Bethany Campbell - The Secret Heiress

As he steered her toward the baggage claim area, she saw that he carried himself gingerly and walked with a slight limp. “Rennie,” she prodded, “what happened?”

“A horse panicked, rammed me against a wall,” he told her. “That’s all. The scratch? The wall had a nail in it. And for a few seconds, so did I. A bit of a bashing, nothing life-threatening, I assure you.”

“And the fire? How bad was it?”

Gruffly he explained that in terms of money, the fire was a disaster for Lochlain Racing, where he worked for Tyler Preston. Several horses had died, and many more had been permanently damaged by smoke inhalation. There was one human fatality, a body that had finally been identified as old Sam Whittleson.

“Sam Whittleson?” Marie echoed in disbelief. “That man Louisa shot?”

“The very one. Somebody killed him this time. They found a gun half-melted in a burned fertilizer barrel, and a lab’s trying to identify it. The cops say the fire was arson, and—”

“Wait,” Marie interrupted. “Arson? Murder? You told me nobody was seriously hurt.”

“When we talked, I didn’t think anybody was,” Reynard said defensively.

“Who killed him? Why?”

“Nobody knows,” Reynard said with an impatient shrug. “Anyway, the authorities said the fire was set, and some yobs whisper Tyler Preston himself set it. To hide that he was drugging his horses.

“But,” Reynard said flatly, “he didn’t drug horses, and he set no fire. That’s the trouble living in the sticks. Too much gossip, too many rumors. Now, take Louisa Fairchild. Some even say she done Sam in—ridiculous. An eighty-year-old woman steals out in the wee hours. She lures a man who wouldn’t trust her for a second into a neighbor’s barn? And she guns him down? Not bloody likely.”

The luggage carousel buzzed, and suitcases began to cascade onto the moving belt. Her bicycle appeared with a clatter. “God’s holy trousers,” Reynard exclaimed. “You brought that bloody old wreck of a bike?”

“I have to get around. I don’t have a car.”

“You’ll frighten horses,” he grumbled. “Nobody rides a bike up there. You ride something with four wheels or four legs, and that’s it.”

“I’m not afraid to be different,” she countered, lifting her chin.

He shook his head. “You never were. And I don’t know if that’s your blessing or your curse. Indeed I don’t.”

Reynard refused her help in loading his old blue pickup, even though the job was clearly a strain on his taped ribs. Soon he and she were in the truck, and she gawked at the quaintness of Newcastle and then at the beauty of the Hunter Valley countryside.

Woods and peaceful fields and hills and vineyards stretched on until they met the shadowy lavender of mountains in the distance. Rain poured daily in Darwin, but in the Hunter Valley, the sky was cloudless and blue.

“It’s more beautiful than I imagined,” she murmured. “So tranquil.”

“Appearances deceive,” Reynard said. “Too dry. There’s spot fires near the Koongarra range. There’s wildfire warnings all over the valley. It’s not tranquil, and neither are the people. The stable burning, the killing, it spooked everybody. And the locals were still squabbling about Louisa’s shooting Sam Whittleson last year.”

“Tell me more about that,” Marie said. “They were feuding about water rights or something?”

Reynard nodded. “And there were factions from the start. Some say it was Sam’s own fault. Some say it was Louisa’s. Now at Lochlain, where I work, Sam’s son’s the head trainer. So the Prestons sided with Sam. That irks the old girl. But then she never really took to the Prestons in the first place.”

“Why not?” Marie asked, the familiar uneasiness stirring again.

“The Fairchilds’ve been in Hunter Valley for a century and a half. The old girl sees the Prestons as upstarts and Yanks to boot. Still, they say she was usually civil to them—until they sided so strong with Sam. Now she’s offended about racing politics, too. Really offended. You see, my boss, Tyler Preston, he’s got this cousin. Well, the cousin—”

They rounded a curve and the view was suddenly dominated by a huge set of gates, framed by stone pillars ornamented with bronze and red crests. “Ta-da!” said Reynard with a chuckle. “Behold—Fairchild Acres.”

The security guard let them in, and Marie looked at the great lawn and the seeming endless pastures and paddocks beyond. Did Louisa own all this land?

They bounced down a broad drive between jacaranda trees, plots of bright flowers and the flash of water from a myriad of sprinklers. The rest of Hunter Valley might be browning and dry, but not Louisa’s lawn.

They rounded another curve. “And there is the humble abode of Louisa.”

At the end of the drive stood an enormous house. Gray stone and stucco, it rose three stories, with a gabled roof and rows of mullioned windows. The jacarandas gave way to a wider sweep of manicured lawn, decorated with large formal gardens. There was even an ornamental marble pool with a three-tiered fountain at its center.

She gaped at the house, the grounds. Reynard took a fork in the drive that led to the back of the house. “You’ll meet Mrs. Lipton first.”

Marie’s heart beat hard. Too hard. But Reynard had kept reassuring her that she wouldn’t need to lie. Her identity was true, her experience real, her credentials excellent. She should simply be closemouthed about her family.

“Just remember the nursery rhyme, love.” With a sidelong smile, he recited the poem:

“A wise old owl sat in his oak.

The more he heard, the less he spoke;

The less he spoke, the more he heard;

Why aren’t we all like that wise old bird?”

She eyed him thoughtfully. “Is that how you know so much about what goes on here? And you’ve only been here—what?—two months?”

He winked. “That’s it, love. Eyes open. Ears open. Mouth shut. That’s how you learn.”

He parked, got out stiffly, and opened Marie’s door as smoothly as if he were a trained chauffeur. Perhaps he’d once been one, for she didn’t know all of his past. Not by half.

He escorted her to a back door and gave the bellpull a smart ring, and then two more.

A girl of about eighteen opened the door. She had curling red hair and freckles all over her ruddy face. She wore navy-blue shorts, a white short-sleeved blouse and a white apron.

“Oh, Rennie,” she said with a grin. “Come in. And this must be your niece. Marie, is it?

“I’m Belinda, but everybody calls me Bindy. I’ll get Mrs. Lipton.”

Bindy talked fast, and she dashed off into a hallway just as fast. Marie stood, dazzled by the huge modern kitchen, gleaming with whiteness and chrome.

“Hello, Rennie,” said a man’s deep voice. The accent was American.

Marie turned to see a tall figure standing near a table. She looked up into his face, and her heart, already pounding, almost leaped out of her chest.

He was the man who’d defended her in the parking lot of the Scepter that night, the stranger she’d clung to so foolishly, so desperately. Suddenly the room seemed to swim round her, dizzying her.

Did he recognize her? Would he remember her? She prayed not.

“Mr. Preston,” said Reynard, heartily shaking hands with him. He grinned.

“What are you doing here? Miss Fairchild must be gone.”

“She is, and somebody had to do your work. So I brought the eggs today.”

Rennie grinned more widely. “Thanks kindly, mate. And meet my niece, Marie Lafayette from Darwin. She’s the new assistant cook. Marie, Andrew Preston from the U.S.A. He’s running for the presidency of the ITRF. Staying with his cousin over at Lochlain.”