and to be treated like a disposable piece of meat…
He was glad he’d given that piece of slime a beating he’d remember for a long time. It might be primitive justice, and against the law, but better than letting him get away with it, no justice at all. Jenny had been too traumatised to press charges against him. The silver-spoon heir to a fortune would probably have got off anyway, with his mega-wealthy family having the power and influence to get anything excused.
Mitch felt no remorse over what he’d done. None whatsoever. Though he was sorry he wouldn’t be at home to help for the next six months.
The plane taxied back to where a man—the owner?—was waiting beside a four-wheel drive Land Rover. Big man—broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, craggy weathered face, iron-grey hair. Had to be over fifty but still looking tough and formidable. Not someone to buck in a hurry, Mitch decided, though size didn’t automatically command his respect.
‘John Wayne rides again,’ he mocked to cover his unease with the situation.
‘No horse,’ Johnny remarked with a grin.
Mitch found himself smiling back.
It looked like Johnny Ellis would provide some comic relief if life got grim here. He seemed to have the kind of affable nature that would avoid violence if it was avoidable, though even at sixteen his physique was big enough and strong enough to match anyone in a punch-up if forced into it.
Johnny and Ric were street kids. No family. And no doubt they’d worked out ways of looking after themselves. Mitch figured Johnny specialised in being everyone’s mate. He had friendly hazel eyes, a ready grin, and sun-streaked brown hair that tended to flop over his forehead. He’d been caught dealing in marijuana, though he swore it was only to musicians who’d get it from someone else anyway.
Ric Donato was a very different kettle of fish. He had an intensity about him that could make him dangerous, Mitch thought. Was he a thief because he wanted too much, too obsessively? He seemed to have a very single-minded passion for the girl he’d stolen the Porsche for, wanting to match up to her rich life.
Mitch imagined that most girls would get a thrill out of Ric, just by being the focus of his attention. The guy had sex appeal in spades—mad, bad and dangerous, well-built without being hunky, and strikingly handsome in a very macho Italian way—black curly hair, almost black eyes, olive skin, and a face that Michelangelo might have carved for its masculine beauty. Perversely enough, the guy didn’t seem to have tickets on himself at all. Like he’d been hit too many times to believe he’d been handed anything to feel good about.
Mitch felt okay with himself. Angry at what had been dealt out to his family, but okay with the person he was. He didn’t have Ric’s good looks but he was presentable enough—on the lean side but not a weakling, taller than most guys his age, and having blue eyes with almost black hair seemed to impress some girls.
Mitch would prefer them to be more impressed by the smart brain that had got him labelled as a nerd before he took up boxing at the local boys’ club. He’d never understood why using his intelligence earned scornful remarks from the jocks. Anyhow, he wasn’t called a nerd or a weed any more. He might not be liked but he’d made damned sure he was respected.
The plane came to a halt.
The cop told them to get their duffle-bags from under the back seats. A few minutes later he was leading them out to a way of life which was far, far removed from anything the three of them had known before.
The initial introduction had Mitch instantly tensing up.
‘Here are your boys, Mister Maguire. Straight off the city streets for you to whip into shape.’
The big old man—and he sure was big close up—gave the cop a steely look. ‘That’s not how we do things out here.’ The words were softly spoken but they carried a confident authority that scorned any need for bully-boy tactics.
He nodded to the three of them, offering a measure of respect. ‘I’m Patrick Maguire. Welcome to Gundamurra. In the Aboriginal language, that means “Good day”. I hope you will all eventually feel it was a good day when you first set foot on my place.’
Mitch felt reassured by this little speech. It had a welcoming ring to it, no punishment intended. As long as they were treated fairly, Mitch was prepared to cope with whatever work was thrown at them. He mostly lived in his mind, anyway.
‘And you are…?’ Patrick Maguire held out a massive hand that looked suspiciously like a bone-cruncher.
‘Mitch Tyler,’ he answered, thrusting his own hand out in defiant challenge.
‘Good to meet you, Mitch.’
A normal hand-shake, no attempt to dominate.
Johnny’s hand came out with no hesitation. ‘Johnny Ellis. Good to meet you, Mister Maguire.’ Big smile to the old man, pouring out the charm. Getting onside fast was Johnny.
A weighing look in the steely grey gaze, plus a hint of amusement. No-one’s fool, Mitch thought, impressed by the shrewd intelligence of the man and watching him keenly as he moved on to Ric who looked every bit as keyed up as Mitch had been.
‘Ric Donato.’ It was a flat introduction, strained of any telltale emotion. Ric took the offered hand, feeling the strength in it, seeming to test what it might mean to him.
‘Ready to go?’ the old man asked.
‘Yeah. I’m ready.’ Aggression in this reply.
Ready to take on the whole damned world if he had to, Mitch interpreted. Ric Donato might not have tickets on himself but he sure had a huge chip on his shoulder. Mitch wondered if Patrick Maguire would somehow manage to remove it while they were here. Would he also be able to dig under Johnny’s genial facade and discover what made Johnny tick?
The knowing grey eyes swept back to Mitch and he felt himself bristling defensively. Did this old man of the land have anything to teach him? Only about sheep, Mitch thought mockingly…yet six months was a long time, and for all he knew right now, he might end up feeling it was a ‘good day’ when he’d first set foot on Gundamurra.
CHAPTER ONE
Eighteen years later…
THE iron composure of the woman in the witness stand finally cracked. Mitch knew his cross-examination had been merciless. At his lethal best. And totally justified in his mind. This woman had shown no mercy to her son who’d begged his mother for help which had been steadfastly refused, and not even his suicide had softened her heart toward her bereft daughter-in-law. He watched her break into weeping and felt no sympathy at all.
She wasn’t weeping over her lost son.
She wasn’t weeping over the torment he’d suffered.
She was weeping because she’d been faced with her own monstrous ego that had branded her son a failure for not living up to what she had required from him.
And now it was going to cost her, not only in having her character stripped bare in public, but also in an appropriate financial settlement for the cast-off daughter-in-law and her baby son.
His opposing counsel, Harriet Lowell, who also happened to be Mitch’s
