Heart of the Outback (25 page)

She hadn’t expected CJ to be so thoughtful. And … she did miss her parents a little. Regular phone calls home made it less lonely, but sometimes she just
wanted to see them, talk to them, tell them what she’d experienced and what she was doing. And intimate that her life and expectations were changing — the change so subtle that some of the time even Francey herself was unaware of it.

Her parents had been surprised and delighted to see her. Lucia had fussed far too much, tut-tutted that she’d lost more weight — which she hadn’t — and both wanted to know everything about CJ, the multimillionaire. Even her father’s eyes had widened impressively when she’d described the home and the extent of the Ambrose empire. But she’d scowled when she had seen the gleam in his eye and teasingly said that CJ was much too old for her. They shared a wonderful four hours together before she’d gone off to stay overnight at the Regent.

The next morning she fitted in a two hour session with Aden Nicholson, to bring him up to speed on the Cooktown development. She shifted restlessly in the seat, hearing the leather squeak against her back as she remembered the time in his office. The staff at Nicholson, Drew and Carlyle had been delighted to see her. Aden had given her a bear hug welcome. Then it was down to business! He’d wanted to know about the development of the mini conference centre and, more importantly, how the plans were coming along for the multimillion dollar project at Cooktown.

With a sinking heart she realised that whatever her feelings and expectations of Aden had been in absentia, they had shrivelled up and died. She thought that he knew it too but tried to avoid any mention of their personal relationship. What, she wondered as she
sat opposite him, had she seen in him? A surface handsomeness, intelligence, sophistication. Why hadn’t she noticed his hard, business edge? How had he disguised it and taken her in? The reality of seeing him differently made her experience a sense of loss for what might have been, yet, in another way, it made her feel completely free.

Quite illogically, by the time she’d left Aden, she was angry and disappointed more with herself than with him. She had foolishly and romantically embellished Aden with attributes he didn’t possess. And then, without conscious volition, her thoughts had turned to Steve Parrish. She’d smiled as she remembered how well they were getting along now. Steve was real. Genuine.

Later, the taxi had deposited her outside Meredith O’Connor’s modest home at Bronte for a brief visit before she met Les at Mascot airport. Her friend had squealed with delight at the surprise visit. They had talked non-stop — she’d even told her about Steve, and how the romance with Aden hadn’t worked out. Meredith, now almost eight months gone and with a protruding stomach that could barely fit behind the driver’s seat, had insisted on driving her to the airport.

Francey’s eyelids opened and she ran the fingers of her right hand through her black hair, untangling the curls. With a stab of surprise she realised that she was looking forward to getting back. To Murrundi. To the harsh plains, the low hills, the rugged lonely land.

She shook her head and smiled in wonder. Who would believe it? She, a devout city dweller who loved the salty sea breeze on her face and in her hair; who artistically admired the angular shapes and forms of
city buildings; enjoyed the jostling, crowded streets and accepted the noises of thousands of people as background music as they scurried about their business was falling in love. With the outback, with the freedom, the starkness and the determination of the people who survived and tried to bend it to their will.

Pharaoh’s sleek coat glistened with sweat from the hard ride Natalie had given the stallion as she reined in near the stable door late in the afternoon.

Almost as if he’d been waiting, Mike Hunter came out from the dimness of the stalls and held the bridle as she slid from the huge horse. Natalie took off her leather gloves and ran her hand through her sweat-streaked blonde hair, making it stand up crazily, yet attractively about her longish face.

“Thanks, Mike,” she said airily as she threw him the reins.

“Didja have a good ride?”

“Wonderful. The recent rain has put some water in a few of the creeks and the waterholes. I rode towards the western boundary. I think I gave Pharaoh a work out he’ll appreciate. That horse needs to be ridden hard.” Pharaoh was the fastest of all the horses at Murrundi and everyone knew it.

“See any feral pigs? Lucky said he saw a pack out that way last week. We don’t want them hanging around with spring only six weeks off. They could have a go during the calving.”

She thought for a moment, well aware that Mike was hanging on every word. He amused her. She didn’t quite lead him on, but she’d smile and use enough body language to make him think he had an
outside chance with her. Hah. Fat chance any man had with her. “No…” She pursed her lips provocatively. “I didn’t see anything other than cattle and a few emus.”

“CJ called a while ago. He and Les are off to Canberra to see some minister, for the environment, I think. About the Cooktown project. They’ll be away for a couple more days.”

“Right, thanks for that.” She patted Pharaoh’s neck affectionately. “Time to give you a rubdown, boy, you’ve earned it.” The foreman and stockmen had been told that she wasn’t to be waited on hand and foot. That if she rode Pharaoh she was responsible for watering, feeding and grooming him. Damn CJ and his old-fashioned ideas. When this was all hers, her grey eyes encompassed the sheds, the barns, the back of the homestead, she wouldn’t lift a finger if she didn’t want to.

“No problem, I’ll do it,” Mike offered. He began to lead the horse around, letting him cool down before he took him to the trough.

Smiling her thanks she walked away. Men were so predictable. They spent most of their waking hours thinking with their dicks. Even Les, who had a good brain, was clearly besotted with Francey Spinetti. Oh, she’d heard the gossip. Aunt Shellie couldn’t keep a secret if her life depended on it. She knew about the little altercation between them in the kitchen after Dupre’s party. And then there was CJ, the way he acted around her; attentive, smiling, putting on his well-known charm. It was sickening. The “Spinetti syndrome” as she’d dubbed it, was becoming near endemic amongst the more interesting
men. Why, even Steve Parrish, whom she genuinely liked, rather than pretended to like, seemed more then casually interested. What did they see in her? She’d be damned if she could fathom it out.

That was men for you. A woman, on the other hand, was more sensitive to your moods, knew how to get you worked up better than a man too, knew all those little secret places you longed to be touched in — the places
men
never thought of. And women could satisfy you just as well. Her train of thoughts made her think of Trish, made her feel suddenly horny then lonely. Trish had become the only person she could talk to, really talk to, these days. She missed her, even missed the reproachful, confused looks she got from her when she had a problem or was in one of her black moods.

Her eyebrows lifted as she spied the earlier subject of her thoughts. Francey sat on the top rail of the breaking-in yard’s fence, taking photos of Billy as he worked on breaking in a three-year-old gelding. Almost noiselessly, Natalie climbed the fence and her quarry, intent on the hullabaloo within — the bucking, snorting, near uncontrollable horse and Billy, who hung on one handed, shouting and whistling — didn’t even notice until she spoke.

“Hi there.”

Francey jumped with fright and grabbed the railing beside her for support.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Francey grinned. “My own fault. Guess I got caught up in what Billy’s doing.”

“He’s one of the best breakers around,” Natalie told her proudly.

“How long does it take, I mean, to break a horse in?”

“Depends on the horse. It could take a week, maybe three, maybe longer. Billy’s good because he’s patient and he doesn’t hurt them like some breakers do. Some think fear will do the trick, but Billy uses kindness and he talks soft and low to them most of the time.”

A couple of stockmen were sitting on the fence on the other side of the yard. Another sat astride a horse inside the yard, ready to help if Billy got thrown or wanted to get off in a hurry. Dust boles from the horse’s hoofs kicked up in the air mingling with angry neighing and snorting as the gelding pitted its will against that of the man, desperately trying to avoid the inevitable: that the man — inferior in strength but superior in intellect — would master him.

“I’m glad I brought my camera. I think I got a couple of good shots.”

“You’re right into photography, aren’t you?”

“It’s more of a hobby, really. Therapeutic. In the past I’ve used it when my brain overloads with work or if I have a mental block with a design. Time out with my camera gets rid of the junk inside and brings back the perspective.”

“Have you considered exhibiting?”

“I’m not sure I’m good enough for that.”

“Perhaps you’ll show me your portfolio one day. I could tell you their worth,” Natalie offered.

“That’s nice of you. Perhaps. One day.”

“Well,” Natalie sensed Francey’s uncertainty and honed in on what was perhaps her weakness, “if you’d like to photograph something really special I
could show you some wonderful Aboriginal cave paintings.”

Francey’s eyes widened. “That would be great.” Alison Wontow had told her about the Aboriginals in the area, about their beliefs and how they made use of the land. To photograph something so ancient and rare was something she had never expected to be able to do.

Natalie smiled sweetly. The bitch had taken the bait. “Well, whenever you’ve got a couple of spare hours. It’s a bit of a ride but nothing you can’t handle considering you’ve been on a muster.” She pretended to think for a moment. “Why not tomorrow afternoon, if you can spare the time.”

Francey thought. The plans for Cooktown were going well. Ahead of schedule, really, and CJ wouldn’t be back for another day or two to see the progress. “Yes, that would be perfect.”

No-one saw them leave the stables the next afternoon. Natalie, slightly in the lead, with Francey following, rode south, off the property of Murrundi Downs station and onto the free range. The late winter’s day was cool, the sky a clear azure except for a patch of white clouds hanging on the western horizon. Francey’s mount, Astra, carried a saddlebag containing two cameras and a tripod plus several rolls of film. Pharaoh carried Natalie, water canteens plus a canvas bag with afternoon tea packed by Alison.

Francey marvelled at the land as they travelled, the aridity of the foothills, the soil and the sparse vegetation even after recent rains. The vastness of the plains that ran as far as one’s visibility went was awe
inspiring, as was the remoteness and … the silence. Not a bird nor the sound of any animal other than the horses’ hoofs, intruded upon a quiet so intense one could almost hear one’s own heartbeat. The rich, bold colours of the land and the sky fascinated the aesthete within her. The true deep-blue, the rusty-red of the earth, sometimes reminded her of dried-up blood. She suddenly shivered at the thought, wondering where on earth it had come from. She squinted in the sunlight, knowing that one had to have stamina to survive out here — be mentally and physically strong to withstand the unrelenting land. What was it about the outback that got under one’s skin and into one’s heart? She pondered the question as they trotted then cantered for a while before easing to a more relaxed pace.

“Let’s give the horses a bit of a run,” Natalie called out.

“Okay.”

Francey pushed her borrowed hat down hard on her head, dug her heels into Astra’s flanks and urged her forward as Natalie took off. Clods of earth flew up towards her as the horse broke into a full gallop. She had never seen Pharaoh go flat out before and, God, could the horse run!

Natalie flattened out over the horse’s neck, she and Pharaoh becoming one as the pace picked up and, to encourage more speed, she flicked the whip against the stallion’s rump. The distance between the two horses grew until Pharaoh was almost out of sight. Glancing back, Natalie saw the gap and slowed her mount. Her smile was triumphant as she waited for Francey to catch up.

“That wasn’t much of a contest,” Francey complained tongue-in-cheek as she reined in.

“I guess not. It was more for Pharaoh’s benefit than for ours. He loves to stretch out.” Natalie patted his mane. “Don’t you, boy?” Then she swivelled about in the saddle and looked to the east. “We’re following the old creek bed,” she pointed out a row of spindly eucalypts that denoted water was near, “to a kind of ravine, it’s like a small canyon and is about five kilometres from here. The Aboriginals who lived there about four thousand years ago were called Kalkadoons. They used to hunt and gather in and around the ravine where it was cooler and because a supply of water could usually be found all year round, although the creek bed’s dry now and has been for years. That’s where the Aboriginal paintings are.”

“You know the place well, then?”

“Like the back of my hand. Richard and I used to ride there a lot when we were growing up. He was keen on Aboriginal stuff, he even pestered Billy into teaching him how to play the didgeridoo.”

“Did Richard play it well, the didgeridoo?”

“No,” Natalie laughed, “he was awful. Mum hated the sound of it so he had to practise out back near the stockmen’s quarters. They didn’t think much of it either.”

They ambled along, sometimes in companionable silence, sometimes talking casually about the land and its first inhabitants. The topography changed gradually as the afternoon wore on. The foothills became a little higher, the vegetation thicker and Francey began to notice outcrops of huge boulders on either side of the track they followed.

“We’re coming to the canyon now,” Natalie said. “We’ve time for a good look at the paintings, and for you to take photos. Then we’ll have afternoon tea and head back. Don’t want to be caught away from the homestead after dark. It’s dangerous for the horses and us, what with some of the rough terrain and the wild pigs.”