Outback Wives Wanted!: Wedding at Wangaree Valley / Bride at Briar's Ridge / Cattle Rancher, Secret Son

“Sure is,” Alana agreed. “I’ll take Cristo this morning.”

“Already got ‘im saddled up.” Buddy gave a complacent grin. He ducked back into the cool dim interior, then returned leading a rangy bright chestnut gelding—good bloodstock, like the other five in the stable.

“You’re psychic, Buddy,” Alana pronounced, believing it to be so.

“Never been sick in me life, Miss Lana,” Buddy protested, his expression uncertain.

“Not sick—psychic,” Alana answered, swinging herself up into the saddle. “Psychic means you’ve got spiritual powers.”

“That’s me!” Buddy visibly brightened. “Must have a teeny bit of Wangaree blood in me.”

“Ah, the long-vanished Wangaree!” Alana gave a regretful sigh, looking up towards the surrounding hills.

The trees were standing tall, their silhouette greenish black against a radiant unclouded blue sky. The Valley had been the Wangaree’s tribal ground. Wangaree Homestead had been named in honour of that lost tribe.

Alana toiled for hours, driving the wethers down from the ridge at a steady pace into the low country. The mustering of sheep and the directing of them to various locations around the property required plenty of patience and skill. Monty and Brig were in their element, with wonderfully eager expressions, floating around the mob and keeping them in a tidy, closely packed flowing stream. She provided the orders and her dogs carried them out, revelling in the chance to show her what they could do. A few sheep with a little more rebellion than the rest of the docile mob tried to make a break for the scrub, almost losing themselves in the golden grasses, but Monty—a low, near-invisible streak, his neck chain jingling—made quick work of herding them back into line, with a quick nip to a hapless hoof. The creek that wound through the property was glittering, as if a crowd of people were squatting beside it flashing mirrors. Alana always wore sunglasses. They were a must to protect her eyes from the searing glare.

These wethers were due to be drenched, but she would have to wait for Kieran to help her. Kieran was due home the day after next. She missed him when he went away. Life was pretty grim and enormously worrying, with their father the way he was. It broke her heart that the less compassionate people in the district had labelled her father “the Valley drunk.” Grief affected people in different ways. Her father, once a light drinker, enjoying a few cold beers at most, had embraced the whisky bottle with a vengeance.

She lifted her head to the wide-open sky. It was an incredible lapis-blue, virtually cloudless. A hot air balloon was almost directly overhead, sailing through the air as free as a bird. The Valley was a centre for sky-diving and parachuting too. She put up her hand and waved. The tourists waved back. They loved seeing the Valley this way. Wangaree and the adjoining valleys were at the very heart of one of the world’s great wine growing regions, and only a few hours’ drive from the country’s biggest and most vibrant city: Sydney.

Mid-morning, driven by hunger, she made her way back to the homestead. Two muesli bars and an apple didn’t fill a hard-working girl’s tummy. She stopped for a moment to admire her mother’s rose garden and say a little prayer. It was a daily ritual. She didn’t know if she believed in God any more, but she did it anyway. Her mother had been a believer. She missed her mother terribly.

Alana snapped out of it with an effort. How clever Buddy was! He had taken in everything her mother had taught him. High summer, and the roses were in extravagant bloom. The colours ranged from purest white through yellows and pinks to a deep crimson. Some of her mother’s favourites, the old fashioned garden roses, were wonderfully scented. Drought or no, her mother’s rose garden was putting on a superb display. For that matter the drought hadn’t had a detrimental effect on the grapes. The yield was down, certainly, but the quality was up. They had experienced just enough winter rain, with no damaging summer storms that could wipe out a vineyard in less than ten minutes.

She could hear Guy’s well-bred, sexy voice predicting, “This will be a vintage year.” She could hear his voice so clearly he might have been standing right beside her. But then Guy was so vitally alive he seemed physically present even when he wasn’t. At least that was what she believed. She even had to hold back a little moan, as though something sharp pricked at her heart. In his own way Guy Radcliffe was a god, complete with a valley full of worshippers. Certainly he was as splendid as any man might wish to be. Everyone adored him.

It fell to her to be the odd woman out.

Rounding the side of the house, she saw Simon’s Range Rover making its way out of the tunnel of trees that lent beauty and shade to the long drive up to the homestead. Her heart lifted. He could stay and have something to eat with her. She and Simon were the best of friends. The bond had sprung up in pre-school. Simon had been a real dreamer then, and very, very shy. He still was, come to that, and rather a bit too much on the intense side. She had taken charge of him right from the beginning, almost like a little mother. Her role had been to keep Simon safe.

“You must have been put on earth just for me, Lainie!”

That had been when the two of them had been standing hand in hand before the manger at a midnight service one Christmas Eve. She had given him a big squishy hug. What a pair they must have been!

Simon had lost every playground fight when she wasn’t around. The kids—and there had been some fair terrors around the Valley—had known not to mess with her. She’d been tough, and her big brother Kieran tougher. Simon was a Radcliffe—Guy’s first cousin—and that should have made him bullet proof. But it hadn’t—rather the reverse. Simon just seemed to be a natural-born victim. A big factor in his timidity could well have been the untimely loss of his playboy father before he was into his teens. Philip Radcliffe had died at the wheel of his high-powered car. His companion on that fateful day had not been his wife, but a Sydney socialite.

Simon’s widowed mother had not gone mad with grief. She had become as bitter as ever a scorned woman could, clinging tight to Simon, her only child, and smothering him in an unhealthy possessive love. Simon, who was very bright, like all the Radcliffes, had eventually gone off to university, where he’d thought himself safe from his mother’s excessive love—only to have to come home to Augusta Farm to a mother “terrified of being alone.” Though anyone who saw Rebecca Radcliffe throw up her narrow dark head, flash her black eyes and flare her thin nostrils would have been forgiven for thinking she wasn’t terrified of anyone or anything. It was the other way around.

Armed with an economics degree, Simon had been taken into the family firm as a matter of course. He worked on the business side of Radcliffe Wine Estates, which was now producing very high-quality chardonnay and shiraz wines. The estate’s chardonnay was reaching near iconic standards. Everything Guy touched turned to gold. Another example of the rich getting richer, Alana thought. If only a bit of Guy’s Midas touch could land on her father!

“It’s wonderful just to see the grapes grow,” Simon had once told her happily. “And Guy is the best boss in the world.”

Of course he was! Guy was Simon’s hero and his role model. Sometimes it put her teeth on edge, the way Simon drooled. She knew it wasn’t fair of her. Guy had huge responsibilities. He took them in his stride. It was freely acknowledged that he was doing wonderful things for the Valley. Surely, then, he richly deserved everyone’s devotion? There was no getting away from it. Guy Radcliffe was the driving force in Valley life. He drew people to him, men and women alike. Not that it made her love him the more. He didn’t take any special notice of her either. Neither could she truthfully say she was invisible to him. There was something about the way he looked at her from time to time that caused moments of elation she tried hard not to show. Underneath, of course, she found Guy as impressive as everyone else. It was just that she felt compelled to keep it to herself.

“How’s it going?” Simon called as he stepped out of his vehicle. As usual he had nosed it into his favourite parking spot in the shade of the lemon scented gums.

“Getting there,” she answered, waiting for him to crunch across the gravel to join her.

A beautiful stone fountain was the central feature of the driveway: three tiers, topped by a life-size bronze of a little boy. It was the work of a famous Australian sculptor—another treasure her mother had brought with her, along with the urns and stone statues that were dotted around the fairly extensive garden. These days the fountain never played.

“I was about to get myself something to eat. Come and keep me company.”

“Love to.” Simon showed his sweet, vulnerable smile. He had been a delicate and sensitive little boy, and sometimes it still showed. “Well, for a little while. I have to be getting back soon.”

“How did you get off in the first place?”

They mounted the short flight of front stairs.

Simon took off his hat and threw it onto the seat of a white wicker armchair. “I had to do a job for Guy. I was on my way back, but I thought I’d stop in here first. You look great.”

“You’re an awful fool!” she laughed. “I look terrible. I’m hot, sweating and starving.”

“You still look great.” Simon thought one of the best things about Alana was that she either didn’t know or didn’t care that her natural beauty was startling. Alana was his life. He had been running to her for peace and comfort ever since he could remember. “Your dad around?” His eyes slipped beyond her into the spacious entrance hall, as though Alan Callaghan was about to make another one of his slightly terrifying appearances.

“I guess he should be up by now,” Alana said, leading the way into the house. “Go into the kitchen while I check. You could start the coffee if you like.”

“Will do.”

Simon was as familiar with the Callaghan homestead as his own. He made his way through to the big farmhouse kitchen at the rear. It looked out onto the summerhouse where he and Alana had enjoyed endless after-school snacks prepared by her lovely mother. How he had wished he had a mother like that! The white lattice sides were covered in a very beautiful climbing rose, a creamy yellow with glossy dark green foliage, and a heavenly perfume wafted into the kitchen. He would always associate it with Annabel Callaghan. He missed her too. She had been such a radiant woman—beautiful, warm, welcoming. She and his own mother, Rebecca, could not have made a greater contrast.

Alana found her father in his study. He was dressed in knee-length khaki shorts and a clean white singlet. His heavy brown-rimmed glasses were sliding down his nose as he made his way through a fresh pile of bills.

“How are you, Dad?” Alana walked around the king-sized desk to give him a kiss.

“Awful, if you must know,” he grunted, putting an arm around her waist and resting his head briefly against her shoulder.

“Your own fault.” It was a mistake to give too much comfort.

“I know, but it ain’t easy,” he commented dryly. “The wethers have to be drenched.”

Alana slumped into a leather armchair. “Unless you can help me, it will have to wait until Kieran gets home.”

“Of course I’ll help you,” he said, just a shade testily. In her whole life Alana had never heard a harsh word from her father. “If you’re up to it we’ll do it this afternoon.”

“If I’m up to it? I like that!”

“Okay, okay—I know you’re a good, brave girl. The very best.” He broke off as emotion threatened to overcome him.

“My heart bleeds for you, Dad,” she said, very gently. After all, she didn’t know what it was to love someone like her father had loved and continued to love her mother. Passion between a man and woman was a different kind of love. She hadn’t experienced it as yet, and maybe she never would. Not everyone found a soul mate at will.

Alan gave himself a little mental shake. “I’m not quite the weak blubbing fool I must appear, but your mother was my shining star. She was there for me. In the morning she was there. When I came back at night she was there. Always shining. I still don’t know what she ever saw in me, the descendant of a wicked Irish convict.”

“Who was transported for the term of his natural life to Australia because he’d poached a couple of rabbits to feed his starving family,” Alana said darkly. “And who by the way went on to become a well-respected pastoralist.”

Her father allowed himself a smile. “Be that as it may, my Belle could have had any man in the Valley and way beyond. She could have had David Radcliffe.”

For a stunned moment Alana thought she hadn’t heard right. She started up in her chair, her expression aghast. “What?” She couldn’t control her rising tone. “Guy’s father?”