had been taken ten years ago. He’d studied it before he’d come. She was attractive, he’d decided, but not in the classic sense. The photograph had showed a smattering of freckles. Her burnt-red curls had looked as if they refused to be tamed. She was curvy rather than svelte, and her grin was more infectious than it was classically lovely. She and Gianetta had been at a university ball. The dress she’d been wearing had been simple, but it had had class.
But now…He recognised the freckles and the dusky red curls, but the face that looked at him was that of a woman who’d left the girl behind. Her face was gaunt, with huge shadows under her eyes. She looked as if she needed to sleep for a long, long time.
And the boy beside her? He had to be Marc. He was a black-haired, brown-eyed kid, dressed in a too-big red and yellow football guernsey. He looked as if he’d just had a growth spurt, skinny and all arms and legs.
He looked like Thiérry, Max thought, stunned. He looked like a de Gautier.
Max dredged up the memory of the report presented to him by the private investigators he’d hired before he came. ‘The boy’s guardian is Phillippa Donohue. They live on the farm in South Western Victoria that was owned by the boy’s parents before they were killed in a car crash four years ago. We’ve done a preliminary check on the woman but there’s not much to report. She qualified as a nurse but she hasn’t practised for four years. Her university records state that her mother died when she was twelve. She went through university on a means-tested scholarship and you don’t get one of those in Australia if there’s any money. As to her circumstances now…We’d need to visit and find out, but it’s a tiny farming community and anyone asking questions is bound to be noticed.’
So he knew little except this woman, as Marc’s guardian, stood between him and what the people of Alp d’Estella needed.
He didn’t know where to start.
She started. She reached over and wound the window a scant inch down so she could talk to him. Any lower and the rain would blast through and make the occupants of the truck as wet as he was.
‘Are you out of your mind?’ she demanded. ‘You’ll drown.’
This was hardly a warm welcome. Maybe she could invite him into the truck, he thought, but only fleetingly for it wasn’t an option. Opening the door would mean they’d all be soaked.
‘Where are you headed?’ she asked. She obviously thought he’d stopped to ask directions. As she would. Visitors wouldn’t make it here unless they badly wanted to come, and even then they were likely to miss the place. All he’d seen so far were sodden cows, the cattle-grid in which this truck was stuck, and a battered milkcan that obviously served as a mail box, stuck onto a post beside the gate. Fading lettering painted on the side said ‘D & G Kettering’.
D & G Kettering. The G would be Gianetta.
It was four years since Gianetta and her husband had died. He’d have expected the sign to be down by now.
What was this woman doing here? Hell, the agency had given him so little information. ‘Frankly we can see no reason why Ms Donohue is there,’ they’d said. ‘We suspect the farm must be substantial, giving her financial incentive to stay. We assume, however, that eventually the farm will belong to the boy, so there’s no security in her position. Given her situation, we suspect any approach by you to take responsibility will be welcome.’
They weren’t right about the farm being substantial. This farm looked impoverished.
He needed to tread carefully while he found out what the agency hadn’t.
‘I was searching for the Kettering farm,’ he told her. ‘I’m assuming this is it? Are you Phillippa Donohue?’
‘I’m Pippa, yes.’ Her face clouded. ‘Are you from the dairy corporation? You’ve stopped buying our milk. You’ve stopped our payments. What else can you stop?’
‘I’m not from the dairy corporation.’
She stared. ‘Not?’
‘I came to see you.’
‘No one comes to see me.’
‘Well, the child,’ he told her. ‘I’m Marc’s cousin.’
She looked out at him, astonished. He wasn’t appearing to advantage, he thought, but then, maybe he didn’t need to. He just needed to say what had to be said, organise a plane ticket—or plane tickets if she wanted to come—and leave.
‘The children don’t have cousins,’ she said, breaking into his thoughts with a brusqueness that hinted of distrust. ‘Gina and Donald—their parents—were both only children. All the grandparents are dead. There’s a couple of remote relations on their father’s side, but I know them. There’s no one else.’
But he’d been caught by her first two words. The children, he thought, puzzled. Children? There was only Marc. Wasn’t there?
‘I’m a relation on Marc’s mother’s side,’ he said, buying time.
‘Gina was my best friend since childhood. Her mother, Alice, was kind to me and I spent lots of time with them. I’ve never met any relations.’
She sounded so suspicious that he smiled. ‘So you think I’m with the dairy corporation, trying to sneak into your farm with lies about my family background? You think I’d risk drowning to talk to an unknown woman about cows?’
She stared some more, and slowly the corners of her mouth curved into an answering smile. Suddenly the resemblance to the old photograph was stronger. He saw for the first time why his initial impression from the photograph had been beauty.
‘I guess that would be ridiculous,’ she conceded. ‘But you’re not their cousin.’
Their cousin. There it was again. Plural. He didn’t understand, so he ploughed on regardless. ‘I am a relation. Gianetta and I shared a grandfather—not that we knew him. I’ve come from half a world away to see Marc.’
‘You’re from the royal part of the family?’ she said, sounding as if she’d suddenly remembered something she’d been told long since.
He winced. ‘Um…maybe. I need to talk to you. I need to see Marc.’
‘You’re seeing him,’ she said unhelpfully.
He looked at Marc. Marc looked back, wary now because he wasn’t understanding the conversation. He’d edged slightly in front of Pippa in a gesture of protection.
He was so like the de Gautiers it unnerved Max.
‘Hi,’ he told Marc. ‘I’d like to talk to you.’
‘We’re not in a situation where visits are possible,’ she said, and her arm came around Marc’s skinny chest. They were protecting each other. But she sounded intrigued now, and there was even a tinge of regret in her voice. ‘Do you need a bed for the night?’
This was hopeful. ‘I do.’
‘There’s a guesthouse in Tanbarook. Come back in the morning after milking. We’ll give you a cup of coffee and find the time to talk.’
‘Gee,
