A Wife At Kimbara

In the early evening Broderick Kinross rang. As it happened Rebecca was passing through the hallway so she backtracked to answer the call.

“Kinross homestead.”

Whoever was at the other end said nothing for a moment then a male voice so vibrant, so unforgettable, it gave her a shock responded. “Miss Hunt, I presume.”

“That’s right.” She felt proud of her calmness.

“Brod Kinross here.”

As if she didn’t know. “How are you, Mr. Kinross?”

“Just wonderful and such a tonic to hear your voice.”

“I expect you want to speak to your father,” she said quickly, feeling the sharp edge to the black velvet delivery.

“I expect he’s enjoying his pre-dinner drink,” he drawled. “No, don’t disturb him, Miss Hunt. Instead could you please tell him I’ll be at Kimbara….

Not home? She listened.

“For the polo weekend. Grant Cameron is giving me a lift should my father decide to send the Beech for me. Dad’s pretty devoted you know.”

Sarcasm without a doubt. “I’ll tell him, Mr. Kinross.”

“I trust in time you’ll be able to call me Brod.” Again the ghost of mockery.

“My friends call me Rebecca,” Rebecca finally said.

“It suits you beautifully.”

“Why must you sound mocking?” She brought it out into the open.

“That’s very good, Miss Hunt.” He applauded. “You know how to pick up nuances.”

A sparkle of anger lit Rebecca’s eyes. She was glad he couldn’t see it. “Let’s say I know how to pick up warning signals.”

“Quite sure of that?” he responded just as coolly.

“You don’t have to tell me you don’t like me.” He could scarcely deny it after that first time.

“Why in the world wouldn’t I,” he answered and rang off with nothing resolved.

What was he getting at? Rebecca let out a short pent-up breath, replacing the receiver rather shakily. Their one and only meeting had been brief but disturbing. She remembered it vividly. It was late last month and he had flown in to Kimbara unexpectedly…

She had put on her large straw hat before venturing out into the heat of the day. Fee had had a slight headache so they had taken a break. Every chance she had she liked to explore this fantastic environment that was Kimbara. The sculptural effects of the trees, the shrubs and rocks, the undulating red dunes on the station’s south-southwestern borders. It truly was another world, the distances so immense, the light so dazzling, the colours more sun-seared than anywhere else. She loved all the burnt ochres the deep purples the glowing violets and amethysts, the grape-blues that made such a wonderful contrast to the fiery terracottas.

Stewart had promised her a trip into the desert when the worst of the heat was over and she was greatly looking forward to it. It would be too much to expect she would be granted the privilege of seeing the wild heart burst into bloom. No rains had fallen for many long months but she had seen Stewart’s collection of magnificent photographs of Kimbara under a brilliant carpet of wildflowers and marvelled at the phenomenon. Not that localised rain was even needed to make the desert bloom, he had told her. Once the floods started in the tropical far north sending waters coursing southward, thousands of square miles of the Channel Country could be irrigated. Swollen streams ran fifty miles across the plains they were so flat. It was such a fascinating land and a fascinating life. Stewart Kinross had to live like a feudal lord within his desert stronghold.

She had just reached the stables complex, which housed some wonderful horses, when she heard the clash of voices. Men’s voices not dissimilar in timbre and tone. Angry voices that made her go quiet.

“I’m not here to take orders from you,” Stewart Kinross was saying in a rasping voice.

“That’s exactly what you’re going to do unless you want to scuttle the whole project,” the other younger voice answered none too deferentially. “Face it, Dad, not everyone likes the way you operate. Jack Knowles for one and we need Jack if this enterprise is going to succeed.”

“That’s your gut feeling is it?” There was such a sneer in it Rebecca recoiled.

“You should have some,” Stewart Kinross’s son quipped, sounding to Rebecca’s ears convincingly tough.

“Don’t lecture me,” his father came back thunderously. “Your day is not yet and don’t you forget it.”

“Not with you on about it all the time,” the son retorted. “An argument, Dad. That’s the best reward I ever get. But hell, I no longer care. In case you’ve forgotten I do most of the work while you sit around enjoying the benefits.”

At that Stewart Kinross exploded but Rebecca waited for no more. She turned abruptly shocked by the palpable bitterness of the exchange. She had heard Stewart Kinross and his son weren’t close but she hadn’t been prepared for the depth of that disaffection. She had heard as well Broderick Kinross at the age of thirty ran the Kinross cattle empire from distant Marlu. Something he seemed to have confirmed. It was all very disturbing. Even as an outsider she felt the emnity. It was a new insight into Stewart Kinross as well. Fee had assured her her nephew and niece, Brod and Alison, were wonderful young people. Not that Fee had seen a great deal of them with a life based in London. But she spoke of them both with great affection.

It occurred to Rebecca for the first time, though Fee was a great talker, she was remarkably reticent about her only brother. Certainly Rebecca felt appalled by the cold venom of Stewart Kinross’s tone. She would have thought he would be immensely proud of his son.

Troubled by what she had overheard Rebecca walked quickly away. The last thing she wanted was to be seen but her efforts were doomed to failure. Both men must have moved off in her direction because a few moments later Stewart Kinross’s commanding voice required her to stop.

“Rebecca,” he called in a nice mix of authoritarian and genial host.

She turned watching them emerge from the stables complex, probably on their way back to the house.

“Stewart!” Even with her large shady hat she had to put a hand to her eyes against the brilliant sunlight.

Two men in silhouette. Both very tall, a couple of inches over six feet, one with the full substance of maturity, the other a whipcord rangy young man, both wearing the standard Akubra, the younger man with a decidedly rakish tilt. He had a great walk, she thought, putting her in mind of some actor, a kind of graceful lope.

She felt little tears in her eyes at the near unendurable light and wondered why she hadn’t brought her sunglasses.

They caught up with her easily and she had her first sight of Broderick Kinross, heir to the Kinross cattle and business empire.

She didn’t know how she had pictured him. Handsome certainly, given the family good looks but not this. He literally blazed. The blue eyes so vivid they trapped her gaze. For an instant she had the extraordinary sensation something had cut off her breath.

“Rebecca, may I introduce my son, Broderick.” Stewart Kinross looked down at her, sounding as though he preferred not to. “He’s here for an interim report to me.” He continued more briskly. “Brod, this is the very clever young woman who is writing Fee’s biography as I’m sure you’ve heard. Rebecca Hunt.”

Rebecca gave Broderick Kinross her hand perturbed by the adrenaline that was pouring into her body. She looked up into a lean, striking face, beautiful glittering blue eyes. For someone who had laboured long and hard to maintain a fail-safe cool facade she now felt bathed in heat.

“How do you do, Miss Hunt.” He was perfectly courteous, on the formal side, yet she felt the shock and hostility that was in him. Why? “When I last spoke to Fee she was very happy with the start you’ve made on the book. Obviously she has confidence in you.”

“I’m very grateful that she thought of me at all,” Rebecca said, subdued by the tingling in her hand. “I’m not terribly well-known.”

“Don’t be so modest, my dear,” Stewart Kinross responded in a voice like warmed syrup. He draped a proprietorial arm around her shoulder. Something he had never done before. “I read your biography and thoroughly enjoyed it.” Very gently he turned her around, enchanted by the way the large straw brim of her hat shadowed her face. “You really shouldn’t go wandering around in the heat. For all that charming hat you risk burning that lovely skin.”

Why the hell don’t you hug her, Brod thought with black humour.

He never thought he would live to see adoration in his father’s eyes, but this was coming mighty close. Fee had confided to him on the side “your father is quite taken with Rebecca.” More like infatuated.

Brod felt a bit shell-shocked himself and he’d had more than his share of girlfriends.

She was lovely in a way that didn’t appeal to him at all. The hot-house flower. Good bones, but delicate like a dancer. A little scrap of a thing. No more than five-three. Big light-filled grey eyes, satin near-black hair that fell almost to her shoulders and curved in under her chin and that fabulous skin. All the girls he knew had a golden tan, were tall and athletic and they didn’t wear beautiful silly hats with brims that dipped and flowers and ribbons for a trim. Miss Rebecca Hunt was no wildflower. She was an exotic. A vision of cool beauty.

“I take it we’ve finished our business for the day, Brod.” Stewart Kinross turned his handsome head with its immaculate cream Akubra to address his son.

Brod took his eyes off Miss Hunt for a moment to answer. “Please, Dad, give me a break. I can’t go away without speaking to Fee.” The words were said with gentle irony, but Rebecca could see he had no intention of going.

“Well then, come along,” Stewart Kinross answered pleasantly, but with a certain glint in his eye. “I’m sure Mrs Matthews—” he referred to Kimbara’s long time housekeeper “—can provide you with some afternoon tea.”

“So have you had sufficient time to form an opinion about our world, Miss Hunt?” Brod asked, falling back into line with the petite Miss Hunt in the middle. He was glad his father had at last removed his arm from her delicate shoulders. He felt like flinging it off himself.

“I love it.” Her charming voice was filled with sincerity. “It may seem strange but I don’t know my own country as well as I know some places overseas.”

“There is the fact Australia is so big,” he offered dryly, indicating the vastness around them.

“And you can’t be all that long out of university?” He glanced down at her meaningfully.

“I’m twenty-seven.” She gave him a shimmering cool glance.

“My dear, in that hat you look seventeen,” Stewart Kinross complimented her.

“Scarlet O’Hara,” Broderick Kinross murmured, sounding none too impressed. “You didn’t once travel Outback?”

“As I say, oddly no.” Rebecca gathered her defences around her. “My work kept me in Sydney for the most part. I spent two wonderful years overseas, based in London, though I never got to meet Fee. I’ve visited all the state capitals, tropical North Queensland many times. I love it. I’ve holidayed on the Great Barrier Reef, but this is another world after the lushness of the coastline. Almost surreal with the vast, empty landscape, the monolithic rocks, and the extraordinary changing colours. Stewart is going to take me on a trip out into the desert.”

“Really?” Broderick Kinross shot a glance at his father, his cleanly cut mouth compressed. “When is this?”

“When the worst of the heat dies down a little,” Stewart Kinross said with almost a bluster.

“Magnolias wilt in the heat,” Broderick Kinross lowered his head to peer at the curve of Rebecca’s cheek.

“Trust me, Mr. Kinross.” Rebecca’s head shot up as she gave the sardonic Broderick a brief sidelong glance. “I don’t wilt.”

“I’m holding my breath until you tell me more about yourself,” he retorted, a faint catch of laughter in his voice. “I’m sure any young woman as beautiful as yourself has a boyfriend somewhere.”

“Actually, no.” She wanted to cry out, “Please leave me alone.” He was getting to her as he obviously meant to.

“What is this, Brod, an interrogation?” his father asked, drawing his thick black eyebrows together.

“Not at all. If it seemed like that I apologise,” he said. “I’m always interested in your visitors, Dad. Miss Hunt seems more interesting than most.”

Interesting wasn’t the word. A true femme fatale.

They had just reached the main gate of the compound, a massive wrought-iron affair that fronted the surrounding white-washed walls when a nesting magpie shot out of a tree, diving so low over their heads Rebecca gave an involuntary cry. She was well aware magpies could be a menace when they thought the nest was under threat. The bird wheeled with incredible speed clearly on the attack but this time Broderick Kinross, with a muffled exclamation, pulled her against him with one arm and made a swipe at the offending bird with his black Akubra.

“Go on, get!” he cried, with the voice of authority.

The bird did, keeping just out of range.

To Rebecca’s searing shame her whole body reacted to being clamped to his. It was a dreadful weakness that she thought long buried.

“It can’t hurt you.” He released her almost immediately, staring up at the peacock-blue sky. “They’re a damned nuisance when they’re nesting.”

“You’re all right aren’t you, Rebecca?” Stewart Kinross asked, genuinely solicitous. “You’ve gone rather pale.”

“It was nothing, nothing,” she began to laugh the moment off. “It’s not my first magpie attack.”

“And you’ve told us you’re pretty brave.” Broderick Kinross caught her gaze. A moment that spun out too long.

“I told you I don’t wilt,” she corrected, a tiny blue pulse beating in her throat.

“No.” A ripple of something like sexuality moved like a breeze across his face. “Wasn’t she magnificent, Dad?” he teased.

“You must understand that Broderick likes a little joke, Rebecca,” Stewart Kinross said, a crack appearing in his grand manner.

“Then I generously forgive him,” Rebecca spoke sweetly even though her breath still shook in her chest.

What she wanted out of life was peace. That she intended to guard fiercely even against a cyclonic force. Broderick Kinross had the dark, dangerous power to sweep a woman away.

On the Saturday morning of the polo match, Fee woke late, still feeling weary from insufficient sleep. She turned on her back easing the satin pads from her eyes. Living so long in England she had all but forgotten the brilliant light of her homeland. Now she had these eye pads on hand for the moment when the all powerful sun threw golden fingers of light across the wide verandah and into her bedroom.

She was a chronic insomniac these days. Nothing seemed to cure it. She’d tried knock out pills—get up in the morning and have a good strong cup of coffee advice from her doctor—but she hated drugs, preferring herbal cures, or relaxation techniques, not that she had ever been a great one to relax. Too much adrenaline in the blood. Too many late, late nights. Too many lovers. Too many after performance parties. Too many social events crammed into her calendar. She thought she might be able to unwind once she returned home but it wasn’t happening.

Of course she and Stewart never did get on, as children and adolescents. Stewart so absolutely full of himself. Since birth. Fiona had taken herself out of the jarring environment of playing second fiddle to her swaggering brother, The Heir, by setting sail for England. Of course her beloved dad, Sir Andy, shocked out of his mind at the prospect of losing his little princess had tried to stop her but in the end when faced with her shrieking virago acts sent her off with enough money to keep her in great style while she studied drama in preparation for her brilliant career. She’d managed this through a combination of beauty—let’s face it, even at sixty she could still make heads swivel—lots of luck, the Kinross self-confidence and a good resonant speaking voice, possibly from all that yelling outdoors. She had the lung capacity to fill a theatre like her good friend La Stupenda. And the Gods be praised, native talent. If you didn’t have that you had nothing.

The thing that was really niggling away at her was this new potentially destructive situation with Stewart and Rebecca. God knows she’d seen enough of ageing men wearing pretty things young enough to be their daughters even granddaughters on their sleeves, but she wasn’t at all happy about Stewart’s interest in this particular young woman she’d become so fond of. Apart from the big age difference, part of her wanted badly to warn Rebecca against her brother’s practised charm. How could any young person, a near stranger, know what lay beneath the superbly self-assured manner? No wonder little Lucille, her dead sister-in-law had run off. Lucille so gentle a spirit would have fared badly trying to withstand Stewart’s harsh nature. In the end she’d shrunk from it.

And there was the way Stewart had treated his children, especially Broderick, who had his mother’s glorious eyes although he was clearly a Kinross. Sir Andy had written to her often about his concerns and she had seen for herself Stewart’s coldness towards his children whenever she returned home. Those were the years when her darling Sir Andy was still alive. She wouldn’t be here now much as she loved the place of her birth only for the fact Stewart was trying to talk her into selling her shares in several Kinross enterprises. There were many family interests to discuss. No need for her to run off. This was the home of her ancestors.

Oddly enough it had been Stewart who had begun all the talk about her writing her biography. He had even suggested a possible candidate for the job. A young award-winning journalist called Rebecca Hunt, already the author of a successful biography about another family friend, opera singer Judy Thomas. Dame Judy lest any of us forget. Stewart had read Judy’s autographed book and been impressed. He’d also seen the young Hunt woman being interviewed on one of those Sunday afternoon programs about the Arts.

“Ask her out here, Fee,” Stewart had urged her, laying a compelling hand on her shoulder. “If only to see if the two of you could get along. After all, my dear, you’ve had a dazzling career. You have something to say.”

She’d fallen for it hook, line and sinker, closing her eyes to the past, gratified by his interest, thinking Stewart could be very charming now that he’d mellowed. Clever, clever, Stewart.

She’d done what he wanted. Lured Rebecca into his trap. Stewart had obviously fallen in love with her. On sight. She was just the sort of patrician creature he had always liked with her pure face and haunted eyes. Oh, yes, they were haunted for all Stewart thought they were cool as lakes. Rebecca had a past. Behind the immaculate exterior, Fee suspected Rebecca had her own story to tell. A story involving some very bitter experience. One that lay hidden but not buried. Fee knew all about the wilderness of love.

She threw back the silk coverlet, putting her still pretty bare feet to the floor. Much as she adored the company of her nephew, secretly revelled in watching him outplay his father in all departments on the polo field, she just knew this weekend was going to bring plenty of tension and heartache.

Why had Stewart invited Brod in the first place? He had to know by now Brod outstripped him as a polo player. Then there was the tantalising presence of the beautiful, unusual Rebecca. What middle-aged man, however wealthy, would set out to woo a young woman then expose her to the likes of Brod for goodness’ sake. It didn’t make a scrap of sense unless Stewart was applying yet another test.

Stewart was a great one for putting people through hoops. Such an arrogant man. Perhaps if the seemingly perfect Rebecca didn’t pass the test she would fall from her golden pedestal and be made so uncomfortable she would be forced to leave. Fee was now certain her brother had marriage on his mind and it wasn’t out of the question. Even after all these years. Not that they had been womanless. Stewart had had his affairs from time to time but he had obviously never found the woman he wanted to keep for himself. The prize possession. Lucille lovely as a summer’s day had been that for a time but somehow Lucille had found the courage to run away. The next one wouldn’t be given the opportunity.

Fee didn’t like to think it could be Rebecca. She was worried Rebecca might be someone who’d been hurt so badly she could settle for security. An older man, rich, social, establishment, grounded in the conventions. Rebecca could easily mistake an impressive facade for safety.

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