struck her more than ever how physically alike Grant and his brother Rafe were. The rangy height, the golden good looks, though Grant was tawnier.

Both had great presence. Both wore achievement like a badge. If there were a difference, Rafe had a kind of courtliness about him. There was no other word for it. Grant showed more “temper” a high mettled energy and determination that didn’t sit all that comfortably with everyone. To put it in a nutshell Grant Cameron could be difficult. Add to that, he had a habit of speaking his mind, without holding back. He was full of energy and had a macho quality, an absolute manliness that characterised these men of the outback. In some respects he even seemed like a creature from another world. A creature of vast open spaces with no boundaries. The image of a splendid young lion sat easily on him. He was her first taste of a thrilling excitement that contained a kernel of caution. She knew her feelings for Grant Cameron were getting right out of hand.

Now he knit his dark golden brows together, staring across at her, his strong brown arms on the circular glass-topped table steely with muscle. He was wearing the uniform of his company in serviceable khaki the blue and gold logo on the breast pocket. He looked great, the afternoon breeze ruffling his thick tawny hair with its pronounced deep wave.

“So what’s the verdict, my lady?” He came closer to grasping her hand. Never letting her go.

She laughed and blushed at the same time. “Was I staring? Sorry. I was just thinking how much alike you and Rafe are. Growing more so as you—”

“Mature?” he cut in swiftly, his relaxed easy drawl taking on a faint glittery edge.

“Oh, Grant,” she said in gentle reproach. Francesca knew the brothers were devoted to each other, but Grant a couple of years younger must have chafed often under Rafe’s authority. With both parents dead Rafe had had to take on almost a parental role from an early age. Grant still had a tendency to chafe if only because of his driving ambition to prove himself, to be the man his father always said he would be. Grant fairly pulsed with raw ambition, undischarged energy. “Actually I was going to say, as you grow older,” she told him mildly, watching his tall, super lean body with its athlete’s muscles relax.

“Of course you were,” he agreed with his charming, slightly crooked smile that revealed perfect white teeth. “Sometimes, Francesca, I’ve got a perverse devil in me.”

“Yes, I know,” she told him gently.

“I love Rafe as much as any brother could.”

“I know you do,” she said with understanding, “and I know what you mean so don’t bother explaining.” The best of relationships were fraught with little tensions. Like mother and daughter. She turned her head as footsteps sounded in the front hall. “That’ll be Rebecca.”

A moment later Rebecca appeared like a summer breeze, all smiles, touching Francesca affectionately on the shoulder before speaking directly to Grant who came swiftly to his feet. “Don’t bother to get up, Grant,” she said, realising he must be tired. “All over for the day?”

“Thank the Lord.” He gave a wry grin.

“Then you could probably do with a cold beer?”

He laughed aloud and resumed his seat. “Brod sure has his womenfolk trained. Francesca has just offered me one, too. That’d be great, Rebecca. I have to admit it was long, hard and dusty. I’m parched.” He was struck again at how much Rebecca had changed from the enigmatic young woman who had first come to Kimbara to write Fee Kinross’s biography. Fee, Francesca’s mother, had had a brilliant career on the London stage. The biography was due out any day.

Since her marriage to Brod, Rebecca was all friendliness and warmth, happiness and contentment shining out of her quite extraordinary grey eyes. This was a marriage that would work, he thought with great satisfaction. God knows Brod and Ally had one hell of a childhood with their arrogant bastard of a father. Such was Rafe’s persona even Stewart Kinross had approved of Rafe, though he hadn’t lived to see Rafe and his only daughter, Alison, married.

Grant was certain Kinross would never have approved of him. “Too much the hothead!” Kinross had once described him, “with the intolerable habit of expressing his quite juvenile opinions.” Opinions, of course, that ran counter to the lordly Kinross. Still the two families, Cameron and Kinross had always been entwined. Almost kin. Now they were.

When Rebecca returned with his cold beer, just the one—he was too responsible a pilot to consider another—and an iced tea for herself and Francesca, they talked family matters, their latest communications from Rafe and Ally, local gossip, what Fee and David Westbury, the visiting first cousin to Francesca’a aristocratic father, were up to. The two had become inseparable to the extent Francesca told them she wouldn’t be surprised to get a phone call to say they’d popped into the register office that very day. Which would make Fee’s third attempt at making a go of marriage.

They were still talking about Fee and the important cameo role she was to play in a new Australian movie, when they were interrupted by the shrilling of the phone, the latest miracle for the outback that had depended for so long on radio communication. Rebecca went to answer it, returning with an expression that wiped all the laughter from her luminous grey eyes. “It’s for you, Grant, Bob Carlton.” She named his second-in-charge. “One of the fleet hasn’t reached base camp or called in, either. Bob sounded a bit concerned. Take it in Brod’s study.”

“Thanks, Rebecca.” Grant rose to his impressive lean height. “Did he say which station?”

“Oh I’m sorry!” Rebecca touched her creamy forehead in self-reproach. “I should have told you at once. It’s Bunnerong.”

The station was even more remote than they were. About sixty miles to the north-west. Grant made his way through the Kinross homestead, familiar to him from childhood. It was amazingly grand in contrast to the Cameron stronghold with its quietly fading Victorian gentility. Ally, of course, would change all that. Ally the whirlwind but for now his mind was on what Bob had to say.

Bob, in his mid-fifties, was a great bloke. A great organiser, a great mechanic, well liked by everyone. Grant relied on him, but Bob was a born worrier, a firm believer in Murphy’s Law, whereby anything that could go wrong, would. Equally Bob was determined no harm would come to any of “his boys.”

On the phone Grant received Bob’s assurance all necessary checks had been made and the chopper had passed the mandatory 100-hour service. The helicopter was to have set down when the stockmen were camped at Bunnerong’s out station at approximately four o’clock. The pilot, a good one with plenty of experience in aerial muster had not arrived by four forty-five when Bunnerong contacted Bob by radio. Bob in turn had not been able to contact the pilot by company radio frequency.

“I wouldn’t worry too much about it.” Grant wasn’t overly concerned at that point.

“You know me, Grant, I’m going to,” Bob answered. “It’s not like Curly. He runs by an inbuilt timetable.”

“Sure,” Grant acknowledged. “But you know as well as I do things can go wrong with the radio. It’s not all that unusual. It’s happened to me. Besides it’s almost dusk. Curly would have put down somewhere and made camp for the night. He’s got all he needs to make himself comfortable. He’d resume again at first light. If he’s anything like me he’s dog-tired. Besides, he’s not actually due to start the muster until morning anyway.”

All of which was true. “There’s an hour or so of light left,” Grant said at length breaking in on Bob. “I’ll take the chopper up and have a look around, though I’m coming from another direction. I need to refuel on Kimbara, if I’m going to get close in to Bunnerong.”

“I suppose we might as well wait for morning,” Bob sighed. “Curly could still turn up. Bunnerong can get a message to us and I’ll relay it to you.”

So it was decided. “Curly” to all because of a single wisp of hair that curled like a baby’s on his bald patch, was a pro. He had food with him. A swag. He’d probably put down near a bush lagoon and set up camp for the night. Nevertheless Grant felt the responsibility to take his chopper up. Initiate a bit of a search before night fell.

Bob’s mood had affected him, he thought wryly. Experience told him Curly, though obviously having problems with his radio was most likely safe and sound setting up camp on the ground. Still he liked to know exactly where every one of his pilots and helicopters in service were.

Grant walked swiftly back through the house, telling the two young women of his intentions the moment he set foot on the verandah.

“Why don’t you let me come with you?” Francesca asked quickly, keen to help if she could. “You know what they say, two pairs of eyes are better than one.”

Rebecca nodded in agreement. “I was able to help Brod once on a search and rescue. You remember?”

“That was from the Beech Baron,” Grant told her, a shade repressively. “Francesca isn’t used to helicopters. The way they fly, the heat and the noise. She could very easily get airsick.”

Francesca stood away from her chair. “I don’t suffer from motion sickness at all, Grant. In the air. On the water. Please take me. I want to help if I can.”

His response wasn’t all that she hoped. The expression in his hazel eyes suggested there was a decided possibility she could become a liability. But in the end he nodded in laconic permission. “All right, lady! Let’s go.”

Minutes later the rotor was roaring and they were lifting vertically from the lawn, rising well above the line of trees, climbing, then steering away for the desert fringe. Francesca like Grant was strapped into her copilot seat, wearing earphones that at least made the loud noise of the swishing blades tolerable. Still she found it a thrilling experience to be up in the air looking down at the vast wilderness with all the rock formations undergoing another change in their astonishing colour display. Even when they flew through thermal cross-winds over the desert she kept her cool as the winds took hold of the small aircraft and shook it so it plunged into a short, sickening dive.

“O.K.?” Grant spoke through the headphones, a deep frown of concern between his eyes.

“Aye, aye, skipper!” She lifted her right hand in a parody of a smart salute. Did he really think she was going to go to pieces like the ladies of old? Have the vapours? She had pioneering blood in her veins as well. Her maternal ancestor had been Ewan Kinross, a legendary cattle king. The fact that she had been reared in the ordered calm of the beautiful English countryside and her exclusive boarding school didn’t mean she hadn’t inherited the capacity to face a far more dangerous way of life. Besides it was as she’d told him. She had a cast iron stomach and she was too excited for nerves. She wanted to learn this way of life. She wanted to learn all about Grant Cameron’s life.

They searched until it got to the point when they had to turn back. When they landed Brod was waiting for them in the brief mauve dusk that in moments would turn to a darkness that was literally pitch black.

“No luck?” Brod asked as Grant jumped out onto the grass turning to catch Francesca by the waist and swing her down like the featherweight she was.

“If Curly doesn’t turn up on Bunnerong first thing in the morning we’re looking at another search. Bob report in?”

“No news. Nothing.” Brod shook his head. “You’ll stay the night.” It wasn’t a question but a statement of fact. “Better you’re here anyway. We’re closer to Bunnerong if there’s any need of a search. I expect your man is boiling the billy now moaning his radio is out of order.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” Grant responded to Brod’s good spirits. “It’s Francesca here who’s the real surprise.”

“How so?” Brod turned to smile down on his English cousin, as dark with his raven hair and tanned skin as Grant was tawny gold.

“I think he thought I was going to go into a panic when we hit some thermals,” Francesca explained lightly, striking Grant’s arm in reproach.

“I wouldn’t have blamed you if you did,” he answered with a faintly teasing smile, enjoying fending her off. “I’ve always said you’re much more than a pretty face.” A ravishingly pretty face.

“It would take a lot to put Fran in a tizzy,” Brod said with affection. “We’ve learnt over the years this little piece of English china has plenty of spunk.”

Up at the homestead Rebecca smilingly allotted him a guest room overlooking the rear of the house. The meandering creek that ran near and encircled the home compound revealed itself in a silver line as the moon turned on its radiance. Brod walked in a few minutes later with a pile of clean, soap-smelling clothes from his own wardrobe.

“Here, these should fit,” he announced, placing the clothes neatly on the bed, a blue-and-white striped cotton shirt on top, cotton beige trousers and underwear that hadn’t even come out of its packet by the look of it. Both men were much the same height a few inches over six feet with the lean, powerful physique of the super active.

“Am I glad of them. Thanks a lot,” Grant answered, turning away from his own speculation of the night to smile at his brother’s best friend. With Rafe and Brod those few years older he’d always been the one trying to catch up, trying to catch them, trying to emulate their achievements, academically and on the sports field. All in all he hadn’t done too badly.

“No problem.” There was an answering smile in Brod’s eyes. “You’ve saved me dozens of times. I’m for a long, hot shower. I expect you are, too. It’s been a thoroughly tiring day.” He started to move off then stopped briefly at the door. “By the way I don’t think I thanked you properly for doing such a great job,” he said with evident approval. “It’s not just the way you handle the chopper, which is brilliant, you’re a cattleman as well. The combination makes you extraordinarily good.”

“Thanks, mate.” Grant grinned. “I aim to offer the very best service. And it doesn’t come cheap as you’re due to find out. What time are we off in the morning always supposing Curly gets a message through he’s okay?”

Brod frowned, answering a little vaguely for him. “Not as early as today, that’s for sure. The men have their orders. They’ll have plenty to do. We’ll wait and see what the morning brings. I know bush logic tells us Curly has landed safely, but I’d like to stick around until we’re sure.”

“I appreciate that, Brod.” Grant accepted his friend’s support. “A land search in such a huge area would be out of the question. It will take aircraft to find him if he’s in any kind of trouble.”

“Not that it’s odd having problems with the radio,” Brod echoed Grant’s own previous words, obviously trying to offer reassurance mixed in with the voice of long experience. Brod’s expression brightened. “Now, what about a barbeque? I feel like eating outdoors tonight and it gives me the opportunity to show off. I cook a great steak if I say so myself. We can throw in a few roast potatoes. The girls can whip up a salad. What more could a man want?”

Grant smiled broadly. “Go for it! I’m hungry enough to eat the best steak Kimbara can offer.”

“You’re going to get it,” Brod assured him.

A long, hot shower was a wonderful luxury after the heat and uproar of the day. The bellowing of the cattle as they were herded into doing what they clearly didn’t want to do; leave the familiar surroundings of the scrub was still in his ears. More of the same tomorrow. And the day after. But he planned on getting right out of fieldwork. He wanted to concentrate on expanding the business. He’d go on building up the fleet and the team but his mind was firmly on extending the range of services.

With time on his hands and glad of the company of such good friends, he used some of the shampoo he found in the cupboard beneath the basin. Kinross sure knew how to look after its guests, he thought with wry admiration. There was an impressive array of stuff to make a guest feel good. Fancy soaps, bath gels, shower gels, body lotion, talc, toothbrushes, toothpaste, hair dryer, electric shaver. Lots of good, big absorbent towels. Man-size. Brilliant!

He stepped out of the shower and wrapped one around himself, feeling the exhaustions of the day slip away. His hair needed cutting as usual. Barbers weren’t all that easy to come by in the desert. He shook his wet, darkened hair like a seal deciding he’d better use the dryer if he wanted to look presentable.

Which he did. He was intensely aware of his attraction to Francesca, her marvellous drawing power though he knew how ill advised it was. The Camerons and the Kinrosses had always lived like desert lords but their world was beyond “civilisation” as Lady Francesca de Lyle knew it. No question the call of the outback had reached her. After all she had an Australian mother born in this very house but Francesca was on holiday, taking the rose-coloured holiday view. It was impossible for her to realise the day-to-day isolation, the terrible battles that were fought against drought, flood and heat, accident, tragic deaths. Men could bear the loneliness, the struggles and frustrations, the crushing workload. He knew in his heart an English rose like Francesca would find it all unbearable no matter how adaptable she claimed she was. She simply had no experience of the bush and the hazards it presented.

Grant threw down the hair dryer, thinking he shouldn’t have used it. It made his hair look positively wild. He turned to dressing, pulling out the belt of his uniform to thread it through the cotton trousers. No difficulty with sizing. The fit was perfect. If only he were certain Curly was safe and sound he could really look forward to enjoying this evening.

It had been lonely at home with Rafe away on honeymoon. He was looking forward to a letter from them or maybe another phone call. Ally had been so full of their stay in New York. She adored it. The excitement she felt as she “hit the sidewalk” the “thrum” of the place more electric than any other city on earth. “And we’ve got you some wonderful presents,” she’d added. “Really special!” That was Ally and she had the money.

The Camerons had never kept pace with the Kinrosses in the generation of great wealth, though Opal was an industry leader and Rafe was dead set on expansion, building up a chain, just as he, himself, was determined on making his mark in aviation.

The pride of lions! Well he and Rafe had tasted tragedy as had Brod and Ally. At least some things were now working out. Brod had found real love, much rarer than people thought. As for Rafe and Ally! They were like two sides of the same coin. Allowing himself to fall in love with Francesca had to make him downright crazy. Easy enough to get led astray, though, he reasoned. Finding the path back might prove very, very, difficult.

Francesca was crossing through the front hall when Grant descended the stairs. She looked up feeling a sudden rush of blood to her face. He looked marvellous, his strong, handsome features relaxed, hazel eyes sparkling, his full, thick head of hair, obviously freshly washed, settling into the deep natural waves women paid a fortune to achieve. She was astonished at her own desire, so sweet, so primitive like a woman staring at the man she wanted for her perfect mate.

“Hi!” His voice was pitched thrillingly low, stirring her further.

She had to force a flippant tone in case he read what was on her mind and man-like backed off. “You look cool.”

“Courtesy Brod.” He grinned. “He rustled up some gear.”

“It suits you.” She spoke with a nice balance of admiration and teasing.

“Actually you look very sweet yourself.” His eyes gently mocked. She was wearing a sapphire-blue full skirt with a matching strappy little top, the fabric printed with white hibiscus. Blue sandals almost the same shade were on her feet, her Titian hair wound into some braided coil that suited her beautifully. He saw the apricot flush on her creamy skin. He knew it was there because he was coming close.

How did it happen? This longing for a woman that sent a man reeling? He’d been making love to her in his mind at least three times a week for some time now, seriously considering it had to happen, shocked because he couldn’t seem to come to his senses. But what did sense have to do with sexual attraction? He felt compelled to have an affair. He couldn’t make the wider choice, yet he moved right up to her, surprising her and himself by moving her into an impromptu tango, remembering how they had danced and danced at Brod’s then Rafe’s wedding.

There was music in him, Francesca thought. Music, rhythm, a sensuality that was reducing her limbs to jelly. This man was taking her over utterly, making all her senses bloom like a flower.

“I’m in perfect company right now,” he murmured in her ear, just barely resisting the temptation to take the pink earlobe into his mouth.

“Me, too.” The words just slipped out, very soft but not concealing her intensity. She hadn’t made a conscious decision to fall in love with him surely, but his effect on her was so pervasive she could hardly bear to contemplate her holiday on Kimbara coming to an end.

Rebecca, coming to find them, burst into spontaneous applause at the considerable panache of their dance. “You’re naturals, both of you,” she cried. “I’ve never thought of it before but this is a terrific dance floor.” She looked around the very spacious front hall, speculation in her eyes.

“Why would you need it when you’ve got the old ballroom?” Francesca asked, catching her breath as Grant whirled her into a very close stop.

“I mean for Brod and me,” Rebecca smiled, still very much the bride. “Come and join us for a drink. I’ve chilled a seriously good Riesling. It’s beautiful out on the back verandah. The air is filled with the scent of boronia. How I love it. The stars are out in their zillions.” She came forward very happily to link her arm through Francesca’s, her long, gleaming dark ribbon of hair falling softly from a centre parting the way her husband loved it, the skirt of her summery white dress fluttering in the breeze that blew through the open doorway.

They found Brod wrapped in a professional-looking apron, the large brick barbeque well alight, the potatoes in foil already cooking. Ratatouille kebabs prepared by Rebecca lay ready for the grill plate, a leafy green walnut and mushroom salad prepared by Francesca waiting for the dressing.

Grant was given the enjoyable task of opening the wine, and pouring it into the tulip-shaped glasses set out on the long table, while Francesca passed around the crackers spread with a smoked salmon paté she had processed a half hour before. It was light and luscious and the conversation began to flow. These were people, interconnected through family, who genuinely enjoyed one another’s company. The steaks, prime Kimbara beef, were set to sizzle over the hot coals and Rebecca decided she’d like a tarragon wine sauce so went to the kitchen to fetch it. While they were waiting, Grant walked Francesca to the very edge of the verandah so they could see the moon reflected in the glassy-smooth surface of the creek.

“Such a heavenly night,” she breathed, lifting her head from contemplation of the silvery waters to the glittering heavens. “The Southern Cross is always over the tip of the house. It’s so easy to pick out.”

Grant nodded. “Rafe and Ally won’t see it in the United States. The cross is gradually shifting southward in the sky.”

“Is it really?” Francesca turned her head to stare up at him, thrilled because he was so tall.

“It is, my lady.” He gave a mocking bow. “A result of the earth’s precession or the circular motion of the earth’s axis. The Southern Cross was known to the people of the ancient world, Babylonians and Greeks. They thought it part of the constellation Centaurus. See the star furthest to the south?” He pointed it out.

“The brightest?”

He nodded. “A star of the first magnitude. It points to the South Pole. The aborigines have wonderful Dreamtime legends about the Milky Way and stars. I’ll tell you some of them one of these days. Maybe nights when we’re camping out.”

“Are you serious?”

A short silence. “I suppose it could be arranged.” His voice sounded sardonic. “Do you think it would be a good idea, the two of us camping out under the stars?”

“I think it could be wonderful.” Francesca drew a breath of sheer excitement.

“What about when the dingoes started to howl?” he mocked.

“Mournful not to say eerie cries, I know—” she shivered a little remembering “—but I’d have you to protect me.”

“And who’s going to protect me?” Suddenly he put a finger beneath her chin, turning up her face to him.

“Am I so much to worry about?” She cut to the very heart of the matter.

“I think so, yes,” he answered slowly. “You’re out of reach, Francesca.”

“And I thought you were a man who aimed for the stars?” she taunted him very gently.

“Aircraft are safer than women,” he countered dryly. “They don’t preoccupy a man’s mind.”

“So that makes harmless little me a great danger?” Her voice was low-pitched but uniquely intense.

“Except in the realm of my secret dreams,” he surprised himself by admitting.

It was a tremendous turn-on, causing Francesca’s body to quiver like a plucked string. “That’s very revealing, Grant. Why would you reveal so much of yourself to me?” she asked in some frustration.

“Because in many ways we’re intensely compatible. I think we knew that very early on.”

“When we were just teenagers?” There was simply no way she could deny it. “And now we’re to assume a different relationship?”

“Not assume, my lady.” His voice deepened, became somewhat combative. “You were born to grandeur. The daughter of an earl. Journeying to the outback is in lots of ways an escape for you, maybe even an escape from reality. An attempt to avoid much of the pressure from your position in life. I’d expect your father will confidently expect you to marry a man from within your own ranks. A member of the English aristocracy. At the very least a scion of one of the established families.”

It was perfectly true. Her father had certain hopes of her. Even two possible suitors. “I’m Fee’s daughter, too.” She tried to stave the issue off. “That makes me half Australian. Fee only wants me to be happy.”

“Which means I’m right. Your father has high expectations of you. He wouldn’t want to lose you.”

Francesca shook her head almost pleadingly. “Daddy will never lose me. I love him. But he has his own life you know.”

“But no grandchildren.” Grant pointed out bluntly. “You have to give him them. Such a child, a male child, would become his heir. The future Earl of Moray. Inescapably a fact.”

“Oh don’t let’s take that all on yet, Grant,” Francesca burst out. She wanted them to be together, with no conflicts between them.

But Grant had other ideas, seeing where it was taking them. “I have to. You know as well as I do we’re becoming increasingly involved. Hell what am I sacrificing here? I could fall in love with you then you’d go off home to Daddy, back to your own world, leaving me to profound wretchedness.”

Somehow she didn’t associate him with becoming any woman’s victim. He was too much the self-contained man. “I think you have what it takes to resist me.”

“Darn right!” Abruptly he bent his head and gave her a hard kiss. “I’ve seen these patterns before.”

“So what’s the solution?” She was compelled to clutch him for support.

“Neither of us allows ourselves to get carried away,” he said brusquely.

“So much for your behaviour then. Why do you have to kiss me?”

He laughed, a low, attractive sound with a hint of self-disgust. “That’s the hell of it, Francesca. Reconciling sexual desire with the need for good sense.”

“So sadly there are to be no more kisses?” she challenged with a little note of scepticism.

He looked down into her light filled eyes, aware of the complexity of his feelings. She looked so lovely, very much a piece of porcelain, a woman to be cherished, protected from damage. “Can I help it if I’m continually at war?” he asked ironically. “You’re so beautiful, aren’t you? You moved into my path like a princess from a fairy tale. I know dozens of eligible, available women. Wouldn’t I be the world’s biggest fool to pick on someone like you? A young woman who has lived a charmed life? Equally well I don’t think your father would get a big kick out of knowing you were dallying with a rough-around-the-edges man from the outback.”

It in no way described him. “Rugged, Grant. Never rough. You’re a lot more edgy than Rafe, but he’s very much your brother and one of the most courteous men I’ve ever met.”

“Free from my aggression, you mean.” Grant nodded in wry amusement. “It’s an inborn grace, Francesca, he inherited from our father. I’m nowhere near as simpatico.”

Her normally sweet voice was a little tart in her throat, like citrus peel in chocolate. “Well don’t feel too badly. I like you. Temper and all. I like the way you hit on an idea and go for it. I like your breadth of vision. I like the way you make big plans. I even like your strong sense of competitiveness. What I don’t like is the way you see me as a threat.”

He could see the hurt in her eyes but he was compelled to speak. “Because you are a threat, Francesca. A real threat. To us both.”

“That’s awful.” She looked away abruptly over the moon-drenched home gardens.

“I know,” he muttered sombrely, “but it makes sense.”

Unlike a lot of men let loose at a barbeque, Brod cooked the steaks to perfection, each to their requirements from medium rare to well done. For all her whirring feelings Francesca enjoyed herself, eating a good meal, warming to the conversation, and afterwards offering to make coffee.

“I’ll help you.” Impulsively Grant moved back his chair, willing the pleasure of the evening to go on. Brod and Rebecca had shifted seats and were now holding hands. The younger couple wouldn’t be missed for a while.

In the huge kitchen outfitted for feeding an army, Grant thought, Francesca set him to grinding the coffee beans, the marvellous aroma rising and flowing out towards them. Francesca was busy setting out cups and saucers then assembling plates for the slices of chocolate torte she’d already cut. All very deftly, he noticed. She was very organised, very methodical, with quick, neat hands.

“You’re managing very well,” he drawled.

“What is that supposed to mean?” The overhead light turned her glorious hair to flame, giving him a great wave of pleasure.

“Have you ever actually cooked a meal?” he smiled.

“I made the salad,” she pointed out collectedly.

“And it was very good, but I can’t think you ever have any need to go into a kitchen and start cooking the supper.”

She scarcely remembered being allowed in the kitchen except at Christmas to stir the pudding. “Not at Ormond, no.” She named her father’s stately home. “We always had a housekeeper, Mrs. Lincoln. She was pretty fierce. Nothing casual about her and she had staff, just as Brod’s father did, only Brod and Rebecca have decided they want to be on their own. At least for a while. Once I shifted to London to start work I managed to get all my own meals. It truly isn’t difficult,” she added dryly.

“When you weren’t going out?” He poured boiling water into the plunger. “You must accept lots and lots of invitations?”

“I have a full social life.” She flashed him a blue, sparkling look. “But it’s not an obsession.”

“No love affairs?” He found he couldn’t bear the thought of her with another man.

“One or two romantic involvements. Like you.” Grant Cameron didn’t lack female admirers.

“No one serious?” he persisted as though the thought was gnawing away at him.

“I’ve yet to meet my perfect man,” she answered sweetly.

“Which brings me to why you have designs on me.”

His effrontery took her breath away. “You can haul yourself out when the going gets tough. Because I’m only following my own instincts. You do have a certain emotional pull and physically you’re extraordinarily attractive.”

He gave a mock bow, surprisingly elegant. “Thank you, Francesca. That makes my heart swell.”

“As long as it’s not your head,” she retorted crisply.

“My head has the high ground at the moment,” he drawled. “But I’ve enjoyed tonight. Brod and Rebecca are such good company and you are you.”

It was so disconcerting, the swings from sarcastic to sizzling emotion. An acknowledgment, perhaps, that their connection was powerful, though he was going to fight it all the way.

“That’s good I’ve done something right,” Francesca said in response, trying to keep her tone light, but she was utterly confounded when tears came into her eyes. Being with him made her more sensitive, more womanly with a much bigger capacity for being hurt. For all the calmness of her voice, Grant was instantly alerted. He glanced up swiftly, catching her the moment before she blinked furiously.

“Francesca!” Heart drumming with dismay and desire he reached for her, pulling her into his arms. “What is it? Have I hurt you? I’m a brute. I’m sorry.” He could see the pulse beating in her creamy throat answering the pulses that were beating in him. “I’m trying to see what’s best for both of us. Surely you can understand that?”

“Of course.” Her voice was a husky whisper. She dashed her hand across her eyes. Just like a little girl. Grace under fire.

An immense wave of passion tied to a deep sense of protectiveness broke across him, causing him to mould her into him more tightly, achingly aware of the feel of her delicate breasts against the wall of his chest. He was on the verge of losing it. It was terrible. But good. Better than good. Ravishing.

She attempted to speak but he was seized by the urgent need to kiss her, to take the crushed strawberry sweetness of her mouth, to find her tongue, to move it back and forth against his in the age-old mating ritual. This incredible delight in a woman was something new to him. Something well beyond his former sexual experiences. He wanted her. Needed her like a man needs water.

There was tremendous passion in his kiss, a touch of fierceness that thrilled her because she knew she meant more to him than he dared acknowledge. His hand held her nape, cupped it, holding her head to him. She was almost lying back in his arms, allowing him to take his intense pleasure, and something deep, deep inside her started to melt. She was almost fainting under the tumult of sensation, her own ardent response. She had never known such intimacy, never before revelled in it, knowing it could be a cause of much unhappiness but she was too needy or too stupid to care.

What bright spirit impelled towards delight was ever known to figure out the cost?

They broke apart, both of them momentarily disorientated as though they had been beamed down from another world. Grant, for his part, was profoundly conscious his moods, attitudes and thoughts about this woman were vacillating wildly like a geiger counter exposed to radiation. She set his blood on fire, which greatly complicated their relationship. How could one think calmly, rationally when he was continually longing to make love to her? She might even see his masculine drive as excessive, a kind of male sexual aggression. She was so small, so light limbed, so fragile in his arms, the perfume of her, of her very skin, a potent trigger to desire.

By contrast she seemed shaken, deprived of speech, unusually pale.

“I’m sorry, Francesca.” Remorse was in his voice. “I never meant to be rough with you. I got carried away. Forgive me. It’s as you say, I lack the courtly touch.”

She could have and perhaps should have told him how she felt, how she welcomed his advances with all her heart, but the tide of emotion was too dangerously high. She stood away, putting a trembling hand to her hair, realising a few long, silky strands had worked their way loose. “You didn’t hurt me, Grant,” she managed to say. “Appearances can be deceptive. I’m a lot tougher than I look.”

His low laugh was spontaneous. “You could have fooled me.” He watched her trying to fix her hair, wanting to pull it free of its braided coils. What fascination long, beautiful hair had for a man. He could even imagine himself brushing it. God he had to be mad! He forced a grin, the smile not going with the look in his eyes. “I suppose we’d better take the coffee out. It’ll be getting cold.” He reached around and set the glass plunger on the tray. “I’ll carry it out. You relax. Get the colour back in your cheeks.” A tall order when he had reduced her to a breathless quivering receptacle of sensation, naked in her clothes.

CHAPTER TWO

FRANCESCA woke with a start knowing before she even looked at the clock she had slept in. She had set the alarm for five in the morning, now it was six-ten.

“Damn!” This was too awful. She wanted to go with Grant. Francesca flung herself out of bed, glancing through the open French doors that gave onto the verandah. Sun-up four-thirty. The sky was now a bright blue, the air redolent with the wonderful smell of heat. She had even missed the morning symphony of birds, the combined voices so powerful, so swelling they regularly woke her at dawn. Sometimes the kookaburras started up their unique cackling din in predawn and she was awake to hear them, lying in bed enjoying their laughter. But she had slept deeply, exhausted by the chaos of emotion that was in her.

Still she planned to go with Grant and he’d agreed, if somewhat reluctantly. Grant had told them all before retiring he intended to wait an hour for a message to be relayed in from Bunnerong. All stations operated from dawn. Perhaps his pilot had already called in or Bunnerong had notified Kimbara of his arrival? That was the way they did it in the bush.

Hastily she splashed her face with cold water to wake herself up, cleaned her teeth and dressed in the clothes she had laid out the night before to save time. Cotton shirt, cotton jeans, sneakers. She put the brush through her hair, caught up a scarf to tie it back and rushed out into the silent hallway, padding along it until she reached the central staircase. She was almost at the bottom, when Brod came through the front door, surprise on his handsome face. “Fran? We thought we’d better let you sleep in.”

Dismay hit her and she sent him a sparkling glance. “You don’t mean to tell me Grant has gone without me?” Her emotions were so close to the surface she felt betrayed.

“I think he intends to go without you,” Brod admitted wryly. “He has the firm idea you’re not really up to it. Bunnerong has called in, as expected. Curly still hasn’t arrived. Grant has delayed taking off for as long as he can. He’s down at the airstrip refuelling.”

“So he hasn’t taken off yet?” Hope flashed in her eyes.

“No.” Brod heaved a sigh, beginning to think Grant was right not to take her. This was his little cousin from England. He valued her highly but she wasn’t used to confronting potentially dangerous situations. With no makeup and her long hair floating all around her, her cheeks pink with indignation she looked little more than a child.

“Get me down there,” she said, racing towards him and taking him firmly by the arm. Literally a fire head.

Brod resisted momentarily, even though his expression was affectionate and understanding. “Fran, think about this. There’s a possibility the pilot has come to some harm. That could be very distressing for you. Believe me, I know.”

She looked up at him with her flower-blue eyes. “I won’t screw up, Brod, I promise. I want to be of help. I completed a first-aid course.”

Brod gave a sigh and ran his hand through his raven hair. “I don’t want to be alarmist but out here accidents aren’t something that happen to other people, Fran. We don’t read about it in the newspapers or see it on television. They happen to us. All the time. Curly might be beyond first-aid. Think of that. No matter how game you are, how much you want to help, you’ve led a protected life.”

“Most people do. But I’m ready to learn, Brod.” Francesca caught his stare and held it. “Stop treating me like a pampered little girl. I’ve had my tough times as well. Now, get in and drive.” She ran to the waiting Jeep ahead of him, almost dancing in her desire to get down to the airstrip. “Grant promised he’d take me,” she called over her shoulder. “I know it mightn’t be good but I’m not going to cave in. I’m half Kinross.”

She was, too, he thought with some admiration. Used as a buffer between warring parents. “It sounds to me like you have something to prove, love,” Brod said as he started the engine.

“Yes, I have.” The great thing about her cousins, Brod and Ally, was they wanted to listen.

“To Grant?” He looked at her with his all-seeing eyes, encouraging her.

“Who else?” she flashed him her smile.

Brod nodded, his expression wry. “He’s a helluva guy, Fran, a genuinely exciting personality. He’ll go far, but he’s very stubborn. Once he makes up his mind you won’t change it. Princess that you are you won’t wind him around your little finger so be warned. Grant has very strong views. A quick pride. Strength and energy to burn. But he has lots to learn like the rest of us. We know he’s deeply attracted to you but you could get hurt. Rebecca and I don’t want to see that because we care about you too much.”

Francesca’s delicately arching brows drew together. “I know and I love you for it but I have to take my own chances in life, Brod. Make all my own mistakes. That’s as it should be. My friendship with Grant has gone a step further. Everyone is aware of it. We’re more involved and as a consequence we’re coming increasingly into conflict.”

“You know what they say. Life isn’t meant to be easy. I can see it happening, Fran.” Brod accelerated away from the compound. “Grant has never felt a woman’s power. He’s had casual affairs but they never burned him. What happens when you go back to Sydney? Have you thought of that?”

“Of course I have!” Francesca exclaimed, trying to push the thought away. “I don’t want this time with you and Rebecca to end. I’m longing to see Ally when she gets home. Rafe, too, though I know he has reservations about my friendship with his ‘little brother.’”

Brod chose his words carefully, knowing what she said was quite true. “Responsibility is Rafe’s middle name, Fran. He damned near had to father Grant when their parents were killed. In his shock and grief Grant went more than a little wild. He was always getting into trouble, always trying to bring some daredevil prank off. That tragedy has shaped him. Put fear in him. Showed him about loss. It might well be to remember it. Grant mightn’t let a woman get too close to him. His grief at the loss of his parents was enormous. He was very close to his mother as the youngest.

“They were wonderful people, the Camerons. They took pity on Ally and me and our chaotic home life. They as good as fostered us. Rafe is as close to me as a brother. Come to that I always thought of Grant as a younger brother. To love is to lose. Grant learned that early.”

When they arrived at the airstrip Grant was close to taking off. He saw them coming and jumped down again onto the tarmac. There was Francesca looking like someone who should be scattering rose petals at a wedding, Titian hair flying all around her lovely head. He tried to keep a sudden anger down, wondering why he was feeling so angry at all. He didn’t want her hurt. That was it. He didn’t want her exposed to danger. In short he didn’t want her to come.

She was running towards him, crying out in reproach. “You surely weren’t going to leave without me?”

He nodded more curtly than he intended. “I don’t have a real good feeling about this, Francesca. It might be better if you stay home.”

“But you promised me last night.” Her churning emotions sounded in her voice.

“You agree with me don’t you, Brod?” Grant shot his friend a near imploring glance.

Brod considered a while. “I figure she’ll come to no harm with you, Grant. She may see something she’s not prepared for but knowing her I’d say she is adult enough to handle it. There may not be much wrong at all. A choke in the fuel pipe, or running too low on petrol to reach the scheduled landing.”

“Which places him fair and square in a difficult and potentially dangerous situation,” Grant said, feeling the pressure. “The sun is generating a lot of heat.” Both men knew a lost man could dehydrate and die within forty-eight hours in the excessively dry atmosphere.

“We’re all praying, Grant,” Brod said.

“I know.” There was tremendous mateship in the bush. Grant turned to see Francesca tying her hair back with a blue scarf for all the world as if she was donning a nurse’s cap. She looked achingly young. Adolescent. No make-up. She didn’t need it. No lipstick, her soft, cushiony mouth had its own natural colour. What was he to do with this magical creature? But she was game.

A few minutes later they were airborne, heading in the direction of Curly’s flight path. Grant pointed to various landmarks along the way, their flight level low enough for Francesca to marvel at the primeval beauty of the timeless land.

Beneath them was lightly timbered cattle country, with sections of Kimbara’s mighty herd. Silver glinted off the interlocking system of watercourses that gave the Channel Country its name. Arrows of green in the rust-red plains. Monolithic rocks of vivid orange stone thrust up from the desert floor, thickly embroidered with the burnt gold of the spinifex. The aerial view was fantastic.

Kimbara stockmen quenching their thirst with billy tea waved from the shade of the red river gums along a crescent-shaped billabong. This was vast territory. Francesca could well see how a man could be lost forever.

While Grant spoke to Bob Carlton on Opal, Francesca looked away to a distant oasis of waterholes supporting a lot of greenery in the otherwise stark desert landscape. The sky was a brilliant cloudless enamelled blue and the heat was beginning to affect her.

This wasn’t the super aeroplane, the great jet she was used to on her long hauls from London to Sydney. This was a single rotor helicopter she knew little about except it could fly straight up or straight down, forwards, backwards, hover in one spot, or turn completely around. It could do jobs no other vehicle of any kind could do like land in a small clearing or on a flat roof. In many ways, a helicopter was pretty much like a magic carpet and Grant was known as a brilliant pilot. That gave her a great deal of confidence.

A lot of time passed and they saw nothing to indicate closer inspection. Francesca’s eyes were moving constantly, trying not to concentrate on the extraordinary surrealistic beauty of the great wilderness, but on spotting a yellow helicopter. Huge flocks of budgerigar, the phenomenon of the outback often passed beneath them, the sunlight striking a rich emerald from their wings. She could see wild camels moving across the red sand beneath them and looking east a great outcrop of huge seemingly perfect round boulders for all the world like an ancient god’s marbles.

They were now within the boundaries of Bunnerong with several large lagoons coming up. Fifteen minutes on, Grant pointed downwards then proceeded to tilt the rotary wings in that direction.

They both spotted the company helicopter at the same time. It had come to rest on a small claypan that was probably baked so hard it was like cement and virtually waterproof. Dead trees supporting colonies of white corellas like a million flowers ringed the shallow depression. A short distance off was one of the loveliest of all desert plants the casuarina, a mature desert oak with its foliage spreading out to form a graceful canopy. Beneath the oak Francesca could plainly see the body of a prone man, his face covered by the broad brim of his hat. He didn’t rise at the sound of the helicopter. He didn’t lift the hat away from his face. He didn’t wave. He kept on lying there like a man dead.

Dear God! Francesca felt a moment of sheer terror. She had never seen death before.

In a very short time they were down on the fairly light landing pad, Grant on the radio again to let Bob Carlton back on Opal know he’d found Curly grounded, the helicopter apparently safe. More news would follow.

Outside the helicopter Francesca looked to Grant for instructions.

“Stay here,” he ordered, just as she knew he would. “And take this and put it on.” He handed her his akubra knowing it was much too big but it would have to do. “You go nowhere without a hat. Nowhere. And you the redhead!”

She took the reprimand meekly because she knew she deserved it. If she hadn’t slept in she would have brought one of her wide-brimmed akubras. “Do what I say now,” Grant further cautioned. “Stay put until I see what’s going on.”

It seemed sensible to obey. The birds outraged by the descent of the helicopter into their peaceful territory were wheeling in the sky, screeching a deafening protest before flying off.

She looked at Grant’s broad back as he moved off, sharply aware he felt deeply responsible for this pilot. The moment he called back to her, “He’s alive!” was to stay bright in Francesca’s memory. She ran without thinking towards them, even though he stood up abruptly, holding up his hand.

She hadn’t seen the blood. It had dried very dark, almost dyeing the pilot’s shirt.

“What’s happened. What is it?” she asked in considerable alarm.

“I don’t know. It looks like something has attacked him.” Grant strode off to the helicopter, returning with a rifle just in case. Wild boars. Bound to be plenty about. Dingo attack. He didn’t think so. Then what? God forbid the attack was human. “Poor old fella! Poor Curly!” he found himself saying.

Francesca went to the unconscious man and fell to her knees. “He needs attention quite urgently. Whatever’s done this to him?” Very gingerly she began to unbutton the pilot’s blood-soaked shirt and as she did so he started to moan, beginning to come around.

“Here, let me take a look,” Grant said urgently, gazing down at the fallen man with perplexity. “He landed the chopper quite okay. He must have become ill. Maybe he’s had a heart attack. But those wounds!” Grant looked closer as Francesca working deftly peeled the shirt away. “God!” Grant exclaimed, “It’s like claw marks. Feral cats.”

“Could they do so much damage?” Francesca asked dubiously, used to the adorable home variety.

“They could slash you to pieces,” Grant said grimly. “So many introduced animals do terrible damage to native wildlife and habitats. The camels, brumbies, foxes, wild pigs, rabbits, you name them. I’ve seen a man gutted by a wild boar. Feral cats aren’t like your domestic tabbies. They’re ferocious. More like miniature lions.”

“They must be if they’ve done this.” Francesca turned her head briefly. “Why don’t you get the kit from the chopper,” she urged. “I’m okay here. These wounds need to be cleaned. A lot of them seem to be fairly superficial although he’s bled a great deal. Others are deep.”

“They could start bleeding again,” Grant warned, looking at her closely. In the shade of the casuarina she had discarded his hat, which in any case had fallen down over her eyes. She had gone very pale but her hands were rock steady.

“I’ll be very careful,” she said. “Blood is horrible but I won’t faint if that’s what’s bothering you.” In fact she was willing herself to remain in control. “Hello there,” she said in gentle amazement as Curly opened his eyes. “Lie there quietly,” she bid him swiftly, fearful his wounds would reopen. “You’re fine. Fine.”

Curly’s alarmingly grey face took on the faintest colour. “Have I died and gone to heaven?” His voice was little more than a rusty croak.

Grant moved so he was in Curly’s sights. “Hi there, Curly. I’m not paying you to rest easy under a tree.”

This time Curly tried a smile. “Hi, boss. I wondered when you’d get here.”

“Don’t try to speak, Curly. Save your strength,” Grant urged, perturbed his man looked terrible. He’d get onto the flying doctor right away. Curly could be airlifted to Bunnerong, which had its own airstrip. The Royal Flying Doctor’s Cessna could land there.

“Bloody cats, would you believe it,” Curly groaned. “Bloody feral cats, savage little bastards. A whole pack of them came at me out of nowhere while I was off balance being as sick as a dog. Never had such a thing happen to me before. Must have scared them somehow. Reckon I passed a kidney stone I was in so much pain. The radio is out. Needs an expert. I had to land. Just made it before I passed out. Agony I tell ya! Hell wouldn’t be too strong a word for it. Now I open my eyes to an angel with eyes like the sky and hair like the sunset.”

“Don’t talk, Curly.” Francesca smiled, knowing it was taking too much out of him. “You’ve had a very bad experience. I’ll try not to hurt you but those scratches need attention.”

Curly gave the ghost of a cheeky grin. “Whatever you do to me, I’ll love it.”

Come to think of it she could pass for a celestial creature, Grant thought as he walked back to the helicopter to put through his calls. She could be counted on, too, to keep her head in an emergency as well. He had to admit he was impressed with her quiet efficiency.

A day later Curly was sleeping peacefully in hospital minus his gall bladder, lamenting the fact the “angel” who had tended his lacerations so tenderly had been replaced by a burly male nurse.

The following week saw the return of Fee and David Westbury, arms full of presents, looking wonderfully rested and increasingly affectionate after a fortnight on a small exclusive Great Barrier Reef island. Both wore becoming golden tans, Fee telling all and sundry she wasn’t in the least afraid of the sun, it was “absolutely” essential. Of course Fee was blessed with a good olive skin, well hydrated, well cared for and she’d spent nearly all of her adult life in misty England.

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