Outback Fire. Margaret Way

the world of “the little princess.”

      As a mark of deep respect his parents had actually been buried in the McFarlane family cemetery on Sanctuary Hill, some five kilometres from the homestead. He remembered how Storm had stood white-faced beside him holding his hand. He remembered how she had given him real comfort for once, hostilities set aside. He hadn’t forgotten. Although Storm had to return to school he had stayed up at the Big House with the Major trying to master his terrible grief, but never coming to terms with it, then he, too, had to return to boarding school. After that, university.

      Luke had graduated from college with an OP1, the top score, something else that had set Storm off. She had scored an excellent OP3. After that, the Major insisted he, along with Storm, go on to higher education which after all he had wanted himself. Luke’d worked hard and made the Major proud, picking up an honours degree in Economics. He’d been free to choose his own life after that but all he had ever wanted was to be a cattleman like his dad. Running a huge operation was big business these days, not just learning the game. Luke revelled in Outback life. It was in his blood and he had never felt truly at home in the city. He’d told the Major this in a long discussion. It was then the Major had confounded him by offering him his father’s old job. Overseer of Winding River Station. A top job with big responsibilities. The two outstations now came under his jurisdiction.

      These days he was the Major’s right hand man. Visitors to the station, those not in the know, often mistook him for McFarlane’s son. His rise had been meteoric but no one in a tough competitive world had ever questioned his ability. To prove it the Major was leaving more and more to him to the point where he was virtually running the whole operation.

      Dressed in a clean shirt and jeans he walked up to the Big House pausing outside to admire it. He always did. It was a magnificent old house completed in the late 1870s by Ian Essex McFarlane a wealthy pastoralist who had come from the colony of New South Wales to take up this vast holding in South West Queensland. The house had been planned on a grand scale, all the more extraordinary for its remote desert setting, two storeyed, built of warm golden sandstone with a slate roof, its deep verandahs supported by slender white pillars with unusual lotus capitals forming a striking colonnade, the upper verandahs encased in white wrought-iron lace with very attractive fretwork. Semicircular stone steps led to the deeply recessed front door and he took them two at a time, passing into the spacious entrance hall its parqueted floor strewn with oriental rugs. Noni Mercer, the housekeeper, came out to greet him, smiling up into his face. “Hi there, Luke. Hot old day!”

      “You want to try running down brumbies,” he answered, returning her smile. Noni was a thoroughly nice woman. He was fond of her and had good reason to be. In her late fifties, short and compact, with a great heart, she had a bubble of grey curls and contrasting snapping dark eyes. “I have to tell you, Noni, I’m ready for your cooking.”

      “Aren’t you always!” Noni blushed with pleasure. She ran her eyes appreciatively over Luke’s rangy figure. He stood straight and tall, superbly built, a few inches over six feet. She had watched him grow up. Watched him turn into this almost unbelievably handsome young man with hair like a dark flame and those miraculous blue eyes. His lovely little mother, Rose, God rest her soul, had had just that marvellous colouring.

      Noni had a very soft spot for Luke Branagan who never once used his high standing with the Major for his own gain. Straight as a die was Luke. How he and Storm weren’t the greatest friends Noni could never understand. She had an idea Luke secretly carried a torch for the tempestuous Storm, though he would never let on, even under torture. Sadly, in Noni’s opinion, and she cared deeply for Storm, that young woman had her feet set on a different path. Yet when she saw them together? Noni heaved a soft sigh, which made Luke dip his handsome head to look into her eyes.

      “What’s up?”

      For such a big strong, dynamic guy Luke was in touch with women’s feelings. “Nothing, dear,” Noni evaded, then felt compelled to burst out with what was on her mind. “When is Storm coming home?”

      His handsome face tautened. “Hell, Noni, why ask me? I’m not one of Storm’s favourite people. You know that.”

      “She’s been running with that for a long time,” Noni gruffly scoffed. “Personally I don’t think it’s true.”

      “Well she sure doesn’t love me,” Luke’s vibrant voice deepened. “And she doesn’t confide in me, either.”

      “More’s the pity!” Noni regretted. “The Major hasn’t been terribly well today, but he’s so looking forward to seeing you. You’re not far off the son he never had.”

      “Maybe that’s the problem, Noni,” Luke’s expression turned a shade bleak. “Storm hates to see it that way.”

      Noni couldn’t do other than nod her agreement. “I just wish she’d come home.” She turned her head quickly as slow, heavy footsteps sounded along the upper gallery. “That will be the Major now,” she said softly. “I know Storm has a busy life. She’s so successful and that’s wonderful. She always was a clever little thing. Remember how she used to collect all those little bits of opal and quartz around the station?”

      Luke’s handsome mouth compressed. “I distinctly remember finding a lot of it for her. She was in heaven when the Major used to organize those prospecting trips to the gemfields for us. I made quite a few finds myself but I always handed them over to Storm.”

      “You would,” Noni said. For all her tantrums Luke had always been honey-sweet to that little girl. Sweet and calm and understanding. Maybe he should have told her off. He was well capable of telling off the toughest and the roughest.

      “Agate, amethyst, carnelian, garnet, sapphire, topaz, beryl,” Luke was saying, his brilliant blue eyes reflective. “That’s what started her off on her career. The Major always encouraged her. Now she’s getting to be a big name.”

      “It’s marvellous,” Noni a recipient of several beautiful little pieces, smiled. “Storm is delighted when people fall in love with her work.”

      “She’s not happy with guys falling in love with her,” Luke commented dryly. “Two fiancés to date. Neither could get her to the altar.”

      “You’re not married, either,” Noni pointed out slyly. “You’re quite a pair!” Personally she thought each had ruined relationships for the other.

      As they were speaking Athol McFarlane appeared at the top of the central staircase then came very slowly down towards them. He was leaning very heavily on his stick but Luke and Noni knew better than to go to his assistance. The Major scorned help. He was independent to a fault.

      “Well, Luke,” he boomed, and his gaunt face lit up. “Come tell me all about your day. Noni has been fussing for hours lining up all the things you like to eat.”

      “She spoils me,” Luke grinned, knowing it was true.

      “And you’re worth every bit of it.” The Major nodded his thatched grey head that once had had Storm’s raven sheen. “You’ve been the greatest help to me these past years. Devotion and dedication. Not a lot of men are as capable of it as you, son. You keep bringing your dad to mind. A splendid man. Not that I had any illusions he wouldn’t have wanted to strike out for himself one day. With my blessing, mind, but that was not to be.” Athol McFarlane’s expression grew grave and introspective. “Come along now into the study. You might have to fly over to Kingston at the end of the week. About time to pay them a surprise visit. Noni will let us know when dinner is ready.”

      “Will do, Major,” Noni gave a comic little salute and made off for the kitchen, thanking God Luke was around to ease the Major’s pain and loneliness.

      Above the fireplace in the Major’s book-and-trophy-lined study hung a painting of Storm. It had been commissioned on the eve of her twenty-first birthday. He found himself looking up at it with a brooding silence. No lavish ball gown for Storm. No deep décolletage that would have shown off her beautiful shoulders and breasts. But the painting, like Storm, compelled attention. She was wearing riding clothes, white