The Cattleman's Bride. Joan Kilby

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СКАЧАТЬ card and asked for the software to be couriered care of Murrum general delivery. Aside from helping Luke and Becka, if she could get on the Internet she could look up agoraphobia and hopefully find out how to help herself.

      Satisfied with her morning’s work, she shut the computer down and repaired to the kitchen for another blah cup of coffee. The phone rang while she was waiting for the water to boil. “Hello?”

      “Good morning,” said a cultured masculine voice. “This is Professor Winter, from Australia National University in Canberra. May I speak with Luke?”

      “He’s not in at the moment,” Sarah replied. Now, why would a professor be calling Luke? “Can I take a message?”

      “Please ask him to call me back on this number….”

      Sarah wrote the number down on a pad of paper beside the phone. She’d barely hung up, when she heard boots on the veranda. Luke came in, glanced at her and hung his hat on a row of pegs that already held a bridle, a rope and a coiled, short-handled stock whip as well as several other beat-up felt hats. “Two rules about hats,” he said. “Never wear them in the house. And never go outside without one.”

      “I’ll remember that. Oh, a Professor Winter just called. His number’s on the notepad.”

      “Thanks. I’ll ring him later.” He crossed to the sink and scrubbed his hands.

      She eyed him, mildly frustrated. He not only had no intention of satisfying her curiosity about Professor Winter, he wasn’t even aware she was suffering from it. Heck, he barely seemed aware of her existence. She sighed. It was probably just as well, since there was no possibility of anything but a business relationship between them. “Do you have ground coffee, by any chance?”

      “Not worth the bother to make real coffee for one.”

      Huh? Coffee was always worth bothering about. Then again, she wasn’t looking after forty thousand acres and fifteen hundred head of cattle single-handedly.

      “That’s an excellent computer you’ve got there. I’ve signed you up for the Internet.”

      Luke, at the open fridge door, glanced over his shoulder so quickly a lock of sun-streaked hair fell over one eye. “What’s that going to cost?”

      “Don’t worry, it’s my treat.”

      His jaw stiffened. “I’ll pay you back.”

      “No, you won’t,” she replied cheerfully, and poured water over the instant coffee she’d spooned into two cups. Before he could protest further, she added, “I’d like to contribute somehow to the running of the station.”

      Luke rummaged in the fridge and returned to the table bearing a plate of cold roast beef, a container of leftover salad and jars of mustard and mayonnaise. “There is something you can do if you don’t mind.”

      “Sure. Anything.”

      “With the muster coming up we need a cook.” Anything but that.

      On the other hand, how could she not cook if that was what was required? She placed a cup in front of Luke and loaded her own with cream and sugar. She had a responsibility to the station, too.

      “No problem,” she said, curving her lips in a smile both firm and cheerful. Sacrifice was her middle name.

      Luke looked up from the piece of bread he was spreading with mayonnaise. “Beg your pardon?”

      “I’ll be the cook. It’ll be…fun.” Even as she said it, her resolve wavered. Was she capable of producing three large edible meals a day for a gang of hungry men? “How many did you say will be in the muster crew?”

      “Four, including me. But that’s not the favor. All I want is you to drive into Murrum and put a notice on the board outside Len’s store, advertising the position. I meant to do it yesterday and forgot.”

      Oh, no. The next time she faced a long journey through the Downs it would be on the bus out of here. Just the thought of going out there made her tense in case panic struck again when she was alone, away from help. “Truly, I’d be happy to cook.”

      Luke began to carve thick slices off the roast beef. “Stockmen like their tucker. It’s got to be good and it’s got to be plentiful or they’ll shoot through.”

      “You really can’t go by the pizzas.”

      One dark-gold eyebrow rose above a skeptical blue eye. “The garlic bread wasn’t bad. If you really want to help, you could make bread. Homemade beats store-bought anytime.”

      “Bread?” she repeated, trying to picture herself up to her elbows in dough. “Uh, sure. But about going to town—”

      “I’d bake myself, but you have to do something with the dough every couple of hours or it’s ruined.”

      “Like children.” Oh, dear. She hadn’t meant to say that, but now that it was out she wasn’t sorry. His eyebrows drew together in a scowl as he silently layered his roast beef with tomatoes, lettuce and sliced beetroot. Beetroot?

      “I know it’s not as if you have a lot of choices,” she said, sipping her coffee and trying not to grimace. “And I’m sure you have a really excellent reason for not wanting Becka to be with her aunt—”

      His fierce glance stopped her, but only momentarily.

      “You need to talk to her,” Sarah insisted. “She’s upset and confused. She thinks you don’t care about her.”

      Luke carefully laid another slice of bread atop the massive sandwich. “Did she tell you that?”

      “It’s obvious.”

      “That’s ridiculous. She—”

      Becka burst into the room, calling, “Sarah!” She saw her father and her steps slowed.

      “G’day, Becka,” he said. His gaze followed her as she went silently past him and up to Sarah.

      “Will you show me how to use the computer now?”

      Sarah looked helplessly at Luke. Whatever their differences, it wasn’t right for Becka to ignore her father.

      “Sarah’s going into town for me,” Luke said. Then he added more gently, “You can go, too, and show her the way. Get yourself a treat at the store.”

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