The Horseman. Margaret Way
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To the left, a man was standing alone
He was staring at her with single-minded concentration. It wasn’t simple curiosity in his gaze, and the quality of it locked her in place. For a weird moment she thought she was falling over the balustrade right into his arms.
Even now his eyes didn’t let go. In fact, the connection grew stronger. They might have been illicit lovers or sworn enemies, so strong was the focus each had on the other. A shiver passed through her; it was as though no man had ever looked at her before. She wanted to move away, but the hypnotic nature of his gaze blocked her every attempt.
Was he sizing her up and finding her wanting? Why should that be? She felt dizzy, as though not enough oxygen was getting to her brain. It was clear she had to do something to break the deadlock.
She closed her eyes tightly. When she opened them again, the man was gone. She was shocked by the impact a stranger had had on her, especially when neither had spoken a word. Who was he? She didn’t know him and had no desire to. Her intuition told her he would be dangerous.
Dear Reader,
The Horseman completes my four-book series entitled MEN OF THE OUTBACK. I do hope you’ve kept with me so far, as the stories are linked not only in their setting, the Northern Territory, the remotest and wildest part of the continent, but also by the lives of the interlinked families who call this fascinating place home. If you’re one of my longtime readers you’ll know “family” is a recurring theme in my books. (And if you’re not, a big welcome to you!)
I like to portray family with the petals and the thorns. Families anywhere in the world don’t differ all that widely. They have secrets, running feuds and personal histories that often contain more than a grain of fiction. As I have frequently written, the sort of family you grow up in affects you throughout your life, sometimes to the very end. The strong and resilient will break free; others are doomed to carry the conflict forward into succeeding generations. I’m sure many of you can name a family—perhaps even from your own street—that runs the risk of being called dysfunctional. But I like to bring balance to such families by writing of hopes and dreams, and to introduce heroes and heroines who focus their energies on making a bright future for themselves and those they love.
My warmest wishes to you all. Happy reading!
Margaret Way
The Horseman
Margaret Way
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Margaret Way was born and bred in the river city of Brisbane, Australia. Said to be able to read at three, she hasn’t had her head out of a book since. When she wasn’t reading she was playing the piano. She turned to writing when she was unable to practice while her infant son slept. She sold that first book—which she wrote longhand—and has gone on to publish over eighty books with Harlequin.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
The Moreland Mansion
Darwin
Northern Territory
Australia
CECILE MORELAND sat in front of her dressing table making final adjustments to her bridesmaid’s headdress, a garland of silk flowers and foliage scattered with sparkling crystals. Excitement, like a swarm of butterflies, fluttered in her stomach. She wondered how much more excited Sandra was for this was Sandra’s day of days, the day she and Daniel were to be married.
The weather was perfect. No bride could have asked for more. Cobalt skies of perfect clarity, a light cooling breeze off the harbor, the mansion’s extensive gardens coaxed to perfection, ablaze with flower beds that dripped gorgeous blossoms. Brilliantly colored parrots, chittering and chattering as if they, too, were caught up in the excitement, flashed through the great shade trees that formed a canopy over the long drive, from the massive wrought-iron gates at the entrance up to the house. Everywhere smelled of flowers and cut grass. It was absolutely intoxicating.
Cecile swallowed a rush of emotion she couldn’t afford to indulge; she was all made up and just about ready to join Sandra and the other bridesmaids, but she was still experiencing an overwhelming sense of gratitude and amazement. Daniel, who had grown to manhood with his origins uncertain, had been discovered to be a Moreland; in fact, her first cousin. It was especially hard to believe, because it was less than a year since she had become aware of his existence, let alone that he was part of her family.
They shared a grandfather, Joel Moreland, known throughout the Territory as the Man with the Midas Touch. Daniel, it turned out, was the son of her uncle Jared, who had been killed as a young man in a freak accident at the Alice Springs annual rodeo when Daniel was still in his mother’s womb. Whether Jared had been aware of the pregnancy no one would ever know, but the consensus of opinion was, Jared would never have let the mother of his child disappear from his life; it was alien to his nature. Now, Daniel and Sandra’s meeting was a wonderful example of synchronicity, the connections that govern human life. Cecile felt moved by that thought. If ever two people deserved to be happy, it was those two.
Softly humming Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March” beneath her breath, Cecile rose from the small gilded chair, satisfied with the positioning of her headdress. She smoothed the lovely floor-length skirt of her strapless silk and satin gown, happy in the knowledge it suited her beautifully. The lustrous material was the color of a silver-gray South Sea pearl that under lights, appeared to be shot through with rays of color from her headdress, a mix of pinks, yellows, lilacs and amethyst with accents of palest green. The maid of honor, Melinda, Sandra’s friend from her university days, would be wearing an intense shade of pink, the other two bridesmaids, Eva and Denise, sunshine-yellow and a complementary deep lilac respectively. Sandra had taken her inspiration from the exquisite pastel plumage of one of her favorite birds of the Red Centre. This was the elusive Princess Alexandra parrot, named in honor of the Danish princess Alexandra who later became consort to Edward VII of England. Sandra, herself, had been christened Alexandra Mary after her Scottish great-great-grandmother, so it was easy to see the connection. The garlands they all wore on their heads took their theme from the infinite varieties of wildflowers that cloaked Sandra’s desert home after the rains. The five of them had settled on their outfits over one very happy get-acquainted weekend on Moondai, the historic station Sandra had inherited from her late grandfather, Rigby Kingston. All four bridesmaids were brunettes, which made a striking contrast with the buttercup blondness of the bride, Cecile thought. She felt honored that Sandra had chosen her to be part of the bridal party. After all, she was a newcomer to Sandra’s life, but their rapport, established before the big engagement party on Moondai, had been instant, which is about as gratifying as it gets.
Cecile drifted onto the balcony to look over the extensive gardens, ten acres in all. Huge white marquees with pink pelmets and tassels had been erected in the grounds: one for the banquet; another to house drinks of all kinds, from French champagne to Coca-Cola; the third for the lavish selection of desserts and coffee. Hundreds of circular white tables and chairs, their backs adorned with huge ivory satin bows, had been set out on the lush green lawn, which swept down