The McIvor Sisters

“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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