The Cattle Baron. Margaret Way
jean-clad legs to the ground and leaned out. “Hi!” she said in a husky but otherwise perfectly focused voice. “What did I do wrong?”
He laughed over a hard wave of relief. This was a remarkably composed woman. “Regardless of what you did wrong, you’re obviously one hell of a driver.” He approached, studying her with considerable interest. Masses of marigold hair, skin as white as a snowflake, a sprinkling of freckles standing out in high relief, extraordinary eyes, green with gold flecks in them like sunlight on a deep lagoon.
“Skills get sharpened when you’re interested in staying alive,” she answered wryly. “It was the wallaby. No one warned me the darling little thing was out there waiting for me.”
“Next time slow right down, beep your horn and let it cross,” he advised, keeping an eye on her, afraid that she might pass out from delayed reaction.
Instead, she tried ineffectively to smooth down her magnificent hair. “It happened much too fast for that.”
He nodded in appreciation. “How are you feeling?” From the look of it, shock hadn’t yet set in. Either that or she was downright fearless. Just about anybody would have been a mess.
“I’ll be fine when the adrenaline levels out.”
“Good,” he replied. “Can you stand up? I want to see if you’re still in one piece.”
He put out his arm to assist her, but she rose unaided, tried a smile and stumbled. He caught her, hauling her along his chest.
“Okay, rest a minute.” His hand somehow found the back of her head, shaping its contours as though it had found a will of its own. She smelled of sunlight, fresh air, a bowl of limes.
She wasn’t about to argue, letting her marigold head fall against his shoulder. Tall for a woman. Slight, but he could feel the luscious press of her breasts. He couldn’t decide if she was teetering on plain or was the most striking woman he had ever seen. Either way, his reaction to her was strong and immediate, or maybe he was swept up in the sheer romance of it all.
She stirred after a moment and he murmured, “Take your time. Look on the bright side.”
“Which is?” At that she lifted her head, stared up at him with sparkling eyes.
“It could have been a lot worse. In the Wet that gully runs a torrent.”
“I have to get my thrills somehow.” She leaned back slowly and steadied herself by gripping his strong rugged arms. “Where did you spring from? Thanks for coming to my rescue, by the way.”
“I was right behind you when it happened.”
“So you saw the whole thing?”
He nodded. “I pretty much had a heart attack. I’m feeling a lot better now that I know you’re safe. Look, why don’t you slip back into your car? Rest quietly. The ambulance should be here soon.”
She did a double take. “What ambulance?” Her voice, which had been vibrant and musical, turned sharp and dismayed.
He stared down at her, raising his eyebrows. “The one that’s going to take you into town. I know you’re a defensive driver at the highest level, but you’ve had one hairy ride. Shock will set in. Believe me.”
She laughed, although her temples were beaded with sweat and her skin was whiter than white. “Get on your mobile. Tell them not to come.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“I’m talking to you, aren’t I? I’m quite rational.”
“Hold out your hands,” he ordered gently.
She did so without an instant’s hesitation.
“They’re trembling.” They were, too. Beautiful hands, long-fingered, elegant, the nails unpainted, but a nice length.
“I’m a bit shaken up, that’s all.” She shrugged, more easily able to size him up now. Her first impression was of someone larger than life, a man of mythic proportions. Hercules, Apollo, a bit of both. “Listen, I don’t want any fuss. You can drive me back to town, can’t you?”
Frowning, he studied her face. “If that’s what you want, but I have my doubts I’d be doing the right thing.”
“I’ve been in worse situations.”
“Yeah? When?” he asked skeptically.
“Try East Timor. Or dodging bullets in Afghanistan when you’re trying to talk on camera.”
He gave a devastating smile of approval, looking good enough to play the hero in a big adventure movie.
“Well, that doesn’t leave me with much else to say. Hang on a second and I’ll see if I can stop the ambulance. I’m Chase Banfield. And you’re…?”
One quirky eyebrow shot up. He probably knew exactly who she was, but she identified herself, anyway.
“Roslyn Sum-m-mers.” She’d briskly put her hand in his, then dragged out her name as a jolt of electricity flared through her body. Chase Banfield. Who else? She watched him as he half turned away, punching numbers into his mobile. He was wearing jeans and a bush shirt, and James Bond couldn’t look as good in a tuxedo. Tall. A lot taller than she. About six-three. Wide-shouldered, lean-hipped. A mane of deeply waving bronze hair. A wonderful gold tone to his skin. Beautiful topaz eyes, resembling a tiger’s. A strong distinctive face, sculpted, not chiseled like her own. High cheekbones, brackets around a handsomely cut mouth. Thirty, thirty-two. A man in full possession of his space. A man on his own territory. A fighter. A cattleman with the polished speaking voice of the elite. After Porter she wasn’t prepared for his maleness, his virility and splendor.
Chase Banfield. What else was there to say? The fates had thrown them together.
“So that’s okay,” he said, pushing the mobile back into the pouch on his belt. “No ambulance. Chipper is going to take a run out, though, and see what you’ve done.”
“Whoever Chipper is.” She could feel her heartbeat gradually returning to normal.
“Chipper Murray is our local police constable,” he explained. “A good man. He sees that nothing much goes wrong around here.”
“What’s he going to do? Arrest me for creating this mess?”
“Arresting people is part of the job, but no, you have nothing to fear. He’ll have enough on his hands trying to retrieve the car. Hire car, isn’t it?”
Rosie turned her head, kicked a tire lightly. “This is going to cost a pretty penny.”
“At least it didn’t kill you. So, Roslyn, what do we do now?”
Enterprising though she was, she didn’t think she could handle Chase Banfield. He was dynamite. Rosie took a long look up the slope. “I saw the way you got down. Piece of cake.”
He groaned. “Are you serious? A piece of cake for me. I don’t know about you.”
“Watch me.”
He was beginning to wonder if he could ever stop watching her. She was dressed like him in jeans and a shirt, only, he was never so entrancingly violently colorful. Her cotton shirt was a bright saffron. She had a couple of strings of multicolored glass beads around her neck and an ornate beaten-silver belt around her narrow waist. She reminded him of a field of wild poppies waving in the sun.
“Hang on,” he said, grasping her arm. “I can’t let you go just like that.”
“Of course you can. You wouldn’t believe some of the places I’ve been and the things I’ve done.”
“It’s my rope, girl.” He spoke softly, yet she listened.
“I’m sure I can make it up that slope.” She changed tack, smiled at him appealingly.
“There’s