The Horseman

To the left, a man was standing alone

He was staring at her with single-minded concentration. It wasn’t simple curiosity in his gaze, and the quality of it locked her in place. For a weird moment she thought she was falling over the balustrade right into his arms.

Even now his eyes didn’t let go. In fact, the connection grew stronger. They might have been illicit lovers or sworn enemies, so strong was the focus each had on the other. A shiver passed through her; it was as though no man had ever looked at her before. She wanted to move away, but the hypnotic nature of his gaze blocked her every attempt.

Was he sizing her up and finding her wanting? Why should that be? She felt dizzy, as though not enough oxygen was getting to her brain. It was clear she had to do something to break the deadlock.

She closed her eyes tightly. When she opened them again, the man was gone. She was shocked by the impact a stranger had had on her, especially when neither had spoken a word. Who was he? She didn’t know him and had no desire to. Her intuition told her he would be dangerous.

Dear Reader,

The Horseman completes my four-book series entitled MEN OF THE OUTBACK. I do hope you’ve kept with me so far, as the stories are linked not only in their setting, the Northern Territory, the remotest and wildest part of the continent, but also by the lives of the interlinked families who call this fascinating place home. If you’re one of my longtime readers you’ll know “family” is a recurring theme in my books. (And if you’re not, a big welcome to you!)

I like to portray family with the petals and the thorns. Families anywhere in the world don’t differ all that widely. They have secrets, running feuds and personal histories that often contain more than a grain of fiction. As I have frequently written, the sort of family you grow up in affects you throughout your life, sometimes to the very end. The strong and resilient will break free; others are doomed to carry the conflict forward into succeeding generations. I’m sure many of you can name a family—perhaps even from your own street—that runs the risk of being called dysfunctional. But I like to bring balance to such families by writing of hopes and dreams, and to introduce heroes and heroines who focus their energies on making a bright future for themselves and those they love.

My warmest wishes to you all. Happy reading!

Margaret Way

The Horseman

Margaret Way

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Margaret Way was born and bred in the river city of Brisbane, Australia. Said to be able to read at three, she hasn’t had her head out of a book since. When she wasn’t reading she was playing the piano. She turned to writing when she was unable to practice while her infant son slept. She sold that first book—which she wrote longhand—and has gone on to publish over eighty books with Harlequin.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

The Moreland Mansion

Darwin

Northern Territory

Australia

CECILE MORELAND sat in front of her dressing table making final adjustments to her bridesmaid’s headdress, a garland of silk flowers and foliage scattered with sparkling crystals. Excitement, like a swarm of butterflies, fluttered in her stomach. She wondered how much more excited Sandra was for this was Sandra’s day of days, the day she and Daniel were to be married.

The weather was perfect. No bride could have asked for more. Cobalt skies of perfect clarity, a light cooling breeze off the harbor, the mansion’s extensive gardens coaxed to perfection, ablaze with flower beds that dripped gorgeous blossoms. Brilliantly colored parrots, chittering and chattering as if they, too, were caught up in the excitement, flashed through the great shade trees that formed a canopy over the long drive, from the massive wrought-iron gates at the entrance up to the house. Everywhere smelled of flowers and cut grass. It was absolutely intoxicating.

Cecile swallowed a rush of emotion she couldn’t afford to indulge; she was all made up and just about ready to join Sandra and the other bridesmaids, but she was still experiencing an overwhelming sense of gratitude and amazement. Daniel, who had grown to manhood with his origins uncertain, had been discovered to be a Moreland; in fact, her first cousin. It was especially hard to believe, because it was less than a year since she had become aware of his existence, let alone that he was part of her family.

They shared a grandfather, Joel Moreland, known throughout the Territory as the Man with the Midas Touch. Daniel, it turned out, was the son of her uncle Jared, who had been killed as a young man in a freak accident at the Alice Springs annual rodeo when Daniel was still in his mother’s womb. Whether Jared had been aware of the pregnancy no one would ever know, but the consensus of opinion was, Jared would never have let the mother of his child disappear from his life; it was alien to his nature. Now, Daniel and Sandra’s meeting was a wonderful example of synchronicity, the connections that govern human life. Cecile felt moved by that thought. If ever two people deserved to be happy, it was those two.

Softly humming Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March” beneath her breath, Cecile rose from the small gilded chair, satisfied with the positioning of her headdress. She smoothed the lovely floor-length skirt of her strapless silk and satin gown, happy in the knowledge it suited her beautifully. The lustrous material was the color of a silver-gray South Sea pearl that under lights, appeared to be shot through with rays of color from her headdress, a mix of pinks, yellows, lilacs and amethyst with accents of palest green. The maid of honor, Melinda, Sandra’s friend from her university days, would be wearing an intense shade of pink, the other two bridesmaids, Eva and Denise, sunshine-yellow and a complementary deep lilac respectively. Sandra had taken her inspiration from the exquisite pastel plumage of one of her favorite birds of the Red Centre. This was the elusive Princess Alexandra parrot, named in honor of the Danish princess Alexandra who later became consort to Edward VII of England. Sandra, herself, had been christened Alexandra Mary after her Scottish great-great-grandmother, so it was easy to see the connection. The garlands they all wore on their heads took their theme from the infinite varieties of wildflowers that cloaked Sandra’s desert home after the rains. The five of them had settled on their outfits over one very happy get-acquainted weekend on Moondai, the historic station Sandra had inherited from her late grandfather, Rigby Kingston. All four bridesmaids were brunettes, which made a striking contrast with the buttercup blondness of the bride, Cecile thought. She felt honored that Sandra had chosen her to be part of the bridal party. After all, she was a newcomer to Sandra’s life, but their rapport, established before the big engagement party on Moondai, had been instant, which is about as gratifying as it gets.

Cecile drifted onto the balcony to look over the extensive gardens, ten acres in all. Huge white marquees with pink pelmets and tassels had been erected in the grounds: one for the banquet; another to house drinks of all kinds, from French champagne to Coca-Cola; the third for the lavish selection of desserts and coffee. Hundreds of circular white tables and chairs, their backs adorned with huge ivory satin bows, had been set out on the lush green lawn, which swept down to a delightful spring-fed lake that glittered under the tropical sun. Ever since she could remember the lake had been home to a pair of black swans called Apollo and Daphne. Though she recalled how Daphne, initially trying to escape Apollo’s attentions, had turned herself into a tree, the two had mated for life.

The surrounds of the small lake were densely planted with continuously flowering white arum lilies and gorgeous Japanese iris, the water and the boggy conditions ideal for both plants. The actual ceremony would take place not far from the lake in a sheltered glade where countless heads of blue hydrangea were in big showy bloom. The glade had been a favorite haunt of hers as a child, mainly because of the large pentagonal-shaped summer house with its exotic pagoda-like roof. Under that magical roof Daniel and Sandra would be married.

When she was younger—Cecile was now twenty-six and the despair of her mother, who thought twenty-six high time she was married off and carrying her first child—she had thought the glade was where she would like to be married. Stuart, her fiancé, didn’t care for that idea at all. He wanted a big cathedral wedding with lots of pomp in their hometown of Melbourne. Stuart was big on pomp and the symbols of success: the grand house; stable of luxury cars; beautiful wife; two perfect kids, boy first, then girl; rich in-laws highly respected in society. A lot to ask for and obviously not yet attained, but she had said yes to his proposal almost a year before. Why, then, was she having difficulty naming a wedding date? Both Stuart and her mother had been pressing her of late to do so—she didn’t blame them—but still she couldn’t bring herself to commit. She was beginning to realize there was something profoundly significant in that, though she continued to berate herself for her intransigence as though intransigence were a dirty word. She was certain Stuart loved her. She loved him. She did, didn’t she? Why this awful doubt? Why now? Their architect-designed house in Melbourne was already undergoing construction. The exclusive site was a gift from her parents. She and Stuart had known one another for years and years. Their families approved, especially her mother, who continued to try very hard to dictate her only child’s every move.

Thinking of her mother, Cecile gave an involuntary sigh. Her mother wasn’t a happy woman. She was a good woman who had tried all her married life to be the perfect wife. She fussed over her husband who was, in fact, a distant Moreland kinsman, so she’d never had to change her name. She was a tireless worker for charity. She kept a beautiful house and a legendary garden. For decades she had devoted herself to endless dinner parties run like military maneuvers to further her husband’s business and social status. Cecile’s father was now CEO of Moreland Minerals, a position he held for more than fifteen years. It was confidently expected he would one day take over from her grandfather as chairman. Her mother should have been happy, achieving so much. Instead she was a rather driven woman, taking pride but no joy in her accomplishments. Cecile knew for a sad fact that her father had sought physical and mental balm in the occasional discreet affair. For years she had been terrified her mother would find out, but eventually she realized her mother would never question her father until the day she died. Instead, she had made an art form of blocking out any unpleasantness. Her mother’s headstone might well read: Here lies a woman who never delved too deeply.

Cecile caught back another sigh as the old troubles and tensions of her childhood and adolescence began to creep over her. It was essential she throw off these unhappy thoughts, indeed obligatory, on this happy day, but they kept invading her mind. It saddened her deeply that there was no crucial spark of love between her parents, no special looks they gave one another as Stuart’s parents did. There were no intimate, loving glances indicative of a happy shared life, certainly no private let alone public displays of affection. They were more like colleagues who rubbed along comfortably together. There must have been a spark at the beginning surely? Or had her father—as her razor-tongued great-aunt Bea had occasionally suggested—considered that there were more important considerations in marriage than romantic love? Her father was brilliant at business transactions. Were she and Bea too cynical? On such a day as today it was difficult not to contrast what Daniel and Sandra had with what love was in her parents’ marriage. Maybe that blaze of love happened only rarely. Maybe her mother wasn’t destined ever to know it. Maybe, for all her so-called beauty, she wasn’t even the kind of woman who inspired passion. Physical beauty certainly didn’t reflect all the manifestations of the psyche. There were far more important traits that allowed one to take that enormous step forward.

It was Daniel and Sandra who had been so blessed. In less than an hour they would exchange their marriage vows. It was truly a love match. A fairy story that offered the promise of living happily ever after. Cecile hoped and prayed that promise would come true. Although Sandra was about to become Mrs. Daniel Moreland, the press was still calling Sandra the Kingston Heiress. Probably that label would stick to her all her life. The couple who had wanted a quiet wedding with only family and close friends had a big society wedding on their hands. It couldn’t be otherwise with the bridegroom having Joel Moreland for a grandfather. The top journalist from the nation’s leading women’s magazine was numbered among the guests. The hefty fee for sole coverage of the wedding would go to the charity closest to Sandra’s heart, a foundation doing research into childhood leukemia. Sandra had once had a little friend called Nicole, who had lost her life to that cruel disease.

At his death over a year before, Rigby Kingston, Sandra’s grandfather, one of the Territory’s most prominent and influential cattlemen, had shocked the entire Outback by doing what had never been done before. He had bypassed his son and his grandson to leave Moondai and the bulk of his estate to his estranged granddaughter, daughter of his deceased firstborn son and acknowledged heir, Trevor, who had been killed when the station Cessna plowed into the purple ranges that lay at Moondai’s back door. That tragedy had marked the family forever. When Trevor’s daughter inherited, many believed it was Kingston’s effort to “make things right.” Moondai would have gone to Trevor had he lived. That his daughter inherited was seen as reparation for Kingston’s having banished her and her social-butterfly mother shortly after the tragedy. At that time Sandra had been ten going on eleven—not the best time to be banished. Sandra had suffered because of it, but it was apparent to everyone who knew her that she hadn’t broken. Rather, she had grown strong in adversity, a sign of her strength of character. Cecile greatly admired her for it.

What happened after Sandra arrived on Moondai to take up her inheritance was the stuff of romantic fiction. Destinies converged when she met Daniel. He had been Rigby Kingston’s overseer at the time of his death, and Kingston’s right-hand man. With the future of Moondai at stake, Kingston had left Daniel a substantial legacy to ensure he would remain in place until such time as his granddaughter, Alexandra, could find a suitable replacement to help her run the historic station should Daniel wish to leave. Her uncle and cousin would be no help to her. Something Kingston had clearly taken into account. Neither by their own admission were cattlemen. They had no taste for the job, let alone the talent. Daniel, however, was highly regarded by everyone in the industry. Some thought having the brains and the sheer authority to run a vast cattle station had to be in the blood.

And so it had proved. Daniel had grown up in humble circumstances not knowing the identity of his father. His mother, physically and emotionally fragile, had been badly affected. She had gone to her grave never revealing his name. Daniel, not surprisingly, grew to manhood despising the man who had abandoned his vulnerable mother in her time of need. His mother’s fate had always rankled him far more than his own rejection at his father’s hands. Daniel was tough. But blood, like the truth, will out eventually no matter how long it takes. Daniel in maturity carried the stamp of a Moreland—the looks, the voice, the manner—and the double helix, the DNA that binds blood. A deathbed confession had led to an investigation that in the end established Daniel’s identity. Daniel, born posthumously, was the son of Jared Moreland.

It was their grandfather Joel who had acted on that staggering deathbed confession made by his own wife, Frances. Now Daniel had taken his rightful place within the Moreland family. It had come as a further shock to Cecile to discover she and Daniel shared the “family face.” Indeed anyone seeing them together could easily mistake them for twins. Both were happy to settle for first cousins, and she had the honor now of being in his bridal party.

Weddings, she reflected, had a miraculous way of bringing everyone together. She rejoiced in the mantle of happiness that had fallen over the Moreland household. Their grandfather Joel was in splendid form. All those long years without his beloved son, Jared! Now the wheel of fortune had turned full circle. It had restored to him his grandson. All the Morelands were gathered here today, happy to share in this joyous occasion. Three hundred guests from around the country and overseas had already arrived. A great many were roaming all over the grounds like butterflies that flew around the great banks of lantana, pink, white and gold.

It had been decided in a family conference that the logistics of holding the wedding at isolated Moondai in the Red Centre were much more difficult than holding the wedding at “Morelands” in Darwin. Sandra had had no objection; the guests could attend and find accommodation. She wanted nothing more than to marry her Daniel. But then, too, Sandra had grown close to Joel Moreland. She knew intuitively that a wedding held at Morelands would have very special meaning for him. Cecile couldn’t have been more pleased. Her grandfather was as good and kind and brave a man as one could ever wish to meet. That Daniel shared many of their grandfather’s characteristics had made her warm to him at once.

Graceful as a swan in her bridesmaid’s regalia, Cecile glided over to the white wrought-iron balustrade, dazzled by the scene in front of her. Everyone looked resplendent in their wedding finery—many a dashing morning suit among the well-dressed men, glamorous gowns, gorgeous hats, the glitter of expensive jewelry. The children, too, were decked out in formal dress, the little girls adorable in silks and taffetas and organzas, with shining hair drifting down their backs, though no one could stop them from darting all over the grounds, calling to one another, ignoring the pleas of their parents as they hid behind billowing bushes of hibiscus, frangipani and oleander. She could remember doing exactly the same thing with her friends at the innumerable functions her grandparents had held in the grounds.

It was a few moments before that special sense of hers told her she was under surveillance. There were no words to explain where that sense came from; it was just there. She stayed perfectly still, though she was aware her breath was coming unevenly. Then, not making a business of it, she shifted her gaze slowly…slowly…following the magnetic beam.

To the left of her, a man was standing alone in a little pocket of quiet. He was staring at her with single-minded concentration. It wasn’t simple curiosity in his gaze, and the quality of it, indeed his whole body language, locked her in place. For a weird moment she thought she was falling…falling…plunging over the balustrade right into his arms.

Wedding hysteria? The delusion of falling lasted no more than a second or two, yet she remained in a state of confusion, steadying herself with one hand on the wrought-iron banister. She was positive he had been staring at her for some time. Indeed he inclined his head in what she interpreted as a sardonic bow to which she found herself giving him the smallest nod in response. It was a graceful but essentially aloof acknowledgment that wouldn’t have been amiss in royalty.

Heat burned in her cheeks. Even now his eyes didn’t let go. In fact, the connection, which defied interpretation, grew stronger. They might have been illicit lovers or sworn enemies, so strong was the focus each had on the other.

He was impressively tall. As tall as Daniel, which meant well over six feet, with a similar athletic build. He was dressed in a beautifully tailored camel-colored suit, a deep blue shirt with a white collar beneath, and a wide blue silk tie with broad white stripes banded in either black or navy; she couldn’t at this distance tell which. A shaft of dappled sunlight was shining directly on his thick, springy hair, picking out blond strands in the dark caramel. She couldn’t see the color of his eyes. She thought dark. What she knew for certain was that they were holding her in place while he took his fill of her.

She registered the strong bone structure, the high cheekbones, fine straight nose, beautifully sculpted jawline. It was a face not easily forgotten. His skin had the dark tan of a man who spent long hours in a hot sun. He looked to be around thirty, thirty-two, no more. She had never seen him before in her life, but she thought she could pick him out of thousands. He exuded power and vitality as though at any moment he could morph into a man of action, striding across the desert or tackling the world’s highest mountains.

A shiver passed through her; it was as though no man had ever looked at her before. She wanted to pull away from the balustrade, but the hypnotic quality of his gaze blocked her every attempt to move. It seemed like an age but it could only have been moments. She couldn’t believe this was happening. It shouldn’t be happening, yet she stood there as if she wanted to do nothing other. What was his expression? It wasn’t relaxed. It wasn’t smiling or even pleasant. For an odd moment she thought his gaze was judgmental. Was he sizing her up and finding her wanting? Why should that be? They were perfect strangers. She felt a little dizzy as though not enough oxygen was getting to her brain. It was clear she had to do something to break the deadlock.

She closed her eyes tightly in an act of defiance, wishing Stuart was by her side. Did she think herself in need of protection?

When she opened them again, the man had moved into the cool green shadows of a feathery poinciana, where he was joined by a trio of attractive young women with their arms interlaced with one another. She could hear their laughing voices as they introduced themselves. One took hold of his sleeve, gazing up into his face, while the others talked excitedly. But then, a man who looked like that would have a steady stream of women beating a path to his side.

At last she felt free to move away from the balustrade. She was shocked by the impact a total stranger had had on her, especially when neither had spoken a word. As she moved back into her bedroom, a ripple of something approaching antagonism passed through her. She made a real effort to control it. Who was he? She didn’t know him and had no desire to. Her well-honed intuition told her he would be dangerous to know. Perversely she speculated on who he might be. He had to be a guest of Sandra’s or someone from Daniel’s past. She knew just about everyone on the Moreland side. She couldn’t remember a time any man had so caught her attention. Whoever he was, he was a force in his own right.

SANDRA’S HUGE BEDROOM WAS abuzz with excited young women in beautiful gowns, but none more beautiful than the bride, who was executing a dreamy little waltz around the room, her arms raised as if to her groom. Sandra was wearing traditional white, an exquisite high-necked Edwardian style lace-and-silk bodice, with dozens of seed pearls hand-applied, the full-length sleeves a continuation of the bodice lace, pegged down the arm. The tightly fitted sashed waist emphasized the billow of the silk skirt. The style suited her petite frame and the blue and gold of her looks. On her head she wore, set straight on her forehead, a garland similar to her bridesmaids’, only her flowers were in shades of ivory and cream with the addition of a short shimmering white tulle veil.