An Outback Affair/Runaway Wife/Outback Bridegroom/Outback Surrender/Home To Eden (39 page)

Shelley's sparkling gaze softened. “You should have spoken right off, instead of taking me to task. So that's the purpose of your trip?”

“If it's true.” Brock shrugged. “It's probably Kingsley's way to get me back to the house. He wants us all closed up together. Preferably at each other's throats.”

Philip shook his narrow head. “Can't you try to be a little bit more compassionate towards Grandfather?” he said, his face flushed.

“No, sorry. He used up all the compassion I had long ago.”

“The great wonder is that he wants you home at all,” Philip said with a censure Shelley found quite bizarre and certainly dishonest. Every time she and Philip had been together Philip had been very vocal regarding his own load of resentment against his grandfather. He had always seemed desperate to win her sympathy—which, up until now, he'd received in good measure.

Brock treated his cousin to a cynical smile. “Phil, you old hypocrite!” he scoffed.

“We're talking about our grandfather.” Philip lifted a sanctimonious hand. “He was a Colossus. Now he lies in bed, just staring at the ceiling. I hate to see him cut down like that. He's been so strong. Invincible. It's awful to see him so terribly reduced.” His voice was low and husky. “It's killing me.”

Brock's mouth twitched. “Hell, it's a wonder you're not gushing tears.”

“You're such a heartless bastard!”

“And you're such a phony you make me want to puke.”

“You have no sense of family,” Philip flashed back, as though Brock had left a black stain on the Kingsley good name. “It's no wonder Grandfather sent you and Aunt Catherine packing.”

The colour seemed to drain from Brock's dark polished skin, and for a ghastly instant Shelley wondered whether he would leap for his cousin's throat.

“Take no notice, Brock.” She made a grab for his hand, holding it as tightly as she could. “Why don't you leave, Philip? You've delivered your message.”

Philip's whole body stiffened. “I can't believe you're taking Brock's part against me. You're my friend. Not his.”

“You make that sound like Shelley's your property,” Brock drawled, somehow moving back from furious anger. Who would have thought a small, feminine hand could hold him in such a hard crunch? Shelley Logan had to be taken seriously, he thought, abruptly amused.

“We have plans for the future,” Philip announced. “I'm very different to you, Brock. I want to make something of my life.”

A look of disdain came into Brock's eyes. “Then you'll have your work cut out, because you're a gutless wonder. You hate that man just as much as I do. He's made your life hell, but here you are trying to portray yourself as his noble, grieving grandson. No bets on what you and your
mother are after. Kingsley Holdings. That's why you set out to discredit and undermine me. God knows how you can shake off the guilt and the shame.”

“I've no idea what you're talking about,” Philip said sharply, but he was unable to meet his cousin's challenging stare.

“The plotting, Phil. The stories you carried to Kingsley. What did it matter that you couldn't prove them? God, you two must have held a big party when we left.”

“Got kicked out, don't you mean?” Philip sneered. “Grandfather gave you every chance. No one plotted against you. It was you who deliberately set out to anger and upset him. The sooner you realize that, the better. You didn't know how to conduct yourself as a Kingsley should. You were wild. Wild from childhood.”

“Then you and your mother had nothing to worry about, did you? Except she had the brains to cotton on that you couldn't measure up. Wild old me was cramping your style. I had to go. In retrospect, I'd call it an escape. It seems to me you're the one who's led the soul-destroying life. And thoroughly deserved it, don't you think?”

“Grandfather wants you home,” Philip replied doggedly, his face stiff and expressionless.

“Surely you're not here to collect me?” There was a shade of amusement in Brock's eyes.

“I have the helicopter.” Philip glanced at Shelley, and then swiftly glanced away, as if the sight of her gave him pain.

“I've no intention of going back with you.” Brock was direct. “I'll come back to Mulgaree when I'm ready. That'll be tomorrow.”

“What if tomorrow's too late?” Philip was roused to ask, leaning forward with his elbows on the table.

“C'est la vie!”
Brock gave a truly Gallic shrug, his accent confirming he'd devoted time and attention to learning the French language. “But I don't imagine that it will be.
Kingsley will chose his exact moment to die. Only a handful of people can do that,” he added, with grudging admiration.

“You realize what it cost me to make this trip?” Philip complained. “To track you down here?” He threw another despairing glance in Shelley's direction, as though she were guilty of serious disloyalty.

“Why the desperation?” Brock's luminescent eyes narrowed. “Wouldn't it be in your interests to report that I've said I'll come when I'm good and ready?”

“Don't think I won't. You've got a strange way of trying to engineer a reconciliation,” Philip said.

“And you're still doing your mother's dirty work.” Brock was clearly running out of patience.

Not even thick-skinned Philip could stay any longer. He raised himself up from the table, shaking his head dismally. He turned to Shelley imploringly.

“Looks like you're finished. Could I walk you back to the hotel, Shelley? There's something I need to talk to you about privately.”

Brock leaned back in his chair. “Is he serious?” he asked, directing a sparkling glance at Shelley. “Goodbye, Phil.”

Philip leaned down, speaking very quietly. “And you can go to hell.”

“I'm not going to hell, Phil.” Brock lifted clear, daunting eyes. “I'm putting my house in order. But give me one good reason why you shouldn't.”

“I'm just as big a victim as ever you were,” Philip said, very bitterly for someone who'd just avowed love and concern for his grandfather.

“I know that, Phil.” Brock waved his hand in dismissal.

“Don't think I'll let you win. I haven't slaved all these years for nothing. I won't take it.”

“Me neither.”

Philip continued to stand, obviously struggling for control. Shelley felt a thrust of pity. “Just go, Philip. Don't say any more. People are looking this way.”

“Let them,” Philip said, body rigid, face bitter. “I
thought I was certain of you, Shelley. Certain of the sort of person you were. Now I'm less certain.”

“That could be a plus,” she said crisply. “Please go.”

“I will.” His tone suggested she had fallen far in his estimation. “Don't be fool enough to trust my cousin. Brock and his reputation with the girls go back a long way.”

“I always made sure I didn't hurt anyone,” Brock remarked, having the last word.

 

Harriet was seated on a white lattice-backed chair behind the cash register, attending to the bills of her departing guests. When his turn came Brock pulled out a handful of dollars and handed it to her. “That was an outstanding meal, Miss Crompton. We thoroughly enjoyed it.”

Harriet smiled back, but her grey eyes were searching. “Everything all right? I'm sorry, but I had to tell Philip where you were.”

Brock shrugged. “Don't worry about it.”

“He told me your grandfather's condition is worsening,” Harriet said quietly into the lull, including Shelley in her glance.

“I guess I'll find out when I get back.”

“I hope things go well for you, Daniel.”

Brock laughed. “Gosh, doesn't that take me back! I think you're the only person in Koomera Crossing who ever called me Daniel.”

“You look like a Daniel,” Harriet said. “Daniel in the lions' den. I've got to warn you. Nothing's changed.”

“You mean with the old man?”

“And the rest of the family.”

“Tell me something I don't know, Miss Crompton.”

“That's not much, I imagine,” Harriet said wryly, thinking the striking young man in front of her had had a very rough childhood and adolescence. Far worse than his cousin, Philip, who never did a solitary thing to try his grandfather's very limited patience.

“How are things on Wybourne, Shelley?” Harriet asked
as they settled up. “I hear you can't keep up with business?”

“We've another party of Japanese tourists due in a month,” Shelley confirmed.

“Aren't you an enterprising young woman? But I never thought you'd get into this business. If you're ever pushed and you need help let me know. I mean that, Shelley.”

“I know you do, Miss Crompton. Thank you.” Shelley reached over the high counter and touched Harriet's fragile wrist. “You're a good friend.” She moved back as other diners approached the lobby.

“Don't forget about our showing.” Harriet reminded Shelley of their discussion.

“When I've got time.”

“It'll be fun! Come again!” Harriet called.

On their way back to the hotel they stopped to sit on a park bench. The sky was swept with stars, a huge silver moon bathing the little oasis in a dreamlike radiance. A white haze hung over the creek, the broad sheet of water filled with spangled reflections.

Shelley ran her hands down her arms. A cool wind from the desert, where it was always cold at night, rushed through the darkly coloured trees, sending long shadows and spent leaves dancing across the broad expanse of grass. They weren't far off the street, with its old-fashioned lamps in full bloom, yet Shelley felt very much alone with Brock. It was as if no one and nothing existed but them. Even the noise of the town, tonight full of people, had faded away.

As Brock remained silent, obviously lost in thought, Shelley tilted her head towards the dazzling sky. The stars were like tiny blazing fires in that black velvet backdrop. She had no difficulty at all picking out her favourite constellations. The galaxy of the Milky Way, a broad diamond-encrusted avenue, Orion the mighty hunter, Pleiades, the Seven Sisters in the constellation Taurus, the Southern Cross, worshipped by the aboriginal people. These constel
lations had looked down on the Great South Land since the dawn of creation.

“What do the skies over Ireland look like?” she asked softly, unable to shake the feeling of a most wonderful isolation. Just the two of them.

It took a moment for Brock to reply. In truth, though he'd loved his time in Ireland, with its close family ties, his heart had hungered for his desert home. “Not like ours. They don't have this immense clarity. Nothing can match our desert sky. By day a blazing cloudless blue, by night an overwhelming glory. A man can almost reach up and grasp a pocketful of fabulous jewels.

“Ireland is another world, Shelley. It's teeming with a different kind of beauty. Australia would seem a stupendous size to an Irishman, as it would have to the early settlers. Our landscape, with an immense wilderness at its heart, is savage compared with theirs. Ours is vast in size, where theirs is small and contained.

“That country and its people inspire both love and sorrow. My grandmother's relatives took us under their wing. They couldn't have been warmer or more supportive, or more brilliantly funny. They're great storytellers and they're wonderfully skilled with horses. But as to the climate! Outback people like us would think we were on another planet. Unlike here, where a single downpour is a divine blessing, it actually rains all the time there. Not great torrential floods, like here, but a perennial fine mist. Consequently the countryside is always emerald-green. You'd be right at home there, Shelley. Like Leanan-Sidhe, the muse of poets.”

“Is she a water faerie?” she asked, with a sense of being caught up in something outside her control.

“No, but she's a very lovely creature indeed, with long floating red hair and emerald eyes.”

“As long as she's not a water sprite,” Shelley said, stabbed by a grief never far from her. “Their sole delight is drowning children.”

Instinctively Brock found himself encircling her shoulders. “How did I get onto that theme? Insensitive fool that I am.”

“No, it's all right.” She shook her head. “Our grandmother, Moira, was forever filling our heads with fairy tales. Some of them were scary, but she used to tell them all the same. One of her stories was about the Asrai. They're delicate little female faeries who swim up to the surface of lakes and waterholes and billabongs to capture your attention. But as soon as you put out your hand they melt away. I've often thought maybe Sean saw one. Some beautiful little creature, almost visible. He just had to lean in. Something pulled him down to a watery grave.”

“Don't break my heart, Shelley,” Brock warned, drawing her closer to his body. This was no streamlined seduction, but an inherent tenderness he was mostly at pains to hide. “What heart I have left.” His tone dipped ironically.

“We're damaged people, Brock,” she murmured as the thought came to her.

“Childhood trauma has abiding effects,” he agreed, total empathy in his voice. “But you should have been helped to find your way out of it.” Somehow her red-gold head had sunk onto his shoulder—or had he placed it there? Most probably, but she wasn't pulling away. “My story's not like yours, Shelley, though we both come from badly integrated families. Have you never spoken to anyone—a professional—about your childhood trauma and the time since?”

“Who could I speak to, Brock? I lead an isolated existence. I never even have need to see a doctor, though I admire and respect Dr Sarah at Koomera Bush Hospital. She tries hard to help my mother, but Mum has joined forces with her terrible depression. She won't make the attempt to fight out of it. And Dad is very bitter about life. He lost his son. His only son. Sons are important to a man, especially a man like Dad. If it had come to choosing which twin had to be sacrificed it would have been me, no question.”