Wedding at Wangaree Valley

Guy Radcliffe was a real heartbreaker.

Alana started to wonder

if she’d

dreamed

 he had proposed

marriage just a few days ago.

If it wasn’t a dream, what was she supposed to  say? I love you very, very much, Guy, but

no

.  She had always suffered from the sin of pride.  He hadn’t said a single word about loving

her

.  Instead he had come up with a serious proposal.  An

arrangement

; a

business

 deal. He  was, after all, a high-profile businessman, a  master of strategy.

She had just about accepted he wanted her.  Those kisses didn’t lie. Did he count on falling  in love with her eventually? Or had he seen too  much of love destroying lives? She had known  Guy Radcliffe all her life. Now he had asked  her to marry him. Not only that, he was waiting  on a response from her…

Margaret Way

, a definite Leo, was born and raised  in the subtropical River City of Brisbane, capital of  the Sunshine State of Queensland. A Conservatorium- trained pianist, teacher, accompanist and vocal coach,  she found her musical career came to an unexpected  end when she took up writing, initially as a fun thing  to do. She currently lives in a harbourside apartment  at beautiful Raby Bay, a thirty-minute drive from the  state capital, where she loves dining

al fresco

 on her  plant-filled balcony, overlooking a translucent green  marina filled with all manner of pleasure craft from  motor cruisers costing millions of dollars and big,  graceful yachts with carved masts standing tall against  the cloudless blue sky to little bay runabouts. No one  and nothing is in a mad rush, so she finds the laid-back  village atmosphere very conducive to her writing. With  well over 100 books to her credit, she still believes her  best is yet to come.

BARONS OF THE OUTBACK

Rich, rugged…and ready to marry!

In the searing heat of Wangaree Valley,

 where the rainbow colours of the birds and flowers

mix with the invigorating smell of the native eucalypts,

sheep barons Guy Radcliffe and Linc Mastermann

work hard to be at the very top of their game.

They are men of the earth, strong and powerful!

Their wealth and success means Guy and Linc

are two of Australia’s most eligible bachelors—

and now they’re looking for brides!

Available now, read all about gorgeous Guy in:

   WEDDING AT WANGAREE VALLEY

Coming next month,

Linc’s

 story in:

  BRIDE AT BRIAR’S RIDGE

WEDDING AT WANGAREE VALLEY

BY

MARGARET WAY

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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CHAPTER ONE

ALANA awoke before the birds. She had long since  made it her habit. This was the time when the Valley  was possessed of a special magic. Misty shades  and depths cloaked the land, sliding down the  ravines between the sentinel hills, only to vanish  with the first slants of the rising sun. Occasionally  a lone kookaburra beat her to it, but she managed  her pre-dawn awakening pretty much every day of  her life, even on Sunday, and Sunday was her well- deserved day of rest. She didn’t need the hysterical  wake-up call of the kookaburras or the ecstatic  screech of flocks of cockatoos to rouse her. Her  body clock was set. Besides, there was such beauty  in the stillness, a wonderful

quietude

 of the heart,  that reached out and folded her in its soft arms.

Barefooted, she padded out onto the verandah, her  spirits lifting as she was swept by cool little breezes.  They whipped at her thin nightdress, moulding it  against her body like petals sheathed a rose. She arched her back and stretched her arms, something  sensual in her actions. The palest green mist hung  over the densely treed hills, and the sky above was a  transparent grey that was washed with pastel bands  of yellow and amethyst along the horizon.

One twinkling star still blossomed, diamond- white with the faintest pink halo.

She had a wonderful unobstructed view over the  Valley from the upper verandah. At all times of the  day it presented a picture postcard of this part of  rural Australia that was well beyond the precincts  of the great Desert Heart. The garden beneath her  was overflowing with colour: hibiscus, oleander,  frangipani, giant bouginvillaea bushes in hot pink,  purple and white. They spilled over arbours and  walls and even climbed trees in their bid to reach  the sun; close by, a rich diversity of nectar bearing  native shrubs brought in parrots and brilliantly  plumaged little lorikeets in their legions. It made  a wild paradise of a garden that was now sadly neglected  and in many places running rampant. The  garden was huge by any standards. There simply  wasn’t the time.

Briar’s Ridge was the centre of her life, but  nowadays the homestead was hurting badly. Still,  the Valley was the most desirable place on earth to  live. This was where she was rooted. This was the  place she had run wild as a child. She loved the fragrance of the eucalypts that dominated the high  ridges, filling her lungs with their astonishing  freshness. She felt she could even gargle on it, it  had such antiseptic power. The eucalypts could be  counted upon to flood the landscape with their  marvellous aromatic scents and, when in flower, an  amazing range of pods and blossom. Reluctantly  she lifted her hands off the balustrade. It was

so

  beautiful, a still dreaming world, but already the  sky was lightening. Better get going.

Another day, another battle for survival. Over the  past three years the farm had been going downhill,  despite all their back-breaking hard work. Of course  there was the drought. The man on the land was  always fighting drought, but her father’s decline into  a grief-stricken, booze-fuelled lethargy was the crux  of the matter. Inside she was torn by her suspicions  over Guy Radcliffe—the man she privately dubbed  Lord and Master of the Valley—who had been giving  her father a helping hand. It was all done on the quiet,  of course. That was Guy’s way. Nevertheless, the  thought oppressed her. Her feelings towards Guy— though she had known him all her life—were so  strangely ambivalent they filled her with confusion;  a confusion she was always at great pains to hide.

Guy Radcliffe, as Master of Wangaree, one of  the nation’s great historic sheep stations, was  without a doubt the richest and most successful man in a highly prosperous region, and he was a  well-known philanthropist. It was equally well  known that he liked to keep his many dealings with  his adoring subjects strictly under wraps.  Dispensing largesse and a helping hand was a  Radcliffe tradition, as befitting the Valley’s leading  family since the earliest days of settlement. Guy’s  ancestors had pioneered Wangaree Valley. For  more than a century their wealth had ridden on the  sheep’s back. Then, with the downturn in the wool  industry, the Radcliffes had been among the first of  the sheep barons to diversify. These days Radcliffe  Wine Estates had been added to the family portfolio.  In a few short years it was already at the forefront  of viticulture, with Guy as company chairman  and brilliant CEO.

There wasn’t much Guy couldn’t do. He was 

The

Man

. No argument. Not only did he oversee  the Radcliffe wine and olive production, he also  still adhered to the old tradition of producing the  world’s best ultra-fine wool, prized by the textile  industry and the world’s great fashion houses. This  most beautiful and expensive cloth was well suited  to blending with silk and cashmere. Briar’s Ridge,  on the other hand, had until fairly recently  produced excellent fine-medium wool, suitable for  middle-weight suiting. If the coming wool sales  went badly, the farm could slide into ruin.

Could they possibly hold on?

A few splashes of bracingly cold water brought  her fully awake. She stared in the mirror unseeingly  as she patted her face dry with a soft towel.  She always laid her gear out the night before to  save time: same old thing. Hers was a uniform of  tight fitting jeans—she looked great in them, or so  her good friend Simon told her—and today a blue  and white checked cotton shirt. Seated on the side  of the bed, she bent to retrieve her boots, pulling  them on over grey socks. She didn’t even bother to  check her appearance. Who was to see her but the  sheep and her dogs? The dogs were beautiful  border collies, Monty and Brig—Brig being short  for Brigadier. Border collies were special dogs, in  her opinion. Though some sheep men in the Valley  wouldn’t have them. They thought them too temperamental,  preferring sprightly kelpies or  Australian Shepherds. Certainly Border Collies  could seriously misbehave if they weren’t getting  enough exercise. They had quite a tendency to nip  heels, which didn’t make them popular with  visitors, and they could be destructive, but their  phenomenal intelligence, their wonderful herding  ability and their infinite energy, willingness and  capacity to work tirelessly all day long had won  Alana’s heart.

From long habit she quickly applied sunblock to her face, throat and the V above her shirt, and put  protective gloss over her lips. A square of scarlet  silk secured her thick honey blonde hair at the nape.  She shoved her well worn cream Akubra down over  her forehead as she made for the door. Barely ten  minutes had elapsed, but the light had changed.  The soft dove-grey of pre-dawn was taking on a  solid blue cast as the sun leaned over the hills,  flooding the Valley in golden dayshine.

Now the dawn chorus was up, building to a great  crescendo. The noise was deafening to a city- dweller.

She

 loved it. Nothing sweeter. Thousands  and thousands of male birds in the Valley calling love  songs to the thousands and thousands of females  ready to listen. It usually took a good hour for the  cacophony to die down, but some birds persisted for  the best part of the day, pouring out their passion.

Today it was her job to ride up into the hills and  round up the wethers—the castrated male sheep— before they started to scatter all over the hillside or  moved deeper into the ridges with their tall trees.  Usually she had her older brother Kieran’s invaluable  help, but Kieran was away in Sydney on  business for their dad. Briar’s Ridge was so deep  in hock there was the real, sickening possibility  they could lose it. These days their father rarely left  home. He clung to the valley where his wife, their  mother, was buried. Alana swallowed on the agonisingly hard lump in her throat. She couldn’t afford  to break down. She was no stranger to sorrow, but  life went on—no matter what.

Downstairs the homestead was silent, except for  the loud ticking of the English long-case clock in  the entrance hall. It kept wonderful time and was  actually very valuable. Her mother had brought it  and all the other beautiful antiques in the house  with her on her marriage. Some people in the  Valley—her Denby relatives in particular— thought Annabel Callaghan-née-Denby had  married beneath her. Like the Radcliffes, the  Denbys were the old squattocracy.

One hand on the mahogany banister, Alana descended  the central staircase, turning left to tiptoe  along the wide, polished wood corridor, covered  with its splendid Persian runner—her mother’s.  She moved past the big master bedroom—her  father no longer slept there—and on to a much  smaller room that in the old days had been the  nursery. There their father—a big man, easily  topping six feet—had set himself up, turning his  back on all his old comforts and the crushing  memory of having a much loved woman lying  beside him, aching to hold her when she was no  longer there.

The door was ajar, so she could hear him  snoring. Even that was a relief. These days, almost three years after her mother’s death, Alana dreaded  the thought that one morning she would find her  beloved father dead. Broken hearts killed. Guilt  killed. Even his drunken snoring sounded desperate.  She pushed the door a little more, saw him  lying, his dark, tanned, handsome face squashed  into a pillow, his raven, silver-flecked curls matted.  He was covered by a very beautiful ultra-fine wool  rug her mother had woven. One long brown arm  was flung over the side of the bed, and an empty  bottle of whisky lay on its side, a few inches from  his fingertips.

Just how many empty bottles had she dumped,  even hidden? He always bought more. On the small  bedside table was a large studio portrait in an  antique silver frame. A young woman’s lovely  smiling face looked out of it. The hairstyle was  different, but the thick honey-blonde hair, the  creamy complexion, the large hazel eyes that at  different times had turned pure green, were the  same. Then there was the smile. It could have been  a photograph of

her

. Alana vividly remembered  how the close resemblance between them had delighted  her mother.

“

When you’re older, my darling girl, you too

will be named the most beautiful woman in the

valley at the Naming

.”

The Naming was a special event at Wangaree’s Wine Festival. The festival attracted large crowds  from all over the State of New South Wales and  beyond. Wine-lovers, food-lovers, music-lovers— they all came. And Guy always hired some famous  artist to perform under the stars in the grounds of  his lovely historic mansion, Wangaree. The  Naming didn’t happen every year, more like every  three, but Guy had already announced, to great excitement,  that it would be on the agenda this year.  It wasn’t just the honour—there was an all-inclusive  holiday for two to California’s beautiful Napa  Valley with it, and spending money to boot!

She had no intention of entering. She thought of  herself as a modest working girl. Besides, there  was no money for a knock-out evening gown— though she could still get into the beautiful dress  her mother had made her for her eighteenth  birthday party. Let one of her Denby cousins carry  off the prize. There were three of them: Violette,  Lilli and Rose. All flower names, all born into a  privileged world far removed from her own.  Indeed, there had been little or no interaction  between the families. Violette—never,

never

 Vi— the eldest, at twenty-seven, and judged to be the  most glamorous of the three girls, but not by much.  All three sisters were extremely good-looking,  although Rose was by far the nicest. Violette and  Lilli were pure snobs, and Violette was one of Guy’s

special friends

—but so far there had been no  serious commitment, like an engagement.

Thank God! Something inside of Alana shied  away violently from the thought of Violette’s ever  becoming Mrs Guy Radcliffe. But then she didn’t  want any other girl in the Valley to become his  wife either. Now, that was a real puzzle. It wasn’t  as though she was in the running, or as if she  wasted any time making herself unhappy about it.  Her world was very different from Guy’s. Violette  was certain to win The Naming. Good luck to her.

As it happened, Alana’s mother had been the inspiration  for the original Naming, though the  festival was the brainchild of the Radcliffes. She  thought she would never be as beautiful as her  mother, Annabel, and nor did she have her mother’s  wonderful craft skills. 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. That hadn’t gone  down too well with the Denbys. They had the born- to-win mentality of the Valley’s social elite.

With the familiar tug of sadness she closed the door on her sleeping father, leaving him to his self  induced oblivion. 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. Everyone in the valley

except

 Alan  Callaghan knew it wasn’t his fault his wife had  died after a crash involving their station ute and a  big four-wheel drive leisurely exploring the famous  sheep and wine district. Holding to the centre of an  unfamiliar valley road, the four-wheel drive had  side-swiped the ute hard as it rounded a bend. Alan  Callaghan and the driver of the four-wheel drive  had literally walked away, with minor injuries— her father a broken wrist. Annabel Callaghan had  not been so lucky. For some reason she hadn’t been  wearing her seat belt, though she had always been  so particular with her children.

“

Fasten up, Kieran. Fasten up, Lana. I don’t

care if we are on a back road. 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.

“

I should have seen to it. Why didn’t I?

”

Alan Callaghan would never forgive himself.

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.

Buddy was already up and about, ready to greet  her with his brilliantly white smile. Buddy, now  around eighteen—no one including Buddy knew  his exact age—was aboriginal, an orphan who had  landed on their doorstep almost ten years ago to the  day. Their mother had put the raggedy boy into a  warm soapy tub, rustled up some of Alana’s unisex  clothes, dressed Buddy in them, then fed the  starving child. Enquiries had been made, but no  one had turned up to claim Buddy. The family had  unofficially adopted him.

It was Buddy’s job, among other tasks, to look  after the horses and keep the stables clean and  orderly. He did all his jobs well and conscientiously,  immensely proud of the fact that the kindly  Callaghans had not only taken him in and sent him  off to school—which he had loathed from day  one—but eventually given him a job and, above all,  somewhere nice to live.

“Morning, Miss Lana.”

“Morning, Buddy.” Alana returned the greeting  with affection. “Hard at it, as usual?”

“I like to keep things just so. You know that. How’s Mr Alan this mornin’?” Buddy loved her  father. He had

worshipped

 her mother. Since she’d  been gone Buddy had made time to religiously  look after her rose garden.

“Not so good, Buddy.” Alana shook her head,  fighting off a wave of despondency.

“That’s real sad. Devil-man’s at ’im!”

“Sure is,” Alana agreed. “I’ll take Cristo this  morning.”

“Already got ’im saddled up.” Buddy gave a  complacent grin. He ducked back into the cool dim  interior, then returned leading a rangy bright  chestnut gelding—good bloodstock, like the other  five in the stable.

“You’re psychic, Buddy,” Alana pronounced,  believing it to be so.

“Never been sick in me life, Miss Lana,” Buddy  protested, his expression uncertain.

“Not sick—

psychic

,” Alana answered, swinging  herself up into the saddle. “Psychic means you’ve  got spiritual powers.”

“That’s

me!

” Buddy visibly brightened. “Must  have a teeny bit of Wangaree blood in me.”

“Ah, the long-vanished Wangaree!” Alana gave  a regretful sigh, looking up towards the surrounding  hills.

The trees were standing tall, their silhouette  greenish black against a radiant unclouded blue sky. The Valley had been the Wangaree’s tribal  ground. 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. A few sheep with a little more rebellion than the  rest of the docile mob tried to make a break for the  scrub, almost losing themselves in the golden  grasses, but Monty—a low, near-invisible streak,  his neck chain jingling—made quick work of  herding them back into line, with a quick nip to a  hapless hoof.

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. She missed him  when he went away. Life was pretty grim and enormously  worrying, with their father the way he was.  It broke her heart that the less compassionate  people in the district had labelled her father “the  Valley drunk.” Grief affected people in different  ways. Her father, once a light drinker, enjoying a  few cold beers at most, had embraced the whisky  bottle with a vengeance.

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. Wangaree  and the adjoining valleys were at the very heart of  one of the world’s great wine growing regions, and  only a few hours’ drive from the country’s biggest  and most vibrant city: Sydney.

Mid-morning, driven by hunger, she made her  way back to the homestead. Two muesli bars and  an apple didn’t fill a hard-working girl’s tummy.  She stopped for a moment to admire her mother’s  rose garden and say a little prayer. It was a daily  ritual. She didn’t know if she believed in God any  more, but she did it anyway. 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. Some of her mother’s favourites, the  old fashioned garden roses, were wonderfully  scented. Drought or no, her mother’s rose garden  was putting on a superb display. For that matter the  drought hadn’t had a detrimental effect on the  grapes. 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.

She could hear Guy’s well-bred, sexy voice predicting,  “

This will be a vintage year

.” She could  hear his voice so clearly he might have been  standing right beside her. But then Guy was so  vitally

alive

 he seemed physically present even  when he wasn’t. 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.

It fell to her to be the odd woman out.

* * *

Rounding the side of the house, she saw Simon’s  Range Rover making its way out of the tunnel of  trees that lent beauty and shade to the long drive  up to the homestead. 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. 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. Her role had been to  keep Simon safe.

“

You must have been put on earth just for me,

Lainie!

”

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 had lost every playground fight when she  wasn’t around. The kids—and there had been some  fair terrors around the Valley—had known not to  mess with her. She’d been tough, and her big brother  Kieran tougher. Simon was a Radcliffe—Guy’s first  cousin—and that should have made him bullet  proof. But it hadn’t—rather the reverse. 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.  Philip Radcliffe had died at the wheel of his high- powered car. His companion on that fateful day had  not been his wife, but a Sydney socialite.

Simon’s widowed mother had not gone mad  with grief. She had become as bitter as ever a  scorned woman could, clinging tight to Simon, her  only child, and smothering him in an unhealthy  possessive love. Simon, who was very bright, like  all the Radcliffes, had eventually gone off to university,  where he’d thought himself safe from his  mother’s excessive love—only to have to come  home to Augusta Farm to a mother “terrified of  being alone.” Though anyone who saw Rebecca  Radcliffe throw up her narrow dark head, flash her  black eyes and flare her thin nostrils would have  been forgiven for thinking she wasn’t terrified of  anyone or anything. It was the other way around.

Armed with an economics degree, Simon had  been taken into the family firm as a matter of course.  He worked on the business side of Radcliffe Wine  Estates, which was now producing very high-quality  chardonnay and shiraz wines. The estate’s chardonnay  was reaching near iconic standards. Everything  Gu