The Cattleman's English Rose. Barbara Hannay

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СКАЧАТЬ soon as Charity reached the little foyer at the front of the pub, she slumped on to a wooden bench, swamped by anger and disappointment.

      She’d come all this way and she’d pinned so much hope on Kane McKinnon’s help and all he would tell her was to get out of the district.

      There’d been an air of secrecy about him that disturbed her. Was it a natural reticence or a wall of defence because he had something to hide? She couldn’t shake off the feeling that he’d been warning her off or, worse still, that his words had been a threat.

      But if he wouldn’t help, where else could she go for assistance? The police had been next to no help and she had no one else to turn to. She was in a strange country as vast and alien as the moon and she couldn’t think what to do next.

      Kane McKinnon had suggested that Tim was having such a wonderful time that he’d simply forgotten to keep in touch. Could that be true? Had she been expecting too much of her brother? Perhaps the boy had fallen head over heels in love. It was possible, but it didn’t really explain his silence.

      ‘Your Tim was a cutie.’

      Startled, Charity turned to see Marsha. ‘Oh, hello.’

      ‘He was a real gentleman,’ Marsha said, stepping closer. The huge silver loops in her ears made soft tink-tink sounds when she moved.

      ‘Did you know Tim very well?’

      ‘Well enough.’ The woman’s face was a picture of sympathy as she plonked down on the seat next to Charity. ‘To be honest, I thought Kane was a bit rough on you. After all, you’ve come such a long way and you don’t know anyone here.’

      Charity’s eyes widened, signalling her deepening surprise.

      ‘Why don’t you come with me? We can have a nice little chat about your problem. Girl to girl.’

      ‘That’s kind of you,’ said Charity, trying to hide her surprise.

      Marsha was very different from the kind of women who normally befriended her and the last person she’d expected to offer the hand of friendship was Kane’s woman. At least, she assumed Marsha was Kane McKinnon’s girlfriend. No doubt he had a string of girlfriends. She supposed that most women would find his silver-blue eyes and hard packed, lean body attractive.

      Marsha smiled. ‘Why don’t we go and have a quiet drink in the beer garden?’

      ‘Oh, thank you…’

      How could she refuse? She had so few options it would be foolish to do so. Charity rose and followed the other woman through a side door into a surprisingly pretty, shaded courtyard. The area was paved with black and white tiles and protected from the sun by a vine-covered pergola. A border of huge fern-filled hanging baskets made the area feel very secluded.

      ‘It’s quieter out here,’ Marsha said, nodding towards the only other couple, who were seated at a far table.

      ‘It’s lovely.’

      ‘You take a seat while I get us another drink.’

      ‘Please, let me pay.’ Charity pulled her purse from her handbag, but Marsha dismissed her with a wave of her hand. ‘You can get the next round,’ she said with a grin.

      Charity doubted that she could handle a third round. Perhaps it was the heat, but the first drink had left her feeling just a little unsteady but, before she could say so, Marsha disappeared.

      She returned very quickly. ‘Cheers,’ she said, clinking her glass against Charity’s.

      ‘Cheers.’ Charity took a small sip. ‘Do you work in Mirrabrook?’

      ‘Sure do. I have my own hairdressing salon. I’ve stacks of clients. Most days I’m run off my feet.’

      ‘You must be good.’ After another sip, she set her glass down. ‘Was there something you wanted to tell me about Tim?’

      The silver earrings tinkled as Marsha leaned closer and lowered her voice. ‘Just between you, me and the gate post, I’m a bit worried about the dear boy. Tim promised to see me on my birthday, but he didn’t turn up.’

      ‘He promised to see you?’ Shocked, Charity picked up her glass and drank deeply.

      Marsha smiled slowly. ‘Does that surprise you?’

      ‘I—er—it does a bit.’ She didn’t want to think why Tim would visit Marsha. She couldn’t even begin to let her mind go there.

      ‘It didn’t make sense that he disappeared,’ Marsha said.

      ‘So you think something’s happened to him?’

      Marsha frowned. ‘I’m not sure, but I’m happy to help you find out.’

      ‘That’s so kind.’ Charity wondered if she’d misjudged this woman. Perhaps she’d been leaping to all the wrong conclusions.

      Marsha smiled again and reached out and squeezed Charity’s hand. ‘Drink up. I’m sure we women can work something out.’

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHARITY looked for Tim everywhere.

      Racing through the rectory on winged feet, she searched every room, under every bed and inside every cupboard. She flew up to the attic, then charged back down to the kitchen to check the pantry. As a last resort she checked the study, although she was quite sure her little brother would never venture uninvited into the hallowed sanctum where their father wrote his sermons.

      Tim wasn’t there.

      Outside, a storm raged—a noisy, boisterous storm that rattled the window frames and sent tree branches thudding on the roof.

      Dashing to the window, she peered frantically into the black night and saw the stained glass windows of St Alban’s church glowing like gemstones through the dark, driving rain.

      Grabbing a raincoat, she ran out into the storm. She tried to call Tim, but the wind and the rain whipped the words away and she hadn’t thought to bring a torch, so she had to feel her way forward like a blind person.

      ‘Tim, please, where are you? I can’t bear this awful worry.’

      Then, somehow, she knew the answer to her own question. He was in the graveyard.

      A bolt of lightning lit up the churchyard, showing her the way through the dark night. On legs rubbery with fear, she scurried past the yew tree behind the church, ducking between the gravestones, slipping on the wet grass and trying not to think of ghosts.

      She found Tim huddled on the grave where their dear mother lay.

      Such a forlorn, shivering, little boy of seven, clinging to a block of cold marble, his black hair plastered to his head and his pyjamas soaked through.

      Her heart broke as she swept him into her arms. He clung to her and he was as wet and slippery as a frog, with bony elbows and knees.

      ‘I СКАЧАТЬ