Her Australian Cattle Baron by Margaret Way

Author:Margaret Way [Way, Margaret]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2017-03-31T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 6

Amelia slept deeply for five or six hours before she woke with a muffled cry. Where was she? She sat bolt upright in a strange bed. In the space of a couple of heartbeats, she oriented herself. Her hand moved to the right to turn on a bedside lamp. She could plainly see it. She hadn’t awakened in pitch black, which had a calming effect. The radiant silver light from a full moon streamed across the room through the open French doors. It was a huge room like all the other rooms in the house. The first Stirling who had built the homestead evidently intended it to be his castle.

She looked around her. Dark walls, either dark blue or navy. White ceiling with a lot of white trim to relieve the colour of the walls. The decor spoke volumes. This was a man’s bedroom, though it wasn’t the sort of place a man could tramp around in. Certainly not with muddy boots. Or even lounge in. No time for lounging. There were huge blown-up photographs of thoroughbred horses on the walls. A striking portrait of a handsome elderly gentleman who looked very important was given pride of place. A large desk and chair filled one corner, with a tall bookcase alongside. Books everywhere. In a way, it was like travelling back in time. She wondered who the bedroom had belonged to. She knew it wasn’t Royce or Jimmy.

She felt thirsty, in need of a drink of water. Anthea had left her a jug and a glass. She stood up in one fluid motion of long legs and long arms. She felt steady enough on her feet, but she couldn’t ignore the fact she had fainted hours before.

Picking up the jug, she poured herself some of the contents, taking a large, refreshing swallow. The water was still cold. Even the breeze that moved the heavy white curtains was decidedly cool. She knew the desert and the desert fringe could get very cold after the burning heat went out of the sands.

Despite the size of the room, she was starting to feel claustrophobic. The drama of the evening was coming back to haunt her: Marigold had made a holy show of them. She most remembered the look of burning hatred on Marigold’s face. There was something implacable about it. It had to be some sort of chemical imbalance. Marigold’s behaviour had not improved with age as the family had hoped.

She remembered how her mother had once taken Marigold to a clinical psychiatrist after some incident had worried her. Marigold had been around eight at the time. Amelia would have been ten. It had been some behavioural problem that had given their mother concern.

Marigold’s attachment to Amelia had always been strong, if not affectionate, she thought as she sat down on the side of the bed. Although she had tried hard to interest Marigold in any number of pleasurable pursuits, Marigold’s range of interests had been and remained limited. She had not

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