her back into the house lest she escape him.
“That would be lovely, Stewart,” she responded, careful to inject a note of regret, “but Fiona has need of me. We’re really moving along with the book.”
He bowed his handsome head powerfully, protectively over her. “My dear, you can’t refuse me. I can do some persuading when I have to. I’ll set it straight with Fee and you and I can take the horses out. It’s wonderful you ride so well. I want you to look on your time with us as part work part vacation.”
“Thank you, Stewart,” Rebecca murmured, feeling trapped and somehow ungrateful as well. Stewart Kinross had been the kindest and most considerate of hosts. Perhaps her early experiences had left her a bit paranoid.
In the early evening Broderick Kinross rang. As it happened Rebecca was passing through the hallway so she backtracked to answer the call.
“Kinross homestead.”
Whoever was at the other end said nothing for a moment then a male voice so vibrant, so unforgettable, it gave her a shock responded. “Miss Hunt, I presume.”
“That’s right.” She felt proud of her calmness.
“Brod Kinross here.”
As if she didn’t know. “How are you, Mr. Kinross?”
“Just wonderful and such a tonic to hear your voice.”
“I expect you want to speak to your father,” she said quickly, feeling the sharp edge to the black velvet delivery.
“I expect he’s enjoying his pre-dinner drink,” he drawled. “No, don’t disturb him, Miss Hunt. Instead could you please tell him I’ll be at Kimbara….
Not home? She listened.
“For the polo weekend. Grant Cameron is giving me a lift should my father decide to send the Beech for me. Dad’s pretty devoted you know.”
Sarcasm without a doubt. “I’ll tell him, Mr. Kinross.”
“I trust in time you’ll be able to call me Brod.” Again the ghost of mockery.
“My friends call me Rebecca,” Rebecca finally said.
“It suits you beautifully.”
“Why must you sound mocking?” She brought it out into the open.
“That’s very good, Miss Hunt.” He applauded. “You know how to pick up nuances.”
A sparkle of anger lit Rebecca’s eyes. She was glad he couldn’t see it. “Let’s say I know how to pick up warning signals.”
“Quite sure of that?” he responded just as coolly.
“You don’t have to tell me you don’t like me.” He could scarcely deny it after that first time.
“Why in the world wouldn’t I,” he answered and rang off with nothing resolved.
What was he getting at? Rebecca let out a short pent-up breath, replacing the receiver rather shakily. Their one and only meeting had been brief but disturbing. She remembered it vividly. It was late last month and he had flown in to Kimbara unexpectedly…
She had put on her large straw hat before venturing out into the heat of the day. Fee had had a slight headache so they had taken a break. Every chance she had she liked to explore this fantastic environment that was Kimbara. The sculptural effects of the trees, the shrubs and rocks, the undulating red dunes on the station’s south-southwestern borders. It truly was another world, the distances so immense, the light so dazzling, the colours more sun-seared than anywhere else. She loved all the burnt ochres the deep purples the glowing violets and amethysts, the grape-blues that made such a wonderful contrast to the fiery terracottas.
Stewart had promised her a trip into the desert when the worst of the heat was over and she was greatly looking forward to it. It would be too much to expect she would be granted the privilege of seeing the wild heart burst into bloom. No rains had fallen for many long months but she had seen Stewart’s collection of magnificent photographs of Kimbara under a brilliant carpet of wildflowers and marvelled at the phenomenon. Not that localised rain was even needed to make the desert bloom, he had told her. Once the floods started in the tropical far north sending waters coursing southward, thousands of square miles of the Channel Country could be irrigated. Swollen streams ran fifty miles across the plains they were so flat. It was such a fascinating land and a fascinating life. Stewart Kinross had to live like a feudal lord within his desert stronghold.
She had just reached the stables complex, which housed some wonderful horses, when she heard the clash of voices. Men’s voices not dissimilar in timbre and tone. Angry voices that made her go quiet.
“I’m not here to take orders from you,” Stewart Kinross was saying in a rasping voice.
“That’s exactly what you’re going to do unless you want to scuttle the whole project,” the other younger voice answered none too deferentially. “Face it, Dad, not everyone likes the way you operate. Jack Knowles for one and we need Jack if this enterprise is going to succeed.”
“That’s your gut feeling is it?” There was such a sneer in it Rebecca recoiled.
“You should have some,” Stewart Kinross’s son quipped, sounding to Rebecca’s ears convincingly tough.
“Don’t lecture me,” his father came back thunderously. “Your day is not yet and don’t you forget it.”
“Not with you on about it all the time,” the son retorted. “An argument, Dad. That’s the best reward I ever get. But hell, I no longer care. In case you’ve forgotten I do most of the work while you sit around enjoying the benefits.”
At that Stewart Kinross exploded but Rebecca waited for no more. She turned abruptly shocked by the palpable bitterness of the exchange. She had heard Stewart Kinross and his son weren’t close but she hadn’t been prepared for the depth of that disaffection. She had heard as well Broderick Kinross at the age of thirty ran the Kinross cattle empire from distant Marlu. Something he seemed to have confirmed. It was all very disturbing. Even as an outsider she felt the emnity. It was a new insight into Stewart Kinross as well. Fee had assured her her nephew and niece, Brod and Alison, were wonderful young people. Not that Fee had seen a great deal of them with a life based in London. But she spoke of them both with great affection.
It occurred to Rebecca for the first time, though Fee was a great talker, she was remarkably reticent about her only brother. Certainly Rebecca felt appalled by the cold venom of Stewart Kinross’s tone. She would have thought he would be immensely proud of his son.
Troubled by what she had overheard Rebecca walked quickly away. The last thing she wanted was to be seen but her efforts were doomed to failure. Both men must have moved off in her direction because a few moments later Stewart Kinross’s commanding voice required her to stop.
“Rebecca,” he called in a nice mix of authoritarian and genial host.
She turned watching them emerge from the stables complex, probably on their way back to the house.
“Stewart!” Even with her large shady hat she had to put a hand
