Margaret Way - Cattle Baron Needs a Bride / Sparks Fly with Mr Mayor - Cattle Baron Needs a Bride / Sparks Fly with Mr Mayor

“Take my word for it, it was,” he said very dryly. “You could have knocked me over with a feather.”

“At least you got over the shock fairly quickly,” Zara offered sweetly and, it had to be said, provocatively.

“Just sparring, Ellie,” Garrick told his highly attentive matchmaking mother. “How’s Dad today?”

“Really looking forward to seeing you,’ Helen said. “I hope you’ve brought lots of photographs of the wedding along with all the news. You must have made a very beautiful bridesmaid, Zara.”

Zara, who wasn’t in the least vain, went a little pink. “Not as beautiful as the bride.”

“Of course not. That’s only to be expected.” Helen smiled.

“Looking glorious is nothing new for Zara, Ellie,” Garrick said with the faintest edge. Zara was wearing white—a fine cotton sleeveless shirt with white linen trousers. Her dark mane of hair was arranged in a neat coil on her nape. Her beautiful skin looked as cool and matt as a lily. Imagine that—blossoming beneath the hot Outback sun! “Miranda tossed her the bridal bouquet and, though our Zara did her level best to avoid it, it landed right on target in her arms,” he told his mother.

Zara met his burning blue eyes. “I didn’t think you noticed.”

“Oh, I did. There wasn’t a guy at the wedding who didn’t think you’d make the most glorious catch.”

“But you’re in the market yourself, my dear,” his mother pointed out with more than a touch of mischief.

“Don’t start again, Ellie,” he warned.

“By the way—” Helen abruptly sobered “—I have some news I’d better get out of the way. Sally and Nick are having problems. Thought I should mention it as they’ll be here for the Trophy.”

“That’s the polo finals?” Zara asked, at the same time registering a zap of unease at Helen’s news. The word exfiancée sprang instantly to mind.

Helen nodded. “This year they’re to be held on Coorango.” She patted Zara’s hand. “You couldn’t have come at a better time!”

Garrick cut in crisply. “I’m supposed to believe this about Sally and Nick?”

“Come on, darling,” Helen retorted smartly. “I got it right from the horse’s mouth. Josephine Forbes doesn’t get things wrong. Sally is her daughter after all.”

“But that’s terrible!” Garrick groaned. He sounded stunned. “I had no idea the marriage was in trouble. I thought they were very happy.”

“Not happy enough, apparently.” Helen sighed. “You remember Sally, don’t you, Zara?”

“Of course I do. I thought her very attractive,” she said with genuine warmth. “I’m sorry to hear they’re having problems, but I’m sure they can work things out. They haven’t been married all that long?”

Helen swallowed the word that had flashed into her head— rebound. Sally hadn’t given herself enough time to get over Garrick. She’d thought the best way to solve the tough time she was having was to marry Nick, who was one of Garrick’s closest friends. “Two years,” Helen told Zara rather wryly. “They’ll be here for the Trophy next weekend. Thought I’d better let you know sooner rather than later.”

“Spared me the trouble of having to find out myself,” Garrick said, not bothering to hide his exasperation. “God, poor old Sal!”

“A worrying time for Nick too, dear,” Helen pointed out.

“Of course. It wouldn’t do a bit of good for us to put ourselves in the middle, Ellie.” It sounded very much like a warning. “They have to work it out themselves.” He reflected for a moment, his expression serious. “Sal wanted children. Could that be a problem, do you think?”

“Scarcely a problem yet , darling,” Helen said. “A little suggestion from your mother, though. I wouldn’t find myself alone with Sally if I were you.”

Garrick pinned his mother’s eyes in the rear vision. “For God’s sake, Ellie, what is that supposed to mean?”

Helen shook her burnished head. “I don’t think you need delve too deeply, my darling. Anyway, I’ve told you and that’s the end of that!”

Even as she spoke, Helen knew full well it wasn’t.

So, incidentally, did Zara. So many lessons in life to learn from! One being—marry in haste, repent at leisure. She sincerely hoped that wasn’t going to be the case here. Yet she couldn’t help the most awful suspicion.

Zara had heard all the stories about the swashbuckling George William Rylance who had built Coorango Homestead, a twentyroom mansion, in the late eighteen-seventies. The man was a legend, an Outback icon. Such a splendid house—no matter if it was smack bang in the middle of the Never Never—had put the seal of success on the young English adventurer. The seventh son of a baronet, George had accepted a sizeable stake from his father to make his own fortune in the best way he knew how. Shortly after, he and a like-minded cousin had set sail for Australia, where George fully expected to found his own dynasty and make his fortune in some sort of pastoral enterprise. Sheep, perhaps?

After all, it was a British Army officer, John Macarthur, who had laid the foundations for the country’s wool industry. It was well established by the time Macarthur died in the mid-eighteen-hundreds and George arrived. George had seen over Camden Park, a very handsome Regency-style mansion dreamed of by Macarthur but built by his sons after his death. He, too, had wanted something as substantial.

The homestead, to the Australian squattocracy, occupied much the same position as an Englishman’s castle so George singled out a very fine architect working in South Australia at the time to build him an Outback castle. Never mind it was on the fringe of the great Australian desert. This area, he’d had the vision to see, was destined to become the home of the nation’s cattle kings. George, with all the confidence of a man born to succeed, had already turned his attention to cattle. Becoming a cattle baron—a touch of flamboyancy showed there—suited him much better than farming sheep. Besides, he had become greatly enamoured by the vastness, the extraordinary colourations and the strange and lonely grandeur of the continent’s Interior. Here was where he wanted to put down roots. The Rylances were men of the land. Here, in this extraordinary area of ancient flood plains, criss-crossed by a great maze of water channels, creeks and lagoons, he was going to dig in. Just to be on the safe side, he had invested rather heavily in gold, which soon began returning him healthy profits.

It was just over a mile from the airstrip to the home compound. The drive was lined by gigantic date palms, brought in and planted over a century and a half before by Afghan traders.

Presently, the front elevation of Coorango Homestead came into view. To Zara’s eye, it clearly revealed the architect’s nationality and background, which was Italian. The twostorey building was of grand proportions, but very pleasing. A dynastic home , not a fortress. She particularly loved the pinkishgold sandstone that had been used in its construction. Slender double pillars and wonderfully ornamental white cast iron lace balustrades designed by the architect framed the upper balcony and wrapped around the other three sides of the building. Italian too was the magnificent three-basin stone fountain that featured rearing horses to support the largest bowl.

“It’s playing today in your honour.” Helen smiled with pleasure at her guest. Zara was here. That in itself she considered a coup.

“How lovely!” Zara’s voice lilted. She pointed to the plume of water. “Look, it’s sending rainbow shot spray over the agapanthus.” Masses and masses of the hardy plant, all a deep lavender-blue, encircled the fountain.