Outback Baby. Barbara Hannay

He made a sweeping gesture with his arm. ‘All this is her inheritance.’

      ‘Unless you have children of your own,’ Gemma said softly. ‘I guess then they would all be shareholders.’

      He turned and their eyes met. His blue gaze held a disquieting mixture of uncertainty and bitterness. ‘Yeah,’ he said, and then jerked his head back to the front. ‘There’s always that possibility.’

      They swooped a little lower and the familiar sight of the muddy dam dotted with black ducks and the rusty metal skeleton of the old windmill standing sentry nearby made her feel ridiculously emotional. She blinked her eyes to clear the misted view. In her imagination, she could hear the squeak and clank of the old windmill as it slowly pumped water to the drinking troughs.

      Within seconds she was exclaiming. ‘Max, my goodness! You’ve installed a satellite dish.’

      ‘Got to keep up with technology.’

      Their plane continued its descent and he nodded to their right, past the machinery sheds and workshops. ‘I’ve put in some new windmills, too. That one over there has a solar panel and an electric pump.’

      ‘Is it better than the old one?’ she asked, doubtfully eyeing the shiny modern equipment.

      ‘Too right. Before, it was always a case of no breeze, no water. Now we can get a constant flow if we need it.’

      But the biggest surprise came as they made the final dip towards the airstrip, when Gemma saw the homestead, which for as long as she could remember had been a comfortable but shabby timber home with peeling paint and vine-covered wrap-around verandahs.

      ‘Wow!’ Her breath exhaled slowly as she absorbed the changes. Max’s home was now a showplace. ‘What have you done to the house?’ she asked.

      He was concentrating on making an initial swoop over the strip to clear the ground of horses and birds before attempting a landing. ‘Painted it,’ he muttered tersely as he swung the plane around to double back for the approach.

      Below them, skittish horses cantered out of their way and a flock of cockatoos, feeding on grass seed, lifted their wings to disperse like so many pieces of white paper caught in a wind gust. The plane plunged lower and finally touched down on the gravel runway.

      ‘What a difference,’ Gemma exclaimed, still staring at Max’s house, amazed by the transformation. The homestead’s timber walls were now painted a pretty powder blue, the iron roof was a clean, crisp silver and all the trims and the lattice on the verandahs were gleaming white.

      As they taxied down the short airstrip, Max shot her a cautious glance. ‘You like it?’

      ‘It’s beautiful, Max. I had no idea the old place could look so lovely.’ She was startled to see an unexpected red tinge creep along his cheekbones. ‘Who did the job for you?’

      ‘Did it myself,’ he muttered. ‘During the dry season, of course.’

      Another shock.

      As the plane came to a standstill, Gemma assimilated this news and sat quietly, thinking about the lonely weeks Max must have spent on the task. The life of an outback cattleman was solitary and hard and the men who survived it were tough, complex creatures. And they didn’t come much more complicated than Max, she thought with a wry grimace. ‘It’s fantastic,’ she told him with genuine warmth. ‘You’ve done an amazing job.’

      He looked embarrassed and she realised he was probably more used to her scorn than her praise. She allowed herself a private smile as she thought about that. They were probably both much more comfortable fighting than co-operating.

      An old utility truck had been left at the end of the runway and Gemma and Max were kept busy for the next ten minutes, transferring Mollie and the gear into the vehicle. Even though it was only a few hundred metres to the homestead, there was too much to lug such a distance.

      It was late morning. The sun was already high overhead and very hot and so, by the time they reached the kitchen, a cool drink was the first priority. Gemma found Mollie’s little feeding cup, while Max swung his fridge door open and grabbed a jug of iced water.

      Just before he closed the fridge, he paused to survey its contents and frowned. ‘I might have to stock up on a few things from town,’ he commented before filling a glass and handing it to Gemma. ‘I’m afraid I wasn’t expecting you and I haven’t got the kind of fancy things that women like for breakfast. I’m still a steak and eggs man myself.’

      Gemma’s eyes widened. ‘How do you know what women like for breakfast?’ The question was out before she really thought through what she was saying. She’d always pictured Max as a crusty bachelor living the life of a lonely recluse in the back of beyond.

      Max went very still and she cringed with sudden shame as she recognised just how rude and downright stupid her query sounded. How on earth could she retract her words?

      Before any bright ideas struck, he spun around, and the glance he sent her way was tinged with wry amusement.

      Had she left her brains in Brisbane? Of course this man would have attracted and entertained women. He was quite well off and had the kind of rugged and rangy masculinity that swarms of women hunted down. Unlike her, they’d be willing to overlook his gruffness.

      She knew by the heat in her cheeks that her embarrassment was obvious, but she was also just as sure Max wouldn’t miss an opportunity to make her suffer further for her foolishness.

      ‘Now let me see.’ He cocked his head to the ceiling as if considering her question. ‘How is it that I know so much about women’s breakfast habits?’

      His eyes narrowed as if he was giving this matter his undivided attention. ‘I think I probably picked up some pointers—like women’s belief in the importance of orange juice—from all those television advertisements.’

      Totally flustered and unable to think of an appropriate retort, Gemma concentrated very carefully on holding Mollie’s cup at just the right angle for her to drink easily.

      ‘But it beats me if I can remember just how I uncovered the mysterious feminine desire to dine first thing in the morning on low-fat yoghurt and muesli. That really has me stumped.’ Relaxing back in a wooden kitchen chair, he joined his hands behind his head with elbows pointing to the ceiling. ‘I guess I found out about European women’s predilection for coffee and croissants from some foreign movie.’

      ‘For heaven’s sake,’ Gemma growled at him. ‘Good luck to any long-suffering woman who’s had breakfast with you. The poor thing would need a ton of luck and a truckload of tolerance to put up with your chauvinism.’

      He took a deep swig of iced water and chuckled. ‘I’d say you’re probably right.’ Setting the glass back on the table, he grinned at her. ‘You’ll be able to find out tomorrow morning, won’t you?’

      ‘I think I could do without your early-morning charm,’ she sniffed. ‘And Mollie and I will have soft boiled eggs and toast soldiers for our breakfast.’

      She turned away from his mocking grin and made a fuss of Mollie. But it was difficult to stop her mind from dwelling on the unexplored area of this conversation—the particular circumstances that led to a woman sharing breakfast with Max.

      They didn’t bear thinking about.

      And yet, in spite of her efforts to ignore such offensive details, an unbidden picture planted itself firmly in Gemma’s mind. A vision of a lamp-lit bedroom—with cool, white sheets—and Max’s brown, muscle-packed back encircled by softly rounded, pale and feminine arms. A night of intimacy…

      She felt an unpleasant wave of panic.

      Would Max Jardine be charming in the company of other women?

      Surely not.

      ‘Do you have any bananas?’ she asked, in a desperate bid to change the subject and to rid herself of these extremely unsettling thoughts.