The Cattleman

THEY WERE MAKING their descent into Darwin airport when the slightly tipsy nuclear physicist beside Jessica leaned into her to confide, “We’re landing.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Darwin airport has one of the longest runways in the southern hemisphere.”

“Really? I’m not surprised to hear that.” She kept staring out the porthole. The guy had been hitting on her in an in-offensive way ever since they’d left Brisbane. At one point she’d even toyed with the idea of asking the flight attendant to move her, but the plane was full. In a few minutes she’d be able to make her getaway from Mr. Intelligence.

It was not to be. He followed her every step of the way into the terminal, making like an overzealous tour guide, pointing out areas already clearly marked. He topped it all off by offering to give her a lift to wherever she wanted to go.

“Thanks all the same, but I’m being picked up.”

“You never said that.” He turned to her with such an aggrieved look the image of Sean floated into her mind.

“No reason to,” she smiled. “Bye now.” If her luck held…

It didn’t. “At least I can help you with your luggage.”

Drat the guy! He was as hard to brush off as a bad case of dandruff.

“So what say we meet up for a drink sometime?” he suggested. “I live here. I can show you all the sights.”

“That’s kind of you, but I’ll be pretty busy.”

“Doin’ what?” He looked at her as though she were playing hard to get.

Irritation was escalating into her as much as the heat would allow when she suddenly caught sight of a stunning-looking guy, head and shoulders over the rest, maybe twenty-eight or thirty, striding purposely toward her.

It was to her, wasn’t it? She’d hate him to change his mind. What’s more, the milling crowd fell back as though to ease his path. How many men could carry that off?

“For cryin’ out loud, you know Bannerman?” Her companion did a double take, his gravelly drawl soaring toward falsetto.

Bannerman wasn’t Count Dracula surely? She nodded.

“He’s a friend?”

This was starting to belong in the too-hard basket. “He’s meeting me,” Jessica said.

“Well, I’m movin’ outta here.” Her annoying companion, a full six feet, all but reeled away. “I wouldn’t want to get in that guy’s way. Good luck!”

Jessica held her breath. So this is Cyrus Bannerman, she thought tracking his every movement. This was as good as it gets. The fact that he was so striking in appearance didn’t come as a surprise. Broderick Bannerman was an impressive-looking man—she’d seen numerous photos. Obviously good looks ran in the family. What she hadn’t been expecting was the charisma, the air of authority, that appeared entirely natural. Obviously Cyrus Bannerman was ready to take over his father’s mantle when many a son with a tycoon for a father finished up with a personality disorder. Not the case here, unless that palpable presence turned out to be a facade.

He was very tall, maybe six-three, with a great physique. The loose-limbed, long-legged stride was so graceful it was near mesmerizing. It put her in mind of the sensuous lope of a famous Pakistani cricketer she’d had a crush on as a child. Bannerman, as well he might be, given his lifestyle, was deeply tanned. In fact, he made everyone else’s tan look positively washed out. He had thick, jet-black hair, strong distinctive features, his eyes even at a distance the bluest she had ever seen. “Sapphires set in a bronze mask,” the romantically inclined might phrase it, and they’d be spot on. She knew instinctively she had better impress this guy with her professional demeanor. No contract had been signed as yet.

“Ms. Tennant?” Cyrus, for his part, saw a young woman, physically highly desirable, with a lovely full mouth and a mane of ash-blond hair springing into a riot of curls in the humid heat. Her tallish, slender body was relaxed. She had beautiful clear skin. Her large green eyes watched him coolly. Young she might be, but there was nothing diffident about her. She looked confident, clever, sizing him up as indeed he was sizing her up. They could have been business opponents facing each other across a boardroom table for the first time.

“Please, Jessica,” she said. Her voice matched her appearance, cool, confident, ever so slightly challenging.

“Cyrus Bannerman. I usually get Cy.”

“Then Cy it is.” Though every instinct shrieked a warning, she offered him her hand. It was taken in a firm, cool grip. Jessica let out her breath slowly, disconcerted by the thrill of skin on skin. “How nice of you to meet me.”

“No problem. I had business in Darwin.” The startling blue eyes continued to study her. She had already grasped the fact that, despite the smoothness of manner, he hadn’t taken to her. Was it wariness in his eyes? A trace of suspicion? More the pity! Anyone would think she had coerced his father into hiring her. Not that it mattered. She didn’t altogether like him. She did, however, like the look of him. A teeny distinction.

Baggage was already tumbling onto the carousel. He looked toward it. “If you’ll point out what’s yours, I’ll collect it. I’d like to get away as soon as possible. We’re going by helicopter. Hope that’s okay with you. You’re assured of a great view.”

So much for the big dusty Land Cruiser complete with a set of buffalo horns she’d been expecting.

THEY LIFTED OFF, climbing, climbing, into the blue June sky, climbing, climbing. Jessica tried to stay cool even though her heart was racing. This was a far cry from traveling in a Boeing 747. Outside the bubble of the cockpit, a mighty panorama opened up. Jessica caught the gasp in her throat before it escaped. Below them was the harbor. The immensity of it amazed her. She hadn’t been expecting that. Aquamarine on one arm of the rocky peninsula, glittering turquoise on the other. She knew from her history books that Darwin Harbour had seen more drama than any other harbor in Australia. The Japanese Imperial Air Force had bombed it during World War II turning the harbor into an inferno. Every ship, more than forty, including the U.S. destroyer Peary that had arrived that very morning, had been destroyed before the invaders had turned their attention to the small township itself, standing vulnerable on the rocky cliffs above the port. The invasion of Darwin had always been played down for some unknown reason. The town had been devastated again by Cyclone Tracy, Christmas Day 1974. Even her hometown of Brisbane, over a thousand miles away, had suffered the effects of that catastrophic force of nature.

Today, all was peace and calm. Jessica’s first impression was that Darwin was an exotic destination. A truly tropical city, surrounded by water on three sides, and so far as she could see the most multicultural city in the country. The Top End, as the northern coast of Australia was right on the doorstep of Southeast Asia, and there was a lot of traffic between the two. She was really looking forward to exploring the city when she had time. The art galleries, she’d heard, particularly the galleries that featured the paintings of the leading Aboriginal artists were well worth the visit.

The helicopter trip was turning into probably the most exciting trip of her life. As they banked and turned inland—Mokhani was a little over 140 kilometers to the southeast—just as Cyrus Bannerman had promised, she had a fantastic view of the ancient landscape. Such empty vastness! So few people! She’d read recently, when she’d been researching all she could about Broderick Bannerman, that although the Northern Territory was twice the size of Texas, it had one percent of the population. She’d also read that the population of Darwin was less than eighty thousand, while the Territory covered over two million square kilometers, most of which lay within the tropics. The Red Centre, fifteen-hundred kilometers south of Darwin and another great tourist mecca, was the home of the continent’s desert icons, the monolith of Uluru and the fantastic domes and minarets of Kata Tjuta, which had thrown such a scare into Brett and Tim. She realized in some surprise she knew more about overseas destinations, London, Paris, Rome, Vienna, New York on her last fabulous trip, than she did about the Top End and the vast interior of her own country.

That was about to change. She watched the rolling savannas and the vivid, vigorous pockets of rain forest give way to infinite flat plains, the floor of which was decorated with golden, dome-shaped grasses she knew were the ubiquitous spinifex that covered most of the Outback. The great glowing mounds made an extraordinary contrast to the fiery orange-red of the earth, and the amazing standing formations, she realized, were termite mounds. From the air, they looked for all the world like an army on the march.

Silvery streams of air floated beneath them like giant cushions. At one point, they flew low over a herd of wild brumbies, long tails and manes flowing as they galloped across the rough terrain. It was such a stirring sight, the breath caught in her throat. She wouldn’t have missed this for the world.

“Camels dead ahead.” Bannerman pointed. A very elegant hand, well-shaped, the artistic Jessica noticed. Hands were important to her. “Very intelligent animals.” Despite himself, Cy was mollified by her high level of response to the land for which he had such a passion. She was young enough to be excited, and that excitement was palpable, indeed infectious. His own blood was coursing more swiftly in response. She didn’t appear in the least nervous even when he put the chopper through its paces, whizzing down low. There was much more ahead for her to enjoy. Falling Waters, a landmark on Mokhani, looked spectacular from the air. He planned a low pass over the gorge. It would allow her to see the wonderful, ever-changing colors in the cliff walls.

THE FLIGHT INSIDE the magnificent canyon, carved by countless centuries of floodwaters, was the ultimate thrill. Here below her was a verdant oasis in the middle of the desert. The colors in the cliff walls were astonishing. All the dry ochers were there, pinks, cream, yellow, orange, fiery cinnabar, purples, thick veins of brown and black and white. She felt a strong urge to try to paint them. Tier upon tier like some ancient pyramid was reflected perfectly in the mirrorlike surface of the lagoon. To either side lay broken chains of deep dark pools, but it was the main lagoon with its flotilla of pink water lilies that held the eye. It directly received the sparkling waterfall that cascaded from the plateau-like summit of the escarpment, littered with giant, orange-red boulders in themselves marvelously paintable.

“Beautiful, isn’t it,” Bannerman said, his voice betraying his pride in his Outback domain.

This was one lucky guy, Jessica thought. He appeared to have it all. Looks, intelligence, a vibrant physical presence, a rich if ruthless tycoon for a father, and one day all this would be his. Some three million glorious savage acres, and that was only Mokhani. She knew from her quick study of Broderick Bannerman’s affairs that several other stations made up the Bannerman pastoral empire. It had to be an extraordinary experience to have millions of acres for a backyard, let alone a spectacular natural wonder like the gorge. Both sides of the canyon were thickly wooded with paperbarks and river gums; the lagoon and water holes were bordered by clean white sand.

“Can you swim there?” She pointed downward.

He nodded. “I have all my life. The pool is very deep at the centre. Perhaps bottomless.”

A little frisson ran down Jessica’s arms.

FROM THE AIR, MOKHANI STATION was an extraordinary sight, a pioneering settlement in the wilds. Bannerman’s ancestors had carved this out, living with, rather than conquering, the land. Jessica, with her capacity for visualization, saw monstrous saltwater crocodiles inhabiting the paperbark swamps and lagoons that were spread across the vast primeval landscape. Not for the first time on this adventure did she consider the fate of Mokhani’s governess who had vanished without a trace all those years ago. It was, after all, a haunting tale that had never found closure.

The station was so large it sent a shock of awe through her; miles of open plain interspersed with large areas of dense scrub, through which she could see the sharp glitter of numerous creeks and lagoons. It would be terrifyingly easy to get lost in all that. The table-topped escarpment that towered over the canyon and dominated the landscape was another major hazard. Although she didn’t suffer from vertigo, Jessica was certain one could easily become dizzy if one ventured too near the lip of the precipice. It would be all too easy to topple over. Easier still to get pushed.

I’ve got an overactive imagination, she thought, a strange taste of copper in her mouth. Could it be that was what had happened? A young woman, too frantic to be afraid groping at thin air, skin ripped as she bounced off rock to rock. Did Moira go into the water alive? A body carried into the deep lagoon would make a succulent meal for a man-eating crocodile. Surely no one could say for sure that one didn’t lurk there….

She was rather ashamed of her lurid thoughts. There were always suspicions when no body had been found. But if she’d been pushed, it would have been murder.

She longed to question Cyrus Bannerman about the unsolved mystery, but sensed she would only anger him. Such tragedies, though never forgotten, would have resonated unhappily down the years. He could well have been the butt of a lot of taunts in his school days. Like most Outback children, he would have been sent away to boarding school at around age ten. Looking at him now, she felt, boy and man, he had coped.

They flew over a huge complex of holding yards where thousands and thousands of cattle were penned. Probably awaiting transport to market by the great road trains. Clusters of outbuildings surrounded the main compound like a satellite town. The silver hangar with MOKHANI emblazoned on the roof was enormous. It looked as if it could comfortably house a couple of domestic jets. Two bright yellow helicopters were on the ground a short distance from the hangar, as well as several station vehicles. Up ahead, across a silver ribbon of creek, she could see the original homestead, very large as even large houses go, and some distance away what appeared to be a great classical temple.

Broderick Bannerman wanted her to furnish that? Hatshepsut, queen of ancient Egypt, no mean hand at decorating, might have called in the professionals. Should she, Jessica, return to ancient Egypt for inspiration or settle for pre-Hellenic? Smack-bang in the middle of the wilderness, either option seemed a mite excessive, not to say bizarre. Obviously Broderick Bannerman, like the kings of old, had built his temple as a monument to himself. She wondered what role his son had played in it. There was an elegant austerity about Cyrus Bannerman that suggested none.

Another employee was on hand to drive her up to the house.

“I’m needed elsewhere, but Pete will look after you,” Cy said, his eyes resting on her with what seemed like challenge.