Outback Surrender. Margaret Way

      “I know that, Phil.” Brock waved his hand in dismissal.

      “Don’t think I’ll let you win. I haven’t slaved all these years for nothing. I won’t take it.”

      “Me neither.”

      Philip continued to stand, obviously struggling for control. Shelley felt a thrust of pity. “Just go, Philip. Don’t say any more. People are looking this way.”

      “Let them,” Philip said, body rigid, face bitter. “I thought I was certain of you, Shelley. Certain of the sort of person you were. Now I’m less certain.”

      “That could be a plus,” she said crisply. “Please go.”

      “I will.” His tone suggested she had fallen far in his estimation. “Don’t be fool enough to trust my cousin. Brock and his reputation with the girls go back a long way.”

      “I always made sure I didn’t hurt anyone,” Brock remarked, having the last word.

      Harriet was seated on a white lattice-backed chair behind the cash register, attending to the bills of her departing guests. When his turn came Brock pulled out a handful of dollars and handed it to her. “That was an outstanding meal, Miss Crompton. We thoroughly enjoyed it.”

      Harriet smiled back, but her grey eyes were searching. “Everything all right? I’m sorry, but I had to tell Philip where you were.”

      Brock shrugged. “Don’t worry about it.”

      “He told me your grandfather’s condition is worsening,” Harriet said quietly into the lull, including Shelley in her glance.

      “I guess I’ll find out when I get back.”

      “I hope things go well for you, Daniel.”

      Brock laughed. “Gosh, doesn’t that take me back! I think you’re the only person in Koomera Crossing who ever called me Daniel.”

      “You look like a Daniel,” Harriet said. “Daniel in the lions’ den. I’ve got to warn you. Nothing’s changed.”

      “You mean with the old man?”

      “And the rest of the family.”

      “Tell me something I don’t know, Miss Crompton.”

      “That’s not much, I imagine,” Harriet said wryly, thinking the striking young man in front of her had had a very rough childhood and adolescence. Far worse than his cousin, Philip, who never did a solitary thing to try his grandfather’s very limited patience.

      “How are things on Wybourne, Shelley?” Harriet asked as they settled up. “I hear you can’t keep up with business?”

      “We’ve another party of Japanese tourists due in a month,” Shelley confirmed.

      “Aren’t you an enterprising young woman? But I never thought you’d get into this business. If you’re ever pushed and you need help let me know. I mean that, Shelley.”

      “I know you do, Miss Crompton. Thank you.” Shelley reached over the high counter and touched Harriet’s fragile wrist. “You’re a good friend.” She moved back as other diners approached the lobby.

      “Don’t forget about our showing.” Harriet reminded Shelley of their discussion.

      “When I’ve got time.”

      “It’ll be fun! Come again!” Harriet called.

      On their way back to the hotel they stopped to sit on a park bench. The sky was swept with stars, a huge silver moon bathing the little oasis in a dreamlike radiance. A white haze hung over the creek, the broad sheet of water filled with spangled reflections.

      Shelley ran her hands down her arms. A cool wind from the desert, where it was always cold at night, rushed through the darkly coloured trees, sending long shadows and spent leaves dancing across the broad expanse of grass. They weren’t far off the street, with its old-fashioned lamps in full bloom, yet Shelley felt very much alone with Brock. It was as if no one and nothing existed but them. Even the noise of the town, tonight full of people, had faded away.

      As Brock remained silent, obviously lost in thought, Shelley tilted her head towards the dazzling sky. The stars were like tiny blazing fires in that black velvet backdrop. She had no difficulty at all picking out her favourite constellations. The galaxy of the Milky Way, a broad diamond-encrusted avenue, Orion the mighty hunter, Pleiades, the Seven Sisters in the constellation Taurus, the Southern Cross, worshipped by the aboriginal people. These constellations had looked down on the Great South Land since the dawn of creation.

      “What do the skies over Ireland look like?” she asked softly, unable to shake the feeling of a most wonderful isolation. Just the two of them.

      It took a moment for Brock to reply. In truth, though he’d loved his time in Ireland, with its close family ties, his heart had hungered for his desert home. “Not like ours. They don’t have this immense clarity. Nothing can match our desert sky. By day a blazing cloudless blue, by night an overwhelming glory. A man can almost reach up and grasp a pocketful of fabulous jewels.

      “Ireland is another world, Shelley. It’s teeming with a different kind of beauty. Australia would seem a stupendous size to an Irishman, as it would have to the early settlers. Our landscape, with an immense wilderness at its heart, is savage compared with theirs. Ours is vast in size, where theirs is small and contained.

      “That country and its people inspire both love and sorrow. My grandmother’s relatives took us under their wing. They couldn’t have been warmer or more supportive, or more brilliantly funny. They’re great storytellers and they’re wonderfully skilled with horses. But as to the climate! Outback people like us would think we were on another planet. Unlike here, where a single downpour is a divine blessing, it actually rains all the time there. Not great torrential floods, like here, but a perennial fine mist. Consequently the countryside is always emerald-green. You’d be right at home there, Shelley. Like Leanan-Sidhe, the muse of poets.”

      “Is she a water faerie?” she asked, with a sense of being caught up in something outside her control.

      “No, but she’s a very lovely creature indeed, with long floating red hair and emerald eyes.”

      “As long as she’s not a water sprite,” Shelley said, stabbed by a grief never far from her. “Their sole delight is drowning children.”

      Instinctively Brock found himself encircling her shoulders. “How did I get onto that theme? Insensitive fool that I am.”

      “No, it’s all right.” She shook her head. “Our grandmother, Moira, was forever filling our heads with fairy tales. Some of them were scary, but she used to tell them all the same. One of her stories was about the Asrai. They’re delicate little female faeries who swim up to the surface of lakes and waterholes and billabongs to capture your attention. But as soon as you put out your hand they melt away. I’ve often thought maybe Sean saw one. Some beautiful little creature, almost visible. He just had to lean in. Something pulled him down to a watery grave.”

      “Don’t break my heart, Shelley,” Brock warned, drawing her closer to his body. This was no streamlined seduction, but an inherent tenderness he was mostly at pains to hide. “What heart I have left.” His tone dipped ironically.

      “We’re damaged people, Brock,” she murmured as the thought came to her.

      “Childhood trauma has abiding effects,” he agreed, total empathy in his voice. “But you should have been helped to find your way out of it.” Somehow her red-gold head had sunk onto his shoulder—or had he placed it there? Most probably, but she wasn’t pulling away. “My story’s not like yours, Shelley, though we both come from badly integrated families. Have you never spoken to anyone—a professional—about your childhood trauma and the time since?”

      “Who could I speak to, Brock? I lead an isolated existence. I never even have need to see a doctor, though