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“I used to hero-worship you,” Storm found herself saying haltingly.
“Then all at once things changed,” Luke replied. “I’m here for you, Storm. Any chance we could start again?”
“No, I just can’t,” she said in a passion. “Too many years have gone by.”
“What are you frightened of, Storm? Why are you so frightened of me?”
“Such arrogance!” Her voice rang out caustically. “I’m not frightened of you at all. What do I have to do to prove it?” She stood there in an attitude of defiance he had witnessed countless times over.
“Why don’t you let me show you?”
“Don’t you dare touch me, Luke,” she warned.
He gave a challenging shake of his head. “I’m genuinely amazed I haven’t tried it before. For years you were too young, but you’re old enough now.”
Margaret Way takes great pleasure in her work and works hard at her pleasure. She enjoys tearing off to the beach with her family at 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.
Outback Fire
Margaret Way
MILLS & BOON
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CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
THEY rode out at dawn. Their mission was specific. To hunt down “Psycho” the wild bull camel that was harassing the herd and attacking anybody unfortunate enough to come on it unawares. The situation had become so dangerous it was now necessary to kill the beast. Only a few days before one of the stockmen mustering clean skins on the desert fringe had encountered the raging animal and paid the price. Psycho had attacked without provocation kicking the stockman in the chest. The consequences had been serious. The man had to be airlifted to hospital and was still in a critical condition. He would have been dead only for the arrival of three of his mates who had startled the ferocious beast into slewing off.
When the rogue came on season, for it was the male camel instead of the female that came on heat, Psycho would pose even more of a threat. He had a fearful reputation for attacking other male camels with passionate fury, his strength and wildness driving them away to leave him with a harem usually twenty or more females he jealously guarded and impregnated.
Of recent times Psycho had taken to making open-mouthed dives at the tribal people who crisscrossed the station on walkabout. McFarlane had been informed of the attacks. His people were frightened and wanted protection.
Camels weren’t indigenous to Australia. They and their Afghan handlers had been imported into the country in the early days of settlement to transport goods all over the dry trackless regions of the Outback; camels were ideal beasts of burden in just such conditions. Their wild descendants, some quarter of a million and they lived several decades, were a dreadful menace. They roamed the desert from one end to the other doing considerable damage to the fragile environment. McFarlane tolerated them. By now they were part of the Outback and there was a certain romance to the sight of them silhouetted on top of a sand dune at sunset. Unfortunately the time had come for Psycho to be destroyed before he turned killer.
Six of them made up the party that morning. McFarlane, his overseer, Chas Branagan, Garry Dingo, the station’s finest tracker, two of his best stockmen and the boy, Luke. Fourteen years old but already judged by the others to be a man. The boy stood six feet, a superb athlete, with an excellent head on his shoulders. He was a fine shot, a talent he had been born with, as well as having extraordinary endurance for his age. In fact he was well on his way to becoming a consummate bushman like his father, Chas. He had the same remarkable sight, hearing and sense of smell. Skills that would be needed on the hunt.
McFarlane realised he had become very fond of the boy. Indeed he was coming to look on him as the son he might have had. The tragedy was his wife; the one woman he had ever truly loved had died in childbirth leaving him with the precious legacy of a daughter. His beautiful Storm. While her mother slipped prematurely out of life, Storm had come into the world at the height of one of the fiercest tempests that had ever passed over his land.
Tragedy and triumph. Sometimes the two went hand in hand. Like Storm and high drama. Storm had never been an easy child. Tempestuous and outspoken she spent her young life rebelling against his dictates when he had only put them in place to protect her. Freedom was what she wanted. Total freedom. The right to roam the station at will. “Like Luke does.” That was the catch cry “Like Luke does.”
There were always outbursts against Luke. Big flare-ups of jealousy and resentment.
“You treat him like a son! He’s not your son. He’s not my brother.”
How many times had he heard that? Storm fought his affection for Luke every step of the way. She overplayed her little princess and the pauper act most times the two of them were together. Luke being Luke, was gentle and tolerant with her, unfazed by her histrionics.
As for Storm, the light of his life, didn’t she know her father adored her? When Storm was sweet, she was very, very sweet, irresistible like her mother. If she’d had her way she’d have joined them this morning. Imagine! A girl barely twelve, even if she could ride all day. Storm couldn’t accept the confines of her femininity. She lived in a man’s world and she wasn’t about to come to terms with it. His difficult little Storm. How could it be otherwise? This was a child reared without a mother’s gentling touch.
They skirted around the lignum that rose up like jungle walls, the party dividing up as they rode into the desert, ringed by heat waves that danced in the blinding glare. No tracks so far but then they had to contend with the rising wind that wiped them out almost as soon as they were made. Such a place of desolation this no man’s land! The great flights of budgerigar that flashed green and gold overhead and the marauding hawks were almost the only living things. The grazing cattle had stripped the perennial cover from the slopes here and the blood-red sand moved at will.
Sand and spinifex.
This year of drought, even the spinifex wasn’t so dense. Other years it covered the sand like a bright golden carpet.
After two hours or more of fruitless