I was ready for hostility, anger, bitter resentment, even blame, thought Casey.

Instead it was like they all knew she was going to turn up one day. Kindness and generosity seemed to emanate from Darcy. Her big sister?

“You’re too nice to me,” Casey said abruptly.

“Who could deny a goddess?” Troy pressed back in his chair, smiling his bold, tantalizing smile.

“It’s settled, then,” Darcy said, eyes sparkling. “Give us a call when you want to come home.”

Never had Casey been so glad she had her sunglasses on. She, who never cried except on increasingly rare occasions when she was flooded by her nightmares, felt the sting of tears.

Home? Did she have a home? If she hadn’t been such an undemonstrative person she would have put her arms around Darcy and hugged her.

Margaret Way takes great pleasure in her work and works hard at her pleasure. She enjoys tearing off to the beach with her family on weekends, loves haunting galleries and auctions and is completely given over to French champagne “for every possible joyous occasion.” She was born and educated in the river city of Brisbane, Australia, and now lives within sight and sound of beautiful Moreton Bay.

Marriage at Murraree
Margaret Way

The McIvor Sisters

MILLS & BOON

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

IF SHE hadn’t landed on planet Mars, she didn’t know where she was. The heat and the blinding glare! The colour of the desert sand was unbelievable, fiery-red, burnt-orange. It glowed like a furnace under the rich blue sky. The very vastness stunned her. The plains ran out to the horizon without anything to connect them to humans. It must seem the same to a sailor adrift on a great ocean she thought. Her trip was turning into quite an experience. The lack of anything except the land in all its savage glory was amazing. Space. Pure air. Freedom. In a place like this she might be able to regain her soul. These desert areas—and she realised she was only on the desert fringe—were seemingly barren except for the eternal porcupine grasses, the Spinifex. It had covered huge areas of her journey into Queensland’s vast Outback. The legendary name, The Never Never was right on. She had never seen such a surreal landscape outside of a painting.

Brilliant red earth, cobalt vault, totally cloudless, large rounded clumps of Spinifex like giant pincushions scorched to a dull gold. In the distance the baffling mirage danced in waves, conjuring up alluring green oases with lots of lovely water. She could well understand how the early pioneers had followed it, never catching up. This had to be somewhere near the place the English explorer, Captain Charles Sturt had battled his way with horses in search of the inland sea. What had he called it? The Iron Region. Or maybe that was the Stony Desert named after him. Either way it was awesome country, with enormous drawing power.

Casey pulled off the dead straight road that went nowhere. Goodness knows why, she thought wryly, no one else was on it. She’d been travelling for days yet she’d hardly seen a soul. She turned off the ignition of her battered old ute and consulted her map again, resting it on the steering wheel. To be landed in this immense empty wilderness could turn out to be extremely hazardous. One wouldn’t need to have a breakdown or run out of water. The glare alone was soporific. It had damned nearly put her to sleep. Of course the ancient ute had no air-conditioning and it was blazingly hot.

It was well she was tough. She had to be. No one had looked after her. She had lived hard. Born in a shack on the outskirts of a tropical town. Reared by a mother who hardly knew how to look after herself let alone a child. Then after her mother had died of a drug overdose, The Home. Bad, bad days. She’d endured that until she was sixteen when she left with nothing but searing memories. Truth was she had never had a real home anywhere.

You’ve got a lot to answer for, Jock McIvor.

Casey reckoned he’d be in hell and deservedly so.

There was nothing else to do but drive on, hoping Old Faithful would make it into the Three Rivers Country. For years she had heard mention of the Channel Country in the State’s far South-West on the weather report. She hadn’t taken much notice except to register it was darn hot! To her mind it sounded like the end of the earth. Only very recently had she learned it was the legendary home of the nation’s cattle kings. The domain of men like Jock McIvor.

She had never known who her father was. The kids at school had given her hell about that. Her poor little mother had been a joke, the butt of many a sick prank. Kids were so cruel. Pretty as a picture but so overwhelmed by life her mother had eventually sought solace first in alcohol, then in drugs. She had once confessed to Casey she didn’t want to live.

She hadn’t. She’d OD’d at the grand old age of thirty-six. Casey had always blamed herself for not being able to protect her mother but then she was only a kid at the time. At eleven she’d been put into The Home. Plenty of kids there didn’t have fathers or mothers, either. It wasn’t unusual for parents to dump their kids or make life so unbearable for them even The Home was preferable.

Casey drove on. She figured she was two hundred kilometres west of her last stop, the bush town of Cullen Creek. She hadn’t seen any creek, just a dry sandy bed someone told her in times of flood turned into a raging torrent. Hard to believe! As she’d gone in search of something to eat, the townspeople had stared at her like she’d stepped off a UFO that had landed in the main street. But at least they had given her a decent cup of tea and a plate of sandwiches made with freshly baked bread and plenty of ham and salad filling. A big apple and cinnamon muffin to follow and lots of advice about always letting someone know where she was heading in the Outback.

She hadn’t told them where she was going. Her appearance alone had magnetised them. Probably her height and her red hair. Both had made her a target as a kid. “How’s the weather up there, Agent Orange?” Even her mother had seemed to blame her for looking the way she did. At least her formidable height had saved her from a few batterings in The Home. She was good with her nails and her fists and her high kicking legs. The world was a dangerous place. She had found that out early.

Then six weeks ago, a blast from the past. An old friend of her mother’s came into her life. Not by chance. Judith Harrison had gone to a great deal of trouble to track down first Casey’s mother, then learning of her premature death, her only child. Judith Harrison it turned out had grown up with her mother and knew all about the family “tragedy”. Casey had not known anything about it since it had never passed her mother’s lips. Her poor little mother—at least they had loved one another—had been born into a well-to-do family. Casey had to have that explained to her. Twice. A woman who had lived with her child often below the breadline had come from a cushy background. The irony of it! Casey’s grandparents had since died, no doubt leaving their small fortune to a retirement village for pampered cats. Judith had been her mother’s friend from childhood, apparently consumed by guilt that she had never sought to contact Casey’s mother after she stormed out of the parental home, cutting all ties.

It was on account of a man. It always was. A mystery man Casey’s grandparents had never met yet instinctively feared. He had taken over their hitherto perfect daughter’s life, making her a different person. When Casey had calmed down from the revelation her mother had come from a very comfortable home, Judith told her she had spotted her mother and her lover just once. Once was enough. A week later she had seen the man being interviewed on television.

His name was Jock McIvor. Swashbuckling cattle baron. A man with money to burn.

Jock McIvor, who it appeared short of DNA testing, was Casey’s father. He couldn’t be anything else. He was even taller than she was. After she had finally closed the door on a sobbing Judith Harrison, nevertheless de-lumbered of her burden, Casey had made it her business to read up everything she could about McIvor that paragon of sin; all the press clippings, accompanied by photographs. Judith Harrison hadn’t lied. Handsome was too tame a word for him. The photographs were all in black and white so she didn’t know his exact colouring except for what Judith Harrison had told her. He had a leonine shock of red-gold hair. He was very tall, probably six-four with sapphire eyes and a cleft in his chin. Casey had almost laughed. It fit her own colouring. She even had—in her case—a dimple in her chin. In no way had she resembled her dark haired, dark eyed mother who’d been five-three at most. The person she resembled obviously was the person who had seduced her naïve little mother, ultimately destroying her life.

A man without conscience. Jock McIvor.

Powerful, rich, probably dumping one woman after the other, he had taken everything her mother could give him, then returned to his own world where pretty gullible little creatures like her mother didn’t belong. By the time her mother found out she was pregnant she was on her own and a long way from home. Casey had no way of knowing what her mother had felt then but she must have been terrified with no one to turn to. She had alienated her parents in abandoning herself to her lover.

Only her lover, it turned out, had a wife and a baby. A baby called Darcy.

Jock McIvor, who should have had Dirty Rotten Scoundrel as a bumper sticker.

But he was dead. That was okay. The family was going to pay. Those McIvor women—she knew all about the other one, Courtney, who had arrived a couple of years after the first born Darcy—those McIvor heiresses as the Press dubbed them—were rolling in money. That struck Casey as being shockingly unfair. If she were McIvor’s daughter and she didn’t for a moment doubt that she was, wasn’t she entitled to a stake? It was about time the poor and oppressed of this world had justice. Well she was poor enough to qualify but just let anyone try to oppress her. She’d had more than her fair share of that in The Home where all her survival skills had been tested.

She was probably traumatised. She had been sexually assaulted by The Cobra but he hadn’t managed to rape her on account of the noise she made and a great kick that would have carried her far in soccer, sending him hurtling across the room. She was fourteen then, almost at her full height and as wiry as hell. That had sent a message to the others. Leave McGuire alone or she might be tempted to slug you or kick you in the balls. She never had much of an education. About two days at school and a smattering of the three R’s she picked up at The Home where grade ten was about as good as it got. Could she ever forget even in her time two of the kids had committed suicide, unable to withstand the day in day out torment? She had prayed and prayed they had gone to a much better place….

For years Casey had been supporting herself singing for her supper. People really liked her in the pubs where she was starting to make a name for herself as a singer-songwriter. She had a good voice for country and she liked to think plenty of talent on the guitar. One of her boyfriends, a really nice guy—yes, there were a few out there—had taught her. He had even passed over his own expensive guitar saying when he heard her he realised he shouldn’t play any more. She’d even managed to finish her formal education to Leaving Certificate. Emboldened by the results, she had taken up various courses at an Adult Learning institute, even basic French. It made her feel cultured. On the purely practical side she’d signed on for a get-to-know-your-car course where she’d outshone most of the guys. Heck, she was as good as any A Grade garage mechanic, which was probably why the ute was still running.

Twenty minutes later she saw on a slight rise set well back from the road, a fairly impressive dwelling for this or any other neck of the woods. A homestead of some kind? Though she leaned forwards peering through the windshield she couldn’t see a solitary goat let alone a herd of cattle. It even had trees around it. Desert oaks. She’d become familiar with them. Several towering gums. A couple of palms. The house was two storey, built of rose coloured bricks finished off with wide verandahs, white cast-iron balustrades and white lattice treillage. What in the world was a quite handsome house doing in the middle of nowhere?

“You’re seeing things, Casey girl,” she mumbled to herself. Her heart missed a beat as a large stone flew up from the road and hit the windshield at a point close to her head. At various intervals on her long journey she had seen piles of glass at the side of the road marking the spots where some traveller had struck trouble. Mercifully her windscreen remained intact, but she would like to take on more water. The house didn’t look deserted. It looked lived-in. She could see a big galvanised iron water tank off to one side and a few out-buildings at the back. Surely a weary traveller could beg a container of water? Outback people were supposed to be hospitable. On the other hand she might run into some ornery character totting a .22. Nothing life dished up surprised her.

Okay, let’s see! Casey took the gravelled side road that led to the house. She wasn’t counting on a gate. I mean just how many people came calling? Nevertheless she got out to open it and closed it securely after her once the ute was inside. Maybe a bunch of cows was out back planning a stampede?

Not cows. A cattle dog, with the distinctive blue speckled coat and dark tan markings. She knew what it was. A Queensland Blue Heeler bred especially for droving and rounding up cattle. It came skittling around a corner of the house barking its head off, probably determined to make amends for having been taking a nap.

“Hey, fella!” she called to it, standing her ground. “What’s your problem? I’m not a bad person. I’m here for water.”

The bluey must have liked the sound of her voice. It stopped barking and came right up to her as though eager to clear up any misunderstandings.

“Hi, there, what’s your name?” She bent to pat it. She liked animals better than people and they liked her. There was a collar around its neck with a name tag.

“Rusty!” She chuckled. “Is that your name? Howya goin’, Rusty? You’re a clever boy. How about showing me up to the house?”

She could have sworn the dog smiled.

She rapped on the solid timber front door. No one came.

“Damn, Rusty!” The owner had to be away. They had probably taken a run into the town, which on her map was Koomera Crossing. She kept talking away to the dog to prove her good intentions. The front door was offset by brilliant stained glass panels, fan lights and sidelights, in the style she had learned was Art Nouveau. She had been starved of beauty. Now she was making up for lost time. She was taking a closer look, one hand resting gently against the front door when the door suddenly gave. It swung open and she was left looking into a generous entrance hall illuminated by the brilliant sunlight. It had an unusual floor of alternating light and dark boards. There was little furniture beyond a single painting hanging above a small dark timber console.

“Hello, there,” she called. “Anyone at home?” But if anyone was at home, surely they would have heard Rusty’s barking.

Afterwards she never knew why she walked in but everything about the place was irresistible. Rusty followed her, making not the slightest attempt to nip at her heels.

Casey laughed. “Some watchdog you are.” She gave him another pat while he looked back at her with an eager, expectant face as if soon they’d be outside playing catch. Obviously Rusty had retired. “Since I’m here, I suppose it’s okay if I fill my container.” She went back to the ute to get it with the cattle dog padding along happily at her side. “Rusty, you old dog, you like women. I wonder if you’d be so nice if I were a man?” Probably not. Men were such threatening creatures. Women weren’t.

By the time she filled the big container to the top it was heavy. She lowered it to the floor and then, because she was so much enjoying being inside such a house, she decided to take a quick look around. She wouldn’t go upstairs. She felt sure she shouldn’t, but there was no harm in taking a look around the ground floor and out the back. Rusty didn’t mind. It was a large house but the furnishings were austere.

The back door was open as well. Obviously the occupier was very trusting. Not that there was anything worth taking. Rusty thinking she might be about to have a look outside, bounded down the short flight of steps, looking back up at her.

It was then she was caught from behind, her arms pinned and hauled behind her back. She had heard no footsteps. Nothing. There was the power of untold strength in the grip.

“What the hell are you up to, cowboy?” A man’s voice ground out. He kicked the back door shut so Rusty couldn’t come to her aid.

That was it! No one manhandled her. The fingers that encircled her wrists were like bands of steel. She could just imagine the rest of him but she wasn’t about to cringe or beg for mercy. Was there no place on earth there wasn’t violence?

She felt a surge of adrenalin, heaving with all her might to loosen the powerful grip. She was far from being a weak woman. She was strong. She’d worked out four times a week at the gym. She lifted weights. Add to that she had taken karate lessons at which she’d proved a natural. She succeeded in freeing herself to the extent one of her hands came loose. That was all she needed. She whirled, ready to defend herself with ugly memories flashing before her eyes. Under attack, she took two quick steps forward, raised her right leg to chest height then drove the ball of her foot at him in a snap kick.

It should have connected but at the last minute he rapidly sidestepped. Immediately she spun, abandoning the idea of another snap kick he might have been expecting for a good old-fashioned sock at his jaw. Bewdy! She heard with satisfaction his grunt as his neck snapped back.

Next things, in under a couple of seconds she was flat on her back, gasping for breath, with her assailant standing over her. She reacted swiftly, rolling away across the carpet runner. One strike each.

“You’re not going to hurt me, you bastard!” She was out of a crouch, back on her feet, fully in control of her body, her mind locked into self-defence. There was no place for panic. She wasn’t going down without a fight.

Trust no man. Your life could depend upon it.

He was taller than she was. Maybe by three or four inches. Rugged and rangy. He was young, too, under thirty. Good tanned skin lay taut over carved bones, thick golden-brown hair, sun-streaked blond. For a space of a breath she thought, gold eyes. Who had gold eyes? She couldn’t feel a rapist’s aura. Instead he was saying tersely, “Get a grip, girl. I’m not going to hurt you.” His expression was startled.

It took a few moments for what he was saying to sink through her consciousness.

“Who are you?” she demanded, maintaining her aggressive stance. At the same time she manoeuvred herself to the back door so she could let Rusty in.

“God!” he exhaled softly. “I had no idea you were a woman.” His voice abruptly hardened. “So what do you mean, who am I? I’m asking the questions around here. Who are you? What are you doing here and what do you want? Look, it’s okay.” He held up his hands. “How long have you been a karate cum prize fighter?”

“As long as guys like you are around!” Her face was still alight with anger, her sapphire eyes blazing. “Maybe I shouldn’t be in here, but I knocked. The door gave. I thought it would be all right if I filled my water container. It’s in the kitchen. What did you think I was going to do? Pinch your lousy possessions?”

“Could be,” he returned, a faint smile on his generous mouth.

“I’m going to let Rusty in,” she said, like Rusty was a trained killer. She flattened herself against the back door then opened it. This guy was tough. Very tough. She saw that now. There wouldn’t be a woman alive who could match his physical strength. Seconds later Rusty was inside the house, exhausted from having run back and forth finding the door locked against him.

“Sit, boy,” her assailant gave the clipped order.

Rusty sat.

Of course! It had to be his dog, though she doubted very much he could get the cattle dog to turn on her.

“Your name please?” he asked, suddenly as formal as a policeman.

“Casey McGuire.”

“No doubt of the mad McGuire clan?” He examined her from head to toe. Far from being some young guy she was all femaleness.

“No clan,” she informed him shortly. “I’m an orphan.”

“I imagine your family prefer it that way. So what are you doing around here, Casey McGuire?”

“Drivin’ through, if it’s any of your business. This your house?”

“In a manner of speaking, but I don’t live here. This house is at the disposal of our resident school master. It’s a few kilometres out of town but he doesn’t mind.”

“Doesn’t he ever lock his doors?” she asked.

“He will from now on,” he informed her. “But as you say, there’s nothing much to take. I apologise for manhandling you. I mistook you for some vagrant out to make trouble.”

“Right!” she said firmly. “Now you know different. I don’t apologise for slugging you. You asked for it.”

He laughed, stroking a hand along his strong jaw where a dark red mark was still visible. “The fact your hat fell off gave you the element of surprise, so don’t take too much credit. How many guys I wonder have a torrent of fiery hair tumbling down their back? How long did it take to grow it?”

“So what’s your name,” she replied, totally ignoring his smart aleck question. Yet all the while he was studying her intently, a small frown between his bronze brows.

“Connellan. Troy Connellan. My dad owns Vulcan Plains about 100 K’s west of here. I had to come into town so I decided to take a run out here to check on a few things. I won’t mention to Phil Carson—that’s the new headmaster—you were snooping around his place.”

She coloured. “I’m sorry. It’s hard to explain. I was just enjoying the house. And Rusty’s company.” She clicked her fingers and the blue speckled dog came to her, showing its pleasure at a few pats on the head.

“Don’t be a fool, Rusty,” Troy Connellan chided. “He might look the picture of a sweet natured dog but I’ve seen Rusty hold quite a few people at bay.”

“I’m good with animals,” she said offhandedly. “So you believe me?”

“I have to put a stop to those right hooks,” he answered sarcastically. “Yeah, I believe you. We got off to a bad start. Where are you heading?”

She shrugged. “I’m going to stop off at the town. Koomera Crossing?”

“Right.” He nodded slowly, still intently sizing her up. There was nothing lecherous about it. The considerable interest wasn’t on that account.

“Then I’m heading out to McIvor country. Murraree. That’s the name of the station, isn’t it?”

“Right again.” He narrowed his eyes. “You’re a relative of Jock’s?”

“You could say that.”

“I hope you know he’s dead?”

“So I’ve heard. But not the end of story.”

“You’ve got me intrigued, Ms McGuire.”

Something about him sent an unwelcome self-awareness crackling along her nerves. “Look, I’m a busy woman.” She said it through her teeth. “You knew Jock McIvor?”

“Lady, everyone knew Jock McIvor,” he said laconically. “You ever so slightly resemble him.”

“Do I now.” She picked up her cream Akubra and rammed it back on her head. All day her hair had been pleated for coolness, now she let it fall loose.

“Have you told the girls you’re coming?” He made a rough mocking sound like a snort.

She looked at him, thinking suddenly he was extraordinarily good-looking if you liked big dramatic hunks. He had strong distinctive features and a bump at the bridge of his aquiline nose, probably from an old break. The eyes were as gold as a jungle cat’s, thickly lashed. “This is gonna be a big surprise,” she drawled.

“I bet. Who the hell are you?”

“As I said before, none of your business, Connellan. I’ll collect my container and be on my way. Have a nice day.”

She couldn’t stop him. He walked with her to the ute.

“You’re expecting to get to Murraree in this old wreck?” he enquired, standing back to admire it.

“This old wreck has served me faithfully,” she told him tartly.

“We do have a policeman in the town. Would it pass a road worthy test?”

“You’re joking. Who the hell would care around here?”

“You’d be surprised. The fact it takes time and money to go after irresponsible idiots who find themselves broken down in the Outback doesn’t seem to bother you.”

“Look, buster!” She stuck her hands on her hips, adopting her aggressive stance. “I’m a mechanic. This here ute mightn’t look pretty but it’s well maintained. It’s not gonna break down, got it?”

“Boy do you have a chip on your shoulder.” He gave a white smile, the corners of his mouth curling up.

Fascinating. She was starting to get uncomfortable with the fact she was finding him attractive. “I don’t like being called an irresponsible idiot.”

He gave a mocking bow. “I was generalising, dear girl.”

“I’m not your dear girl. I’m not a girl at all. I’m a woman.”

“And an excellent specimen.” He gave another wide smile. “Could I interest you in a cup of coffee back in town?”

“Not likely.” This guy was getting under her skin faster than a splinter. “How far on is Murraree?”

“Not far as the crow flies. Darn near three hours by road. I suggest you don’t drive after dark.”

“Why is that. Do you think the dark might make me jumpy?” she jeered.

“You? No. That was some punch. I’m just glad the snap kick never connected. There are kangaroos on the road. They’re as dumb as they come. I don’t think your old ute would stand up to a front end collision. I travel with a bull bar.”

“I take it that’s your 4WD beyond the gate. What did you do, pole vault the fence?”

“I wanted to surprise you. At least you closed the gate behind you. Country girl.”

She shook her head. “I’ve never been to the Outback in my life.”

His bronze brows lifted. “Jock never invite you?”

“I never had the pleasure of meeting Jock McIvor.”

“But you’re a relation?”

She laughed, despite herself. “The evidence seems to be mounting up. Do you know the McIvor heiresses?”

“Darcy, yes. But the younger one, Courtney, stayed in Brisbane with her mother. She’s only recently come back. I haven’t had the pleasure as yet. I’ve been managing one of our outstations in the Territory.”

“One of…” she scoffed. “You don’t get to be as cocky as you unless Daddy happens to be a rich old cattle baron.”

“You’re just jealous.” He shrugged. “Anyway you don’t know the amount of rubbish I have to put with.”

“And I couldn’t care less. Now would you mind taking your arm off my car. I have to be on my way to this Koomera Crossing. The last town I pulled in every last damned citizen was all eyes. You would have thought I’d come from another planet.”

“More likely every last damned person was struck by your extraordinary resemblance to Jock McIvor. It’s kinda startling. You’ve even got the cleft chin.”

“Make that a dimple.” She slipped behind the wheel. “Could you do me a favour and open the gate?”

“How could you leave Rusty behind?” he asked, amused by the way the cattle dog had taken to her.

“He’s your dog, not mine. I suppose you dumped him on the schoolteacher.”

“Fella wanted a bit of protection.”

She laughed. “It would be fair to say Rusty is a push-over.”

“Or you could melt metal?”

Casey felt heat rush through her veins. This conversation had gone far enough. “I thought you were the one who behaved like a savage.” She swung away.

“Look, I thought you were an intruder, okay?”

“I’m glad I wasn’t. Are you going to open the gate?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He gave a mocking salute. “If you stay on in town I might see you there.”

“Not if I see you first,” she called sweetly. “Bye, Rusty!” She waited until he had opened the gate fully, before revving away in a cloud of red dust and flying gravel. Rusty followed, in hot pursuit. Just as she started to worry, Connellan let out a whistle so piercing Rusty got the message and reluctantly returned home.

More amazement at Koomera Crossing. More long considering stares. More unsolicited advice not to attempt to travel after dusk, which made it even more dangerously irresistible, but she wasn’t a complete fool. She booked into the pub for the night. She could start out fresh in the morning.

By seven o’clock she was starving. She felt sure the pub didn’t run to room service but if she went down to the dining room she might run into Troy Connellan. Just the thought of him made the adrenalin kick in. His wasn’t a soothing presence. In fact, he was particularly challenging. She could still feel that steely grip on her. She supposed he had every reason to think she was a lanky young man from the back. There was her height, her long legs and her dusty cowboy garb. Her hair—what had he called it?—a fiery torrent, was pushed under her hat. So his daddy owned the schoolmaster’s house. He owned a place called Vulcan Plains and another station in the Northern Territory. Daddy had to be a rich man. A cattle baron.

Spare me from them.

Hunger got the better of her. There was a lot of her to fill. She prettied herself up with a fine cotton shirt the colour of her eyes and brand-new designer jeans, tight as leggings, slinging one of her very fancy belts around her waist. This was the sort of outfit she adopted in the pubs when she sang. People seemed to like it. Her hair she brushed until it crackled and left it to hang loose over her shoulders and down her back in deep thick waves. McIvor’s hair. She sighed and a flush of anger appeared in her cheeks. A few things he had passed on to her. As a child she had wondered where she got her red curls from. Her mother’s hair had been dark and glossy until she started not taking care of herself. Her mother had never forgotten McIvor but he had forgotten her overnight. Had her mother ever tried to contact him to tell him about the pregnancy? Casey never knew. He might have sent money or advised her mother to have an abortion. He would pay for it. He was a married man.

Her poor little mother had a higher morality.

She was hardly settled in her chair before a plump, middle-aged woman reminiscent of someone’s mother on a sitcom came up to her, beaming. “I thought it was. You’re Casey McGuire, aren’t you? I’m a fan of yours. I’ve heard you sing back in Brisbane and the Gold Coast. I’m on holiday staying with my niece. She’s over there.” She gestured towards a table. “Dee Walker, that’s my name.” She held out her hand.

What else could a girl do. Casey shook it. “Thanks for the kind words, Dee, but I won’t be doing any singing around here.”

Dee’s double chin quivered as if she might cry. “Not even if I asked you? Folks would love it.”

Casey stared up at the woman’s plum-hued hair. “I’m like you, Dee, I’m on vacation.” Dee wore a plum lipstick as well.

Dee wasn’t the sort of person who took no for an answer. She leaned her hands on the table. “Look, I’ve set myself the little task of getting you to sing. I bet hubby I could.”

“Dee, I’m about to order. I’m very hungry.”

“Later then?” Dee was nothing if not persistent. It had worked countless times in the past. People just folded before they got a migraine.

Casey wasn’t one of them. She was about to put a stop to Dee, only a voice she knew breathed over her shoulder. “Hey, sorry I’m late!” Next minute Troy Connellan dropped an audacious kiss on her cheek before taking the chair opposite her.

“Oh, I’m intruding,” Dee Walker said, looking pleasantly flustered.

“Nice to meet you, Dee,” Casey gave her a big bright smile. “Bye now.”

Dee left reluctantly while Connellan rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me. She wanted to know if that hot hair was real?”

“You’ve heard about wigs in the sticks?”

“Hell, yes. What did she want?”

For some unknown reason she told him. “She wanted me to sing a song.”

“Imagine that!” One bronze eyebrow shot up. “What are we talking about here? Grand opera, pop, rock and roll, maybe the blues?” He had already noted her speaking voice, low and rich, full of sexy modulations.

She looked at him through narrowed, hostile eyes. “I’m sorry I told you.”

He shook his head. “Contrary to what you may believe, any one of those styles is possible. You have a voice people would want to listen to. So did Jock come to think of it. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone spin a yarn like McIvor. That voice of his could weave spells.”

“Can we leave McIvor out of this?” she asked sharply

“Sounds like you don’t have a good opinion of him?”

“Go on. Dig a bit further,” she challenged.

Again he shook his head. “I’m here for a nice chat and to have a good dinner. Have you ordered yet?”

“Dee got in the way,” she said sarcastically.

“Allow me.” He held up a hand. Immediately a pretty young waitress with dyed platinum hair curling around her head, hurried to their table.

“Yes, Troy?”

He smiled up at her. “How are things with you, Debby?”

“Just the same as when you left, Troy. Pretty tame, but I have dreams.”

It looked very much like Connellan was one of them, Casey thought, sitting back and listening to the exchange. It went on for a minute more before they ordered. Fresh barramundi had arrived from the Gulf, so what else? French fries, green salad on the side.

“Thanks, Debby.” Connellan handed her the menus. “We’ll let you know if we want dessert.”

“Thank you, Troy,” she said, eyes glowing, cheeks pink.

“One of your girlfriends?” Casey asked. “Or not high enough up the social scale?”

“Debby’s just a kid,” he frowned. His white shirt revealed a glimpse of broad bronzed torso, a gold ring in his ear would have finished the look off perfectly. Even his thick hair curled up from his collar.

“A kid with a crush,” Casey pointed out.” Whereas you’re exactly the age Debby is attracted to. You did a good job making her want to grow up. Fast.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. Another signal of the hand. “What’s it to be?” He turned back to Casey. “Beer or wine? I guess a glass of wine wouldn’t kill me.”

“Perhaps you should go sit at another table?” she suggested sweetly.

“Don’t be like that, McGuire. Waiter’s coming. What’s it to be?”

“A nice crisp Riesling,” she said.

The generous mouth compressed. “If they’ve got it. Crisp Riesling drinkers don’t come in all that often.”

“Try them,” she said.

The owner of the pub, a pleasant-looking man with bright blue eyes took her request very seriously. He smiled their way and waved a hand, indicating he had just what she wanted in stock.

Not only that, the bottle arrived nicely chilled.

Troy poured. “You’re going to drink this whole bottle by yourself?” he mocked.

“If that’s okay with you.” She gave a uncaring shrug. “I’ll have as little or as much as I like. Who the heck asked you to join me, may I ask?”

“No use glowering at me,” he said. “I was rescuing you from Dee. You come on real strong, don’t you McGuire?”

“Hasn’t stopped you coming back for more. And who said you could call me McGuire?”

“I distinctly recall your calling me Connellan. What’s good for the goose, etc., etc. What do you say we call it a truce while we polish off the barramundi?”

“Fine. I plan on going to bed early.”

It wasn’t to turn out that way. The main course was so delicious they followed it with a chocolate mousse then coffee.

“Who’s paying, by the way?” he asked.

“You’re wasting your time if you’re trying to take a rise out of me.”

“I just can’t make out if you actually smile or not.” He looked boldly into her eyes.

“Wouldn’t you just love to tell me it’s just like McIvor’s.”

“Jock McIvor was renowned for his sexual prowess,” he said. “Part of the appeal was his flashing smile.”

“He must have exercised it a lot,” she said contemptuously. “Don’t look for it from me. I had a tough childhood.”

“Really?” He leaned closer. “Turns out so did I. Maybe we can compare notes? Let’s order another coffee seeing you’re paying.”

She nodded. For one reason only, or so she told herself. The short black had been very good. She’d only had two glasses of wine, so she’d take the rest of the bottle up to her room. Maybe have another drop to help her sleep. Alcohol wasn’t going to be her downfall. She could take it or leave it.

Five minutes later Dee descended on them again. This time wearing elaborate spectacles. She seemed tremendously excited. “I’ve waited and waited,” she announced. “But now you’re finished. There’s a young man here with a guitar. Says his name is John Denver. Joking of course. He said he’d lend you his guitar if you would sing. I’ve spoken to the publican. Such a nice man! He said his customers would love it.”

Casey hoped her smile was okay. “Fact is, Dee, I don’t usually sing after a meal.” She had numerous times but not professionally.

“If I were you,” Connellan chipped in. “I’d get it over.”

“Why can’t you just keep out of it?” Casey fired.

“I’d lurve to hear you,” he drawled. “Never let it be said I don’t enjoy the finer things in life.”

“Oh, please, please,” Dee added, for good measure putting her hands together in a little clap. “Look here comes Johnny with his guitar.”

“Wonder it’s not Elvis,” Connellan murmured, giving her a gold-gleaming glance full of humour. “Clearly you’re caught!”

Casey took the tiny stage to much applause and more than a few loud whistles. She’d been so engrossed crossing swords with Troy Connellan she really hadn’t registered the amount of interest she’d been getting. If people whispered among themselves at Cullen Creek, at Koomera Crossing speculation was rife. The consensus of opinion. “Got to be one of Jock’s!”

Dee, electing herself compere of the night, took it upon herself to make the introductions.

“Please make welcome, Casey McGuire, all the way from Brisbane. You’re in for a treat, folks.”

More applause. More loud catcalls.

Casey took a minute to fine tune the guitar. Perfect pitch was quite rare she’d found and she had it. She decided on a sad ballad. One she had written herself. Most of her songs were sad. This one was some kind of memorial to her mother. Someone had turned on a spotlight and it shone on her. She didn’t need the mike but the publican hurried to switch it on, while someone else drew up a high chair for her to play sitting down if she wished. Anyone would have thought she was a rock star, she was getting so much attention.

“Song for Marnie,” she said, simply, looking out into the now crowded dining room. Where had everyone come from? The dining room had only been a little over half full.

Totally focused, she sat on the high stool unconscious of the image she created, strumming the introduction. Then when all was perfectly quiet, she began to sing….

Troy Connellan, rebel with good cause, found himself almost unbearably moved. She had a beautiful voice. He didn’t know what category. Mezzo, contralto, it wasn’t soprano. It was coming from some sad place deep inside her. Low and melodious, filled with emotion. She had wonderful control. Not only that, he had never heard the guitar sound so darned good. Her long elegant fingers caressed the strings, really made them sound. She was a true musician. Confrontational with him—he had to admit he’d gone out of his way to cause a little friction—when she sang of this Marnie her voice was heartbreakingly sad. She couldn’t be lesbian could she? He rejected that. He’d had enough experience to know there was something sexual going on beneath their sparring. The lyrics seemed to tell him tragic Marnie could be her mother. She’d said she was an orphan and he’d mocked her. He was sorry now.

He began to think of another star-crossed woman. His own mother, Elizabeth. Of the great love between them. But his mother was dead. She and a family friend had been caught in a flash flood on the station. Rumour had it his mother and their friend, his godfather, had been having a forbidden affair. His mother had been so beautiful who wouldn’t have fallen in love with her? His father was a very jealous man. Jealous of his beautiful mother. Jealous of him. He saw his only son as a rival and directed very real conflicts his way. It was all done on purpose. His father knew perfectly well what he was doing to Troy, at the same time as he heaped lavish gifts and affection on his sister, Leah. A new twist on the Oedipal dislocations.

This McGuire woman was simply stunning though she didn’t seem to know it. Okay, she was very tall. Too tall for a woman, six feet, but not too tall for him. In the spotlight her magnificent Titian hair glittered like fairy gold. She had flawless milky-white skin. No freckles. He wondered how she’d missed out on them. Her long lithe body was decidedly feminine, incredibly fluid and infinitely sexy. And the length of those legs! They could have stretched to Cape York. He remembered as intimidating as he might first have appeared to her, she was ready and able to fight back. Unfortunately he’d made the huge mistake thinking she was some young guy snooping around. The battered old ute had given him a bum steer. What woman in her right mind drove such a bucket load of trouble?

What terrible times had Casey McGuire seen? What had provided the basis for the song? He was convinced she’d suffered to be able to sing with such depths. She’d told him she’d had a tough childhood. That made two of them. It had taken him forever to realize his father had been jealous of him even as a boy. It had much to do with his mother’s special love for him and he for her.

After Casey finished there was total quiet in the room. It lasted for long moments as though the audience was unwilling to let the singer and the song drift away. Then the room erupted.

“More…more!”

A thunder of applause, this time no whistles perhaps out of respect, a muffled drumming of the feet, others stood up. A tourist with a plummy Pommy voice shouted, “Bravo!”

The singer, herself, seemed to come to, slowly as if breaking out of a trance.

Troy for his part was still trapped in the song’s power and the sad memories it evoked.

Nothing could be clearer. Casey McGuire had many songs to sing and many stories to tell. No wonder she was heading for McIvor country. He’d take a bet on it. That’s where she belonged.

Casey started into an encore. Upbeat, hand clapping, exciting. It drew a big response from her audience.

Casey McGuire, Goddess of Song.

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