He looked like a cowboy, against the backdrop of rust-red outback dirt and endless blue sky.
Or to be more accurate, like every womanâs fantasy of a cowboy.
An ancient, broad-brimmed hat tilted low over his forehead. It shaded his face so that the color of his eyes was impossible to read, but one look at his profile would tell a red-blooded woman all she needed to know. Strong jaw, firm mouth, an intensity in the way he watched the world ⦠even when he looked as if he wasnât really seeing it.
His body was even stronger than his jaw, but he wasnât the type who needed to wear his T-shirts too tight to emphasize washboard abs and bulging biceps. The muscles were just there, hard and motionless beneath faded denim and stretch cotton. Heâd learned to conserve his energy for when he really needed itâfor a long day of boundary riding, cattle branding or herding his animals to fresh pasture. Right now, since he didnât need it, he leaned his tanned forearms on the wooden rail in front of him, the way he would have leaned them on a stockyard gate.
Yes, any woman whoâd picked him as a cowboy would have been close. He was a cattleman, an Australian outback farmer, owner of his own huge spread of acreage. He was no oneâs wage slave, but answered only to his land, his animals and his family.
Nine out of ten women took a good look at him as they walked past. Eight out of ten were impressed with what they saw, and would have liked to find out more. Just what color were those eyes? Did he have tan lines around those solid upper arms? What did he have to say for himself? Did he like dressy blondes or down-to-earth brunettes? Was he available? Was he as good as he looked?
But if the cattleman noticed any of the female attention he was getting, it didnât show. You would have said that Callan Woodsâs thoughts were at least two hundred miles away, and you wouldnât have been wrong.
âLook at him, Brant! What are we going to do?â
Branton Smith felt helpless at his friend Dusty Tannerâs question. Like Callan himself, they both lived most of their waking hours out of doors. They worked with their hands. When they struck trouble, it was something physicalâdrought or flood or fire or an injured beastâand the solution to it was physical, also.
They just worked harder. They climbed on a horse and herded cattle or sheep to higher ground. They got out of bed two hours earlier in the morning and fed their animals by hand, dropping feed bales off the back of a truck until their hands were callused like leather and every muscle burned. They were big, strong, capable men, and they had brains. They looked for active, assertive answers.
But what could they do about Callan?
âJust be there for him, I guess,â Brant said in answer to Dustyâs question.
He wasnât surprised at Dustyâs bark of derisory laughter. âYou sound like an advice column in a teenage magazine, mate!â
True.
Had to be cruddy advice, too, because theyâd both âbeen thereâ for Callan since his wife Lizâs death four years ago, and he only seemed to have folded in on himself even more this year.
He stood, as they did, with his forearms propped on the rail that kept spectators back from the racetrack, while around him swirled the color and noise of Australiaâs best-known outback racing carnival. Judging by Callanâs thousand-yard stare, his slumped shoulders, his tight mouth and his silence, however, he barely knew that he was here.
The three men had been best mates for years, since attending Cliffside school in Sydney more than seventeen years ago. Then, they had been three strong, shy outback boys, boarding away from home for the first time, in the company of the sons of stockbrokers and car dealers and property tycoons.
Now they owned racehorses together, five sleek beautiful animals at the present time, of which two were racing at todayâs carnival. Three of their horses were trained at a place near Brantâs extensive sheep-farming property west of the Snowy Mountains, while the two running today were with a trainer in Queensland, near Dusty.
As a hobby, the racing syndicate just about paid its way. As an exercise in mateship, it was solid gold.