The Cattleman's English Rose. Barbara Hannay

truck hit a deep wheel rut and she was forced to clutch the door handle and brace herself with her feet against the floorboards. Why on earth had Tim been so eager to come to Australia? If she had had the chance to travel, she would have chosen to visit elegant European cities like Paris or Venice, Vienna or Prague.

      Not this endless bush.

      She’d read an article on the plane that said Australia was twenty-four times the size of Great Britain—and Tim could be anywhere in this enormous country.

      They travelled on and on over the winding dirt road, dipping down to cross rocky, dry creek beds, climbing out on the other side between steep red banks and then continuing across the plains till they reached yet another dry creek crossing.

      What startled Charity most was that there were no signs of human habitation. And yet there had to be people somewhere because someone had placed a sign that said:

      Beware

      Cattle on the road.

      And not far past that sign she saw a mob of strange-looking, droopy-eared cattle lying in the inadequate shade cast by dusty gum trees. The grass around them looked dead. ‘How on earth do you raise cattle in this country?’ she asked.

      ‘Your British breeds don’t do well here, but we have Brahman cross cattle that are bred for the tropics.’

      ‘But what do the poor things eat?’

      ‘Dried grass still has nutrients in it—a bit like dried fruit for us, but we give them supplements as well. The hard part is keeping enough water for them. We have to pump water out of the creeks up into troughs. When the dams and creeks dry up completely, we’re in trouble.’

      ‘Living out here must be hard work.’

      He shrugged. ‘Who wants a cushy job?’

      A well-paid cushy job was the goal of most of the fellows she’d met. A cushy job, a pretty little wife…

      Apparently, Kane McKinnon wanted neither.

      ‘Of course, you’re seeing this country at its worst—at the end of the dry season,’ he said.

      ‘Is it very different after rain?’

      ‘You wouldn’t recognise it.’ After a bit he added, ‘We don’t hold the cattle here for too long. These properties are for breeding stock. You wouldn’t try to fatten them here. We’ve shipped all our young beasts over to our other property near Hughenden. With luck, they’ll fatten up nicely there.’

      ‘They certainly couldn’t grow very fat on this grass,’ Charity commented, but already her thoughts were straying from the plight of cattle and back to Tim. Was he lost and starving? ‘In England we often hear about people dying in the outback.’

      ‘Yeah, it happens.’ Kane stared ahead of him at the yellow track. ‘This is a tough country, but the people who perish are usually folk who don’t have a clue what they’re doing and should never have left the city in the first place. Your brother was a quick learner and I’m sure he’d be okay in the bush.’

      She turned to look out through the side window and saw a grey kangaroo hopping with an easy, fluid bounce-bounce-bounce as it made its way between the trees. It was her first kangaroo sighting, and she might have been excited if she wasn’t so worried.

      ‘What was Tim’s state of mind?’ she asked. ‘Did he seem happy?’

      ‘He was fine. Look, the one thing I like about your brother is his ability to keep to himself. He quietly got on with the job and he didn’t have to be the centre of attention. He fitted in well out here. I’m sure he’s still doing well wherever he is.’

      Kane sounded so certain that Tim was fine that Charity wondered again if he knew more than he was letting on. Was he hiding the truth from her? She turned to study him. His eyes met hers and he sent her a quick, reassuring smile and she realised with something of a start that she wanted him to do it again. In that momentary flash of friendly warmth, the mockery had left his eyes and his mouth had softened and she’d felt a queer little kick in the stomach.

      They stopped under the shade of trees beside a creek to drink from their water bottles.

      ‘At least you’ll be safe from Marsha out here,’ Kane said as Charity took more tablets to keep her headache at bay.

      She was surprised to hear him make such an ambiguous comment about his girlfriend. ‘When will we reach Southern Cross?’

      ‘We’ve been travelling on the property for the past half hour. Won’t be too much longer now.’

      She had no idea what to expect when they finally reached the McKinnon’s home, but five minutes later they pulled up outside a tiny, tumbledown shack, and Kane jumped out of the truck and began to untie the tarpaulin covering the load in the back.

      Her heart sank as she stared at the house. This was Southern Cross homestead? It was a sorry sight, crouching in a dusty paddock beneath a rusty iron roof, with a sagging front veranda and unpainted timber walls left to weather to a silvery-grey. And Charity started to question her impulsive decision.

      Her headache returned as she pushed the passenger door open and stepped down into the dirt. The heat of the sun beat on to the back of her neck and her unsuitable clothes stuck to her. With every step, her feet picked up fine red dust that slipped between her sandals and the soles of her feet and caught between her toes.

      Kane hefted two boxes of groceries from the truck and balanced them on his shoulders.

      ‘Can I help?’ she asked.

      ‘Could you grab that box of tinned stuff?’

      ‘Certainly.’

      As she followed him into the hut the wooden front steps creaked ominously. A dog barked and she saw that a blue speckled dog had been tied up to one of the veranda posts.

      ‘G’day, Bruiser,’ called Kane. ‘Is the boss home?’

      The dog seemed to go back to sleep as Kane shoved the front door open with one elbow. Charity couldn’t suppress a shudder as she followed him inside. Surely Kane’s sister Annie couldn’t be responsible for this untidy interior? The floors looked as if they hadn’t been swept for weeks. An old coffee table was littered with beer cans, magazines and filthy ash trays. There were no curtains at the windows and a piece of fraying hessian had been tacked over one frame in place of glass.

      The floor of the narrow passage leading to the back of the house was covered by cracked linoleum that looked a thousand years old. Kane carried the groceries through to the kitchen and dumped them on a rickety table before opening the fridge.

      Charity gasped. ‘It’s full of beer!’

      He sent her a withering glance over his shoulder. ‘Blokes in the bush have to get their priorities right.’

      ‘But what about your sister? How could she live here?’

      Slamming the fridge door shut again, he turned to her and rested his hands lightly on his hips. ‘I take it you’re not too impressed with this place?’

      Charity gulped. She couldn’t bear the thought of living here, but her upbringing had made her excruciatingly tactful and she didn’t want to hurt Kane’s feelings.

      His upper lip curled and his voice grew cold as he said, ‘Maybe you don’t have what it takes to look after a place like this.’

      ‘I’ll do my best,’ she croaked. ‘But, to be honest, I can’t see much evidence that this house has been carefully looked after.’

      He laughed then. Actually laughed. And she wanted to hit him. Her hands clenched and she drew in a sharp, angry breath. She was hot and headachy and worried about Tim and the thought of living in this messy, tiny, shabby hut was the last straw.

      ‘Chill, Chaz,’ he said.

      ‘Chill?’ she almost shouted.

      ‘Calm