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

Margaret Way

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.

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