applause. More loud catcalls.
Casey took a minute to fine tune the guitar. Perfect pitch was quite rare she’d found and she had it. She decided on a sad ballad. One she had written herself. Most of her songs were sad. This one was some kind of memorial to her mother. Someone had turned on a spotlight and it shone on her. She didn’t need the mike but the publican hurried to switch it on, while someone else drew up a high chair for her to play sitting down if she wished. Anyone would have thought she was a rock star, she was getting so much attention.
“Song for Marnie,” she said, simply, looking out into the now crowded dining room. Where had everyone come from? The dining room had only been a little over half full.
Totally focused, she sat on the high stool unconscious of the image she created, strumming the introduction. Then when all was perfectly quiet, she began to sing….
Troy Connellan, rebel with good cause, found himself almost unbearably moved. She had a beautiful voice. He didn’t know what category. Mezzo, contralto, it wasn’t soprano. It was coming from some sad place deep inside her. Low and melodious, filled with emotion. She had wonderful control. Not only that, he had never heard the guitar sound so darned good. Her long elegant fingers caressed the strings, really made them sound. She was a true musician. Confrontational with him—he had to admit he’d gone out of his way to cause a little friction—when she sang of this Marnie her voice was heartbreakingly sad. She couldn’t be lesbian could she? He rejected that. He’d had enough experience to know there was something sexual going on beneath their sparring. The lyrics seemed to tell him tragic Marnie could be her mother. She’d said she was an orphan and he’d mocked her. He was sorry now.
He began to think of another star-crossed woman. His own mother, Elizabeth. Of the great love between them. But his mother was dead. She and a family friend had been caught in a flash flood on the station. Rumour had it his mother and their friend, his godfather, had been having a forbidden affair. His mother had been so beautiful who wouldn’t have fallen in love with her? His father was a very jealous man. Jealous of his beautiful mother. Jealous of him. He saw his only son as a rival and directed very real conflicts his way. It was all done on purpose. His father knew perfectly well what he was doing to Troy, at the same time as he heaped lavish gifts and affection on his sister, Leah. A new twist on the Oedipal dislocations.
This McGuire woman was simply stunning though she didn’t seem to know it. Okay, she was very tall. Too tall for a woman, six feet, but not too tall for him. In the spotlight her magnificent Titian hair glittered like fairy gold. She had flawless milky-white skin. No freckles. He wondered how she’d missed out on them. Her long lithe body was decidedly feminine, incredibly fluid and infinitely sexy. And the length of those legs! They could have stretched to Cape York. He remembered as intimidating as he might first have appeared to her, she was ready and able to fight back. Unfortunately he’d made the huge mistake thinking she was some young guy snooping around. The battered old ute had given him a bum steer. What woman in her right mind drove such a bucket load of trouble?
What terrible times had Casey McGuire seen? What had provided the basis for the song? He was convinced she’d suffered to be able to sing with such depths. She’d told him she’d had a tough childhood. That made two of them. It had taken him forever to realize his father had been jealous of him even as a boy. It had much to do with his mother’s special love for him and he for her.
After Casey finished there was total quiet in the room. It lasted for long moments as though the audience was unwilling to let the singer and the song drift away. Then the room erupted.
“More…more!”
A thunder of applause, this time no whistles perhaps out of respect, a muffled drumming of the feet, others stood up. A tourist with a plummy Pommy voice shouted, “Bravo!”
The singer, herself, seemed to come to, slowly as if breaking out of a trance.
Troy for his part was still trapped in the song’s power and the sad memories it evoked.
Nothing could be clearer. Casey McGuire had many songs to sing and many stories to tell. No wonder she was heading for McIvor country. He’d take a bet on it. That’s where she belonged.
Casey started into an encore. Upbeat, hand clapping, exciting. It drew a big response from her audience.
Casey McGuire, Goddess of Song.
CHAPTER TWO
Murraree Station
THE PEACE of that hot, languorous afternoon was disturbed by quite a commotion. An early model utility covered in red dust had entered the main compound, making speedy, ear splitting progress up the drive. By the time it rattled to a halt at the base of the homestead’s front steps they were all standing wondering who the heck it was. Darcy and Curt were at the balustrade, Marian and Peter out of their chairs, Adam standing tall at Courtney’s side startled by something in her expression.
“What’s wrong?”
Shaken by premonition, Courtney put a hand to her throat. “I have a feeling this is serious,” she said.
“Serious? In what way?” Adam stared down at her golden head.
“We’ll soon find out.”
Typically Curt took charge. He called out to the driver using only enough authority as was necessary. “Hello there! What do you want?” It wasn’t usual this kind of charge to the front door. No one they knew drove such a vehicle, either. For one thing it looked like it should have been in a wrecker’s yard, but at least it hadn’t caught fire.
In front of Courtney’s mesmerised eyes a very tall young woman slid from the driver’s seat, banging the door rigorously. Probably she had to, to make it shut.
“Which one of you is Darcy?” she demanded to know in a rich caustic voice. She moved towards them sweeping off her wide-brimmed cream Akubra. Immediately a magnificent unbound fiery mane tumbled down her back. She had eyes the colour of sapphires.
Four people saw the resemblance at once but no one said a word. They were temporarily struck dumb. Darcy, Courtney, their mother Marian, Curt, Darcy’s fiancé, the love of her life.
Some things in life one couldn’t evade, Courtney thought.
“Cat got your tongue?” The young woman addressed Darcy, who stood frozen. She flashed a familiar brilliant smile that held a world of challenge. “Hi, I’m Casey. Jock McIvor was my dad. Now are you going to let me up?”
Courtney looked quickly at her elder sister, waiting for Darcy to respond.
Darcy did, keeping the tremendous shock from her voice. “By all means, join us, Casey whatever-your-name,” she responded levelly. “Looks like you’ve come a long way?”
Casey gave the dark haired young woman on the verandah another smile. “Indeed I have. Thanks a lot.”
What should they do now, Courtney wondered, looks passing quickly around. Once on the verandah the statuesque red-head made a bee-line for her. “And you couldn’t be anyone else but Courtney, the younger sister. Hi, there, Courtney. You’re as pretty as a picture.” She put out her hand and Courtney, feeling very odd took it, thinking she’d have to check her fingers afterwards. That was some grip for a woman.
“You have proof you’re Jock McIvor’s daughter?” Adam spoke for the first time, using his smooth dispassionate lawyer’s voice.
“Hell, do I need it?” The goddess fixed him with a blue stare.
She sounded so much like Jock, looked so much like Jock, Marian sat back down in her chair, feeling a light sweat break out over her body. Just how long had Jock been faithful to her? Answer. Never. Jock had made quite a sideline out of sleeping with other women.
“And you must be Marian, McIvor’s wife?” Casey advanced on Marian who was looking a bit pale.
“She was.” Darcy did the answering. From the expression on her face, Marian was