The Cattle King's Bride

Welcome to the intensely emotional world of Margaret Way

where rugged, brooding bachelors meet their match in the burning heart of Australia …

Praise for the author:

“Margaret Way delivers … vividly written, dramatic stories.”

—RT Book Reviews

“With climactic scenes, dramatic imagery and bold characters, Margaret Way makes the Outback come alive …”

—RT Book Reviews

Her heart gave a great lunge, its rhythm interrupted. For a moment it was as if the whole world stood still.

“It’s me, Mel. Let me in.”

Shakers and movers would covet such a voice; beguiling and commanding at the same time. No way she could ignore him. No way he would give her the chance. Pulses racing she hit the button to open the security door. She was on the top floor. The lift would deliver him to her in moments. Her feet sprouted wings and she ran down the hallway into the master bedroom. Her hair was wildly tumbled; there was a hectic blush in her olive-skinned cheeks, her eyes seemed more brilliant than usual. She had changed out of her classic designer suit immediately she’d arrived home, pulling a caftan over her head. No time to renew her lipstick. She ran a moist tongue over the full contours of her mouth.

As usual he’d reduced her to a bundle of nerves. You’d think she would be well and truly over that. She, who had gained a reputation for being cool, calm and collected. Only she was hypersensitive to every last little thing about Dev Langdon.

MARGARET WAY, a definite Leo, was born and raised in the subtropical River City of Brisbane, capital of the Sunshine State of Queensland, Australia. A Conservatorium-trained pianist, teacher, accompanist and vocal coach, she found her musical career came to an unexpected end when she took up writing—initially as a fun thing to do. She currently lives in a harbourside apartment at beautiful Raby Bay, a thirty-minute drive from the state capital, where she loves dining alfresco on her plant-filled balcony, overlooking a translucent green marina filled with all manner of pleasure craft: from motor cruisers costing millions of dollars, and big, graceful yachts with carved masts standing tall against the cloudless blue sky, to little bay runabouts. No one and nothing is in a mad rush, and she finds the laid-back village atmosphere very conducive to her writing. With well over one hundred books to her credit, she still believes her best is yet to come.

AMELIA’S first call of the day was at 8:00 a.m., just as she was about to leave for work. The ear-splitting din of three phones ringing simultaneously, the main line, the extension and the fax, resounded through the apartment, shattering the morning’s silence. Difficult to continue on one’s way with that call to arms and pressed for time, she decided to ignore the triple summons. It would go to message and she would attend to it when she arrived home.

Her hand on the doorknob, something—call it a premonition—urged her to turn back. She felt in her bones that this wasn’t going to be her usual day. Dropping her expensive handbag, she moved with care onto the white tiles of the kitchen floor—she was wearing stilettos—snatching up the phone.

“Mel here.” Her usual engaging tones emerged a bit on the impatient side.

“Amelia, it’s me,” said the dulcet, slightly accented voice on the other end.

Anxiety settled in. “Mum! Is everything okay?” Cordless phone in hand, she dropped into a chair. The news wouldn’t be good. Her mother wasn’t given to phone calls. Mel was the one who did the calling and the emailing while her mother rang once a month. It was as though she had precious little free time. This early morning call had to be urgent. “It’s Mr Langdon, isn’t it?” Gregory Langdon, legendary cattle baron, was seventy-eight years old. His lifelong vigorous health had been failing rapidly over the past year.

“He’s dying, Amelia.” Sarina made no attempt to hide her powerful grief. “His doctor has given him a week at most. He wants you home.”

Even given that kind of news, Amelia found herself bristling. “Home?” She gave a disbelieving snort, descending to a familiar dark place. “It was never a home, Mum. You were a domestic until Mr Langdon elevated you to housekeeper. I was always the housekeeper’s cheeky kid. I’ve begged you over and over to come live with me, but you’ve chosen your own path.” It was a tremendous hurt. She loved her mother. She earned an excellent salary; she was in a position to make life a whole lot better for them both.

Sarina Norton answered in her near emotionless way. “As I must, Amelia. You must steer your own way in life. You don’t need to be burdened with me. Mr Langdon was very good to us. He gave us shelter after your father was killed.”

No one could deny that. Not even Mel, although over the years their long stay on Kooraki had been the source of endless humiliation, with her mother the butt of scurrilous gossip. Her father, Mike Norton, the station foreman, had been killed in a cattle stampede when she was six. It had been regarded as a huge tragedy by everyone on the station. Mike Norton, the consummate horseman, had been thrown from his horse and trampled before his fellow stockmen were able to bring the bellowing, stampeding mob under control.