Margaret Way - Outback Wives Wanted!

“I don’t feel in the least brotherly.”

It took a full minute for her to respond. “How about cousinly?” she suggested.

“Not even close. Kieran is enormously protective of you, and he worries when he has to go away.”

It was the truth. “You Valley men are all so old fashioned. Don’t deny it. You are.”

He surprised her by coming to a halt, then turning her towards him. “Men have always been attracted to beautiful women, Alana. Most are civilised and keep their admiration within prescribed bounds. Some don’t.”

Her hazel eyes sparkled as she lifted her chin. “You sound like you want to sack my new man on the spot?”

“I’m going on instinct.” His dark gaze was very serious.

“What was he doing?” She broke away angrily.

“It’s called arousal,” he responded bluntly.

Alan couldn’t control her flush. “Listen, Guy,” she said tightly, “I’m confident I can handle the men, thank you very much. Our regulars wouldn’t let any new man get out of line. Besides, Dad is sober these days. He’s out and about, and Kieran is always around. I have three favourite men in my life. And, no, one of them isn’t you.”

“Lord of the Valley?” he queried, very dryly.

The fact he knew mortified her. “Okay I admit I call you that sometimes.”

“You’ve been calling me that for years,” he jeered softly.

“Be that as it may, my three favourite men are Dad, Kieran and Simon—in that order.”

He didn’t look in the least slighted. In fact he laughed, showing his beautiful even white teeth. “Then, Ms Callaghan, you’re in the best of all possible hands.”

Inside the house, Alana excused herself quickly. “I won’t be more than a few minutes. I’ll just wash up. Go into the living room. Make yourself at home.”

“Is that one of Kieran’s?” Guy made a beeline to the wall hung with a huge, unframed canvas. It was an abstract, yet unmistakably the light-filled Australian bush. It sang of it. It even seemed to smell of it. “Of course it is,” Guy muttered to himself. “Couldn’t be anyone else’s. It’s astonishing! It radiates!” He suddenly wanted to buy it, knowing if he suggested such a thing Kieran would have the painting off the wall in no time, gift-wrapped and delivered to him.

“Tell him that,” Alana called, dashing away.

God knew, Alex had tried often enough to tell him, Guy thought, studying the work of art even more intently. 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.