CHAPTER ONE
DALE WILLIAMS TIPPED his head to the sky and scowled at the low, gray clouds. It was raining again.
“Give it a break, will you?” Of course, the rain kept falling, large, fat drops landing on his already damp face. He lowered his head and let the drops create a small waterfall over the front brim of his hat. Warm, humid air swirled around him. Wet season in northern Queensland was exactly that. Wet and hot. His skin was clammy, sweat running down beneath his Drizabone. Bugger, he’d be better off without the raincoat. He shrugged out of the jacket and slung it over the handlebars of his motorcycle. Now he was getting soaked to the skin through his shirt, but at least the rain was fresh and slightly cooler.
It’d never rained this much in Montana. For the hundredth time since he’d returned to Australia a little over four months ago, he wished he was back at Stargazer Ranch. His mind drifted to the remembered image of the imposing peaks of the Bitterroot Mountains as they soared over the valley and pastures of the ranch. Snow-capped for most of the year, the clear mountain air had been crisp and cool. Unlike this humid air that was so heavy it felt like he was breathing through a wet dishcloth.
But there was no point in regrets and memories. He’d spent two years in Montana, learning the ropes from his Uncle Dean, and now he’d returned to help his mother run the Aussie equivalent. Stormcloud Station would be his one day, if he wanted it. And he did want the property. Didn’t he? He’d spent most of his childhood and early adolescence working towards building this dream.
Why, then, couldn’t he rid himself of this stupid ambivalence? His life was here. Not back on Stargazer. And certainly not with Violet. She’d barely even known he existed. It was stupid to be yearning for some unrequited love.
Enough of wallowing in regrets. The rain was still falling, and he needed to get across the creek before it became impassable. He pushed the button on his all-terrain motorcycle and it sputtered, but then died. Dale frowned. He pushed it again and this time it gave a few coughs, finally roaring into life. It needed a service. Which reminded him, their whole fleet of twenty ATVs needed to be serviced soon.
That thought made Dale’s frown deepen. Because it also reminded him, he still hadn’t installed the lockbox to house all the ATV keys back in the machinery shed. He should do that today. It’d been a suggestion from Senior Sergeant Robinson after one of their ATVs had gone missing a few weeks ago. They’d finally reported it stolen when it hadn’t turned up after they checked all the usual places. It was just one thing to add to a list of odd things that’d gone missing from the station in the past month. The senior sergeant had quietly mentioned that perhaps they should keep a better eye on the staff working at the station. But that was ridiculous, all their staff had been with them for years, and were completely trustworthy.
Dale brushed the worrying thoughts aside and hit the accelerator, letting the motorcycle weave through the sparse eucalyptus trees, the front wheel flattening the long tussock grass as he went. A large bottle tree loomed in his path and he had to veer around enormous trunk. At least the cattle were safe, he’d pushed them through the gate into North Paddock, where they could find higher ground.
His 4WD Land Cruiser ute appeared as a white smudge through the rain, right where he’d left it, parked on the road verge. He tucked his chin onto his chest, to keep as much rain out of his eyes as possible, while he steered across the last paddock toward the fence. The gate mechanism gave him trouble, and he cursed under his breath as he jiggled the lock to get it open, writing himself a mental note to come back and fix it once the rain subsided. Finally, he had the motorcycle through and locked it behind him.
The ramp was exactly how he’d left it, leading onto the tray bed of the 4WD. He lined the motorcycle up with the ramp and drove the bike up in one easy, practiced move, hooking the front wheel into the custom-built stand. He stowed the ramp and pushed the tailgate closed, then tied the rear wheel of the bike down to the back of the tray bed, all the while wiping the rain from his face. Motorcycle secure, he slid into the driver’s seat, plonking his sodden Akubra hat and Drizabone down on the floor beside him.
Time to get back to the lodge where he could get out of his soaking wet clothes and dry off. He checked his watch. Almost smoko time. Perhaps Skylar would have some of her famous pumpkin-and-wattleseed scones ready to come out of the oven. They were meant for the paying guests, but he was good at wheedling a couple of the warm treats from his older sister. She had a soft spot for him, and he exploited that fact whenever he could—mostly over her baked goods.
The 4WD roared to life, and he flicked the wipers on as he did a U-turn in the road and headed toward Stormcloud. The only thing that stood between him and those scones was Corella Creek, the largest watercourse this side of the property, not counting Jimbu River farther to the east. At least he didn’t need to cross that one today, or he might well have been left stranded. Moving the cattle had taken him little more than an hour, and while the rain had remained constant, the creek shouldn’t have risen too far in that time. It might become impassable later, but with his truck it shouldn’t be a problem now.
Damn, he hoped Steve’s predictions were wrong. The last thing they needed was a flood, especially this early in the season. It was only mid-November, and they still had plenty of bookings at the lodge. They were used to lots of water around here; by the end of the season, the lower floodplains often resembled a large, inland sea. The main lodge was never affected by flooding, however, as it’d been built on higher ground, in the rocky hills and rises surrounding Mount Mulligan. January and February were usually the wettest, and considered low season for bookings. It was the primary reason they closed down over those months; it gave them time to rest and recuperate. He was already looking forward to those few weeks of peace.
Dale peered through the increasing sheets of rain. Cresting the last rise, he held his breath as the creek came into view. It didn’t look too high.
What the hell…?
Dale stamped on the brake, bringing the truck to an abrupt halt.
The creek had risen a little since he’d crossed it earlier, but remained low enough for him to get home. That wasn’t what had made him stop so suddenly, however.
It was the small, white car heading into the water on the other side of the crossing. What the hell did they think they were doing? That vehicle wouldn’t make it through. The water was over two feet deep already; it’d be over the doors as quick as… Even as he had the thought, sure enough, the water swirled around the front of the car, rising up the sides and covering the doorsills as it drove deeper into the creek.
He honked the horn, trying to get the driver’s attention, to stop this madness. But they kept plowing through the muddy water. The creek crossing was about fifty yards wide. The station manager, Steve, had demanded they pay for a concrete base, so the waterway was always stable, no matter how high or torrential Corella Creek became. But even so, this was no place for a little hatchback to be attempting a crossing.
He watched in growing horror as the vehicle made it a third of the way across. The car was a little Toyota Corolla, if he wasn’t mistaken—the preferred compact car for a lot of young city women—and he knew the water would be covering the tailpipe, and already half-way up the engine mount by now. The car slowed, its forward motion reducing to a crawl, before it came to a juddering standstill. Just as he’d predicted, the water was too high, and the engine had stalled.
Stupid bloody tourists. Why couldn’t they learn? This wasn’t the bloody city. Not even close. They were all the same, totally unprepared for the conditions up here and completely clueless when it came to their own survival. This couldn’t be guests staying at Stormcloud, they were usually flown in by helicopter, or ferried in one of the large, 4WD buses bought specifically for the job. Who the hell would be out here in the middle of nowhere in weather like this?
He had half a mind to leave them right where they were.
The only problem with that uncharitable thought was their vehicle sat right in the middle of the concrete floodway and was now blocking his access. If he was to get home this afternoon, he’d need to help whoever was in that car to move it. Besides, he wouldn’t really leave anyone stranded out here, it wasn’t his style. There was an unwritten rule in the outback; leave no one abandoned by the side of the road. People could die out here. But it got his goat when individuals did stupid things without thinking.
Dale opened his door and stood on the runner, sheltering his face from the rain with his hand. “Oi, who’s there?” he yelled.
After a second, the driver’s side window slowly wound down, and a face appeared in the gap.
It was a young woman. Large, shadowed eyes regarded him from a shapely face, long honey-colored hair pulled into a ponytail. She didn’t answer.
“Are you alone?”
The woman hesitated, before giving one, quick nod.
Damn. He was hoping someone else was with her, preferably a large, beefy guy, then perhaps he could’ve asked him to help get a rope attached to the front of the car and tow it out with his 4WD. This woman looked so slight; the torrent might sweep her away if she even set one foot in it. He could do it on his own, he supposed. It really was a two-man job, however. As he stood in the door of his car considering his options, a surge of muddy water hit the Corolla. The vehicle moved sideways a fraction. Shit. That wasn’t good. The water was still rising, and with all this continuous rain, the level was increasing quickly.