The Cattleman's English Rose. Barbara Hannay

      CHAPTER ONE

      ‘WHO’S that?’

      The woman on the stool beside Kane McKinnon gave his thigh an impatient squeeze as she squinted towards the bar-room doorway.

      ‘Who’s what?’ Kane refused to look and took a lazy sip of his beer instead.

      ‘That girl, of course.’ She tugged at Kane’s jeans and he knew she wanted him to turn and join her in a scrutiny of someone who’d just come into the Mirrabrook pub. Perversely, he let his gaze linger on his glass.

      There was nothing on earth quite so important as the first icy-cold drink on a stinking hot day, especially when a man had been out in the bush on a cattle muster for three weeks. Besides, Marsha’s possessive touch was bugging him.

      Admittedly, he’d been in a bad mood all day, thanks to the shocker of a bombshell his little sister had dropped that morning.

      He and his brother, Reid, had arrived back at Southern Cross homestead just after dawn, ready for breakfast, their stomachs primed for a good feed of steak and eggs, and they’d been greeted by a cold, empty stove and a note propped against the sugar bowl in the middle of the kitchen table.

      They’d read their little sister’s note twice before it had sunk in that Annie had taken off to the city for a week—maybe two…for a date with destiny, she had written. But don’t worry about me, I’ll be quite safe. I’ll be staying with Melissa Browne.

      It was totally out of character for Annie to up and leave them without warning. Not that the kid didn’t deserve a trip to the city now and then, but she knew that her brothers would need time to find a replacement housekeeper while she was away.

      As it was, Kane had been forced to waste a good few hours driving into Mirrabrook today to track down someone to help them out at short notice. And, damn it, there was no one available.

      At least, there were no ‘safe women’ available—sensible women, who wouldn’t view a chance to work at Southern Cross for the McKinnon brothers as an open invitation to start dreaming about a long white dress and a trip to the altar.

      ‘I’ve never seen her before, have you?’ Marsha was still talking about the woman who’d just walked in and her voice sounded as disgruntled as Kane felt.

      He shrugged. Marsha regarded every woman as competition, which perhaps explained why her shorts kept getting shorter and her necklines lower. The top she was wearing today wasn’t much bigger than a Band-Aid.

      It was another thing that added to his irritation. He didn’t like women to be prudes, but Marsha’s recent taste in clothes and her increasingly possessive body language smacked of desperation. And that was a definite turn-off.

      ‘Why is she staring at you?’ Marsha hissed.

      ‘I have no idea.’ Kane sighed, hoping she would catch his not so subtle hint that he found her question tedious.

      ‘Well, you’re about to find out.’

      Slipping from her stool, Marsha moved close, so close that her bosom bumped against Kane and he turned to see why she was making such a fuss.

      Struth.

      Every sunburned, jeans-clad local in the Mirrabrook pub was gaping at the newcomer.

      And Kane saw why.

      To start with, she was wearing a dress—a soft, summery, knee-length number, the colour of ripe limes. And her skin was milk-white, her hair long and wavy, the colour of expensive brandy.

      Against