Master of the Outback

Old faded photographs of the two young women revealed they had been physical opposites. Catherine tallish, very slender, with strawberry blonde hair, deep blue eyes and porcelain skin; Patricia petite, a little on the stocky side, with fine dark eyes and an abundance of dark hair. The photographs, all of them taken between the ages of sixteen and twenty-two, showed two young and untested girls.

Derryl Trevelyan, the younger son, was picking her up at her front door. They were to drive to the commercial airfield when the Trevelyan King Air was on standby to fly them to Djangala.

It was almost time to leave. She took one last look in the pier mirror.

Portrait of a serious-minded, bookish young woman, capable of taking on a challenge with no thought whatsoever of being on the lookout for an Outback millionaire.

Maggie had allowed her to read Miss Trevelyan’s curt letter.

Please don’t send me some glamorous young woman. Someone imagining she’s going to have a good time along the way. Such young women annoy me. I want someone dedicated, serious about their work. I will possibly keep odd hours, depending on my health. There will be free time, but this is first and foremost a job. Not an Outback holiday. I don’t need anyone, either, who will run off home when she realises just how isolated we are. A plain young woman would suit, as long as she’s not dull and she knows what she’s about.

Given such parameters, Genevieve had deliberately played down her looks. Her Titian mane was drawn back tightly from her face and pinned into a thick coil at her nape. She wore the lightest make-up. She wore a silk shirt, but the colour was a subdued chocolate, and not her usual skinny jeans, but comfortable tan trousers and tan boots. To further enhance the scholarly look she’d had clear glass put into bookish frames.

She would have laughed at herself, only she felt anything but lighthearted. She was going into the Trevelyan desert stronghold where Catherine had been trapped.

A young man struck a languid pose against the passenger side of a late model hire-car. He was wearing casual clothes, but managed to look the very picture of sartorial elegance.

“Ms Grenville?” He looked her over. No smile. Clearly she was a big disappointment.

“That’s right,” she responded pleasantly. “Would you mind giving me a hand with my luggage?”

A slight hesitation, as though he was above such things. “Certainly.”

She was grateful for that small mercy. Taking charge of the smaller suitcase herself, she pushed the large suitcase through the front gate.

“That the lot?” he asked, as though his back had seized up.

“It’s not exactly a lot.” For the first time she looked directly into his face. He was handsome. Thick dark hair, clear tanned skin, eyes neither brown nor green but a mix of the two. “If I need anything else it can be sent on.”

“Nice place you’ve got there.” He was looking back at her contemporary single-storey home. It had great street appeal. She had lived in it, furnished to her tastes, for the past three years. Her father had given her the substantial deposit. He would have bought the house for her but she had insisted she pay it off. “Is it yours?” he asked, as though she were renting.

“It will be when I pay it off,” she answered dryly.

During the drive to the airport he made little attempt at conversation. He did, however, deign to ask what she did.

“I’m a schoolteacher.”

“Schoolteacher, eh?” He made it sound jaw-crackingly dreary.

“Well, up until fairly recently. I enjoyed teaching, but now I want to concentrate on my writing.”

“That won’t bring you in much,” he commented, with droll disdain.

“Perhaps not.” She was struck by his young-man arrogance. “And what about you? You’re a cattleman?” He didn’t look it. He might have been a male model. He didn’t look tough either, in the way she imagined a man of the land would look.

“Bret’s the cattle baron,” he offered, all sarcasm now. “I’m the second son—the off-sider.”

He made it sound like a drop-out. “Does that bother you?”

He shot her a sharp sideways glance, as if reassessing her. “I wouldn’t change my life. Bret is the boss. I lag a long way behind. I wouldn’t want the job anyway.”

Most probably he couldn’t handle it.

“Too much hard work, too much responsibility. No downtime. We all know all work and no play makes for a dull guy. I wouldn’t want to handle the business side of things either. Bret is the brain.”

Which let him off the hook. His brother Bret wasn’t a dull guy, Genevieve was prepared to bet. Despite Derryl’s claim he didn’t want the job, and his feigned nonchalance, she had an intuitive grasp on the nature of the brothers’ relationship. Bret Trevelyan would be the strong one—Master of Djangala.

“And you have a sister? Romayne?” She got off what she recognised as a touchy subject. “Such a beautiful name. One doesn’t hear it often.”

“Ah, I see you’ve read up on us.”

“A little. I am coming to live on the station for some months.”

“Working for dear Aunt Hester.” Sardonic emphasis on the dear. “She’s got it into her head she wants a history of the Trevelyan family. Only problem is she’s not a writer. That’s where you come in. She used to be a very good pianist. Studied here and in London. Can’t play now, which I count as a blessing. She used to go on and on for hours. Mercifully she has arthritis in her hands.”

“That’s a shame,” Genevieve said with genuine sympathy. “Her playing would have given her great pleasure and comfort. Music has such power to soothe. You’re fond of your great-aunt?”

He gave a theatrical sigh. “Impossible! Aunt Hester is a real old tartar. I’m not surprised no one wanted to marry her, for all the dowry she could have brought to a match. You’d think she was the Grand Duchess Anastasia, the way she acts. The only one she loves and listens to is Bret. He’ll get her money as well—not that he needs it.” His tone couldn’t conceal a raft of hidden resentments.

She knew she was deliberately trying to draw him out. “Surely she loves you and your sister?”

“Yes. Romayne’s married. Happily, thank God. Not much happiness in our family. Aunt Hester never took any notice of Romayne and me. Romayne is the image of our mother. Know about her?”

She answered with care. “Not really, Derryl. I know your father is dead. I know your parents were divorced. Is that right?”

He shrugged a shoulder. “You’re going to hear it anyway. A pretty shabby affair, but it happens—even with royalty. Mother ran off with a family friend. Apparently she longed for a different life. Our father got custody. Our mother allegedly begged for Romayne, her girl. Dad told her to push off. There was no question of Bret’s going to live with her. Bretton was the heir. Our father’s longed-for Number One Son. Even as a kid Bret knew what his life was going to be. His destiny, if you like.”

“You don’t sound all that happy with your lot, Derryl?”

His answer was a curl of the lip. “Not so easy to get away. Bret holds the purse-strings. He administers the family trust. Sometimes I feel trapped in a wasteland. At least Bret sent Romayne off with a splendid dowry, just like in the olden days. Not that her husband can ever get his hands on it. Bret saw to that. Romayne is financially secure for life, no matter what. Needless to say she worships the ground Bret treads upon.”

To inspire such love Bret Trevelyan couldn’t be all that bad, Genevieve thought. She shifted the conversation on to more general topics. Derryl evidently liked wallowing in self-pity.

Even at a distance, Bret Trevelyan radiated a powerful charisma. He broke away from a small all-male group as they pulled up, coming towards them. He was tall, very lean, but powerfully built, with straight wide shoulders and a body naturally endowed with virile grace. The group of cattlemen stood beside a very impressive twin turboprop she recognised as a Beechcraft King Air. One of her father’s most important clients was a retail magnate who had recently bought the eight-seater, and employed a regular pilot. The Trevelyans’ little run-about had cost millions.

That wasn’t fair. She knew the King Air was the toughest aircraft in its class. It could take off from both major airports and short gravelled runways, which would be a big plus in the Outback. There was another important factor: it could operate effortlessly at high altitudes and under extreme weather conditions, which it no doubt would encounter.

Up close, the Trevelyan lineage was apparent in both brothers. Only Bret Trevelyan appeared to be a man of a higher order. It was in the way he held himself, the way he moved. Indeed, it was hard to take her eyes off the man. She found him to be wonderful-looking. He had such an air of authority,such presence. Moreover, he had all the toughness she had found wanting in his younger brother.

“Ms Grenville?”

There was total composure in his voice, a self-assurance that would instantly inspire great confidence in him. He was inches taller than his brother—well over six feet. More disturbingly, he was looking down at her with the most brilliant dark eyes she had ever seen. She was someone who looked at eyes first. His eyes were so dark they were almost black, his gaze so powerfully searching she had the unnerving notion he was able to see right through her. In which case she might be sent packing. Only just thirty, he was an arrestingly handsome man, with an elegance about him and more than a touch of sensuality in the chiselled mouth and the strong, perfectly balanced bone structure. The air of command was that of a much older man. One seldom saw it in one so young, unless he was a truly exceptional person.

It came as a complete shock to realise she was attracted to him—and all in a matter of moments. That couldn’t be. It rendered her vulnerable. On the reverse side of instant attraction lay the abyss. Catherine had found that out, if her claim of a serious love affair with Geraint Trevelyan were true. And why would it not be? Catherine hadn’t lied.

She paused briefly to collect herself. “Genevieve, please. Or Gena, if you prefer.”

They had extended hands at much the same time. Now a chain of little tremors ran down her spine as his long callus-tipped fingers fell over the soft skin at the back of her hand. Contact sparked a reaction akin to an electric thrill. She certainly felt a tingling right up her arm, and an odd thump of her heart. It was an extraordinary feeling, but nothing could be served by it. Whatever a woman felt for this man, she would just know it would be fathoms deeper than anything she had hitherto experienced.

“Genevieve it is.” His brilliant eyes appeared to glitter for a single moment. Deeper, darker-toned than his brother’s, his voice was similarly cultured. No ordinary “bushies” the Trevelyans. “Have you travelled to the Outback before?”

Derryl hadn’t asked that question. “Uluru and the Olgas, Katajuta—but that was years ago. An unforgettable experience I want to renew.”

“I’m sure we can arrange it,” he said smoothly. “Now, I’d like you to come aboard.” He shot a look over Genevieve’s head to where his self-alleged badly-done-by brother was standing watching them—not with detachment, but with frowning interest. “Derryl, could you bring Genevieve’s luggage? We need to get away as soon as possible.”

Derryl’s muffled reply held irritation, which his brother ignored. Obviously Derryl thought his position in the scheme of things put him far above hauling luggage.

It was hard to stop herself from being thrilled. She was going on a journey that might take her to the brink of discovery. Potentially dangerous or not, she was on her way. Plenty of women would fall down in unabashed adoration before Bret Trevelyan. She was not going to be one of them. Every moment, every minute, every day she had to keep in mind her kinswoman Catherine, who had lost her young life on Djangala Station. Had she made a fatal mistake falling in love with Geraint Trevelyan, a man beyond any doubt the wrong man for her? Falling in love with the wrong man could be dangerous. Historically, there were mountains of evidence of that.

Trevelyan would be dropping the cattlemen off along the way. He made brief introductions, and all four men responded with genuine friendliness and courtesy.

Less than five minutes later they were all seated in a superior styled and fitted-out cabin. She could see that the very comfortable fully articulated club seating had been configured for the cattlemen to continue their discussions in private. She sat farther back in the aircraft, pretty well on her own, which suited her, marvelling at the state-of-the-art technology—fingertip controls, an audio-visual system, LED lighting, etc. Aft was a restroom, no doubt offering toilet, vanity and other upmarket amenities.

They were underway. The aircraft was taxiing down the runway, then within moments, smooth as silk, it gained height, fast climbing into the dazzling blue air. There was no loud drone from the twin turbo props. Inside the aircraft it was remarkably quiet. She could even darken the window, if she so chose. Derryl had elected to take the trip in the cockpit with his brother, which told her he wasn’t about to waste time on her. She was grateful for that.

Some change in the aircraft woke her. A change in altitude. She straightened up, amazed to find she had drifted off. Smoothing her hair, she stared out of the window. Trevelyan was bringing the King Air around in a slow tilting curve, making a descent onto what appeared to be a fairly large settlement in the middle of nowhere. A whole collection of buildings sprawled beneath her, and further off mobs of cattle browsed peacefully on a lushness she had not expected to see. But then this was Australia—a continent of searing drought and raging floods.

The great irony was that the arid red landscape had turned into a wild paradise. The Three Great Rivers system of the Outback—Georgina, Diamantina, Cooper Creek—now mostly dry, had run with water in some places fifty miles wide. What lay beneath her was the nation’s fabled Channel Country in the remote south-west. It was the country’s leading producer of beef, the home of the cattle kings.

The Great Flood, as it was now called, had filled every channel, billabong, waterhole, and clay pan. The floodwaters had even reached the ephemeral Lake Eyre at the continent’s centre, the lowest point. Lake Eyre filled rarely—maybe twice in a century. She had seen pictures published in all the newspapers of the thousands and thousands of birds, including the wonderful pelicans that had flown thousands of kilometres to breed there. How did the birds know? They had to fly continual reconnaissance missions. But this was Australia—a land of ten-year droughts and monstrous floods. Somehow the land and the people came back.

She found herself gritting her teeth as they prepared to land on the all weather airstrip. She had never been ecstatic about flying, even in the Airbus. This flight had been remarkably smooth, but she wasn’t at home in light aircraft, however splendid. Landing was more dangerous than taking off. The four cattlemen were ready to disembark, all four remembering her name, doffing their akubras politely. Painted on the corrugated iron roof of the hangar below, she had seen the name of the station: Kuna Kura Downs.

Derryl Trevelyan followed the disembarking cattlemen, talking all the while, Trevelyan came last. He beckoned to her, brilliant dark eyes continuing to measure her, the sort of person she was.

“Opportunity to stretch your legs,” he said, a smile deepening the sexy brackets at the sides of his mouth.

“Thank you.” God, how a smile could challenge one’s composure! “But the seating is anything but cramped.”

“You enjoyed the flight?”

She nodded. “I have to admit it was so smooth I fell asleep.”

“Flying conditions were excellent,” he said. “Come along. You might like to meet our friends and closest neighbours to the north-east—the Rawleighs. We won’t be staying more than ten minutes. I want to get home.”

She did what she was told. Trevelyan commanded. People obeyed. She felt a touch jittery, as though he knew all about her but had still allowed her to come. Surely that couldn’t be so? He couldn’t know about Catherine and the family connection? A man like that would be too busy to check out a mere ghostwriter. Something he might think akin to a ventriloquist’s dummy.

A tall, athletic young woman, with long dark hair worn in a thick plait down her back, detached herself from the small group, running towards Trevelyan, arms uplifted in greeting, her lightly tanned face wreathed in welcoming smiles.

All hail the conquering hero!

Genevieve guessed he was long used to it.

“Bret!” the young woman exclaimed in a kind of ecstasy, launching herself at him.

Genevieve waited with great interest for Trevelyan’s response. He didn’t draw her to him, as the young woman clearly hoped. He didn’t go so far as to give her the salute with a kiss on both cheeks either, but he did dip his handsome head to brush her cheek. “How are you, Liane?”

Information started to drill through Genevieve’s brain. Rawleigh? Hadn’t he once been engaged to a Liane Rawleigh?

No time to ponder. There were introductions to be made. Up close, Liane Rawleigh put her in mind of a sleek thoroughbred. She was exceptionally good-looking, with ice-blue eyes in stunning contrast to her dark hair. She appeared unable to extricate herself from Trevelyan—indeed she was clinging to him with possessive pride. The engagement might well be off, but it was obvious Liane hadn’t fallen out of love with him. So who had ditched whom? How had it come about?

Liane continued to hang off his arm while he introduced Genevieve as the writer his great-aunt had hired to help her with her book. Liane regarded her with what Genevieve interpreted as an expression of guarded superiority. Genevieve wasn’t an invited guest.

Ms Rawleigh had an educated, rather assertive voice. “Have you ever done anything like that before?” she questioned, as though Genevieve’s chances of successfully ghosting a distinguished biography of the Trevelyan family were extremely slim. Her air of general disregard struck Genevieve as very off-putting. In a way it was much like Derryl Trevelyan’s manner. Liane’s tight smile to her was a far different variety from the one bestowed upon the cattle baron Trevelyan. She couldn’t see why, but Genevieve thought there was something vaguely malicious about it. Maybe it was a trick of the heavy-lidded eyes.

Super-athletic in her sapphire T-shirt and skin-tight jeans, she had a high full bust over an enviably narrow waist and slim hips, and as Genevieve was appraising Trevelyan’s exfiancée, Liane Rawleigh was giving her a comprehensive once over. Women were much harder to fool than men. Liane would have checked her eyes, skin, hair, her figure and either consider she had deliberately played down her looks or she had little style to speak of.

“I’m confident I can do the job,” Genevieve responded pleasantly, without actually answering the question.

“Well, I wish you luck.” Liane spoke like a woman who never ceased to be amazed. “Come over and meet Daddy. He wants a word with you, Bret, if you have a moment. I should warn you, I think it’s about Kit.”

Trevelyan responded with an elegant shift of a wide shoulder. He had beautiful, thick raven hair that curled up at the collar of his bush shirt. No time for the hairdresser, like his brother. He didn’t have his younger brother’s insufferable arrogance either—and he was the boss.

“Well, he is having a very tough time of it,” Trevelyan commented.

Genevieve liked his compassion.

“Wallowing in it,” Liane offered derisively.

Trevelyan didn’t respond. He began to move off—a man blessed with vibrant energy.

Lew Rawleigh looked the part of a prominent, prosperous cattle man. The surprise was he was short. No more than five-nine in his high boots. Trevelyan towered over him. But his body was substantial—heavy shoulders, tightly muscled arms, trim through the middle—and he had iron-grey hair, charcoal-coloured eyes. He greeted Genevieve in cordial fashion. Certainly he was friendlier than his daughter.

“Ms Grenville.”

“Please—Gena.”

“Good to meet you, Gena. We hope to see more of you while you’re here.”

“I’d like that.” A white lie. She knew Liane Rawleigh hadn’t taken to her, nor she to Liane.

Genevieve had her hand pumped twice. She just managed not to wince. Trevelyan, a big man, hadn’t subjected her to a bonecrusher, though she was sure Lew Rawleigh was unaware of his vice-like grip. His gaze was keen, as though he was trying to place her. That would be an ever-present anxiety. Some flicker of recognition. She was a woman harbouring a secret. Some might call it a guilty secret. She did bear a resemblance to her great-aunt Catherine. But her colouring was of a different palette. Anyway, Lew Rawleigh was somewhere in his mid-fifties. He would have been a small child at the time.

Nevertheless he would know of that early tragedy on Djangala Station. She supposed everyone in the Outback would have accepted it as a terrible accident. Sadly, people all too frequently stood too close to rocky ledges, shelves of cliffs, even precipices. The thrill was in the danger.

Liane had lifted her dark head eagerly to Trevelyan, all sweetness and light. “You’re going to come up to the house for coffee, aren’t you, Bret?” she urged. “Derryl said he’d like some.”

Trevelyan declined. “I’m really sorry, Liane, but I need to get back. Another time, perhaps?”

The sweetness vanished. Liane couldn’t control her reaction. “God, you spend too much time on Djangala as it is!” She couldn’t hide her disappointment, or the edge of anger in her voice.

“That’s my job, Liane,” he said smoothly, but with an air of finality.

Clearly this was a very sore point with Liane. To Genevieve’s keenly observant eyes Trevelyan looked utterly unmoved, although Genevieve could sense upset as well as sexual excitement in Liane.

“Is there something you wanted to say to me, Lew?” He turned back to Liane’s father with an entirely different expression.

“If you wouldn’t mind sparing me a few minutes?” Lew Rawleigh shoved his large hands into the pockets of his dusty jeans. “I just heard the stock squad have frozen Kit Wakefield’s account. Just about everything has gone wrong for poor Kit.”

“All the afflictions of Job,” Trevelyan remarked, placing a hand on the older man’s shoulder to lead him a short distance away to discuss the financial plight of the man Genevieve supposed was a fellow cattleman.

“Poor old Kit be damned!” Liane huffed and puffed. “He’s only himself to blame. His wife drowned in a freak flash flood last year. She paid a lethal pride for a piece of utter stupidity, but she wasn’t an Outback girl. Everyone rallied around Kit—we were all very supportive—but before long he was hitting the bottle big-time and making a lot of bad decisions. I’m not the least surprised he’s in trouble, and expecting us to bail him out.”

For a moment Genevieve was at a loss for words. She felt an urgent need for Liane to stop. A young woman had lost her life. God knew the terror that young woman must have felt with a wall of water coming at her, the depths of anguish her husband must feel now. Genevieve shuddered in horror. Where was the sympathy? The compassion?

“Surely a year is a very short time to mourn the death of a wife in such devastating circumstances?” she said. “Heartbreak is very difficult to overcome. Lives get derailed. It would take a long time to get back to even a semblance of normal life.”

Liane’s blue eyes snapped back from staring after Trevelyan’s shot daggers at her. Obviously he was the only one worth paying attention to. Everything and everybody appeared to be only a background for Bret Trevelyan.