was not your fault, Jack. Your mother wounded your sister when she walked out, but the ultimate responsibility was Sophie’s.’
But he stared down at the grave and knew she was wrong. Sophie was dead and the ultimate responsibility was Jack’s. He hadn’t been enough.
What now?
Return to Sydney, to his IT company, to riches that had bought him nothing?
He stared down at the rain-soaked roses he’d laid on his sister’s grave, and a memory wafted back. Sophie at his grandfather’s farm, on one of the occasions his grandfather had been so blind drunk they weren’t afraid of him. Sophie in what was left of his grandmother’s rose garden. Sophie pressing roses into storybooks. ‘We’ll keep them for ever.’
Suddenly he found himself thinking of horses he hadn’t seen for years. His grandfather’s horses, his friends from childhood. They’d asked for nothing but food, shelter and exercise. When he’d been with the horses, he’d almost been happy.
The farm was his now. His grandfather had died a year ago, but the demands of Sophie’s increased illness meant he hadn’t had time to go there. He guessed it’d be rundown. Even the brief legal contact he’d made had him sensing the manager his grandfather had employed was less than honest, but the bloodlines of his grandfather’s stockhorses should still be intact. Remnants of the farm’s awesome reputation remained.
Could he bring it back to its former glory?
Decision time.
He stared down at the rain-washed grave, his thoughts bleak as death.
If he was his grandfather, he thought, he’d hit something. Someone.
He wasn’t his grandfather.
But he didn’t want to return to Sydney, to a staff who treated him as he treated them, with remote courtesy.
The company would keep going without him.
He stood and he stared at his sister’s grave for a long, long time.
What?
He could go back to the farm, he thought. He still knew about horses.
Did he know enough?
Did it matter? Maybe not.
Decision made.
Maybe he’d make a go of it. Maybe he wouldn’t, but he’d do it alone and he wouldn’t care.
Sophie was dead and he never had to care again.
CHAPTER ONE
ALEX Patterson was having doubts. Serious doubts.
On paper the journey had sounded okay. Manhattan to L.A. L.A. to Sydney. Sydney to Albury. Albury to Werarra.
Yeah, well, maybe it hadn’t sounded okay, but she’d read it fast and she hadn’t thought about it. A few hours before she’d reached Sydney she was tired. Now, after three hours driving through pelting rain, she was just plain wrecked. She wanted a long, hot bath, a long, deep sleep and nothing more.
Surely Jack Connor wouldn’t expect her to start work until Monday, she thought. And where was this place?
The child she’d seen on the road a way back had told her it was just around the bend. The boy had looked scrawny, underfed, neglected, and she’d looked at him and her doubts had magnified. She’d expected a wealthy neighbourhood—horse studs making serious money. The child looked destitute.
Werarra Stud must be better. Surely it was. Its stockhorses were known throughout the world. The website showed a long, gracious homestead in the lush heart of Australia’s Snowy Mountains. She’d imagined huge bedrooms, gracious furnishings, a job her friends would envy.
‘Werarra.’ She saw the sign. She turned into the driveway—and she hit the brakes.
Uh-oh.
That was pretty much all she was capable of thinking. Uh-oh, uh-oh, uh-oh.
The website showed an historic photograph of a fabulous homestead built early last century. It might have been fabulous then, but it wasn’t fabulous now.
No one had painted it for years. No one had fixed the roof, mended sagging veranda posts, done anything but board up windows as they broke.
It looked totally, absolutely derelict.
The cottage the child had come from had looked bad. This looked worse.
There was a light on somewhere round the back. A black SUV was parked to the side. There was no other sign of life.
It was pouring. She was so tired she wasn’t seeing straight. It was thirty miles back to the nearest town and she wasn’t all that sure Wombat Siding was big enough to provide a hotel.
She stared at the house in horror, and then she let her head droop onto the steering wheel.
She would not weep.
A thump on her driver’s side window made her jump almost into the middle of next week.
Oh, my …
She needed to get a grip. Now.
You can cope with this, Alex Patterson, she told herself. You’ve told everyone back home you’re tough, so prove it. You’re not the spoilt baby everyone treats you as.
But this was … this was …
Another thump. She raised her head and looked out.
The figure outside the car was looming over the car window like a great black spectre. Rain-soaked and vast, it was blocking her entire door.
She squeaked. Maybe she even gibbered.
Then the figure moved back a bit from the car window, letting light in, and she came back to earth.
A man. A great, warrior-size guy. He was wearing a huge, black, waterproof coat, and vast boots.
The guy’s face was dark, his thick black hair slicked to his forehead in the rain. He had weather-worn skin, stubble so thick it was close to a beard, and dark, brooding eyes spaced wide and deep.
He was waiting for her to open the car door.
If she opened it, she’d get wet.
If she opened it, she’d have to face what was outside.
He opened it for her, with a force that made her gasp. The rain lashed in and she cringed.
‘You’re lost?’ The guy’s voice was deep and growly, but not unfriendly. ‘You need directions?’
If only she was, she thought. If only …
‘Mr. Connor?’ she managed, trying not to stutter. ‘Jack
