Secrets Of The Outback. Margaret Way

      MILLS & BOON

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      This book is dedicated to Diana Palmer,

       who once told me, “If I can do it, so can you!”

       Thanks, Diana.

      CONTENTS

      PROLOGUE

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      EPILOGUE

      PROLOGUE

      February, 1981

      STEVE BISHOP, overseer of a remote Outback cattle station, sat in one of the back pews of the Anglican cathedral in the Queensland State capital, thinking he’d never had an experience like this. In fact, it had to be the most extraordinary occasion he had attended in his thirty-one years. Living the way he did in the vast, sparsely populated Outback, he was in awe of the crowd. Used to counting head of cattle, he estimated there had to be at least three thousand people packed into the church, all sitting bolt upright in the crush. Outside on the street, mourners who couldn’t make it through the door stood twenty deep, prepared to smile if a camera came near. Inner-city traffic had ground to a halt. So had business.

      Today was the funeral of one of the most powerful and influential men in the nation: Sir Julius Copeland, mining magnate, land baron, executive chairman of the giant mining firm Copeland Connellan Carpentaria. Self-confessed Titan.

      Important as Sir Julius had been, Steve had had no idea the funeral would be so huge. Or so glittering. Most people, himself included—and it had set him back—had suited themselves in funeral black. But the women treated their somber gear as some sort of blessing in disguise. They wore jewelry. None of your costume jewelry stuff. Lots of extravagant yellow gold. Ropes of pearls and diamond brooches that sparkled brilliantly as they caught the light. He had the notion that just one of those brooches could feed an Outback family for a year. The hats were spectacular, too. Fit for the Melbourne Cup.

      The cathedral with its miles of red carpet was redolent with not only the vaguely sickening scent of flowers, great banks of them, but the smell of money. Big money. Power. The milieu in which Sir Julius had lived and become a monolith of industry.

      As expected, the dignitaries sat up front, striving to look lofty—the governor of the state, along with the roly-poly premier who was working hard to suppress his usual big vote-winning smile. The dour leader of the Opposition sat a pew behind, holding a snowy white handkerchief to his face as though he had a nose-bleed or was grieving for the deceased. Steve recognized the federal senator sent to represent the prime minister. This was the same guy he and his cattleman friends had shouted down when the senator last came Outback to deliver more empty promises. Behind them sat the representatives of the legal and business communities, their expressions masked. Then there were the cattle barons, land owners and lesser mortals, all of whom had braved the scorching heat—heck, it was hotter in the capital than in his desert home!—to pay their respects to a giant among men. At least, that was how the press had described Sir Julius in his obituary.

      Steve had read it that morning with a sense of mounting wonder and irony. Sir Julius had been all sorts of things, but no one in his right mind could’ve called him a nice guy. Julius Copeland had been an ogre. Six foot four, built like an armored tank. Voice like the rumble of thunder. Pale ice-blue eyes sharp enough to drill holes in cement. He might have been larger than life, cleverer, more determined, more ruthless than most, but he hadn’t been liked, let alone revered. Maybe loathed would describe it. Steve had been surprised by his boss’s sudden death of a massive heart attack, but he honestly couldn’t say he felt any sorrow. With no provocation, Julius Copeland had made life difficult for many, many people, including him.

      Now it was time for Sir Julius to meet up with his own Boss. Yet as villains went, Steve supposed Copeland had to be a long way down the list. After all, there was Hitler, Stalin, Nero, Genghis Khan…

      Across the aisle, in the front pew, sat the widow, Lady Davina Copeland, a woman much respected for her dedication to public affairs. Fighting for equality for minority groups, that kind of thing. One could say she had set herself in direct conflict with her husband. God knows why she’d ever married the man. They couldn’t have hit it off. Steve could only glimpse her from the back. She looked like a woman half her age. Of course, he’d seen grainy photographs of her in the newspapers over the years, but he’d never seen her in the flesh. She was supposed to be beautiful. Very glamorous. He was determined to get a good look at her before he went home. Her godawful son Travis sat beside her. Tall, dark,