style="font-size:15px;"> “Believe as you will, Bronte.” He shrugged as if he didn’t care a jot.
Picturesque as the homestead undoubtedly was, what made it so unique was the spectacular setting. In the background, on McAllister land was the unobstructed view of an emerald shrouded volcanic plug. It rose in a cone-shaped peak with a single curiously shaped hump. Gilly had always called it Rex as in Dinosaurus Rex. Rex stood sentinel over the house. The peak wasn’t high, only around four hundred feet but it looked magical against the peacock-blue sky.
“If you’re finished admiring your inheritance you might like to take a box or two,” he called. “Some of them aren’t heavy.”
“Let me get these sandals off first,” she responded tartly. “They looked great when I first set out. Now they’re killing me.”
He carried the bulk of the provisions in and he wasn’t even puffing. Sometimes it must be good to be a man. There were quite a lot of cardboard boxes. Obviously Gilly had stocked up for her visit. She never did remember Bronte didn’t eat nearly as much as she used to as a child when she’d been unfillable. Not that she’d ever put on an extra ounce. Of course as a child she’d been in touch with her legs. The modern child rode in cars and sat cross-legged in front of the television. She and Gilly had tramped the forest. Every morning, except in the rain, she had walked the track to catch the school bus. Every afternoon the bus driver left her at the same spot.
Yes, she was ideally suited to a Spartan existence.
“So, why don’t you freshen up while I put these away?” he suggested.
What a cheek! She swept her long wavy hair off her nape. “Go to the devil!”
He raised a mocking brow. “Do you mind! You’re a prickly little thing, aren’t you? Not a bit like our Gilly.”
“I’m not little at all,” she flashed. “And she’s not your Gilly. I just look little beside you. What are you, six-six?”
“Not even in high heeled boots. It’s a good thing you’re not in search of another husband, Bronte.”
More insults. “You don’t think I could get one?” She was amazed to see a man in Gilly’s kitchen. A man so at home there.
“Easily, for the pleasure of looking at you. But…”
She bristled at what he left unsaid. “Well, you don’t have to worry. Or are you married?”
“Married, no. But I’ve been Best Man.” His eyes swept over her. The high-bred face, so touchingly haughty, the delicate height, the silky masses of her long hair, curling up in the heat, the wonderful colouring. “I’m a committed bachelor at the moment. I have to notch up a few achievements before I’m ready to ask a woman to marry me.”
“Really?” She raised her brows. “I’m surprised you haven’t lots of achievements under your belt already?” The odd part, she actually was.
“I’m sorry the answer’s no. I have a law degree. Not much else.”
“Then why aren’t you practising?”
“I can make a lot more money as an entrepreneur,” he said bluntly.
She found herself pulling a face. “I hate men whose main aim in life is to make money. Seeing you’re so entrepreneurial you might like to make me a cup of tea. Much as I love Gilly I can’t drink her home grown, home roasted coffee. It tastes like the mud at the bottom of the lily pond. By the way, you shouldn’t take the eggs out of the carton. In the carton is the best way to store them not in the egg rack. What happened to Gilly’s chooks?”
He gave a surprisingly graceful shrug of his wide shoulders. “The things one learns!” He started to put the eggs back in the cardboard carton. “The chooks didn’t have much of a show with the snakes. Especially with the chook house fallen down. That’s one of the reasons I and my trusty workers got stuck into cleaning up the grounds.”
“You’re a saint!” said Bronte, giving him a little salute before disappearing down the hallway. “Saint Stephen. I can’t remember what happened to him.”
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