those were art forms. Her mother had had them in abundance. Her own skills were with animals. Alana was an excellent rider. She had won many cross country and endurance races, beating Violette, who was a fine rider, on three separate occasions. That hadn’t gone down too well with the Denbys. They had the born- to-win mentality of the Valley’s social elite.
With the familiar tug of sadness she closed the door on her sleeping father, leaving him to his self induced oblivion. Every day of her life, while she was up in the hills within the cathedral of trees, she prayed he would break out of his prison of guilt and remorse. Everyone in the valley except Alan Callaghan knew it wasn’t his fault his wife had died after a crash involving their station ute and a big four-wheel drive leisurely exploring the famous sheep and wine district. Holding to the centre of an unfamiliar valley road, the four-wheel drive had side-swiped the ute hard as it rounded a bend. Alan Callaghan and the driver of the four-wheel drive had literally walked away, with minor injuries— her father a broken wrist. Annabel Callaghan had not been so lucky. For some reason she hadn’t been wearing her seat belt, though she had always been so particular with her children.
“Fasten up, Kieran. Fasten up, Lana. I don’t care if we are on a back road. Do as I tell you now.”
Her mother had not fastened up that day. That was the tragic part. A life lost through one careless mistake.
“I should have seen to it. Why didn’t I?”
Alan Callaghan would never forgive himself.
In the big, bright yellow and white kitchen, Alana grabbed up a couple of muesli bars and an apple, then let herself out though the back door, heading for the stables. The stables were a distance from the homestead, on the far side of the home paddock. Her fastidious mother had not wanted a single horsefly to get into the house, so her father had had the stables relocated even before her mother had moved in as a new bride.
Buddy was already up and about, ready to greet her with his brilliantly white smile. Buddy, now around eighteen—no one including Buddy knew his exact age—was aboriginal, an orphan who had landed on their doorstep almost ten years ago to the day. Their mother had put the raggedy boy into a warm soapy tub, rustled up some of Alana’s unisex clothes, dressed Buddy in them, then fed the starving child. Enquiries had been made, but no one had turned up to claim Buddy. The family had unofficially adopted him.
It was Buddy’s job, among other tasks, to look after the horses and keep the stables clean and orderly. He did all his jobs well and conscientiously, immensely proud of the fact that the kindly Callaghans had not only taken him in and sent him off to school—which he had loathed from day one—but eventually given him a job and, above all, somewhere nice to live.
“Morning, Miss Lana.”
“Morning, Buddy.” Alana returned the greeting with affection. “Hard at it, as usual?”
“I like to keep things just so. You know that. How’s Mr Alan this mornin’?” Buddy loved her father. He had worshipped her mother. Since she’d been gone Buddy had made time to religiously look after her rose garden.
“Not so good, Buddy.” Alana shook her head, fighting off a wave of despondency.
“That’s real sad. Devil-man’s at ’im!”
“Sure is,” Alana agreed. “I’ll take Cristo this morning.”
“Already got ’im saddled up.” Buddy gave a complacent grin. He ducked back into the cool dim interior, then returned leading a rangy bright chestnut gelding—good bloodstock, like the other five in the stable.
“You’re psychic, Buddy,” Alana pronounced, believing it to be so.
“Never been sick in me life, Miss Lana,” Buddy protested, his expression uncertain.
“Not sick—psychic,” Alana answered, swinging herself up into the saddle. “Psychic means you’ve got spiritual powers.”
“That’s me!” Buddy visibly brightened. “Must have a teeny bit of Wangaree blood in me.”
“Ah, the long-vanished Wangaree!” Alana gave a regretful sigh, looking up towards the surrounding hills.
The trees were standing tall, their silhouette greenish black against a radiant unclouded blue sky. The Valley had been the Wangaree’s tribal ground. Wangaree Homestead had been named in honour of that lost tribe.
Alana toiled for hours, driving the wethers down from the ridge at a steady pace into the low country. The mustering of sheep and the directing of them to various locations around the property required plenty of patience and skill. Monty and Brig were in their element, with wonderfully eager expressions, floating around the mob and keeping them in a tidy, closely packed flowing stream. She provided the orders and her dogs carried them out, revelling in the chance to show her what they could do. A few sheep with a little more rebellion than the rest of the docile mob tried to make a break for the scrub, almost losing themselves in the golden grasses, but Monty—a low, near-invisible streak, his neck chain jingling—made quick work of herding them back into line, with a quick nip to a hapless hoof.
The creek that wound through the property was glittering, as if a crowd of people were squatting beside it flashing mirrors. Alana always wore sunglasses. They were a must to protect her eyes from the searing glare.
These wethers were due to be drenched, but she would have to wait for Kieran to help her. Kieran was due home the day after next. She missed him when he went away. Life was pretty grim and enormously worrying, with their father the way he was. It broke her heart that the less compassionate people in the district had labelled her father “the Valley drunk.” Grief affected people in different ways. Her father, once a light drinker, enjoying a few cold beers at most, had embraced the whisky bottle with a vengeance.
She lifted her head to the wide-open sky. It was an incredible lapis-blue, virtually cloudless. A hot air balloon was almost directly overhead, sailing through the air as free as a bird. The Valley was a centre for sky-diving and parachuting too. She put up her hand and waved. The tourists waved back. They loved seeing the Valley this way. Wangaree and the adjoining valleys were at the very heart of one of the world’s great wine growing regions, and only a few hours’ drive from the country’s biggest and most vibrant city: Sydney.
Mid-morning, driven by hunger, she made her way back to the homestead. Two muesli bars and an apple didn’t fill a hard-working girl’s tummy. She stopped for a moment to admire her mother’s rose garden and say a little prayer. It was a daily ritual. She didn’t know if she believed in God any more, but she did it anyway. Her mother had been a believer. She missed her mother terribly.
Alana snapped out of it with an effort. How clever Buddy was! He had taken in everything her mother had taught him. High summer, and the roses were in extravagant bloom. The colours ranged from purest white through yellows and pinks to a deep crimson. Some of her mother’s favourites, the old fashioned garden roses, were wonderfully scented. Drought or no, her mother’s rose garden was putting on a superb display. For that matter the drought hadn’t had a detrimental effect on the grapes. The yield was down, certainly, but the quality was up. They had experienced just enough winter rain, with no damaging summer storms that could wipe out a vineyard in less than ten minutes.
She could hear Guy’s well-bred, sexy voice predicting, “This will be a vintage year.” She could hear his voice so clearly he might have
