Home to Eden (3 page)

“Precisely! She couldn't help herself. Heath was a magnificent lover.”

“And how would
you
know?”

“My sister told me,” Sigrid said, seemingly untouched by her niece's implication.

For an instant Nicole hated her aunt utterly and completely. “No more than that?”

“No more. For God's sake, Nikki, what are you on about?” Sigrid demanded furiously. “We're talking about your poor father. He's in dreadful shape, cirrhosis of the liver. He hasn't got long. Your grandmother wants you to come home. It's unforgivable the way you flit in and out, can't wait to get back first to Paris, now New York. Anywhere else but Eden, where you belong. God knows we've all given you time. You should be here. That's why my father left Eden to you.”

“But surely you enjoy playing boss, Siggy,” Nicole retorted, stripping away all pretense. “We're made of the same stuff, aren't we? We're not crazy about men. We're crazy about a grand historical station called Eden. When it suits you, you forget Dr. Rosendahl thought it crucial I get away. I was only twelve when I found my mother dead, not a great age to be crushed by horror, so hold on to your compassion.”

Sigrid's harsh, impatient tone softened. “Do you think I don't feel for you, girl? You've got plenty of guts. You were always strong, even as a child. More guts than my boy. Listen to me now. This is very, very important. I swear on your mother's grave, David McClelland wasn't your father. I beg you to believe me. Even the McClellands never entertained the idea you're one of them, even if you liked to rouse the devil in Drake by suggesting you might be cousins.”

Nicole gave a brittle laugh. “Is he married yet?” She'd never be sufficiently free of her memories of Drake, so glamorous and charismatic in manhood; the boy she'd looked up to in childhood, though she'd had the companionship of her cousin, Joel, Siggy's son, who'd harbored a nasty jealousy of Drake.

“Why would you be interested?” Sigrid asked dryly. “Hostility between the two of you is the norm whenever you chance to meet. But no, he's not. Too busy buying up properties. You might consider this. He wants Eden.”

“Be serious, Siggy!” She spoke through clenched teeth. “He'll never get it.” Yet wasn't she plagued by that very fear? Siggy was right. Her real place was at Eden, guarding her inheritance.

“I wouldn't be too sure about that,” Sigrid snapped. “You're no match for Drake McClelland, I can guarantee that. He's as tough as they come and a brilliant businessman. He's taken off like a rocket since he inherited Kooltar. It's no secret, either, he has no love for us Cavanaghs. He could destroy us all.”

Nicole's answer was unimpressed. “Let him try. I'm not in awe of Drake. We grew up together, remember? I mean, come on, once we were pals.”

“That's quite a while ago, Nikki. The tragedy changed everything, even if his family couldn't block him from seeing you. I know some sort of bond still exists, but Drake is the one person who can bring us down. You must know that in your heart.”

Nicole felt cornered by her aunt's charges. She had seen Drake during her adolescence—they were both invited to every social function that came along as a matter of course—but past events had destroyed any chances of their sunny childhood relationship blossoming into something else. She was hated if only for her looks, which had once belonged to her mother. Still, like Siggy, she had the unshakable conviction Drake McClelland would play a major role in her life.

As the McClelland heir, he'd possessed a juggernaut drive toward achievement. It wasn't just fame and fortune, and the power that went along with them; Drake wanted a real stake in the country's future. He wanted to make a contribution, building on everything his forebears had achieved. Eden in anyone's language was a rich prize.

“Are you there, Nicole, or have you gone into a trance?” her aunt asked testily.

“I'm here,” she answered. “Sorry, I did drift off.”

“And I'm almost out of strength.” Suddenly Sigrid's voice had a weak flicker. “Are you coming home?”

“I don't think I could with that man there.”

Sigrid didn't pause. “Your father. He's in a sorry plight even if he did bring it all on himself. But I'm sorrier for you, Nicole. You haven't got a heart.”

Nicole was so shocked tears sprang into her eyes. “Thanks a lot, Siggy. If I don't have a heart, how
come I didn't toss you and your dear husband out?” Now she didn't fight the urge. She slammed down the phone, feeling intense pressure build up in her chest.

If only she could be perfectly happy with the life she'd made for herself here. Why she couldn't was a great puzzle. She had the Bradshaws with their endless kindness. Through them she'd made her own circle of friends. Attractive, accomplished young people, full of hope and ambition. She'd even met someone tonight she felt it might be possible to fall in love with. But the passionate love her mother had inspired in two very different men had destroyed her. And them. Small wonder Nicole had a profound distrust of strong emotions.

She did have her painting, though. That was her release. And she'd been assured by people whose opinion she valued that she had a genuine gift. It was Dr. Rosendahl, healer and mentor, who'd first suggested she use her gift as therapy to exorcise her demons. Rosendahl who had actively encouraged her to continue further study in Paris. Her cup should be overflowing.

Except it wasn't. Despite everything going so well for her, she was haunted by a strong sense of loss. She had frequent mental images of her desert home. The Timeless Land, where the ancient earth was a rich fiery red, where the sun looked down in unwinking splendor from a cloudless opal-blue sky. Birds were the phenomena of the Outback, and here great colonies of birds screeched their lives away: brilliant parrots, white cockatoos, the gray and rose-pink galahs, the myriad small birds of the vast plains, orange and red, the great flights of budgerigar wheeling and flashing
green and gold fire. Endless varieties of waterbirds lived in the maze of waterways, lakes, swamps and billabongs that crisscrossed the vast inland delta that was the Channel Country, a region of immense fascination, rich in legend.

A desert yet not a desert. She knew all it needed was the miracle of rain to turn into the greatest garden on earth.

The station had been named Eden for the impossible, wondrous blossoming in that vast arid wilderness. To be there was an experience forever retained. In her SoHo loft she could almost smell the perfume of the trillions of wildflowers. She could see herself as a child swimming through infinite waves of paper daisies, pure white and sunshine yellow, rushing back to her beautiful mother, standing a little way off, with a chain of them she had fashioned to adorn her mother's glorious hair.

She knew she wasn't as beautiful as her mother. She couldn't be. No one could be. Yet they had had to bury all that beauty on Lethe Hill. Had to leave it to the silence of the desert in plain sight of the eternal red sand dunes that ran to the horizon in great parallel waves.

Nicole settled back on the bed, running her hand through her auburn hair that fell in long loose locks over her shoulders and down her back. What was she to do? Siggy had confirmed her niggling fears. Drake wanted Eden. Why wouldn't he? It was a strategic, important station with permanent deep water. Maybe he even wanted to raze the historic homestead to the ground and rebuild. Drake had worshiped his only uncle just as she had worshiped her mother. The friend
ship they'd once shared had proved impossible to sustain; it was as though each was constrained to blame the other for the sin that had been committed. Each had armed themselves with a long sword, letting fly whenever chance brought them together. Their relationship had been damaged beyond repair. These days she seldom surrendered to the luxury of giving her mind over to memories of Drake.

But he was there all the same.

T
HINGS DIDN'T RETURN
to normal after Siggy's phone call. Or what passed for normal for her, though recently she had begun to feel her life was starting to come right. Only there was no escaping the past. The more one tried to push it away the more it fought back like some noxious weed that festered and spread.

The truth was, Siggy's news had upset her badly, bringing back a sharper agony than she'd known in a long time. It stirred up all her old memories of the tragedy that had alienated two families and sent her fleeing halfway around the world in an effort to rebuild her life.

So Heath Cavanagh had landed on Eden's doorstep to die? He had no right whatever to be there.

Unless he's your father?

She could never escape that voice in her head. If only she knew without resorting to DNA testing. That would be too humiliating, except it could uncover a huge truth. Or a lie. Though she'd searched for evidence of him in her face and in her behavior, she couldn't or wouldn't recognize any Heath Cavanagh in her. No characteristic, no expression. Neither could she mark any resemblance to David McClelland. So who would know? She'd had to totally reappraise her mother's life. Her adored mother had not been Miss
Goody Two-shoes; most certainly David McClelland had been her lover. Before and after her marriage. Well, they'd certainly paid an appalling price for their infidelity.

Her grandparents had refused to talk about it. Siggy was adamant Heath was her father. While she was vocal in condemning him, Siggy could, on occasion, defend him with vigor. One had to wonder why. From all accounts Siggy had been jealous of her beautiful sister. Was it crazy to think at some stage Siggy might have indulged in some petty revenge by stealing Corrinne's husband, if only one single time? Either that or she'd fallen under Heath Cavanagh's spell and couldn't help it. So much that couldn't be spoken of. No wonder she'd been desperate to get away.

Her grandmother always understanding, never demanding, would love to have her home, though her grandmother had been the first to say the family should listen to Dr. Rosendahl's advice and send her away from Eden. At least until such time as she felt she could cope.

Who said she could cope now, even after five years of living abroad? Was she strong enough to confront the lingering ghosts? To visit the escarpment, Shadow Valley? Basically she was scarred, and those scars weren't going to go away. Sometimes she thought she would never be free to get on with her life until she had the answers to all the questions that plagued her.

Perhaps she could find them if she returned home. She was older, a survivor, albeit with unresolved grievances. In some ways it seemed the decision had been made for her. If she found Heath Cavanagh wasn't in the terrible condition Siggy would have her
believe, she'd send him packing. Then there was the threat of Drake and his ambitions. She needed to be home to keep an eye on him. She could see the big advantages that would open up for him and the McClelland cattle chain if Eden fell into his hands, but Eden was her ancestral home. He would never take it from her.

Nicole checked out Qantas flight schedules on the Internet. By the time she disconnected, her plans were already made. It may not have been exactly the thing to do, but she had no intention of notifying the family until the last moment. She'd arrive quietly, before Siggy could cover all bases.

 

A
WEEK LATER
she arrived in Sydney thoroughly jet-lagged but thrilled to be back in Australia. She'd left a subzero winter in New York and arrived to brilliant blue skies and dazzling sunshine of summer in the Southern Hemisphere. She always found it impossible to sleep on planes, so she was groggy with exhaustion, her body clock out of whack. She was in no condition to take a connecting flight to Brisbane, so she booked into a hotel and slept. The next day she awoke refreshed, ready for the hour's flight to Brisbane midafternoon. That meant another night in a hotel and more phone calls before she could arrange a flight out west to the Outback that lay beyond the Great Dividing Range, and from there a charter flight to Eden.

Flying was a way of life in the Outback, with a land mass that covered most of the state of Queensland. The Channel Country where she was heading was home to the nation's cattle kings. Her people. A riverine desert, it provided a vast flat bed for a three-river
system that in the rainy season flooded the distinctive maze of channels that watered the massive stretch of plains. The Channel Country covered a vast area, one-fifth of the state, with the nearest neighbor—in Eden's case the McClellands—one hundred and fifty miles away. Chances were she'd be completely played out by the time she got home.

 

A
T
E
AGLE
F
ARM
A
IRPORT
in Brisbane, the same old routine, minus the intensive obligatory checks that had taken place when she'd arrived from overseas. A lengthy process she accepted without complaint in this new dangerous age. Passengers resembling a benign flock of sheep headed off to Baggage Claim, where they milled around waiting for the luggage to come through. When it did, within moments a crush of bodies appeared at the conveyor belt, all eyes glued compulsively on the flap. As the luggage made its way around, it was seized triumphantly and hauled away.

She couldn't sight her matching Louis Vuitton bags, a going-away present from her grandmother years before. A young woman behind her suddenly rushed forward, nearly knocking her over, and heaved off a great canvas bag covered in travel stickers.

“Sorry!” A rueful grin.

“No problem.”

After a while she began to get worried. Everyone else was picking up their stuff, so where was hers? Maybe someone had taken a liking to her expensive luggage. Absurd to spend so much money on luggage when it got treated so roughly, she thought wearily. Just as she was starting to feel this was no joke and
her luggage had been left in Sydney, the first of her cases tumbled out onto the conveyor belt.

Thank God! Still she'd have a battle to get two of the heavy suitcases onto the trolley. She moved forward, prepared to marshal her fading strength.

 

H
IS DRIVER
was a short round balding man who stepped forward to identify himself.

“Mr. McClelland?”

“Yes.”

“Jim Dawkins,” the man said cheerfully. “I'm here to drive you on to Archerfield. Mr. Drummond sent me.”

“Yes, I know. I spoke to Harry last night.”

“Just the one case, sir?”

Drake nodded briefly. “It was only an overnight trip.”

“I'm parked out front and down a bit.”

“We might as well get under way.”

“Right, sir.” Dawkins took charge of the overnight bag.

God knows what made Drake turn back to look around the airport terminal. And at that precise moment. But if he hadn't, he'd have missed her. For a moment he stood immobilized by shock, feeling as if a hand had reached in and twisted his heart.

Nicole Cavanagh. He could count the days since he'd last seen her. June, when she'd returned briefly as she always did for her grandmother Louise's birthday. June and Christmas, like clockwork before she flew away again.

She had her back to him, standing at the conveyor belt waiting for her luggage. He'd recognize her any
where by that glorious mane. It was difficult to describe the color, but it always made him think of rubies. Today the familiar cascade of long curling hair was pulled into a loose knot. As she turned—a young woman keen on collecting her luggage surged forward and nearly knocked her down—he saw that flawless skin, milk-white with fatigue, large, blue-green eyes set at a faint slant. Even at that distance, he could see they were shadowed with exhaustion.

Not that anything could dim her beauty and the aura she gave off, a mixture of cool refinement and an innate sexiness he knew she was almost totally unaware of. Every woman he met fell short of Nicole. She was wearing a sleeveless, high-neck top in a shimmery golden-beige, narrow black slacks, high heeled sandals, a tan leather belt with an ornate gold buckle resting on her hips. She looked what she was. A thoroughbred. High-stepping, high-strung and classy. No matter their dark history, he found it impossible to quietly disappear, to simply go on his way and ignore her. He'd heard Heath Cavanagh was back on Eden. Obviously Nicole was returning home to assess the situation.

“Wait for me, could you?” he asked Dawkins who, as an employee of an employee was obliged to do whatever he wanted, anyway. “I've just spotted a friend.”

“Right, sir.”

A friend? he asked himself, feeling his nerves tighten. These days they were more like veiled enemies. Too much history between them, old conflicts aired whenever they came face-to-face, but the magnetic attraction that had grown out of their childhood
bond somehow survived tragedy and loss. Probably the tensions between them would never go away. But Nicole, like her tragic mother, took hold of the imagination and never let go.

He moved toward her, glad for the little while she couldn't see him but he could see her. Words would only tear them apart.

 

N
ICOLE HAD READIED
herself to grab the first case, when a man's arm shot past her and a familiar male voice said near her ear, “Won't you let me? The Vuitton, is it? What else?”

She was paralyzed by shock, and her heart leaped to her throat. She spun around, feeling desperately in need of several deep breaths. “Drake?”

For a mere instant there was that unspoken recognition of their physical attraction. “Nicole,” he answered suavely.

“You of all people!” She experienced a strong sense of dislocation, staring up at the commandingly tall young man in front of her. Two years her senior, Drake McClelland emanated strength and confidence, an air of authority he wore like a second skin. He had a darkly tanned face from his life in the sun, singularly striking hawkish features, thick, jet-black hair and dark eyes that were impossibly deep. “How absolutely extraordinary. I've hardly been back in the country twenty-four hours, yet you're one of the first people I meet. What are you doing here?”

He didn't answer for a few moments, apparently preferring to concentrate on collecting her heavy suitcases and depositing them on the trolley, a task he
made look effortless. “Like you I'm a traveler returning home. You are returning home, Nicole?”

She ran her tongue over her dry lips. “Yes. Were you on the flight from Sydney? I didn't see you.”

“Maybe I didn't want you to,” he found himself saying unkindly, for he hadn't sighted her, either.

She winced slightly in response to his tone. “So things haven't changed, it seems.” The last time she'd seen him, in June, it was at a picnic race meeting when inevitably their conversation, civil to begin with, had degenerated into passionate confrontation. Grievances were ageless.

“No.” His features hardened, but there was also a kind of sadness there.

“Have you picked up your luggage yet?” she asked, simply for something to say. She was unnerved, amazed it was so, when for some years now they had lived in different worlds, coming into contact only when she was home. The place of her birth, though vast in size, was populated by a relative handful of people. Station people all knew one another. They were invited to the same functions and gatherings as a matter of course. She rarely refused an invitation when she was home, even if she knew perfectly well Drake would be there.

“I didn't have luggage, only an overnight bag,” Drake replied over his shoulder. “It's with my driver. I'm flying out of Archerfield. The plane's there. How are you getting home?”

No smile. Curt tone. Always the overtones of authority.

“I'm not ready to go home yet, Drake.” She studied his compelling face for a few seconds, then looked
away. It made no sense to ache for what you weren't allowed. “I'm too tired. Too much traveling. I can't sleep on planes.”

“Neither can I.” He gazed down at her moodily. “So what's the plan? Stay overnight at a hotel and fly on tomorrow?”

“Something like that.” She flipped back a stray tendril, conscious she was swaying slightly on her feet and unable to do much about it.

His hand shot out to steady her. “You look utterly played out.”

“Thank you, Drake,” she responded wryly, immediately aware of skin on skin, the crackling tension between them.

He dropped his hand abruptly. “Where are you staying?”

“The Sheraton.”

“Then I'll give you a lift into the city.”

She shook her head, feeling extraordinarily close to tears. Exhaustion, of course. “You don't have to do that, Drake.”

“I know,” he said, “but since I've known you all your life, I don't feel right leaving you when you're so obviously jet-lagged. My driver is waiting outside.”

She hesitated, hoping against hope the usual antagonism wouldn't flare up. “If that's what you want.”

“It is.”

“Right, well…I have to say yes and thank you. But I'm taking you out of your way, aren't I?”

“It would hardly be the first time,” he said tersely. “I suppose I could change my plans to accommodate yours. It won't matter much. We could fly back to
morrow. The alternative for you would be many more hours spent arranging connecting flights.”

“I can't ask you to do that.” She spoke quietly, feeling all the distrust and conflicts just below the surface.

“Why not? It's not as though you don't have enough on your plate. I heard your father is back on Eden.”

She shrugged. “Heath Cavanagh?”

“There's no remote possibility your father is anyone else.” The last time they'd met, they'd managed to fight bitterly about her paternity. Accusations full of impotence, despair and fury. The acridity still hung in the air between them.