The Cattleman's Bride

Two decades of bringing you the very best

in romance reading.

To recognize this important milestone,

we’ve invited six very

special authors—whose names you’re sure to recognize—

to tell us how they feel about Superromance.

Each title this month has a letter

from one of these authors.

Who better to write the foreword to Joan Kilby’s

The Cattleman’s Bride than acclaimed author

Margaret Way. Both writers live in Australia

and both have the magical ability to make the land

and its people come alive.

The Cattleman’s Bride is the story of a man and a

woman who must overcome differences as vast as

the outback itself in resolving the dilemma that

faces them. In that harsh and beautiful land,

superficialities are stripped away as Sarah and

Luke reach deep inside themselves and find a love

that promises them a lifetime of fulfillment.

This is Joan’s third book for Superromance.

Her first novel earned her a RITA nomination for

Best First Book, and her writing talents have

merited a profile in the much-respected Writer’s

Digest. It’s a pleasure to showcase Joan on this very

special occasion for Superromance.

Dear Reader,

I was born and grew up in Vancouver, Canada, but have lived in Australia for ten years now. My first impressions of this beautiful land remain vivid—the colors, the scents, the intensity of the sun, the enormous blue sky and the wide-open spaces.

The outback holds an almost mythical place in the hearts and minds of Australians, most of whom live in large cities along the coast. As I got to know more about the outback and talked with the people who live there, I was struck by the fact that, despite the harsh environment and the hardships they face, they passionately love their way of life.

As my heroine, Sarah, discovers, it’s not an easy life, but in the challenge lies the reward. Her greatest reward is Luke—a modern-day pioneer, a battler who loves the land and the freedom to be his own man. In each other, Sarah and Luke discover that once-in-a-lifetime love that transcends all boundaries.

I hope you find The Cattleman’s Bride as enjoyable and satisfying to read as it was for me to write. I love to hear from my readers. Please write me c/o Harlequin Enterprises Ltd., 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9, or e-mail me at www.superauthors.com.

Sincerely,

Joan Kilby

The Cattleman’s Bride

Joan Kilby

www.millsandboon.co.uk

FOREWORD BY MARGARET WAY

When my editor, Paula Eykelhof, asked me if I would write a foreword for an upcoming Superromance, the year 2000 being the twentieth anniversary of the line, I agreed with pleasure—and with the sense of being honored for my own contribution to the big, bright, beautiful world of Harlequin romance novels.

Although I have written some 80-odd books for the Harlequin Mills and Boon Romance series, it was only recently, through Paula’s encouragement, that I extended my boundaries to Superromance. The Australian Heiress, released in 1998, was the first. My second, already researched, is in the process of being written. It is again set in the Australian outback, and I hope it will be an exciting read with a fascinating and provocative theme. Ancient Egyptian presence in tropical far north Queensland? The hunt is on for treasure in the rainforests and crocodile-infested swamps of Australia’s top end wilderness coast. Be assured that a great romance figures in this story, along with the skulduggery and high tension. I look forward to seeing it in the Superromance lineup for 2001—and I hope you will, too.

Although I greatly enjoyed writing for the Romance series and have done so for the past thirty years, Superromance has provided me with a fresh challenge. I derive considerable satisfaction from the longer story, which gives me the opportunity to weave a more complex plot, introduce more characters and let them speak as they develop a fuller personality.

Being a successful writer (for which I must thank my publisher, my excellent caring editors and my loyal readers) must be one of the best jobs a woman can have. I love getting involved with my characters. I love falling in love with my heroes (yes, I do), but one of the most delightful aspects of the job is bringing pleasure to a lot of readers.

And speaking of readers…I’ve recently had the pleasure of catching up on my Superromances. I read books by Jan Freed, Bethany Campbell, Margot Early and others—and I thoroughly enjoyed a diversity of compelling stories. On the newcomer front, I particularly enjoyed A Father’s Place by a fellow Australian, Joan Kilby. This book has an important message to deliver through a very engaging heroine. Such messages can change lives. I’m sure that writing such an eloquent first book gave Joan enormous pleasure and satisfaction. I know she’ll go on to even greater things.

A peaceful and prosperous 2000 (and beyond) to all our readers (with the fervent hope for better government around the world!).

Margaret Way

Margaret Way is one of the best-known and most-loved romance writers in the world. Her books are usually set in her native Australia, which she writes about with passion and immense skill. She’s made Australia real for millions of readers. She continues to be published by Harlequin Romance—the original romance series. And her second Superromance will appear in February 2001.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

“DOUBLE HAZELNUT MOCHA with a sprinkle of cinnamon and a dash of nutmeg, please.”

Sarah drummed the steering wheel while the attendant at the drive-through stall in Eastside Seattle whipped up her coffee. She usually ordered espresso to wake her up on gray October mornings, but in times of crisis a jolt of flavored caffeine usually helped perk her up.

Okay, so her father’s death wasn’t exactly a crisis; she hadn’t seen him more than a handful of times since he and her mom had split up when Sarah was a baby. The shock was learning he’d left her Burrinbilli, the outback cattle station where her mother had grown up. Half the station, that is. The station manager owned the other half.

“Thanks,” Sarah said to the attendant, and maneuvered the steaming foam cup through the window of her Mazda.

Back in the stream of traffic, she sipped her coffee and fantasized about buying the penthouse suite for sale on top of her employer’s office building. If she lived there she could be at work by now. Imagine, rising at a civilized hour, having a leisurely breakfast in the café next door, then taking a mere elevator ride up to the computer programming department where she designed educational software. Urban paradise.

The traffic inched along. The windshield wipers slapped away the rain. The fax machine rang. Sarah pressed the start button and glanced at the emerging paper—a request for details on the new software package she was working on.

She could sell her half of Burrinbilli and buy that penthouse suite.

Or she could do something really nice for Mom.

She pulled into the car park opposite her office building and hurried across the street. Minutes later she stepped onto the fourth floor to navigate the rabbit warren of cubicles to her workspace. Some people complained about the cramped quarters, but Sarah didn’t mind. She’d plastered the divider walls with Far Side cartoons and pictures of her cat. With her coffee at hand and a family-size bag of Gummi Bears in her drawer, what more could she ask for?

She pulled the letter from the executor of her father’s estate out of her briefcase, punched in the phone number of Burrinbilli, then swung around to gaze at the old photo tacked to the wall of her cubicle, the receiver tucked under her ear. The little girl standing on the steps of the veranda and squinting into the brilliant sunlight of western Queensland was her mother.

Mom had raved about Burrinbilli for as long as Sarah could remember. Endless blue sky, the creek where she fished for the freshwater crayfish she called yabbies, the wide shady veranda that wrapped itself right around the elegant 1880s homestead.

And best of all, to Sarah’s mind—Lake Burrinbilli.

The telephone rang and rang. Sarah wondered belatedly what time it was in Australia. Was it five hours ahead or nineteen behind? Either way, that meant…Uh-oh. She started to hang up the receiver.

“H’llo.” The man on the other end stifled a yawn.

“Hi!” she said. “I’ve just realized what time it is there. I’ll call back later.”

“Who’s this?”

“Sarah Templestowe. My father was Warren Temp—”

“What can I do for you?” His sleep-roughened twang suddenly had an edge like a boomerang.

“I’m looking for the station manager, Luke Sampson.”

“You found him.”

“Hello. Nice to meet you.” Slow down, Sarah. Breathe. “I guess you’ll have heard from his executor. That he left his half of the property to me, I mean.”

“I heard. Sorry about your father.”

“It’s okay.” She felt uncomfortable accepting condolences for a man she’d hardly known. The man who hadn’t cared enough to do more than send a Christmas card and visit once every five years. Warren Templestowe might have been her biological father, but her stepdad, Dennis, had been the stable, loving man who’d always been there for her.

“I was going to call,” Luke said. “Offer to buy you out.”

“Oh, no,” she said. “I want to buy your half.”

A long silence ensued. “Hello?” Sarah said, thinking she’d lost the connection.

“A week before your father died I made him an offer on the property,” Luke informed her. “I’ve got a bank loan arranged and the paperwork drawn up.”

“Did he actually agree to sell?” Sarah doodled furiously on her scratch pad. “Did he sign any documents?”

“No,” Luke said slowly. “But he hasn’t put a bean into this place in years.”

Sarah wasn’t surprised her father had neglected the station. He’d never given her mother a cent for Sarah’s maintenance, either. “Burrinbilli belonged to my mother’s family—she grew up there. I’d like to give it back to her.”

“I didn’t know that about your mother,” Luke said. “Burrinbilli used to be one of the best properties in the area, but with the drought times have been tough. There are better stations around if you’re looking for an investment.”

“What exactly is the problem?”

“Cattle yards need repairing. Machinery needs replacing. We badly need a new bull. That’s just for starters.”

“And the homestead?” Sarah twined the phone cord around her finger.

“Bloody shame about the homestead.”

Her heart sank, but only for a moment. Something in his voice didn’t quite ring true. “If it’s that bad you should be glad I’m willing to take it off your hands so you can buy one of those other stations you were talking about.”

“Well,” he said slowly, “I guess we won’t bulldoze it just yet.” After a pause, his voice deepened. “The truth is, I’ve invested ten years and my life savings in this place. I don’t intend to sell.”

“I’ll pay you whatever you want.” It was a stupid thing to say, but she might do it if she could raise the money.

“Be careful, I could take you up on that—except I know you’re probably in shock over your father’s death.”

“There was no love lost between me and my father.”

“Fair enough. But I don’t want money. I want the land. And I’ll only pay the market value.”

Sarah popped a red Gummi Bear in her mouth and pondered her next move. He sounded like one determined dude, but everyone had a weak point. However, she wouldn’t find out his on the telephone. She hated traveling but… “I guess I’d better come down and check it out.”

“Do you have some notion of running this place yourself?” he asked warily.

“Goodness, no! I wouldn’t have the first idea. My home is here in Seattle. Would you have room for me to stay at the homestead if I come for a brief visit?”

“Plenty. Just my daughter and I live here. But we’re coming up to the annual cattle muster,” he warned. “And we’re late this year, so I’ll have my hands full.”

“I won’t disturb you. Promise.” She’d only bug him a little, just enough to get him to sell. “I’d better go for now. Sorry for waking you.”

“No worries.”

“I’ll let you know my flight number.”

“Hop a train from Brisbane, then take the bus from Longreach. We’re at the end of the line.”

The end of the line? Oh, God. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Right, then. Cheers.”

Sarah hung up. Her gazed drifted back to the faded photo of Burrinbilli. It seemed to call to her. Or was that Luke’s voice echoing in her imagination?

LUKE RAN WATER into the kettle. Through the window above the sink the predawn sky was paling in the east. A new owner for Burrinbilli—he’d thought it would be him. Bloody oath, it would be him. He was thirty-three and too old to be moving on.

Becka appeared in the doorway in her nightgown, clutching her doll. “You woke me up. Why are you having breakfast in the middle of the night?”

Luke forced himself not to react to her accusing tone. Was this hostile nine-year-old really his daughter? Where was the loving child who used to swing on his knee? And when had the emotional distance between them, as vast as the desert, sprung into existence? Maybe he should have taken her to live with him right after Caroline died, instead of leaving her with Caroline’s aunt Abby. But how could he have cared for a baby when he was out on the cattle run all day?

“Go back to bed,” he told Becka. “I’ll be in around nine for morning tea. I’ll make you breakfast then.”

“I don’t want to go back to bed. I want breakfast now.” She dropped into a wooden chair at the long jarrah-wood table in the middle of the kitchen and twined a finger through her sleep-tangled blond hair.

Luke exhaled through flared nostrils. It’d only been a week since he’d brought her here; things were bound to get better. Meantime, he didn’t have a clue how to discipline her. So he turned his back and set about making breakfast, cracking half a dozen eggs into one pan and frying strips of lean steak in another.

“I don’t see why I had to leave Aunt Abby’s to live out here in the middle of nowhere,” Becka whined. “I want to go home.”

“This is your home now. Abby and I agreed when you were a baby that when you turned nine you’d be old enough to live out at the station.”

He hadn’t realized then that the move would be such a huge emotional wrench for all of them. For most of Becka’s life their only contact had been the few days a month he could get away from the station to spend with her. Was it any wonder she didn’t want to be here with him now?

But she was his daughter, his flesh and blood, and he loved her. If Caroline hadn’t drowned when that rust bucket Thai ferry sank he might have convinced her to marry him and move out to the station. They could have been a family.

Luke placed a plateful of steak and eggs in front of Becka and sat opposite. She stared at it, then at him, silent and incredulous.

He motioned to her plate with his fork. “Eat.”

“I can’t eat that! Why did you give me steak? Aunt Abby never cooks steak for breakfast.”

“You’re not at Aunt Abby’s anymore. Better get used to it.” He’d never liked Abby overly much; she was fussy and irritating and spoiled the girl something chronic. Although, to her credit, she loved Becka and had given the child the time and attention that Luke couldn’t have.

His harsh tone made Becka’s face crumple. She turned to the doll still cradled in her arms. “Don’t worry, Suzy, we’ll visit Aunt Abby soon.”

Ah, hell. Luke laid a gentle hand on her arm. “Sorry if I sound a bit rough, possum. I’m not used to having a lady in the house. I’ll have to learn to mind my manners.”

“I want Coco Pops.”

He pulled back his hand, muscles tense. “Next time we go into Longreach for supplies we’ll get Coco Pops. Till then, eat up.”

Still holding her doll, Becka picked up a fork and poked at the fried egg. “Couldn’t I have stayed in Murrum at least until school ended?”

“The bus runs right by here. I’ll drive you down to the road every morning.”

“What about during the Wet when the road floods and I can’t get to school? And I’ll never be able to play with my friends on the weekends. Station life sucks.”

Luke rapped the butt of his knife on the table. “Watch your mouth.” Then he made an effort to soften his tone. “Summer holidays are coming up in December. You can have a friend out to stay.”

Becka sullenly began to eat. A minute later she started in on him again. “You’re out with the cattle all day. What am I going to do by myself? Who will help me with my lessons?”

“We’ll sort something out. I’ll help you in the evenings.”

The situation was rough on her, he had to admit, moving away from town and the aunt she loved to the isolated station. Probably he should have let her finish the school year in town, but he hadn’t thought, didn’t have the experience to know, these things were so important to kids.

“You can come out on the motorbike with me this morning to check the water bores.”

Her miserable glance of disdain told him what she thought of that idea. Luke carried his dishes to the sink, his love for his daughter like a knot of pain in his chest.

“Station life isn’t so bad,” he said, rinsing off his plate. “You can ride Smokey whenever you want.”

“Aunt Abby was going to get me a puppy.”

“We’ve got Wal, the Wonder Dog.” In the corner by the stove, Wal raised his speckled black-and-white head and thumped his tail.

“He’s not mine.”

Luke had had enough of trying to appease her for one morning. “Listen, miss, your attitude had better change. We’re going to have a guest shortly. The other part owner of the station is coming from America to see the property. I expect you to be polite and cheerful around her.”

“Why would she want to come to this dump? If I were her I’d rather stay in America.”

“She wants to bring her mother down here to live.”

“Oh, great. Does that mean we’ll have strangers living with us?”

Luke stopped short. He hadn’t had time to consider all the implications. If he couldn’t persuade Sarah Templestowe to sell her half of the station to him the situation could be tricky. “It might mean we’ll move into the manager’s cottage.”

Her face fell. “Not that awful place.”

“We’ll soldier on, Becka, even if it means living in the jackaroo’s quarters. Now, when you’re finished your breakfast you can get dressed and help me feed the chooks.”

Luke went through the sliding glass doors onto the veranda. The rising sun had gilded the silvery limbs of the river gums down by the dry creek bed. From their towering branches, a flock of white corellas lifted, screeching as they flapped noisily away, their snowy crests spread against the deep-blue sky.

He loved Burrinbilli as much as if he had grown up here. And he’d been that close to having all of it.

He took his battered Akubra hat off the peg beside the door, clapped it on his head and headed toward the milking shed, whistling for Wal. Soldier on.

SARAH PUSHED THROUGH the door of her mother’s import store, setting the brass bell to tinkling. The scent of ylang-ylang wafted from the oil burner on the windowsill beneath colored crystals and ornaments of stained glass. Anne was seated on a stool behind the counter, head bowed, as she entered accounts by hand into a ledger. Wisps of short auburn hair curled around her temples and a pair of half glasses sat midway down her nose.

“Hi, Mom.”

Anne glanced up and smiled. “Sarah, darling, what brings you out on this awful day?”

“I had a meeting with the executor of Warren’s estate last night.” She dropped her briefcase on the floor and shed her wet coat onto the horns of a carved wooden rhinoceros. “I’ve been trying to call you all day. Where’ve you been?”

“The phone was off the hook,” Anne said, folding shut the ledger. “It was hidden under a pile of papers and I didn’t notice until a little while ago.”

Sarah laughed. “Only you would do something like that. Anyway, I’m glad you didn’t have to be there. The way he swindled you out of Burrinbilli after your divorce was so unfair.”

Anne adjusted the dark purple shawl draped over her black turtleneck sweater, her oval face expressing her resignation. “Let it go, darl’, it’s in the past. Anyway, he didn’t swindle me out of it. I sold it to him.”

Sarah tilted her head impatiently. “For a song.”

“It allowed me to buy this shop, which was all I wanted back then—a place where I could work and care for you at the same time.”

“But he left you with nothing.”

“He left me you.”

“Oh, Mom,” Sarah said, her voice softening, and she stepped behind the counter to hug her mother. “I will never understand how anyone could walk out on you.”

Anne’s gaze shifted uncomfortably. “Since I wouldn’t have met and married Dennis otherwise, I consider myself lucky your father and I split up. As for Burrinbilli, I always regretted letting it go, but…I’ve made my peace with the loss.”

Sarah smiled, hugging her secret to herself a few minutes longer. “But you’d go back if you could, right?”

Anne got down from her stool and walked to the window to gaze out at the rain streaming down on the gray city streets. “I still dream about Burrinbilli,” she said in her faintly accented voice. “The sun, the heat, the wonderful open country of the Downs—” her voice caught “—the homestead my great-grandfather built after he came out from England.” She sighed and pulled her shawl tighter. “What’s that saying—’You can’t go home again’?”

Sarah laughed, unable to contain herself any longer. “But you can! Warren did one decent thing before he died. He left Burrinbilli to me.”

Anne turned, surprise and delight widening her dark brown eyes. “You mean he still had it? I never would have thought he’d keep it all these years. That’s wonderful!”

“Don’t get too excited,” Sarah cautioned. “I don’t own it completely. Apparently Warren ran into financial difficulties a few years ago and sold half to the station manager.”

“Oh, dear.” Anne came back to the counter. “And now it’s too late to buy him out.”

“He wants it, too. I’m going down to Australia to convince him to sell me his half. And when the place is entirely fixed up you can retire and move back there.”

“I beg your pardon?” Anne’s voice sounded strangled.

“You can move to Burrinbilli,” Sarah repeated. Her voice softened and she took her mother’s hand. “Dennis has passed on. You can go home. You’ve always said how much you missed Australia.”

“Yes, well…” Anne pulled her hand away to run her slender fingers over a string of colored beads from Nepal. “Are you actually traveling all the way to Burrinbilli?”

“You make it sound like the end of the earth. Not that that would worry you.” Every year Anne practically begged her, in vain, to come along on her yearly buying trips to Third World countries.