How did Kieran get so much light into it? Annabel Callaghan had not painted, to the best of his knowledge, but she had been a very “arty” woman, enormously gifted at craftwork. One of Annabel’s Denby cousins was a well-known painter, Marcus Denby, who had lived in England for the past thirty years. So it was in the genes, in their nature, Guy thought. Though it was only since his mother’s death that Kieran had found release in these riveting landscapes, “knocked up”—in his own words—in one of the farm sheds. Kieran painted. Alana read books. Alan drank himself to death.
Guy had known Kieran all his life. Kieran was clever, insightful, extremely hard-working but he wasn’t meant to be a sheep farmer. It was at Alex’s instigation that Guy had discovered Kieran Callaghan’s great gift. He simply hadn’t known. But Alex had. He knew Alex and Kieran, remarkably close in their teens, had long since gone their separate ways. Something hadn’t worked out, and he often felt that was a great pity. He had tried at one time to find out what the big rift had been, but both, independently of one another, had let him know he was breaching boundaries. After that he had backed off. Alex had more than her share of admirers anyway. He just hoped she wouldn’t settle for poor old Roger. Roger Westcott was a good man—they had gone to school and university together—but he wanted someone with a lot more going for him for his beautiful, artistic sister.
Guy was still standing in front of the painting when Alana flew down the staircase.
“There—what did I tell you? A few minutes!” she announced breathlessly.
He let his eyes rest on her, aware of a powerful desire to reach for her, fold her in his arms, let what might happen, happen. Instead he said lightly, “You look like you’ve had a shower.” She was wearing different clothes—a red tank top and beige shorts that showed off her long beautiful legs. Her honey-blonde hair was damp, little tendrils curling around her hairline like golden petals.
Her face lit up with a smile so beautiful it took his breath. “Just a quick one. In and out. Come through to the kitchen,” she invited, almost dancing ahead. “You like that painting of Kieran’s, don’t you?” she asked over her shoulder. The delicious scent of boronia wafted to him in her wake. Probably the soap she had used. No wonder that new shearer was drooling over her. Was there ever such a bloom on a woman?
“Kieran might be on the wrong track, sticking to wool production,” he risked saying. “He has it in him to be a very fine artist. To make it his career.”
Alana considered that quietly. “Of course he has,” she agreed, very proud of her brother’s outstanding ability. “Do you think I haven’t told him that? And I’m sure Alex is tired of telling him. I think they had a big bust-up about it.”
“When was this?” He frowned.
She met his eyes. “I have an idea Kieran might have taken to looking in on Alex whenever he’s in Sydney. They could have made up, but if they have he’s not saying. He goes there a lot at the weekends. He was there recently.”
“And he doesn’t tell you if he sees her?” Guy’s frown deepened.
“Kieran plays his cards very close to his chest when it comes to your beautiful sister,” Alana said. “There was a time they were close, but then she moved away, and now Roger Westcott is always in the picture. Alex will never be short of men in love with her. But the specific occasion I’m referring to was last Easter, when we were all in Sydney for the Royal National. They were feinting around one another like a couple of boxers.”
“Don’t they always?” Guy asked laconically. “Over the years both of them seem to have built up an impenetrable wall. Now, can I help you with anything?”
Alana laughed. “Please sit down. I’m not short, but you tower over me.”
“Kieran and I are of a height,” he pointed out reasonably, pulling out a chair. “Your dad is a big man.”
“That’s all very well, but you’re different somehow. Kieran started painting just after Mum died, when the pain was almost too much to bear. He’s very artistic, like Mum. She always used to encourage him with his drawing, from when we were kids. Kieran can draw anything. He’s marvellous with trees. A few strokes and he’s created a whole hillside of eucalypts.”
“Alex is right. He’s brilliant.”
“Hey, I’m right too,” she reminded him, pausing in what she was doing. “I know good art when I see it, thank you, Guy.”
“Of course you do.” His tone soothed. “It’s one of the reasons I admire you. You’re getting to be a woman for all seasons. All of us are right about Kieran, but Alex is the one in an ideal position to help him.”
Alana’s expression was sad. “Kieran doesn’t want to be helped, Guy.”
“What does your dad think?”
Alana set out cups, saucers and plates from her mother’s best Royal Doulton dinner set. This was Guy Radcliffe, after all. “Dad does his best to understand, but he can’t critique Kieran’s work. He can’t relate to abstract depictions. He doesn’t want to see the soul of a tree, or the spirit of the bush. He wants photographic realism. Dad is a bit out of his depth with art. He’d be the first to admit it. What do you want to talk to him about?” She changed the subject to what was really on her mind. “He hasn’t borrowed money off you, has he?” She was very fearful he had.
Guy looked back at her directly. “I thought we’d agreed it was a private matter?”
“You know everything—we’re in a lot of trouble,” she said bitterly.
“If your father needs help, I’ll give it to him,” Guy responded. “Are you going to put the coffee on?” “You’re here to give orders, are you?” “No, only trying to be helpful.”
“Dad has put his whole life into Briar’s Ridge,” she said, doing just as he suggested. “We were doing just fine until Mum died. Since then, of course, Dad has made a few really bad mistakes.”
Guy knew about all of them. “Forgive him for them, Alana. Grief is a terrible thing. The mind doesn’t function as well as it should.”
“I do forgive him,” she said, flashing her beautiful glittery eyes at Guy. “He’s my father. I love him. But Kieran and I know we may be forced to sell if we don’t do well at the coming sales. The two of us have poured so much hard work into the place—” She broke off to look at him. “I had an idea we could do something like Morgan Creek, in the next valley. What do you think?” She had intended talking to Guy about this at some stage—why not now?
“You mean offer day trips to a working station? Show tourists and visitors the ropes, let them learn about our oldest and biggest industry, give them a great barbecue lunch, let them enjoy whip cracking and boomerang-throwing and then send them on their way?”
“I’m ready to try my hand at it.”
“Alana, you’re ready to try your hand at anything,” he said, rather quellingly.
“Like Superwoman?” Her response was sharper than she intended.
“You already work far too hard. Have you given any thought as to how you’re going to fund it?” he challenged.
She gave him a look that was hurt and disgusted. “Guy,
