Bride at Briars Ridge (Mills & Boon Romance) (Barons of the Outback, Book 2)

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Violette was certain to win The Naming. Good luck to her. Her mother had excelled at quilting, rug-making, dressmaking, cooking, baking, making a house and garden beautiful, keeping her family well and happy. All those were art forms.

Her mother had had them in abundance. Her own skills were with animals. Alana was an excellent rider. She had won many cross country and endurance races, beating Violette, who was a fine rider, on three separate occasions. With the familiar tug of sadness she closed the door on her sleeping father, leaving him to his self induced oblivion.

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Every day of her life, while she was up in the hills within the cathedral of trees, she prayed he would break out of his prison of guilt and remorse. Holding to the centre of an unfamiliar valley road, the four-wheel drive had side-swiped the ute hard as it rounded a bend. Annabel Callaghan had not been so lucky. Fasten up, Lana. Do as I tell you now. Her mother had not fastened up that day. That was the tragic part. A life lost through one careless mistake. In the big, bright yellow and white kitchen, Alana grabbed up a couple of muesli bars and an apple, then let herself out though the back door, heading for the stables.

The stables were a distance from the homestead, on the far side of the home paddock. Her fastidious mother had not wanted a single horsefly to get into the house, so her father had had the stables relocated even before her mother had moved in as a new bride.

Fler böcker av Margaret Way

Buddy was already up and about, ready to greet her with his brilliantly white smile. Enquiries had been made, but no one had turned up to claim Buddy. The family had unofficially adopted him. You know that. He had worshipped her mother. The trees were standing tall, their silhouette greenish black against a radiant unclouded blue sky. Wangaree Homestead had been named in honour of that lost tribe. Alana toiled for hours, driving the wethers down from the ridge at a steady pace into the low country. The mustering of sheep and the directing of them to various locations around the property required plenty of patience and skill.

Monty and Brig were in their element, with wonderfully eager expressions, floating around the mob and keeping them in a tidy, closely packed flowing stream. She provided the orders and her dogs carried them out, revelling in the chance to show her what they could do. The creek that wound through the property was glittering, as if a crowd of people were squatting beside it flashing mirrors. Alana always wore sunglasses. They were a must to protect her eyes from the searing glare. These wethers were due to be drenched, but she would have to wait for Kieran to help her.

Kieran was due home the day after next.

Margaret Way

She missed him when he went away. Life was pretty grim and enormously worrying, with their father the way he was. Her father, once a light drinker, enjoying a few cold beers at most, had embraced the whisky bottle with a vengeance.

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She lifted her head to the wide-open sky. It was an incredible lapis-blue, virtually cloudless. A hot air balloon was almost directly overhead, sailing through the air as free as a bird. The Valley was a centre for sky-diving and parachuting too. She put up her hand and waved.

The tourists waved back. They loved seeing the Valley this way. Mid-morning, driven by hunger, she made her way back to the homestead. It was a daily ritual. Her mother had been a believer. She missed her mother terribly. Alana snapped out of it with an effort. How clever Buddy was! He had taken in everything her mother had taught him. High summer, and the roses were in extravagant bloom. The colours ranged from purest white through yellows and pinks to a deep crimson. The yield was down, certainly, but the quality was up. They had experienced just enough winter rain, with no damaging summer storms that could wipe out a vineyard in less than ten minutes.

At least that was what she believed. She even had to hold back a little moan, as though something sharp pricked at her heart. In his own way Guy Radcliffe was a god, complete with a valley full of worshippers. Certainly he was as splendid as any man might wish to be. Everyone adored him. Her heart lifted. He could stay and have something to eat with her.

She and Simon were the best of friends. The bond had sprung up in pre-school.

Margaret Way

Simon had been a real dreamer then, and very, very shy. He still was, come to that, and rather a bit too much on the intense side. She had taken charge of him right from the beginning, almost like a little mother.


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Her role had been to keep Simon safe. That had been when the two of them had been standing hand in hand before the manger at a midnight service one Christmas Eve. She had given him a big squishy hug. What a pair they must have been! Simon just seemed to be a natural-born victim. A big factor in his timidity could well have been the untimely loss of his playboy father before he was into his teens.