The Cattleman's English Rose. Barbara Hannay

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHARITY looked for Tim everywhere.

      Racing through the rectory on winged feet, she searched every room, under every bed and inside every cupboard. She flew up to the attic, then charged back down to the kitchen to check the pantry. As a last resort she checked the study, although she was quite sure her little brother would never venture uninvited into the hallowed sanctum where their father wrote his sermons.

      Tim wasn’t there.

      Outside, a storm raged—a noisy, boisterous storm that rattled the window frames and sent tree branches thudding on the roof.

      Dashing to the window, she peered frantically into the black night and saw the stained glass windows of St Alban’s church glowing like gemstones through the dark, driving rain.

      Grabbing a raincoat, she ran out into the storm. She tried to call Tim, but the wind and the rain whipped the words away and she hadn’t thought to bring a torch, so she had to feel her way forward like a blind person.

      ‘Tim, please, where are you? I can’t bear this awful worry.’

      Then, somehow, she knew the answer to her own question. He was in the graveyard.

      A bolt of lightning lit up the churchyard, showing her the way through the dark night. On legs rubbery with fear, she scurried past the yew tree behind the church, ducking between the gravestones, slipping on the wet grass and trying not to think of ghosts.

      She found Tim huddled on the grave where their dear mother lay.

      Such a forlorn, shivering, little boy of seven, clinging to a block of cold marble, his black hair plastered to his head and his pyjamas soaked through.

      Her heart broke as she swept him into her arms. He clung to her and he was as wet and slippery as a frog, with bony elbows and knees.

      ‘I want Mummy,’ he sobbed. ‘I want her. I want her to come back.’

      ‘Oh, darling.’

      She couldn’t be angry with him. All she could do was cuddle him close and cover him with kisses. ‘I’m here, sweetheart. I love you. You must let me be mummy now.’

      To her horror the boy struggled out of her arms and took off, running away from her into the stormy night.

      ‘You’re no good. You keep losing me,’ he cried.

      And he disappeared into the black.

      ‘Tim! No! Please don’t go. Come back!’

      Charity’s terrified cry woke her.

      She tried to open her eyes. Ouch! Blinding stripes of sunlight blasted through the Venetian blinds and she snapped her eyes shut again as the trauma of her dream was replaced by reality.

      Tim was missing. In Australia.

      And then she was aware of physical pain. Her head. And yuck! Her mouth tasted like the bottom of a bird’s cage.

      What had happened?

      All she could remember of the previous night was having a long, cosy chat with Marsha. Actually…it had been rather a one-sided chat. She had listened while the other woman talked. Marsha had told her about Tim…about what a lovely fellow he was…And Charity had a vague memory that Marsha had insisted they keep drinking if she wanted to hear everything about her brother.

      But if she’d learned anything significant it was lost to her now. At some point the conversation had shifted to Kane and his brother, Reid…but she couldn’t remember anything much. Except Marsha’s clear warning to stay away from Kane…

      She felt vile. Awful. This had to be a hangover. Her first. And where on earth was she?

      Keeping her eyes closed, she lay very still while she explored her surroundings with her hands. There was a mattress, a pillow beneath her head and a sheet covering her. Carefully she turned her head away from the bright window, opened one eye and squinted and discovered that the light on this side of the room was more hangover-friendly.

      Okay. There was no doubt that she was in a bedroom. But where was this room?

      Bravely, she opened the other eye and took in details. The room was simply furnished, its only decoration a dried arrangement of Australian wildflowers on an old-fashioned pine dresser. The walls were a dingy off-white and an ugly mustard and brown striped rug covered most of the floor. A doorway led to an adjoining room.

      It had to be a bathroom, because she could hear the sound of running water. And splashes.

      Splashes? Good grief. Splashes meant someone was in the bathroom. It meant…

      Before she could come to terms with what it meant, the running water stopped.

      For five seconds there was silence except for the desperate thumping of her heartbeats in her ears. And then footsteps.

      And a tall figure appeared in the doorway.

      Kane McKinnon.

      She felt deprived of oxygen. How on earth had she ended up in a bedroom with him?

      He was wearing nothing but blue jeans and, although she didn’t want to, she couldn’t help staring at him—at his bronzed skin, which looked as if it had been polished to a high sheen—at his broad shoulders, his taut torso, and his muscles—his exceptional muscles.

      Kane and his muscles strolled into her room and he stood at the end of her bed, looking down at her.

      She tried to ask him what he was doing in her room—what she was doing there—but when she opened her mouth no words came.

      ‘Good morning,’ he drawled.

      So it was morning.

      Which