Outback Surrender

Brock had earned his badge of courage, but had shown that he had a dark side. It would pay Shelley to remember that now.

The last thing Brock had thought he would be doing this evening was socializing. Truth was, he’d been feeling incredibly bad since he’d buried his mother—as though her early death had been somehow his fault. He’d certainly given her plenty of grief by being always at loggerheads with his grandfather. Not that she had ever blamed him or breathed a word of it. But the wound would never heal; the grief would never be buried. He hated his grandfather, who had cast them off all alone. Hated him and wasn’t about to beg God’s forgiveness. Once he’d even accused his grandfather of getting rid of his own father, Rory, who supposedly had “run off like a cur”, to disappear without trace. But men in the Outback went missing all the time.

Was that what happened to his father? Knowing his grandfather, he could see him shooting anyone who challenged his authority in cold blood. He was that type. A megalomaniac. Having so much power and money could do that to an already mean man. His grandfather had been enraged by his only daughter’s runaway marriage. He had tried to have the marriage annulled, but failed. His mother had already been pregnant with him. God knew why his parents had allowed Kingsley to dictate to them, bringing them back to Mulgaree, where Brock had been born in an upstairs bedroom.

His father had stuck it out, enmity and harsh treatment notwithstanding. All for his mother, who had felt too helpless to know what to do. But six years on Rory Tyson had disappeared, leaving a note his grandfather had burned after showing it to Koomera Crossing’s police constable, who had been sent to investigate the disappearance.

After that—nothing. And there had been no news from Rory for all these years. Brock had investigated but drawn nothing but blanks trying to trace his father. He would get square with his grandfather for that. Getting square was important.

With a muffled oath Brock fought out of the bleak thoughts that threatened to swallow him up. He turned back to the task of getting dressed. His black hair was still damp from the shower, but already drying in the heat. He felt it was too curly, too long, though women always told him how much they liked it. In his experience women were always ready to say something nice. Men were the bastards.

Swiftly he pulled on a clean shirt. Lucky he had it with him. What the hell was he doing? These days he wanted to be by himself, to lick his wounds. So why a night out in town? The thing was he’d always found something endearing about the little Logan girl, who had grown into quite a woman. Her twin, Sean, had been the image of her. The drowning had been a terrible tragedy that had left the boy’s parents half mad; the sadness had affected the entire town and the outlying stations. The mother, it was said, still lay in bed crying all day, and the father, Paddy Logan, had allowed no one to forget that tragic day. Least of all his younger daughter.

They had been beautiful little creatures, those Logan twins. Everyone had thought it wonderful the way Shelley looked after Sean like a little mother. It wasn’t right the way she’d been treated since his death. She’d taken far too much punishment from her family. Like Brock had. It created a bond between them. Come to that, he hadn’t really forgotten kissing her at some dance. She’d been no more than sixteen but it had stuck in his memory, like a tune. He had a feeling that Shelley Logan with her lovely smile, on the outside so calm and collected, was bottling up a lot of passion. She was a redhead, after all. Red was nature’s fire sign.

But what sort of a person was her sister, Amanda? Sitting at the piano playing and singing while Shelley was probably toiling away in the kitchen, preparing a meal for her parties of tourists. He doubted if she’d get much help from her poor mother. The few people in town he’d spoken to about the Logans had assured him things were as bad as ever for the family—except for Shelley’s new venture, which had taken off. Everyone admired her. Shelley Logan was a capable, hard-working young woman with plenty of guts. That was the word according to Koomera Crossing.

All Brock knew was that sweet little female creatures like Shelley Logan eased a man’s soul. And Lord knew how he thirsted for some area of peace. But romance wasn’t on the agenda for him. Not even a brief affair. Certainly not with the girl he’d watched grow up. He couldn’t plan anything. Not with his future so undecided.

He knew he wouldn’t find peace at Mulgaree. But fronting up to his grandfather was a fierce necessity. Mulgaree was where he had been born, and his mother and his uncle Aaron, Philip’s father, before him. Philip, on the other hand, had been born in a private maternity hospital back in Brisbane, because Frances had been terrified of having her child on an isolated Outback station. Uncle Aaron, who he sort of remembered as kind, had been killed on the station, handling a wild steer, when Philip was just a little boy. The steer had gored him. Aaron had died without uttering a cry.

After that they had all lived in hell.

“Well, don’t you look pretty!” Brock stood in the open doorway staring down at Shelley, the delicate fastidiousness of her. She had braided her beautiful red hair so it coiled and glinted around her small head like loops of flame, complementing flawless skin smooth as a baby’s. A slick of bright colour decorated her mouth, and her green eyes were so big and mysterious they dominated her face. She looked as if he could cast spells if she so chose at any moment—even on him.

Watch out!

The thought made him laugh aloud. “‘Light she was and like a fairy!’ Brock spoke with an exaggerated Irish accent. “That’s an extremely pretty blouse.” Extremely pretty breasts. He felt a sudden wave of desire that made his stomach tighten into a hard knot. But he was obsessively involved with regaining his birthright, remember? Hadn’t he already decided he couldn’t get involved with Shelley Logan? Yet in the space of half an hour he had developed quite a taste for her.

Brock’s gaze moving over her left Shelley with a sensation of shivery excitement. He had one arm lazily resting above her head on the doorjamb, and was just staring down at her. He was so tall.

“I’m glad you like it.” It cost an effort but her voice came out normally. “I didn’t have anything suitable to wear so I raced down to the local dress shop. I found this in the nick of time.”

“My good fortune.” He grinned. “Shall we go? I’ve made reservations. They tell me Harriet’s menus are so great people have to book ahead.”

“Did you speak to Harriet herself?” She had to break through this confusion, this spell, otherwise the excitement would be impossible to stop.

He took the key of the door from her fingers. “That’s how we’ve managed to get in. Harriet told me she’d look after us. Harriet’s a big fan of yours.”

“That works both ways.” She looked at the span of his shoulders as he closed her door, suddenly bedevilled by the memory of what it was like to be swept up in his arms. Yet something about Brock Tyson, for all his macho image, made her heart break. What a dreadful penance it must have been for his mother and him, having to remain on Mulgaree after his father had deserted them. It was such a sad house. Like her own.

“I’ve not been to Harriet’s since it opened,” she remarked, pitching her tone to conversational. “I was invited to the gala night, but Amanda wanted to go and I wasn’t happy leaving my mother. You wouldn’t believe the migraines she gets.”

He took her arm as they walked the corridor, so slender, so delicate, he felt he could encircle it. “How we sacrifice our lives to misery.”

“My mother is afraid to be happy. She believes that it would be a disloyalty to Sean.”

“Sounds a terrible waste. It’s depressing, but I can’t say I don’t understand,” he replied sombrely.

They had to move past a sea of smiling, highly interested faces on their way out of the pub. Everyone seemed thrilled to have Brock back. Brock was quite calm with it all, returning shouted greetings from the bar. Shelley felt herself blush. What was she doing on Brock Tyson’s arm? Just being with him seemed a tremendous event.

They walked in a vaguely fraught silence until they reached Harriet’s, where lights from the restaurant spilled out onto the pavement. Inside it was lovely and cool, the décor green and white, with feathery stands of bamboo in pots, graceful arches, and old sepia photographs of the town’s past decorating a wall. From the night it had opened Harriet’s had been a very popular gathering place for the locals as well as people from the outlying stations.

Harriet, looking marvellous in a mandarin-yellow Thai silk caftan that flowed softly around her slim body, came forward to greet them jauntily.

“Welcome, welcome!” She bent forward to kiss her ex-pupil Shelley’s cheek. “Where have you been all this time, Brock? We’ve really missed you.”

“Ireland.” He looked into Harriet’s eyes, finding them kind and very shrewd. He named a famous stud farm.

She nodded, having heard of it. “The life must have agreed with you. You look marvellous. But someone told me as I came up that you lost your dear mother?”

For a minute he couldn’t answer, grief and wildness spoiling in him. “She’s where she wanted to be, Harriet. The home of her ancestors. There was no home for her here.” Pain and bitterness played about his chiselled mouth.

“My heart aches for you, Brock. You’ve taken a hard blow.” Harriet pressed his arm, looking with great sympathy into his brilliant eyes. “We’ll talk of this again, but for now you’ll be wanting to find some peace and comfort. I have a good table for you in the courtyard. Come through. You look lovely, Shelley.”

Harriet smiled with great encouragement at her. Shelley was a young woman she very much admired. A brave person of high intelligence, Shelley Logan could have gone far in any one of the big cities, but she had stuck with her highly dysfunctional, unappreciative family. What it was to be tied by the bonds of love and loyalty! And a quite un-deserved feeling of guilt, Harriet thought.

“Great to see you, Brock!”

Brock’s hand was caught and held over and over, slowing their progress, but finally they were seated at a secluded table for two in the courtyard, with its white rattan glass-topped tables and white rattan chairs and huge golden canes in glazed pots. The comfortable upholstery was in white Indian cotton with a pattern of green bamboo leaves to continue the theme, while near them white ceramic elephants held pots of colourful flowers on their backs. It all looked enormously attractive.

The restaurant was only open three times a week—after all Harriet was well into her sixties and couldn’t risk burn-out—on Wednesday, Friday and Saturday, for lunch and dinner. But far from stretching her to the limit, Shelley thought affectionately, Harriet looked years younger and on top of the world.

“An experience awaits you,” Harriet was saying with a flourish, passing them what looked like a fairly extensive menu for a small restaurant. “Oriental-style cooking is the speciality of the house, but if you would like something else we can whip it up for you.”

“You’re a wonder, Miss Crompton,” Brock told her, his face respectful but still holding more than a trace of that wicked daring that had so distinguished him as a boy.

“Tell me that when your meal is over.” Harriet smiled. “Now, I must return to the kitchen—but one of my girls will be here shortly to take your order. Would you care for a drink in the meantime?”

“Shelley?” Brock looked across the table at his companion, so pretty he had no desire to look anywhere else.

“May I have a glass of white wine?”

“Certainly. Why don’t we push the boat out and have champagne?” It had been a rotten day. He could do with a few bubbles, and Shelley might like it. “Okay?”

“Perfect,” Shelley agreed.

Harriet smiled. “I’ll have someone bring it over.”

CHAPTER TWO

OVER the leisurely meal Brock left the soul-destroying world of Mulgaree with all its bleak memories behind him. Shelley was lovely enough for any man—so interested in what he was saying, asking such intelligent questions that he found his whole body, for months coiled tight as a spring, relaxing. And dinner rated highly. He’d had some fine, unforgettable meals in the gourmet restaurants of Ireland and France, where he’d visited constantly on the stud farm’s business, but the well-travelled Harriet was right up there with them. No mean feat for a small Outback town on the edge of nowhere.

They’d opted for Thai food, as it was the speciality of the house: magnificent chilli prawns, flown in from the tropical north, garnished with crispy curry leaves and served with a wonderfully flavoured cream sauce, followed by a chicken dish in a peanut sauce, accompanied by shredded cucumber, carrots and spring onions. Then they’d enjoyed little jellied fruits, beautifully arranged, to finish. Delicious, imaginative and innovative, when most dishes were done to death.

“That was superb!” Brock said with satisfaction and not a little surprise.

“I’ve never had such a wonderful meal in my life!” Shelley agreed. “I’ve been flat out trying to master a few Japanese dishes for my guests.”

“Have you succeeded?” He was deriving a lot of pleasure from watching the swift changes of expression on her mobile face. In the candleglow from the frangipani-ringed lamp her eyes had little flecks of gold suspended in the emerald. Fascinating!

“It’s taken time,” she said. “I’ve certainly mastered sushi rice, but the rice only lasts a day. You can only serve it once. The biggest problem is getting in fresh fish—frozen simply won’t do. Most times I have to make do with canned salmon and crab, but our plentiful beef is the basis for sukiyaki, teriyaki, kushi-age. I’ve even bought special serving ware—bowls, plates, platters. They’re white. Food always looks good on white. Not to mention accessories like omelette pans. Japanese omelettes need a special rectangular pan. I’m good with thin and thick omelettes, and I’m not bad with presentation.”

He smiled at her enthusiasm. “I’ll have to visit some time,” he said, making a decision to do just that. “I seem to recall you had an artistic streak at school. Didn’t Miss Crompton keep all your drawings?”

“She did.” Shelley felt a tingle of pleasure. “Fancy your remembering that. I still have my drawing and my watercolours, whenever I get the time for relaxation. I’m a thwarted botanical artist. You’d be surprised at the remote areas I’ve ventured into when all the wildflowers are out.”

“You sound like you really love what you do.” She looked so happy he wanted to reach over and take her hand. Seemingly so fragile, she sizzled with life.

“Of course. I’m not as certain as Miss Crompton my watercolours are that good, but she seems to think so. She taught me art and its appreciation in the first place. Encouraged me every step of the way. Told me I was way better than she was years ago! She’s been trying to get me to mount an exhibition. She even offered to have it here.” Shelley glanced about the courtyard and into the packed main room. “Imagine my watercolours all over her walls, like a gallery.”

“That sounds like an excellent idea.” Brock realized with surprise he was getting a considerable lift out of Shelley’s company, when beautiful, experienced women with languorous eyes had come close to boring him. “I’m quite sure Miss Crompton is an excellent judge.”

Shelley smiled. “That’s what gives me confidence. Harriet has done me such a lot of good. I love painting on silk as well. One of these days I’m going to find my way up to the Daintree. I want to paint the rainforest flora and the butterflies. The brilliant electric blue Ulysses and all the lacewings. Butterflies are so romantic! But, there; you’re making me talk too much.”

“Believe me, I’m enjoying it. Keep going.” The tension had all but drained out of him. He might even see if he couldn’t organise a trip to the Daintree for her some time.

“Stop me at any time,” she advised. “I’ll never run out of things to paint. There’s a whole world of tropical birds, and all the fruits of the rainforest.”

“How are you going to fit all this in?” he mocked.

“Heaven knows! Most times I’m run off my feet.”

“There’s certainly nothing of you.” He controlled his tone, but he could tell just by looking at her she’d be exquisite to make love to. He had a finely honed instinct about such things.

“Don’t be fooled,” she replied. “I’m strong and I eat properly—as you can see. It’s a lot of work, but I really enjoy the tourist parties. I get a huge amount of pleasure out of my work, too. It was a Japanese lady who spent a lot of time showing me how to wield a vegetable knife to make all the beautiful garnishes that adorn Japanese food platters. Now, she was an artist. She could make anything of simple vegetables, flowers, leaves, little ornaments—you name it. Just give her a lemon or a lime, a cucumber, a radish, mushroom, zucchini, baby squash. It was marvellous just to watch her.”

“I expect it took her years to master the technique.”

She nodded. “Getting to know the Japanese and their language has been a real experience. Learning to prepare Japanese food is one good way of entering the culture.”

“So you’re open to all outside influences? Though Australia nowadays is very much part of Asia. You really are the hostess with the mostest!”

“I try to be. We desperately need our paying guests. I’ve been trying to talk one of our aboriginal stockmen, a tribal elder, into taking the guests for bush walks to the Wybourne caves. They’re so careful and appreciative of the fragile environment. So far Dad has kept him busy, but it would take a lot off me.”

“It sounds like you relish a challenge, Shelley?” Brock tilted his wine glass, watching the fine beads rising.

“Especially when the challenge pays off. I suppose it’s far too early for you to formulate any plans—unless you intend to return to Ireland?” She prepared herself to be tremendously disappointed if he said yes.

“My plan is to take over the Kingsley chain.”

At his tone she inhaled deeply. There was such bitterness in his brilliant eyes. “Forgive me, Brock, but is that possible?” she dared ask. “There’s Philip after all.”

“I don’t take partners,” he said, with a very sardonic expression.

Something about him scared her. “Then I’ll pray for you.”

“Do that.” Suddenly he smiled, an illuminating flash like a ray of sunshine through storm clouds. “I may need it. Please don’t look at me with fear in your eyes, Shelley Logan.”

“I’m fearful for you,” she said. “How could your grandfather possibly change?”

He gripped the stem of the wine glass so tightly she though it might shatter. “Maybe he’s discovered he’s got a conscience after all.”

“You believe he means to reinstate you in his will?” She was very aware of the shift in his mood.

He nodded, though his mouth had a sceptical twist. “I’m always troubled by my grandfather’s motives, Shelley. On the face of it he’s told me he wants a reconciliation, but he’s always been the most devious of men. Maybe it’s another cruel joke. Maybe he’s a little mad these days. Pain is tearing his body to pieces. Guilt his mind. He was even talking of going to Ireland to visit my mother’s grave. He’ll never get there.”

“He’s that bad?” Shelley waited quietly for his reply.

“Even if he survived the journey he knows what kind of a reception he’d get from my mother’s people and all the friends we made. He put my mother through dreadful anguish. Though she eventually found peace I’m sure all those terrible years took their toll.”

“He must have loved her once.”

His answer was suave and cutting. “My grandfather knows nothing about love, Shelley.”

“I’m so terribly sorry, Brock. Maybe you shouldn’t have come back when there’s so much turbulence inside you.”

“There was no alternative,” he answered, as though her comment had touched a raw nerve. “Can you see it? The turbulence?”

“I’m sad to say yes!” She spoke truthfully, even if it wasn’t something he cared to hear. “I’ve been watching you all night.” It was there in the tautness of his features, the way his hands tended to clench whenever his grandfather’s name was mentioned.

“Then no doubt you’re right!” His voice was suave. “There’s no help for my bitterness, I’m afraid, but Mulgaree is part of me. It’s my turn to close in. And no way am I going to allow Philip and Frances to cut me out.”

“Am I saying the wrong thing every time I open my mouth?” she asked wryly. “I do understand your feelings, Brock, but you must have considered Philip has a legitimate claim? He’s Rex Kingsley’s grandson too. You really couldn’t tolerate sharing Mulgaree?”

He reached out suddenly and grasped her hand. It sent shock waves racing down her arm. “Philip, my dear Shelley, isn’t competent to run Mulgaree, let alone the whole chain. Consider that. I’ve only been back a couple of days and it’s perfectly plain Philip can’t manage. He doesn’t know how to use his power, position or money. He’s no good with the men. You can’t demand respect; you have to earn it. It wouldn’t take him long to lose what Kingsley has built up. Using part of the Brockway fortune, I’ll remind you.” His jaw looked tight enough to crack.

“Brock, you’re hurting me.”

“I’m sorry.” He released her hand immediately, still with the glint in his eyes.

“How bad is your grandfather?” She well remembered a big, handsome, scowling, arrogant man.

He glanced away. “He tells me his heart has got a hell of a big leak in it, his brain’s on the edge and cancer is eating away at his stomach. His death could be any time, damn him.”

She gave an involuntary little shudder. “That sounds so harsh and unforgiving.”

His eyes burned over her. “If it is, it’s the result of his treatment of me and my mother. Sorry, Shelley.” He shrugged. “I’m too far gone for a sweet little thing like you to reform me.”

“I’m not all that sweet,” she said briskly. “Not for a long time. Like you, I’m capable of holding deep resentments. I’m only saying don’t let your grief and your bitterness gobble you up. Then your grandfather will win. You could even end up like him.”

“What a thought!” he said tautly. “And yet you can say it to my face!”

“The truth isn’t always what we want to hear. I’m sorry if I upset you, Brock. It wasn’t my intention.”

His handsome mouth twisted. “It wasn’t? For a little bit of a thing you pack quite a punch. But then I expect you know as much about bitterness as I do. Didn’t your family condemn you?”

It was her turn to suffer. “You have a cruel streak.” She gazed at him with expressive green eyes.

“So be warned.”

“And don’t you intrude upon my inner world either,” Shelley continued, doing her best to ignore the sexual tension that simmered between them.

He answered in an ironic voice. “Shelley, both our lives might just as well have been splashed across the front pages of the town gazette. Everyone knows our history.”

“How could they not?” she countered, with a touch of his own bitterness. “Sometimes I think I’ll never be free. Losing my twin in such tragic circumstances has coloured my life grey.”

“Then you have to change it.” He spoke emphatically. “No one with flame-coloured hair should ever lead a dull life. You can’t let your family cage you. You’re entitled to a life of your own. But hopefully not with my cousin. That would be too, too awful.”

Brock looked up, and as he did so vertical lines appeared between his black brows.

“Speak of the devil!” he groaned. “You’re not going to believe this, but Philip is on his way over to our table.”

“No!” Mechanically she turned her head. “Oh, my goodness!”

“Exactly,” Brock muttered, a hard timbre to his voice.

Philip Kingsley made it to their table. He was a tall, sober young man, his shoulders slightly stooped, as if under a weight. He had the well-cut Kingsley features that would have been striking had they had some edge to them. As it was he was merely good-looking. Beside his cousin Brock, with his dark, handsome smoulder, Philip looked decidedly soft.