The Cattleman's Bride. Joan Kilby
one before.
Finally they topped a low rise and her worry fled as she got her first close-up view of Burrinbilli. The homestead was a long single-story building bordered by two stocky palm trees. Built of creamy sandstone blocks, it had a sloping roof of sage-green corrugated iron and a wide wraparound veranda. Tall narrow windows flanked by shutters were set into the walls at intervals. The iron pillars supporting the veranda were lush with a tangle of purple bougainvillea that almost obscured the intricate iron filigree trim.
“Vines are overgrown,” Luke said, braking to a halt.
“It’s beautiful,” Sarah declared from the edge of her seat.
A speckled black-and-white dog with pointy ears and stubby legs rose from the veranda, barked once and wagged his nether regions furiously as Luke got out of the truck.
“How ya goin’, mate?” He bent to rub the dog behind the ears, then presented him to Sarah. “Wal, the Wonder Dog.”
“Hello, Wal. Aren’t you gorgeous.” She crouched to let him sniff her hand. “Wonder Dog? Does he do tricks?”
“Nah, he’s a blue heeler, a working cattle dog. I call him Wonder Dog just to make him feel good.”
Sarah rose and gazed around. A hundred yards away to the left of the homestead gardens was a meandering line of huge gum trees. They must mark the path of the creek, she thought excitedly. To the right was a field dotted with horses. A glossy chestnut trotted along the fence toward them, arching its muscular neck and tossing its mane.
Sarah noted the spring in its step and briefly regretted her lie about not knowing how to ride. “Summer camp” had been a series of intensive courses in advanced equitation. The lie had come on impulse, an instinctive denial so she wouldn’t be expected to ride in the open country.
She would have to get over this phobia. That was all there was to it.
She climbed the single shallow step onto the shady veranda, her sandals sounding dull on the wooden flooring as she crossed to the entrance. A fanlight topped the door and on either side were panels of engraved glass. Sarah traced the roughened surface of a Scotch thistle twined with roses and shamrocks. Her mother had an antique silver-and-garnet brooch in the same pattern.
She’d known none of Warren’s family background and precious little of her mother’s. Here at last was her heritage. She hadn’t missed it until this moment, but now the smidgen she glimpsed left her wanting more.
She heard a step behind her and turned to find Luke with her suitcases in hand. “Thanks. Sorry, I should have helped bring those in. I was just so excited at seeing the house. I never thought it would affect me this much. Suddenly I’m reliving all sorts of memories—my mother’s memories, really—stories she’s told me through the years. I feel I know Burrinbilli almost as well as if I’d lived here myself.”
Luke gave her a dry glance and gestured her inside. “Make yourself at home.”
Oops, her pride of ownership was showing. Sarah stepped into the large entrance hall, her gaze rising to the high, ornate plaster ceiling before alighting on an impressive glass-encased display of butterflies.
“Of course, I couldn’t ever live here,” she assured him. “I’m an urban girl through and through. Bright lights, skyscrapers, the sound of traffic in the streets. To tell you the truth, all this quiet makes me nervous. Give me an apartment, a café and a view of the city over Puget Sound and I’m at home. Speaking of water, will you show me the lake?”
Luke hung his hat on a peg beside the door.
“Okay. But like I said, it’s not what you’re expecting.”
CHAPTER THREE
HE LED THE WAY to the other side of the house, through the biggest country kitchen Sarah had ever seen. She just caught sight of a stone fireplace you could stand up in enclosing a modern stainless-steel stove before Luke pushed open the sliding doors to the back veranda.
This section of the veranda was enclosed with fly screen and clearly used as an extension of the living space. At one end stood a child’s school desk and bookshelves, while at the other end wicker chairs padded with cushions were grouped around an outdoor table.
She gazed eagerly through the screen, past the sheds and the clothesline and the tall trees whose spreading boughs shaded the yard to—Huh? Where the lake should have been was nothing but a broad dent in the dry red earth. Tufts of salt grass grew here and there.
“That’s it?” Although he’d warned her, seeing the empty lake bed made her feel like crying. Anticipation of Lake Burrinbilli had sustained her through the long hours of the journey and now…It simply didn’t exist. “When did it last have water in it?”
“Three, maybe four years ago. It’s not really a lake, just a depression that holds water when it floods. It’s been six years since it was deep enough to paddle in.”
Sarah pressed two fingers to her closed eyelids and felt moisture seep beneath her lashes. Fatigue was sending her emotions up and down like a yo-yo. She was dying for a coffee, but even more than that she wanted to be alone with her disappointment. “I think I’ll take a shower and lie down.”
“It’s a different world when the rains come,” Luke said, as if he hadn’t heard her. “Green shooting up over the Downs, thousands of wildflowers. Frogs seem to spring right out of the mud. Flocks of birds so large they darken the sky.”
Sarah opened her eyes. He was gazing across the dry lake bed, looking into the past. Or maybe it was the future.
“I wish I could see that,” she said, blinking at the sun-bleached landscape. Faced with reality, she numbly realized that even her mother’s memories failed her.
“Life will flourish here again.” His eyes, locked briefly with hers, seemed to add, For those who stay.
He led her back through the kitchen and down a long hall. “This is my room. Becka’s room.” He gestured to closed doors. “Loungeroom’s out the front. Bathroom’s in there. And this—” he pushed open a door and stood aside “—is your room.”
Sarah stepped past him into a square room with faded floral wallpaper. The matching curtains were clean but frayed around the edges. A white coverlet lay across the iron single bed. On the opposite wall sat a dresser made of distressed pine that her antique-collecting friends in Seattle would pay big money for. In one corner stood a matching old-fashioned wardrobe. Overhead a ceiling fan whirred quietly.
Luke set her bags down beside the bed and returned to the doorway. “I was going to move out of the main bedroom while you’re here, but—”
“I wouldn’t want to put you out.”
“I reckon this was your mother’s room.”
“My mother’s room?” she said, glancing around with new interest. “What makes you think so?”
He nodded toward the dresser and a notebook lying on top. “I found her diary tucked under a loose floorboard beside the bed. Must have been there for years. I told your father about it, but he didn’t mention returning it. Don’t know why, but I kept it instead of throwing it out.”
Sarah moved across the room to pick up the notebook. Scrawled in a loopy, slanted hand on the front of the faded red cover were the words Anne’s Diary. Private. Keep Out. This means you!
Sarah smiled. The handwriting was more rounded and immature than nowadays, but it was definitely Anne’s. “Did you read it?”
Luke looked offended she would even ask. “Says right on the cover that it’s private. Anyway, I don’t have time to read girls’ diaries.”
Sarah flipped through the closely written pages and found herself tempted. Don’t even think it. She returned the diary to the dresser. “I’ll take it to her. She might find it amusing