The Cattle Baron

“Of course you can. You wouldn’t believe some of the places I’ve been and the things I’ve done.”

“It’s my rope, girl.” He spoke softly, yet she listened.

“I’m sure I can make it up that slope.” She changed tack, smiled at him appealingly.

“There’s bougainvillea at the top.” He spoke almost with disgust. “It could rip you to shreds.”

“Then you’ll just have to go up first and cut it off. I’ll bet you’ve got something to do it with.”

He nodded grimly. “That’s right.”

“I would’ve put a thousand bucks on it. Anyway, if you can get up there so can I. All I need is a hand.”

He stroked his lean bronzed cheek, taking a moment to verbalize his thoughts. “The problem is, what do we do if you faint?”

“I never faint.” She had once, but he didn’t have to know that.

“Tough girl.”

She put her hands on her slim hips. “Believe it.”

In fact, her color was coming back. Bone china as opposed to snow. “I guess I can haul you up.” He continued to stand over her. “You know anything about knots?”

Her face brightened. “Do I ever! I used to sail with my dad around Sydney Harbour.”

“Perfect!” He could see her in a T-shirt and white shorts. A tomboy with a woman’s body.

“You want me to knot the rope around my waist?”

“Uh-huh,” he drawled laconically. “Don’t rush. We’ve got time.”

Actually, they had very little time. Soon the brilliant sunset would fade to a brief mauve twilight, then total darkness would set in.

Rosie watched as he made short work of hauling himself up the slope, hand over hand, obviously a man who spent his life outdoors, rain or shine. She could never hope to emulate his prowess, but she sure as hell was going to try.

Moments later, he’d reached the top, walking to a big powerful-looking four-wheel drive with a really scary bull bar just in view. She laughed out loud when she saw him return with a yellow chain saw.

“Take care,” she called lightly, although she was serious. Not that she had reason to worry. She’d rarely met anyone who inspired such confidence.

In no time at all, he’d cleared an area of the spectacular purple bougainvillea with its lethal thorns. He gave her a brisk wave.

“Do you still want to do this?”

She looked up at him outlined against the flame-colored sky. “As long as you can,” she shouted.

“I think I’m up to it.”

“Right!” The rope firmly knotted around her waist, Rosie went forward, trying not to think about snakes. This was the Garden of Eden. There were bound to be a few lazing around. Okay, Rosie, you can do this, she urged herself. Part of the job. She had to make a huge effort all the same. She was feeling very shaky. Still, it felt good just to be alive.

Twice on the way up she lost her footing, dangling in space, swearing mildly while he held her weight and called out words of encouragement. “Come on, kid. You can do it!”

“Kid?” She was twenty-nine. Nearly an old maid, if her mother was to be believed. What she wanted, she thought suddenly, was a husband, children. Obviously, it took dangling off a precipice for that realization to hit.

At the top he grabbed her as though were she a feather pillow, while she, in an excess of joy, flung her arms around him. “Rosie,” he drawled, throwing back his bronze head and laughing. “You’ve made me proud.”

She returned his wonderfully infectious smile. “How did you know to call me Rosie?”

“Seems to suit you better than Roslyn,” he said, topaz eyes lighting on her hair. “Is that for real?”

“Goes with the freckles, doesn’t it?” she challenged.

“It’s quite possible you’ve painted them on, they’re so fetching. What are you doing here in Queensland, Rosie Summers?” All of a sudden he sounded like a detective with a suspect. Even the drawl had a sharp edge.

“Would you believe looking for you?” She’d been an investigative reporter too long not to know when it was time to be direct.

“So this was a setup?” His eyes glinted as he gazed down at her.

She considered that, rubbed her cheek. “Hey, I’m inventive, but this was sheer coincidence. It’s glorious country up here. I wanted to have a look around.”

“Then I’d advise you to have a damned good look for wallabies, kangaroos, brolgas and wild boar while you’re at it.”

“You mean they all cross the road?”

He moved abruptly, fighting a brief violent desire to kiss her. “I can’t take you to task now. You’re still very pale.”

“I know,” she answered almost apologetically. “I’ve been cursed with very white skin.”

“I’d say blessed.” His comment was as dry as ash.

“Would you?”

For the first time he got the full effect of her smile. “Spare me the seduction, entrapment, whatever,” he told her shortly, bending his strong fingers to untie the knot at her waist. He slipped the rope free, walked back to his vehicle, unfastened the other end from the bull bar and wound it into a neat coil, which he stashed away in the rear. “Come along.”

She started after him obediently. “You make me feel I should ask you what the charge is.”

“That’s because you are guilty of something, aren’t you, Rosie?” He rounded on her, making her feel incongruously as small as a marmalade kitten.

“I paid for the hire car. I didn’t steal it. Incidentally, is it all right to leave it here?”

He opened the passenger door for her and she hopped in. “It’s not going anyplace,” he muttered.

They were back on the road before he spoke again. “Aren’t you up here seeking permission for a dig? Specifically on my land?”

She swung her head in surprise, caught his accusing glance. “Aha, someone’s been talking. The question is, how did they know, let alone inform you?”

“The answer is, I have spies everywhere. This is my town.”

“You mean you own all the buildings?” she asked brightly.

“I own much of the land the town is built on. Is that enough of an answer?”

“Goodness, yes. The Banfields must be very rich.”

“You have an interest in rich men?”

“Not in cozying up to them. I’m a working girl, after all.” She paused. “Do you think you might listen to what I have to say?”

“Regarding what?” He flicked her a brief daunting glance.

“I’ve heard you’re difficult.” She made it sound like a little grumble.

“Really? I don’t hear that too often. Most people up here think I’m very reasonable.”

“Just being a Banfield might account for that. Listen, I’m not a crank.”

“Thanks for the tip,” he said dryly.

“If you know about me, you must know about Dr. Marley.”

“Aren’t you clever?” he mocked. “Marley’s the boyfriend, isn’t he? Hasn’t he got a wife?”

“He’s not the boyfriend!” Rosie burst out as though he’d offered her an insult. “And not that it’s any of your business his wife recently left him.”

“Oh, nice!” He nodded in cynical fashion. “That gives you a bit more leverage. I guess she wants to live a little, not fade away in Marley’s shadow.”

Exactly Rosie’s reflection. “You know her?” she asked in surprise.

“I once saw a photograph of her and Marley in the paper. A few years back. She seemed a repressed little soul. Too sheltered.”

Rosie had no words to deny it. “Right! But Dr. Marley is very highly regarded in his field. You know about his finding and dating of the Winjarra paintings?”

He looked at her hard. “I don’t spend all my life on a horse.”

“I love horses,” Rosie breathed, getting an instant mental picture of Chase Banfield as Alexander the Great.

“Is that so? How are you feeling now?” he added, shocked that he’d almost forgotten what she had endured.

“Light-headed.”

“When we reach town, you can get a good meal into you.”

“I could go for that,” she said, leaning her head back. “A nice dinner…”

“With Marley?” He couldn’t resist it.

Her eyes flew open. “I told you I’m not involved with him in any way other than professionally.”

“Okay.” His voice soothed. “So why are you tagging along with him?”

“I should have told you. Dr. Marley thinks highly of my persuasive powers.”

He gave a brief laugh that made her squirm. “Don’t kid yourself.”

“You’re not being very complimentary. You know what my accident means, don’t you? The fates have chosen to throw us together. I doubt if I’d have got back up the hill without you.”

“You’re dead right,” he said, sounding pretty final.

“Of course, I could have screamed for help.”

“Why do I have the feeling no one would have heard you? Though I suppose Marley would have noticed when you didn’t show up.”

She wished he’d accept that the situation with Marley was not as it obviously seemed. “Can’t we forget Dr. Marley for a minute?” Rosie asked wearily.

“No.” His answer was flat. “I had one conversation with the man. It could last me all my life.”

“Is there a reason you’re not being cooperative?” Rosie complained. “What I need from you—”

He chopped her off. “Do you honestly believe Three Moons was the site of an ancient Egyptian village?” he asked, exasperation in his tone.

Rosie had learned a long time ago to tell the truth. “I honestly don’t, but it would be one heck of a discovery if it was. As I see it, Marley’s not a fool. He’s a brilliant scholar, a renowned archaeologist. And he has something in his possession I think you should see.”

“Don’t tell me, a mummy.” A mocking smile touched his face.

Rosie shuddered. “I wouldn’t be too happy about a mummy. No, this is a scarab.”

His look clearly conveyed I could have told you that. “So where did he get it? One of his mates in Cairo?”

“Are you willing to be open-minded?” she implored.

“No.” He shook his head. “Plain enough, Rosie?”

“Something tells me you haven’t lost the spirit of inquiry, of adventure.” She turned to him earnestly. “Despite your stubbornness.”

“The answer is still no.”

Now she clicked her tongue, folded her arms across her chest. “You’re letting your dislike of the man overrule your intelligence.”

At that he laughed spontaneously. “You know I’m intelligent, do you?”

She patted his arm encouragingly. “I’m not one of those who thinks brawn can’t be matched by brain. Let him talk to you. No more than an hour. There’s only one pub in town, unless you’re staying with a friend. You have to have dinner. We’ll throw in dinner.”

His amusement was still evident. “That’s mighty generous of you, Miss Summers. I take it this dinner will be with Dr. Marley and you?”

She nodded. “And what you see might surprise you,” she said in warm inviting tones.

“What I’d like to see, Rosie, is you dressed up to dine. Not that you wouldn’t be eye-catching at any time.”

“Well, I couldn’t be beautiful, so I went for offbeat.”

“I think you managed a bit of both.”

“You’re being kind,” she said lightly, not considering her appearance a big issue.

“I hate women who push for compliments,” he teased.

“Not me!” Rosie shook her head. “My experiences have made me anything but frivolous. To get back to the subject, you’re saying you’ll have dinner with us?”

“Stop it. Too easy. You’re persuasive, all right. I can well imagine your getting all your interviewees to spill the beans, but guys like Marley and I don’t hang out together.”

“You’ve got to meet him all the same. I think he’s on to something with this theory of his. He’s obsessed with the whole idea.”

“A rich fantasy life, it’s called. I have an uncle just like him,” Chase scoffed.

“Actually, I’ve met him. Porter Banfield?” Rosie’s eyes studied his profile, seeing the family resemblance, but still not able to believe it. Could any two people be less alike?

Now she had surprised him. “Where?” he asked sharply. “Porter doesn’t get his kicks talking to young women, however scintillating. I don’t know what happened to him, but he’s one miserable bastard. A confirmed misogynist.”

“I think you’re right,” Rosie answered, nodding. “A misogynist may be misguided, emotionally bankrupt, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s stupid. He’s a Banfield, after all.”

He realized he was being thoroughly entertained. “Stop trying to butter me up, Miss Summers,” he warned. “Others have tried it before you.”

“Evidently without success.”

“You haven’t figured me out, either.”

“True, but I’m not defeated. Besides, I think you owe me something for saving my life.”

He laughed, a rich chuckle. “That kind of reasoning is beyond me. Anyway, someone would eventually have found you. I’m even coming around to thinking you could have saved yourself.”

She turned to him engagingly. “Just an hour. I swear you won’t regret it.”

Silence. “You’re doing this for Marley?” he asked finally.

“Hell, no,” Rosie crowed. “I’m doing this for myself. This is my baby. My big scoop.”

“In that case,” he told her. “I’ll come.”

BY SEVEN O’CLOCK Rosie was bathed and dressed. She hadn’t had a lot of time because Chase Banfield had insisted on dropping her at the local doctor’s to have her “checked out.” It was easier not to argue. And it was rather nice being cared for. She hadn’t had that kind of attention since she’d left home. As expected, the doctor confirmed her own evaluation of herself—she was tough, even if she didn’t look it.

Tonight she’d gone to a lot of trouble with her appearance. Banfield had wanted to see her dressed up, so dressed up she’d be. Within limits. This was a little frontier town, after all. No need for the basic black and pearls. Not that she ever wore such garb. Her mother, who was a classic dresser, always said she got her outlandish taste from Great-aunt Hester, distinguished spinster in the family, now in her ninetieth year and still painting her much-sought-after nudes. Rosie’s outfit for the evening was the best she could come up with on short notice. A hot-pink skirt and, wonder of wonders, it didn’t clash with her hair. The top, sleeveless with a V-neck that showed just a hint of cleavage, was dark-green satin. She needed something rich to go around the middle, finally settled for a Thai-silk turquoise sash that fortuitously matched the turquoise sandals she’d brought with her. She’d long ago decided not to play down her unusual looks. For most of her early life, she’d been the clumsy duckling to her mother’s elegant swan. Her height had always been a worry; her hair, a cheerful orange. Then there was the bird’s beak of a nose, the wide sweep of her jaw. Again, inherited from Great-aunt Hester. There was no way she could be like her mother. Once she understood that, she had come into her own.

“There you are, Rosie,” she applauded her reflection. “A woman every man would desire.” It even seemed as if her hair would behave. She had arranged it in a thick upturned roll at the back, making far more of an effort than she had the previous night, when she’d pulled it into a ponytail for dinner with Graeme Marley. She sprayed her wrist again with a gardenia-based perfume. Mmm, fabulous! She was feminine enough to love perfume. “Oh, Roslyn you’re such a bohemian!” She shook her head several times, but she could still hear her mother’s voice. Rosie flashed herself another one of her saucer-size smiles. Why, oh why, did she have such a wide mouth? Well, nothing she could do about that.

She was almost out of her room, feeling extraordinarily excited, when she suddenly made the decision to wear The Necklace. It was a knockout. No one besides Marley and perhaps the hawk-eyed Mr. Banfield would know what it was. Reverently, in case some long-dead ancient Egyptian lady might take it into her head to lay a curse on her, Rosie withdrew the necklace from its soft leather pouch and draped it over her hand. Wonderful workmanship using multicolored, multitextured gold, combined with the semiprecious stone lapus lazuli—the “eyes” of the flowers, five in all, shaped like the sacred lotus, which were appended from the smooth coil that encircled the neck.

She turned back to the full-length mirror, put it on. She knew she was very privileged to wear it.

She went downstairs, smiling at the owner, Lyn Delaney, an interesting woman good for an interview, although she acted a bit cagey for all her friendliness. Rosie won a “You look marvelous” from Lyn that sounded perfectly genuine. She considered that a compliment, particularly given the exotic stylishness of this little back-of-beyond pub. But then, Banfield had said he owned most of the town.

She walked beneath the gleaming fretted timber arch into the small lounge, finding it almost full. The locals all glanced up curiously. Nobody pointed, not one expression conveyed that she looked a little freakish. They all seemed friendly and cheerful, so Rosie gave them her encompassing smile.

Banfield and Marley were already seated at a table to the rear of the room, along with a third man she didn’t know. All three rose gallantly at her approach.

Marley, to her acute annoyance, bowed to kiss her cheek in much too intimate a fashion. Rosie felt like popping him one, but had to settle for discreetly moving off. Chase Banfield’s tiger eyes settled on her, moving gently, very slowly, over her face and then her body. Not transfixed by the wonderful necklace but drifting past it, as if it was just the sort of thing he expected her to wear. Introductions were made. The third man, very thin, all mustache, looked burned up inside, but charming for all that. He was one Mick Dempsey, longtime friend of the Banfield family, himself the owner of a huge cattle station called Derrilan, which he told her meant “falling stars” in the Aboriginal language. Rosie pitied him and warmed to him at the same time. A tragedy there, she thought. She was sure of it.

“All pioneering families seemed to have dreamed up romantic names for their properties,” Marley said in an indulgent voice. “Falling Stars. Three Moons!”

“Chase tells me you had quite an exciting ride this afternoon.” Dempsey turned to Rosie with his still-attractive grin, as good as ignoring Marley, who looked irritated at not being in control of things.

Again Marley intervened, from long practice. “It’s a miracle she didn’t kill herself.” He shook his head with as much vehemence as amazement. “Women and machinery simply don’t mix.”

Banfield threw him a contemptuous look. “I wonder how well you’d have survived the ride. Miss Summers did an extraordinary job behind the wheel.”

“Ah, but she’s not the average female,” Marley said with the air of someone who knew. He touched Rosie’s hand, let his fingers linger.

What was this? Marley was allowing the others to assume an intimacy that didn’t exist. She’d have to warn him about it in a hurry. Like before they retired to their separate rooms later that night.

Rosie removed her hand carefully. “I realize my reaction was foolish, but it’s an instinctive thing to try to avoid hitting an animal.”

“There isn’t anything else to do, my dear,” Dempsey told her kindly, pulling at the rather dashing red bandanna tucked into his white shirt. “I had a good friend run into a tree avoiding a brolga that popped down in front of him.”

“I hope your friend survived,” Rosie said.

“He did, miraculously. His car was a write-off. Bull bar saved it from being ripped apart. You were very lucky Chase was driving back into town.”

“My hero!” Rosie exclaimed. “I intend to include him in my nightly prayers.”

“Include me, too, my dear,” Dempsey only half joked. “I could do with the prayers of a good woman.”

Marley, looking slightly bored, picked up the menu. “The food here is surprisingly good,” he said, the light catching the show of silver at his temples. “A bit unusual for such a remote neck of the woods.”

Patronizing idiot, Rosie thought, but Banfield said suavely, “Even our little country town can rise to a decent chef. You should try the crocodile fillet tempura, snow peas and chinois salad with a kakadu plum and wasabi dressing.”

“I’m impressed!” Rosie searched in vain for it on the menu.

“Crocodile! You’re joking.” Marley’s heavy shoulders moved beneath his summer-weight jacket.

“You’d probably think it was a delicious cut of pork,” Banfield said as he helped Rosie out by pointing to the exact spot on the menu. “Or there’s the tournedos of kangaroo,” he added smoothly.

Rosie raised her eyebrows. “I don’t fancy eating one of our national symbols. The kangaroo and the emu hold up the coat of arms.”

“They’re a bloody menace in the bush,” Mick growled, “pardon my French, and not much we can do about it. Millions of them. I figure the best way to preserve the species, and that goes for the croc, too, is to come up with some commercially viable industry. Like cattle. The public are going to get pretty intolerant of crocs otherwise. Kangaroo, by the way, tastes good. A bit gamy to some, but very tasty. I’ve had it many a time and enjoyed it, but I prefer our prime beef. We produce the world’s best.”

“So it’s tournedos of beef with potato barigoule béarnaise,” Rosie said, sounding definite. “As you’re the expert, perhaps you can enlighten me as to what a barigoule is. My French doesn’t rise to it. I can handle the béarnaise.” She turned to Banfield with a smile. He was looking incredibly handsome, not to say alluring in a sand-colored, softly constructed linen suit that sat wonderfully on his wide shoulders with a casual black cotton T-shirt beneath. The big-time cattle baron with a sophisticated edge.

He held her gaze, somewhat spellbound by her appearance, as well. This was a woman for all seasons. “A barigoule, and I know this only because I’ve had it, is a potato that’s been steeped in saffron bouillon, then scooped out and filled with béarnaise sauce,” he explained. “I can recommend it. It’s very good. Our chef is a young Vietnamese. Lyn won’t keep him long. He’s too good. Some luxury hotel down the tourist coast will offer him more scope and more money, but for the time being we’re dining out in style. I’d recommend the crab cream or the steamed scallops for starters, and as you’re obviously a girl who doesn’t have to watch her figure, the Moroccan orange tart is great.”

“I’m for the ginger ice cream,” Mick said gleefully. Chase could tell he was feeling better than he had in a long, long while. “You’re paying, aren’t you, Dr. Marley?”

Marley looked pained. “Of course.”

By the time it came to coffee, they retired to the lounge, which was now almost empty. Marley stared at Mick, obviously hoping he’d go, but Mick stayed on with reckless disregard for what the doctor wanted.

“Miss Summers tells me you have something to show me.” Banfield decided to get the ball rolling, giving Mick a quick, almost warning look.

“This mightn’t be the moment,” Marley managed, his mouth still full of a liqueur chocolate.

“You can speak in front of Mick,” Banfield assured him.

“I’m not sure I can.” Marley’s smile was a little grim. “No offense, Dempsey, but this is fairly hush-hush.”

“Would it have anything to do with Rosie’s necklace, then?” Dempsey asked, affecting an Irish brogue. “Egyptian, isn’t it? And isn’t she just the girl to wear it? That Nefertiti neck. I’ve actually seen a handmade glass amulet in a pyramid shape with Egyptian hieroglyphics on all sides that was dated by the Department of Mines at five thousand years old. How old is the necklace?”

Marley seemed angered by such an approach. “Banfield, this is a private matter. I can’t have too many people in on it.”

“In on what?” Banfield asked in an easy voice. “All of us here have lived with the story of an ancient Egyptian presence in the Far North. My uncle Porter has tried many times to mastermind an exploration. Unfortunately for him he needs my authority to do so. I don’t have time for games. I have a big station to run.”

“That’s right! Chase is a key player in the industry,” Mick said proudly, sipping his coffee. “Used to be myself until I lost Bridget. My wife, you know.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mick.” Rosie’s green eyes lit with sympathy. “When was this?”