to track down someone to help them out at short notice. And, damn it, there was no one available.
At least, there were no ‘safe women’ available—sensible women, who wouldn’t view a chance to work at Southern Cross for the McKinnon brothers as an open invitation to start dreaming about a long white dress and a trip to the altar.
‘I’ve never seen her before, have you?’ Marsha was still talking about the woman who’d just walked in and her voice sounded as disgruntled as Kane felt.
He shrugged. Marsha regarded every woman as competition, which perhaps explained why her shorts kept getting shorter and her necklines lower. The top she was wearing today wasn’t much bigger than a Band-Aid.
It was another thing that added to his irritation. He didn’t like women to be prudes, but Marsha’s recent taste in clothes and her increasingly possessive body language smacked of desperation. And that was a definite turn-off.
‘Why is she staring at you?’ Marsha hissed.
‘I have no idea.’ Kane sighed, hoping she would catch his not so subtle hint that he found her question tedious.
‘Well, you’re about to find out.’
Slipping from her stool, Marsha moved close, so close that her bosom bumped against Kane and he turned to see why she was making such a fuss.
Struth.
Every sunburned, jeans-clad local in the Mirrabrook pub was gaping at the newcomer.
And Kane saw why.
To start with, she was wearing a dress—a soft, summery, knee-length number, the colour of ripe limes. And her skin was milk-white, her hair long and wavy, the colour of expensive brandy.
Against a backdrop of empty beer glasses, barstools and outback ringers draped over a pool table, the young woman looked as if she’d walked off the set of an elegant, old-fashioned romantic movie and found herself in the wrong scene.
But the most surprising thing about her was that she was heading straight for him, her smoky green eyes resolute and unflinching, and Kane thought of Joan of Arc facing up to the Brits. A woman on a mission.
He felt an urgent need to slide off the bar-stool and stand tall. His right hand was damp from the condensation on his beer glass and he gave it a surreptitious wipe on the back of his jeans.
‘Kane McKinnon?’ the girl said when she reached him. With only a slight nod of acknowledgement towards Marsha, she held out her slim white hand. ‘I’m Charity Denham. I believe you know my brother, Tim.’
Tim Denham’s sister. This was a surprise. Her green eyes were watching him carefully, but Kane made sure his gaze didn’t falter. She didn’t look much like her brother, although they both had the same well-bred English accents.
‘Tim Denham?’ he said. ‘Sure, I know him.’
They exchanged cautious handshakes.
‘I understand that Tim worked for you on Southern Cross station,’ she said.
‘That’s right. He was on one of our mustering teams. Are you out here on a holiday?’
‘No.’
She dropped her gaze and pressed her lips together, as if she were gathering strength for what she had to say next and he decided that her bravado had been a front. Then she looked up at him again.
Her eyes were the dusky green of young gum leaves and her skin so fine and pale he could almost see through it.
‘I’m looking for my brother,’ she said.
‘Any special reason?’
She seemed startled by his question, as if the answer was as obvious as Marsha’s cleavage. ‘Tim’s missing. My father and I haven’t heard from him in over a month.’
Beside him, Marsha let out an impatient snort. ‘A month? That’s nothing. Tim Denham’s old enough to look after himself. He doesn’t need his sister chasing halfway across the world to look out for him.’
‘Let me introduce Marsha,’ Kane cut in.
The two women exchanged cool, cut-glass smiles.
‘Can we get you a drink?’ he asked.
‘A lemon lime and bitters would be nice, thank you.’
‘I’ll get it,’ offered Marsha.
Her eagerness surprised Kane, but he pushed some notes towards her from the pile of change on the table. ‘Thanks, Marsh.’
As he drained his glass, Marsha said to Charity, ‘You don’t want that drink. I’ll get you a gin and tonic. That’s what you English girls drink, isn’t it?’
‘Oh.’ There was a momentary hesitation. ‘Well, just a small one then, thank you.’
Marsha sashayed off to the other end of the bar and the English girl watched her thoughtfully.
‘Pull up a pew,’ Kane said, nodding towards a bar-stool.
She sat on it gingerly and kept her neat white hands folded demurely in her lap, while he resumed his usual position, with the heel of one riding boot hooked over the rung of the stool and the other leg stretched out comfortably.
‘How did you track me down?’ he asked.
‘I asked for directions to Southern Cross at the post office. The woman there told me you were in town today and that I’d find you here.’
That would be right. It wasn’t possible to blow your nose in this town without Rhonda at the post office knowing about it and passing the news on to everyone else.
‘Mr McKinnon.’ The determination in the girl’s voice suggested that she planned to interview him rather than conduct a pleasant conversation. ‘I’m hoping that you can help me to find my brother.’
‘You shouldn’t worry about him. He can look after himself.’
‘But we haven’t heard anything in over a month and Tim knew how much Father and I would worry. Father made him swear on the Bible that he’d keep us posted about his whereabouts.’
‘On the Bible?’ Kane had difficulty in hiding his surprise.
‘Didn’t Tim tell you that our father is the rector of St Alban’s, Hollydean?’
‘Ah—no.’
‘Father only agreed to pay Tim’s airfare to Australia on the condition that he stayed in touch. And up until a month ago we received regular updates, but since then there’s been total silence.’
‘You mustn’t worry. He’s okay.’
Excitement sparked in her eyes. ‘Do you know that for sure? Do you know where he is?’
He winced. ‘What I meant was Tim’s an okay bloke. He can look
