on grass seed, lifted their wings to disperse like so many pieces of white paper caught in a wind gust. The plane plunged lower and finally touched down on the gravel runway.
‘What a difference,’ Gemma exclaimed, still staring at Max’s house, amazed by the transformation. The homestead’s timber walls were now painted a pretty powder blue, the iron roof was a clean, crisp silver and all the trims and the lattice on the verandahs were gleaming white.
As they taxied down the short airstrip, Max shot her a cautious glance. ‘You like it?’
‘It’s beautiful, Max. I had no idea the old place could look so lovely.’ She was startled to see an unexpected red tinge creep along his cheekbones. ‘Who did the job for you?’
‘Did it myself,’ he muttered. ‘During the dry season, of course.’
Another shock.
As the plane came to a standstill, Gemma assimilated this news and sat quietly, thinking about the lonely weeks Max must have spent on the task. The life of an outback cattleman was solitary and hard and the men who survived it were tough, complex creatures. And they didn’t come much more complicated than Max, she thought with a wry grimace. ‘It’s fantastic,’ she told him with genuine warmth. ‘You’ve done an amazing job.’
He looked embarrassed and she realised he was probably more used to her scorn than her praise. She allowed herself a private smile as she thought about that. They were probably both much more comfortable fighting than co-operating.
An old utility truck had been left at the end of the runway and Gemma and Max were kept busy for the next ten minutes, transferring Mollie and the gear into the vehicle. Even though it was only a few hundred metres to the homestead, there was too much to lug such a distance.
It was late morning. The sun was already high overhead and very hot and so, by the time they reached the kitchen, a cool drink was the first priority. Gemma found Mollie’s little feeding cup, while Max swung his fridge door open and grabbed a jug of iced water.
Just before he closed the fridge, he paused to survey its contents and frowned. ‘I might have to stock up on a few things from town,’ he commented before filling a glass and handing it to Gemma. ‘I’m afraid I wasn’t expecting you and I haven’t got the kind of fancy things that women like for breakfast. I’m still a steak and eggs man myself.’
Gemma’s eyes widened. ‘How do you know what women like for breakfast?’ The question was out before she really thought through what she was saying. She’d always pictured Max as a crusty bachelor living the life of a lonely recluse in the back of beyond.
Max went very still and she cringed with sudden shame as she recognised just how rude and downright stupid her query sounded. How on earth could she retract her words?
Before any bright ideas struck, he spun around, and the glance he sent her way was tinged with wry amusement.
Had she left her brains in Brisbane? Of course this man would have attracted and entertained women. He was quite well off and had the kind of rugged and rangy masculinity that swarms of women hunted down. Unlike her, they’d be willing to overlook his gruffness.
She knew by the heat in her cheeks that her embarrassment was obvious, but she was also just as sure Max wouldn’t miss an opportunity to make her suffer further for her foolishness.
‘Now let me see.’ He cocked his head to the ceiling as if considering her question. ‘How is it that I know so much about women’s breakfast habits?’
His eyes narrowed as if he was giving this matter his undivided attention. ‘I think I probably picked up some pointers—like women’s belief in the importance of orange juice—from all those television advertisements.’
Totally flustered and unable to think of an appropriate retort, Gemma concentrated very carefully on holding Mollie’s cup at just the right angle for her to drink easily.
‘But it beats me if I can remember just how I uncovered the mysterious feminine desire to dine first thing in the morning on low-fat yoghurt and muesli. That really has me stumped.’ Relaxing back in a wooden kitchen chair, he joined his hands behind his head with elbows pointing to the ceiling. ‘I guess I found out about European women’s predilection for coffee and croissants from some foreign movie.’
‘For heaven’s sake,’ Gemma growled at him. ‘Good luck to any long-suffering woman who’s had breakfast with you. The poor thing would need a ton of luck and a truckload of tolerance to put up with your chauvinism.’
He took a deep swig of iced water and chuckled. ‘I’d say you’re probably right.’ Setting the glass back on the table, he grinned at her. ‘You’ll be able to find out tomorrow morning, won’t you?’
‘I think I could do without your early-morning charm,’ she sniffed. ‘And Mollie and I will have soft boiled eggs and toast soldiers for our breakfast.’
She turned away from his mocking grin and made a fuss of Mollie. But it was difficult to stop her mind from dwelling on the unexplored area of this conversation—the particular circumstances that led to a woman sharing breakfast with Max.
They didn’t bear thinking about.
And yet, in spite of her efforts to ignore such offensive details, an unbidden picture planted itself firmly in Gemma’s mind. A vision of a lamp-lit bedroom—with cool, white sheets—and Max’s brown, muscle-packed back encircled by softly rounded, pale and feminine arms. A night of intimacy…
She felt an unpleasant wave of panic.
Would Max Jardine be charming in the company of other women?
Surely not.
‘Do you have any bananas?’ she asked, in a desperate bid to change the subject and to rid herself of these extremely unsettling thoughts. ‘I—I could mash one for Mollie’s lunch while you set up her cot.’
His eyes surveyed the kitchen. ‘No bananas, I’m afraid. You might have to give her some of the tinned stuff we brought with us. I’ll take a run into town first thing tomorrow morning. We should make up a shopping list.’
Gemma was so grateful they were no longer talking about Max’s women that she spent the afternoon being particularly obliging and co-operative. Max made cold roast beef sandwiches for their lunch and they ate them at a table on the side verandah and washed them down with huge mugs of strong tea while Mollie played with her blocks on the floor nearby. Out in the paddocks the white cockatoos screeched raucous greetings as they returned to the grass seed to feed.
Then, after lunch, as Max had never bothered with a housekeeper, together they dusted and vacuumed spare rooms for her and Mollie’s use. They set up Mollie’s folding cot and her other equipment in a bedroom on the cool side of the house, with doors opening onto the verandah.
Gemma’s bedroom was right next door. She had stayed in it before—a pretty room, very feminine, with pink and white curtains and a white candlewick bedspread on the old-fashioned iron bed. The bed-ends were decorated with shiny brass knobs and pretty pieces of porcelain painted with rosebuds.
She was startled to see a silver-framed photo of Dave and herself on the mahogany dressing table. It had been taken five years ago—in the days before Dave met Isobel—when Gemma was eighteen and she and Dave had still been ‘going together‘. Their liaison
