even as she despaired of ever having her love returned. Beautiful Miranda who at the drop of a hat—for instance a broken engagement—could turn into a shrieking virago. If Brandt was famous for his lung power, he could on occasion be equalled by her mother.
Bronte staggered on bravely, remembering how Gilly had always called her “plucky.” As a child it had made her laugh. Plucky. For some reason—the obvious clucky—she associated it with Gilly’s chooks. Despite Bronte’s multiple discomforts she was drinking in her surroundings. She loved this place. It was the Garden of Eden complete with the snakes. The countryside was glorious. The coastal corridor north of Capricorn was as lush and bountiful as the Interior across the Great Divide was arid. She adored the rampant blossoming of the tropics. The brilliantly plumaged birds. The colour!
Bougainvillea ran like wildfire on either side of the private track. You could hardly call it a road. It was near impassable in heavy rains. The magnificent parasite covered fences, climbed trees, old water tanks. Orange. Cerise. Scarlet. Pink. Blue-violet morning glories “the colour of your eyes, Bronte” Gilly had told her as a child, cascaded over the sides of one of those old water tanks that stood in an abandoned field.
Once these fields had been under sugar, at maturity towering higher than a man, but production had stopped on Oriole long before she’d been born and Gilly had inherited the old plantation that once had been a prolific money spinner. McAllister land bordered onto the gallery rain forest where the Yellow Orioles built their deep nests and sent their incessant choom-chalooms floating sheer across the forest. It was after these rain forest birds the plantation had been named in the late 1880s.
Once I knew this land like the back of my hand, Bronte thought. Gilly had taken her everywhere with her. Into the forest where she found the magical ingredients for her potions, to the river that had “salties” in it, big man-eating estuarine crocodiles, to the beautiful beaches with their white sand and turquoise waters, to the islands of one of the great wonders of the natural world, The Great Barrier Reef where they’d gone swimming and snorkelling and exploring the coral. Gilly had taught her to ride a horse—“you just hold on, Bronte! Show ’im who’s boss.” How to handle a .22 rifle. “Just in case!” Bronte really hoped Gilly had turned in her guns. She wouldn’t put it past her to have hidden one beneath the floor boards.
“By the time I reach the homestead I’ll be a wreck,” Bronte grumbled to herself. “Ready to throw myself head first into the lily lagoon, maybe cavort naked.” There was never anyone around. The homestead was at the far end of the track. She could see the tall vine-bedecked wall around the home grounds. The massive wrought-iron gates bore an elaborately scrolled Oriole picked out in bronze. Gilly wouldn’t be home until late. She had an appointment with a visiting eye specialist at the town clinic. Bronte worried about that. Was Gilly’s wonderful eyesight failing despite her disclaimers? Such things happened with age. Who needed to get old? Bronte had refused to let Gilly cancel her appointment. She wouldn’t get another for at least six weeks.
“A bad day, lovey, for me to have to go.”
Bronte had soothed her great-aunt by saying she’d catch a cab from the train station. She’d flown from Sydney to Brisbane, but decided to take “The Queenslander” north instead of continuing by air. She wanted a long time to think. The train was great for that. It was a long scenic trip through increasingly beautiful country as one crossed the Tropic of Capricorn. The Queenslander was comfortable. They served lovely meals and the sleeping arrangements were excellent. Lots of gazing out the window. Of course she’d fully expected to be dropped at the door until that crack about the “old bat!” She couldn’t let anyone get away with saying that about Gilly.
A bead of perspiration trickled into her eyes. It stung.
“Damn!” She dropped the suitcase so she could shove her straw hat further down on her head.
It was then she became aware of a car engine. She turned in time to see a vehicle turn off the bitumen road and head down Oriole’s private track.
Gilly! Her lifesaver! Wouldn’t she give her a great big hug! But why so early?
Bronte stood quite still, watching the 4WD approaching in a cloud of red dust. The problem was, Gilly didn’t have a 4WD. As far as she knew, Gilly still drove an ancient utility that had never broken down in twenty years. All Gilly ever had to do was kick the tyres. The 4WD was coming straight for her, insisting on right of way. Could you beat that? She was a McAllister. She wasn’t about to get off her own road. This would be her place when her darling Gilly was gone. She’d live up here and turn into a feisty self-sufficient medicine woman, like her great-aunt. Historically there had always been such women.
The driver of the vehicle, seeing her standing so confrontationally in the middle of the road, had the sense to detour onto the thick grassy verge. It was a godsend because the red dust settled before it could envelop her. Was it deliberate? Could the driver be considerate? On rainy days in the city as a pedestrian waiting at the lights she’d often been splashed by inconsiderate drivers who perversely picked up speed instead of slowing down in the grey conditions.
The driver was a man. A young man which greatly surprised her. What was he doing on McAllister land? Especially when Gilly wasn’t at home. In that instant Bronte thought of Gilly’s .22. For all she knew this man could be dangerous, on the run from the police. He was certainly trespassing and the plantation was very isolated. Bronte planted her sandalled feet with their ridiculous high heels firmly on the track. She was determined not to budge even if her self-esteem was stretched to twanging point.
Straighten your back, Bronte. Look right at him. Men sensed natural born victims. She’d learned that from life with her horrible stepfather.
The driver swung out of the vehicle, loping around the bonnet. Bronte watched him like she’d watch an approaching tiger.
Twenty-eight, maybe thirty. He was tall; a good six-two. Wide in the shoulders. Lean. A splendid body really. He had to be a fitness freak. He wore the kind of gear she used to wear herself. Jungle greens. A crocodile hunter, maybe? Even at a distance she noted the green, green eyes. His skin was a tawny gold. He looked just the sort of guy who could handle himself anywhere, anytime. Boldly, aggressively male. The sort of guy who considered male domination the natural order. He probably had a grip to fracture her hand.
He was also devilishly handsome. She wasn’t so blinded by the sweat in her eyes, she couldn’t see that. Straight nose, high cheekbones, curly mouth, determined jaw. If she’d been more impressionable she’d have fainted. As it was every instinct shrieked a warning. She stood ramrod straight even when her back was breaking. Her antagonism to the dominant male was deeply entrenched. It was one reason she had taken up with Nat, who, at bottom, was as soft as a marshmallow.
“Hi there!” Action Man’s smile was so warm and friendly it took her aback. That smile lit up his entire face.
Bronte stared in disbelief. She didn’t reply. She waited for him to come up to her, frowning darkly just in case he got any ideas.
“Steven Randolph. I’m a friend of your great-aunt’s.” He introduced himself, taking in every detail of her overheated appearance. Little sparks seemed to be flying around her tallish delicate frame.
Bronte stood her ground. Height was one of the assets Mother Nature had bestowed on her. His voice, at least, was something in his favour. It wasn’t loud. In fact it was smooth and mellow. Most women would find it a real turn-on. It struck her it was also the voice of money and education. His stance wasn’t arrogant, more an elegant slouch. There was no doubting he was very comfortable in his own skin.
“I know the names of my great-aunt’s friends,” she said, as coolly
