Marion Lennox - Stranded With The Secret Billionaire

Such a ruckus in the family might have some parents casting children out. ‘Never darken our door again!’ would have been this columnist’s reaction to such a back-stabbing sibling, but George and Louise seem to have taken the situation in their stride. In a recent tabloid interview George even insinuated he understands why Brett would choose the gorgeous Felicity over her dumpy, media-shy sister, and Louise refuses to comment. So one wedding has been swapped for another.

Ugh, Matt thought, feeling a wave of sympathy for the ‘dumpy, media-shy’ Penny.

And then he thought...dumpy? What a description for those curves.

Um...let’s not go there. He didn’t need distraction.

He did not need anyone—except a shearer’s cook.

‘At least she can make her own tea,’ he muttered to Nugget. ‘There’s a bonus. I wonder if she can make her own toast?’

* * *

Penny ventured in through the back door and was met by silence. Samson sniffed forward so she cautiously opened a few doors. The house was a beautiful...mausoleum?

It looked like a magnificent homestead built for a family of a dozen or so, with entertaining on a lavish scale. But it also looked like it hadn’t been used for years. The massive sitting room off the main entrance was covered in dust sheets, as were the two other rooms she ventured into. She peeked under the dust sheets and saw furniture that’d look at home in an antique store. An expensive antique store.

There was a small sun-drenched den that looked well used. It was crammed with farming journals, books, a computer, dog beds. Matt’s study? A wide passage led to what must be the bedroom wing but she wasn’t game to go there.

Feeling more and more like an intruder, she retreated to the kitchen.

Which was...spectacular.

Windows opened to the veranda, to the shearing shed in the distance and to the hills beyond. Sunbeams were dancing on the floor, the ancient timbers worn by years of use. A battered wooden table ran almost the full length of the room, with scattered mismatched chairs that looked incredibly inviting. A small, slow combustion stove stood to one side of an old hearth, as if a far bigger wood stove had been removed. Beside it was a vast industrial oven and cooktop. It looked as if it could feed a small army.

How many people lived here? Hardly anyone by the look of the closed-up rooms, but these ovens... Wow!

She glanced again at the firestove. It was lit and emitting a gentle warmth. She’d never used one. Could she make bread?

What was she thinking of? Baking?

This situation was a mess. She didn’t want to be here and Matt Fraser didn’t want her here. Her job at Malley’s Corner was in doubt. She’d ring them now but would they still want her when she arrived two weeks late?

She was stuck here for two weeks, with a man she didn’t know.

But she was suddenly thinking: did he have decent flour?

There was a door to the side which looked like it could lead to a pantry. She shouldn’t pry. The very stillness of the house was making her nervous, but he’d said she could make herself a cup of tea.

She did have tea but it was packed at the bottom of one of her crates. So she needed to check the pantry...

She opened the pantry door and gasped.

This pantry was huge, and it was stocked as if Matt was expecting to feed an army.

There were flour bins, big ones, topped to overflowing. There were bins of rice, of sugar. There were mountains of cans, stacks of packs of pasta. There was every dried herb and sauce she could imagine.

There were two vast refrigerators and freezers, and another door led to a coolroom. She saw vegetables, fruit, every perishable a cook could need. There were whole sides of beef and lamb. Who could eat this much meat?

The shearing team? She’d read descriptions of life on the big sheep stations. Gun shearers, working twelve-hour days, pushing themselves to the limits, while the farmer’s wife pushed herself to the limit feeding them.

Matt had no wife. There was no evidence of a housekeeper.

Was he planning to cook, or did one of those trucks out there belong to a cook?

She closed the lid of the freezer and saw an enormous list pinned to the wall. It was an inventory of everything she’d just seen.

It was printed out as an email. She flicked through to the end.

Can you get all this in stock and have it waiting? I’ll be there on the seventh by mid-afternoon, but my first cook will be smoko on the eighth. See you then.

So he did have a cook. He’d probably be over with the men now, she thought. Maybe Matt was there too. Maybe they were sitting round drinking beer while Matt told them about the dopey blonde he’d pulled out of the water.

And suddenly all the fears of the past few weeks crowded back.

She was stuck in the middle of nowhere, where no one wanted her. She was stuck for two weeks.

A shearer’s cook would be taking over this kitchen from tomorrow morning. Maybe she could help, she thought, but she’d worked in enough kitchens to know how possessive cooks could be.

‘I might be allowed to wash dishes,’ she told Samson morosely.

She found a tea bag—actually, she found about a thousand tea bags. They weren’t generic, but they weren’t lapsang souchong either.

‘We’ll have to slum it,’ she told her dog, and made her tea and headed out to the veranda.

The big, old collie she’d seen earlier was still snoozing on the step. He raised his head and gave his tail a faint wag, then settled back down to the serious business of sleeping.

An old man was dead-heading roses. He was stooped and weathered with age, almost a part of the land around him. He glanced up from his roses as she emerged from the back door, and startled as if he’d just seen a ghost.

‘Hi,’ Penny called. ‘I’m Penny.’

He didn’t answer. Instead he dropped the canvas bag he’d been carrying and backed away. Ghosts, it seemed, were scary.

Penny sighed. She plonked herself down on the edge of the veranda and gazed out over the garden to the rolling plains beyond. Samson eyed the old dog warily, and then plonked down beside her.

‘This is a beautiful view,’ she told Samson. ‘But I might just get sick of it after two weeks.’

Samson put his nose into the crook of her arm and whined. Samson, it seemed, was in complete agreement.

* * *

To say the men were unhappy would be an understatement.

‘So who’s going to cook?’ Bert, self-proclaimed shearers’ foreman, sounded incredulous.

‘Me,’ Matt told him. ‘It means I can’t spend much time in the shed, but Ron and Harv will have things under control.’ Ron was his right-hand man, Harv his jackeroo. They were both capable sheep men.

Leaving the shed in their hands was still a risk. Half the trick of a smooth shear was the owner being hands-on. Men worked at full capacity, day after day, pushing themselves to the limit because the sooner they finished the sooner they’d be paid, and that was a recipe for problems. Tensions escalated fast. Ron and Harv were both men who disliked conflict and backed away from it—there was a reason they both worked on such an isolated property. Matt didn’t like conflict either, but he could deal. He had the authority to dock wages, to kick a drunk shearer off the team or, worse, to recommend to other station owners which teams not to employ.

But Ron and Harv couldn’t cook to save their lives. They lived on a diet of corned beef, beer and the occasional apple to prevent scurvy. At least Matt could do a decent spag. bol.

He had no choice. The kitchen was his.

‘So we’ll be eating pasta and boiled beef for two weeks?’ Bert demanded and Matt shrugged.

‘I’ll do my best. Sorry, guys. I’m as unhappy about this as you are.’