Margaret Way - The Cattle Baron

HE WAS NOSING down a sharp rise when he was snatched out of his reverie by one hell of a sight. A small white car in the distance suddenly swerved off the road and took off down the thickly vegetated slope facing the sea. He saw at once why. A wallaby was still standing foolishly on the center line. The driver of the vehicle equally foolishly had swerved to avoid the animal. Just how far should you put yourself at risk? He felt a rush of anxiety for the driver, gunning the accelerator and covering the distance in record time. The main business of life was staying alive. No one would deliberately want to hit a harmless animal, but when the alternative was careering off the road, the only safe option was to hold course. If this accident had happened a mile back, the car would have hurtled down into an old volcanic crater. As it was, with the slope nowhere near so steep, the driver had a good chance of surviving. Still, it would be one hell of an experience, crashing wildly into the brush.

His four-wheel drive with its formidable bull bar slammed to a halt at the spot where he’d seen the small car go over. The tires had left skid marks on the road, and the trail led straight over the side. God! He pushed trailing branches of bougainvillea aside, taking the blood-raising lash as they snapped back, and looked down, wincing at what he might see. Instead, he felt a rush of relief and, it had to be said, admiration. The small car had come safely to rest in a dry gully with a bed of glittering stones, narrowly missing a huge boulder a few feet away. No sign of the driver, but then, he was looking at the passenger side.

Swiftly he got on his mobile and passed a message to Chipper Murray, the local police constable, then he reached into his vehicle for a good strong rope, knotting it securely to the bull bar. He touched his neck, felt a smarting, bleeding raised welt. Mercifully the gully was bone-dry. He went over the side, working his way down in a series of jumps much like the rappelling he used to enjoy. He got down easily, covering the small clearing to the car. The birds were singing. The sky was a cloudless peacock-blue. The air was sweet with the scent of the many species of wild herbs his boots had crushed.

He was almost at the driver’s door when it suddenly opened and a young woman swung her long jean-clad legs to the ground and leaned out. “Hi!” she said in a husky but otherwise perfectly focused voice. “What did I do wrong?”

He laughed over a hard wave of relief. This was a remarkably composed woman. “Regardless of what you did wrong, you’re obviously one hell of a driver.” He approached, studying her with considerable interest. Masses of marigold hair, skin as white as a snowflake, a sprinkling of freckles standing out in high relief, extraordinary eyes, green with gold flecks in them like sunlight on a deep lagoon.

“Skills get sharpened when you’re interested in staying alive,” she answered wryly. “It was the wallaby. No one warned me the darling little thing was out there waiting for me.”

“Next time slow right down, beep your horn and let it cross,” he advised, keeping an eye on her, afraid that she might pass out from delayed reaction.

Instead, she tried ineffectively to smooth down her magnificent hair. “It happened much too fast for that.”

He nodded in appreciation. “How are you feeling?” From the look of it, shock hadn’t yet set in. Either that or she was downright fearless. Just about anybody would have been a mess.

“I’ll be fine when the adrenaline levels out.”

“Good,” he replied. “Can you stand up? I want to see if you’re still in one piece.”

He put out his arm to assist her, but she rose unaided, tried a smile and stumbled. He caught her, hauling her along his chest.

“Okay, rest a minute.” His hand somehow found the back of her head, shaping its contours as though it had found a will of its own. She smelled of sunlight, fresh air, a bowl of limes.

She wasn’t about to argue, letting her marigold head fall against his shoulder. Tall for a woman. Slight, but he could feel the luscious press of her breasts. He couldn’t decide if she was teetering on plain or was the most striking woman he had ever seen. Either way, his reaction to her was strong and immediate, or maybe he was swept up in the sheer romance of it all.

She stirred after a moment and he murmured, “Take your time. Look on the bright side.”

“Which is?” At that she lifted her head, stared up at him with sparkling eyes.

“It could have been a lot worse. In the Wet that gully runs a torrent.”

“I have to get my thrills somehow.” She leaned back slowly and steadied herself by gripping his strong rugged arms. “Where did you spring from? Thanks for coming to my rescue, by the way.”

“I was right behind you when it happened.”

“So you saw the whole thing?”

He nodded. “I pretty much had a heart attack. I’m feeling a lot better now that I know you’re safe. Look, why don’t you slip back into your car? Rest quietly. The ambulance should be here soon.”

She did a double take. “What ambulance?” Her voice, which had been vibrant and musical, turned sharp and dismayed.

He stared down at her, raising his eyebrows. “The one that’s going to take you into town. I know you’re a defensive driver at the highest level, but you’ve had one hairy ride. Shock will set in. Believe me.”

She laughed, although her temples were beaded with sweat and her skin was whiter than white. “Get on your mobile. Tell them not to come.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“I’m talking to you, aren’t I? I’m quite rational.”

“Hold out your hands,” he ordered gently.

She did so without an instant’s hesitation.

“They’re trembling.” They were, too. Beautiful hands, long-fingered, elegant, the nails unpainted, but a nice length.

“I’m a bit shaken up, that’s all.” She shrugged, more easily able to size him up now. Her first impression was of someone larger than life, a man of mythic proportions. Hercules, Apollo, a bit of both. “Listen, I don’t want any fuss. You can drive me back to town, can’t you?”

Frowning, he studied her face. “If that’s what you want, but I have my doubts I’d be doing the right thing.”

“I’ve been in worse situations.”

“Yeah? When?” he asked skeptically.

“Try East Timor. Or dodging bullets in Afghanistan when you’re trying to talk on camera.”

He gave a devastating smile of approval, looking good enough to play the hero in a big adventure movie.

“Well, that doesn’t leave me with much else to say. Hang on a second and I’ll see if I can stop the ambulance. I’m Chase Banfield. And you’re…?”

One quirky eyebrow shot up. He probably knew exactly who she was, but she identified herself, anyway.

“Roslyn Sum-m-mers.” She’d briskly put her hand in his, then dragged out her name as a jolt of electricity flared through her body. Chase Banfield. Who else? She watched him as he half turned away, punching numbers into his mobile. He was wearing jeans and a bush shirt, and James Bond couldn’t look as good in a tuxedo. Tall. A lot taller than she. About six-three. Wide-shouldered, lean-hipped. A mane of deeply waving bronze hair. A wonderful gold tone to his skin. Beautiful topaz eyes, resembling a tiger’s. A strong distinctive face, sculpted, not chiseled like her own. High cheekbones, brackets around a handsomely cut mouth. Thirty, thirty-two. A man in full possession of his space. A man on his own territory. A fighter. A cattleman with the polished speaking voice of the elite. After Porter she wasn’t prepared for his maleness, his virility and splendor.