Required: Three Outback Brides: Cattle Rancher, Convenient Wife / In the Heart of the Outback... / Single Dad, Outback Wife

Required: Three Outback Brides: Cattle Rancher, Convenient Wife / In the Heart of the Outback... / Single Dad, Outback Wife
Margaret Way

Barbara Hannay

Amy Andrews

Cattle Rancher, Convenient Wife Cattle rancher Rory Compton isn’t looking for love – but he is looking for a wife. He wants a partner who will settle down with him in the Outback, a practical, down-to-earth woman who won’t be seduced by the bright lights of the city. Glamorous fashion editor Allegra Sanders doesn’t seem to fit Rory’s criteria at all. But…In the Heart of the Outback…The image of Byrne Drummond has burned in Fiona’s mind ever since she first saw him in Gundawarra. A stoic, broad-shouldered cattleman stricken by the wreckage her brother had created. Byrne has every reason to hate Fiona, but her touch is the first to stir him in years. Single Dad, Outback WifeDistinguished city surgeon Andrew Montgomery is the new doctor in a small town and the new guardian to his young nephew, Cory. Out of his depth in his role as a single dad, he turns to beautiful Georgina Lewis for help…

Required: Three

Outback Brides

Cattle Rancher,

Convenient Wife

Margaret Way

In the Heart of

the Outback …

Barbara Hannay

Single Dad,

Outback Wife

Amy Andrews

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Cattle Rancher,

Convenient Wife

Margaret Way

About the Author

MARGARET WAY takes great pleasure in her work, and works hard at her pleasure. She enjoys tearing off to the beach with her family on weekends, loves haunting galleries and auctions and is completely given over to French champagne “for every possible joyous occasion.” She was born and educated in the river city of Brisbane, Australia, and now lives within sight and sound of beautiful Moreton Bay.

CHAPTER ONE

THOUGH his mood was fairly grim Rory Compton couldn’t help but smile. It was the middle of the day, yet a man could fire a cannon down the main street of Jimboorie and not find a target; not even a stray dog. The broad sunlit street was deserted as were the sidewalks, usually ganged on a Saturday. No kids were bobbing, weaving, ducking about, playing some private game, while their mothers, looking harried shouted at them to stop. No one was loading groceries into the family pickup. No dusty four-wheel drive’s ran back and forth, the drivers waving casually and calling greetings to friends and acquaintances which meant pretty well everyone in town.

Seated on the upper verandah of Vince Dougherty’s pub, Rory had the perfect view of the town centre, its impressive Community Hall and its attractive park. He drained off the cold beer he’d enjoyed with the prepacked lunch Dougherty’s wife, Katie, had very kindly left him; a plate of thick roast beef and pickles sandwiches, cling wrapped so well it took him almost five minutes to get into it. He hadn’t a hope of working his way through the pile. The stray dog would have come in handy in that regard. With the possible exception of himself, the whole town had taken itself off to the big ‘open day’ on Jimboorie, an outlying historic sheep station that had given the town its name. Sitting there, his long legs resting on a planter’s chair, he debated whether to go. There was a slim chance it could boost his mood.

It was a restoration party he understood from Vince, who being a publican was always ready for a chat that naturally included dramatic revelations. The old homestead, from all accounts, once magnificent, had been allowed to go to rack and ruin under the custodianship of the former owner, Angus Cunningham. ‘A miserable old bastard! Didn’t think anyone in town was good enough to talk to!’

Of course Rory knew the name Cunningham. The Cunninghams figured among the roll call Outback pioneers. Sheep men. Not cattlemen like his own kind, their stamping ground, the legendary Channel Country, a riverine desert deep into the South-West pocket of their vast State. The new owner, a great nephew, ‘one helluva guy!’ had spent well over a year and a mountain of money restoring the place. Lucky old him! Vince had invited Rory along to the open day—‘Sure and they won’t mind!’ Vince was as expansive as though he and Cunningham were best mates.

‘Maybe,’ he’d said. And maybe not. He wasn’t in his best spirits since he and his father had had their cataclysmic row a couple of weeks back. Since then he’d been on the road, travelling from one Outback town to another in a sick, angry daze, checking out if there were any pastoral properties on the market he could afford with the help of a hefty bank loan. He couldn’t lift his eyes to the multimillion range. All up including the private nest egg his grandad, Trevis Compton, had left him he had close to two million dollars A lot of money to a lot of people. Not near enough when one was talking a halfway decent pastoral property.

‘I haven’t left your brother, Jay, anything outside the personal things he loves,’ Trevis had told him years back. They were sitting on the front steps watching another glorious desert sunset, his grandad’s arm around his shoulder. ‘Jay’s the heir. He gets Turrawin. It’s always been that way. The eldest Compton son inherits to ensure the family heritage is kept intact. There are problems with splitting it a number of ways. Jay’s a good boy. I love him dearly. But he’s not you. You’re meant for big things, Rory. A little nest egg might well come in handy after I’m gone.’

Rory could still hear his grandfather’s deep gentle voice. How could two men be so different? His grandfather and his dad? To be strictly fair his grandfather had led a charmed life with a devoted wife as his constant companion. His son Bernard, however, had his life blighted fairly early. Bitterness ate into a man’s soul. That last row had been one row too many. On both sides. His father had sent him on his way—hell he was going anyway—hurling the most vicious and unjust insults that even Rory, used to his father’s ungovernable tirades, was deeply shocked. He had passed his elder brother, Jay, his father’s heir in the entrance hall.

‘Damn him, damn him! Damn him to hell!’ Jay was muttering, white faced and shamed, furious with his father for attacking Rory but unprepared to go to his defence. Their father had turned big strong Jay into a powder puff, Rory thought sadly. Anyway Jay’s intervention would have been in vain. He was going or his own pride and integrity would be hopelessly compromised. What did it matter he ran Turrawin these days and largely for the past four years? His father wanted him out! Sometimes Rory thought his father couldn’t abide to look at him.

They had never been close. Instinctively Rory had known the reason. He strongly resembled his mother who had run off and left her husband and children when Rory was twelve and Jay fourteen. A really bad time. It had brought scandal on the family and a very hard life on Laura Compton’s two boys who had worshipped her. From that day forward their father had succumbed to the dark places that were in him. His temper, always volatile became so uncontrollable his young sons lived in a constant state of fear and anxiety. Jay was often in floods of tears after a beating with a riding crop; Rory, never which only served to inflame their father further. Both boys regarded boarding school as a god-send. By the age of sixteen and eighteen, both six foot plus, taller and stronger than their father, the beatings had stopped. Their father had been forced to turn his attention back to his whiplash tongue.

‘As soon as Dad’s dead you and I are going to be full partners,’ Jay had promised, his voice full of brotherly love and pride. Jay made no bones about it. Rory was everything he was not. ‘I won’t be able to run Turrawin without you. We both know that. The men look to you not me. You’re the cattleman. The man to save the station. Dad didn’t inherit Grandad’s skills or his leadership qualities. Neither did I. You’re the real cattleman, Rory.’

Rory sighed deeply knowing Jay would get into trouble without him. Bernard Compton had bruised his sons badly. But he hasn’t beaten me, Rory thought determinedly. I’ve got everything going for me. Youth, health, strength, the necessary skills. He’d start up his own run. Move up in easy stages. He was as ready to found a dynasty as his Compton ancestors had before him. In time—it would have to be pretty soon, he’d turned twenty-eight—he’d find himself a wife. A young woman reared to the Outback. A woman with a deep love of the land who could withstand an isolated existence without caving in to depression or a mad craving for city lights.

Romantic love wasn’t all that high on his agenda. Romance had a shelf life. That was the down side. He had to learn from experience. Most people didn’t. History wasn’t going to repeat itself with him. His best bet was a partner who could go the distance. That meant for life; a contractual sort of arrangement that the two of them would honour, working strongly together to build a future. As long as the woman was young and reasonably attractive the sex should be okay. He definitely wanted children. He knew he wasn’t and never could be a hard, cruel bastard like his old man. He would be a good father to his children, not bring them up in a minefield. The Outback certainly bred hard men, tough men. But mercifully not many like his dad.

So what to do now? Rory stood up and stretched his long arms, staring down at the empty street. He had plenty of time on his hands. Why not take a run out to Jimboorie?

He might as well. Vince had given him directions. A beautiful old homestead would be worth seeing at least. It might even offer some comfort. He’d been intrigued to learn the new owner’s Christian name was Clay. Clay Cunningham. He’d only ever met one Clay in his life, but that was a Clay Dyson, the overseer on Havilah a couple of years back. A guy around his own age held in great esteem by his employer, old Colonel Forbes, ex-British Army, now deceased, who had inherited Havilah from his Australian cousin and to everyone’s astonishment had remained in the country to work it. Colonel Forbes, universally respected, had thought the world of Clay Dyson, Rory recalled. But it wasn’t that Clay. Couldn’t be. The Clay Dyson he had known had no background of money, no family name, though the word was old Colonel Forbes had remembered him in his will.

By the time he arrived on Jimboorie, a splendid property and as far out of his reach as planet Pluto, the main compound was still crowded with people but some were starting to leave making for the parking area crammed with vehicles of all makes and price tags. During the long approach to the station he had seen more than one light aircraft airborne, heading home. He made a quick tour of the very extensive gardens marvelling at the great design and the rich variety of trees, flowering plants and shrubs he presumed were drought tolerant and could withstand dust storms.

Beneath a long tunnel of cerise bouganvillea that blossomed heavily over an all but smothered green wrought-iron trellis, he passed two pretty young women from the town who smiled at him shyly in acknowledgement. He smiled back, raising a hand in salute, totally unaware it only took an instant for his smile to light up his entire face and dispel the dark, serious, brooding look he’d worn since his teens.

Jimboorie House impressed him immensely. He’d never expected it to be so big or so grand. It was huge! It rivalled if not surpassed any of the historic homesteads he had been invited into over the years. When his mother had been with them—when they were family—they had been invited everywhere as a matter or course. His beautiful mother, Laura, had been very popular, herself an excellent hostess presiding over their own handsome homestead on which she had lavished much love and care.

Why then had she abandoned them? Didn’t God decree mothers had to remain with their children? For years he and Jay had accepted the reason their father had drummed into them. City bred their mother had only awaited the opportunity when they were old enough to renounce her lonely Outback life. As young men they came to understand what life for their mother might have been like, though their father had been reasonable enough then. Well, for most of the time anyway. He had never actually laid a hand on them when their mother was around except for the odd time when she had protested so strongly he had stopped. In any event she had remarried after the divorce. That happened all the time but it was lousy for the kids.

Their father, as was to be expected given his name, his money and influence, gained custody. He had never been prepared to share it with his ex-wife. The failure of their marriage was her fault entirely. It was one of his father’s most marked characteristics, he held himself blameless in all things. Their mother alone deserved condemnation. The sharing was a bad idea anyway. Sensitive Jay had always become enormously upset when it was time to leave her. Equally upset, though he never let on, Rory behaved badly. He had to take the pain out on someone. He had chosen to take it out on his mother. After a while the visits became farther and farther in-between, then ceased altogether.

‘Didn’t I tell you?’ their father had crowed, that hard triumphant gleam in his eyes as he started all over again to trash their mother. ‘She doesn’t want you. She never did! She’s a selfish, self-centred heartless bitch! We’re well rid of her!’

Neither of them would have won a good parenting award, Rory thought. But well rid of her? People really did die from grief. All three of them, father and sons, hadn’t been able to handle her desertion. Their father, a proud and arrogant man, had never been free of his own grief and crazed thoughts of personal humiliation. Rory’s memories of his mother were so heartwrenching he rarely allowed them to touch him. He and Jay had believed their mother to be the sweetest, gentlest, funniest, mother in the world. She could always make them laugh. It just didn’t seem possible she had been faking it as their father always claimed. Nevertheless she had left, taking no account of the devastation she left behind her.

In choosing a woman of his own, Rory had long since decided he had to make absolutely sure he kept his eyes and ears open and his feet firmly on the ground. He was as susceptible to a woman’s beauty as the next man—maybe more so he thought wryly—but there was no way he was going to allow himself to be seduced by it.

Or so he thought.

Vince Dougherty caught sight of him as he was wandering the grandly proportioned rooms of the old homestead letting it work its magic on him. Whoever had been responsible for the interior decoration—probably a top city designer—had done a great job.

‘You made it!’ Vince, looking delighted—his enthusiasm was hard to resist—made a beeline for him pumping his hand as though he hadn’t seen him for weeks instead of around eight-thirty that morning. ‘What d’yah think now? Tell me.’ He poked Rory’s shoulder which was marginally better than a poke in the ribs. ‘You look like a guy with good taste.’

‘That’s very kind of you, Vince.’ Rory’s answer was laconic. ‘It’s magnificent!’ His admiration was unfeigned. ‘Definitely well worth the visit!’

Vince looked as proud as if he were the owner, decorator, landscaper, all rolled into one. The kind of guy who changed lives. ‘Told yah, didn’t I? You should have come an hour or so earlier. Meet the Cunninghams yet?’

‘Not so far.’ Rory shook his head. ‘I only came to see the house really. I’m only passing through, Vince. Just like I told you.’