Click on image to enlarge.

	Regular				Club
You Pay:	$5.95				$5.06

eBook Category: Fantasy/Romance
eBook Description: "Fire cannot burn me, I need not eat, nor drink nor shave my beard nor do any other of the things that mark a man as mortal. What else would you be calling me, save a ghost?" Flynn O'Connor has been waiting for his sweetheart for a very long time. When Annabel tumbles into his life, Flynn is cautious and concerned. Is she a woman of flesh and blood or a woman of the Sidhe sent to win him away from his devotion to Eliza? The things Annabel tells him make no sense at first, but finally he comes to accept the agonising truth. Now he has two loves. Must both be stolen by the enemy, Time?

eBook Publisher: Eternal Press, Published: 2008, 2008
Fictionwise Release Date: April 2008

6 Reader Ratings: Great Good OK Poor

Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [904 KB], eReader (PDB) [344 KB], Palm Doc (PDB) [328 KB], Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [293 KB], Microsoft Reader (LIT) [284 KB] - PocketPC 1.0+ Compatible, Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [314 KB], hiebook (KML) [732 KB], Sony Reader (LRF) [395 KB], iSilo (PDB) [273 KB], Mobipocket (PRC) [368 KB], Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [398 KB], OEBFF Format (IMP) [447 KB]
Words: 102241
Reading time: 292-408 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Adobe Acrobat (PDF) Format:  Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED
ISBN: 9780980458183

Chapter One

A sovereign moon swam through a bank of cloud, emerging briefly on the other side before slipping again from sight. Flynn O'Connor leaned against the cold rock and watched as it veiled its golden beauty in the night. Something tugged at his memory, bringing a crease between his brows. There was something he should be doing tonight, someone he had promised to meet ... He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to focus on the memory, but instead of becoming clear, it faded.

"Is that the way of it now?" he murmured, and his soft Irish brogue was warm in the night. "Is it the lack of sleep that's destroying me? I know for sure it can't be the drink this time."

He tipped his soft hat forward, settled his back more comfortably against the rock and waited for memory to rise. There was a time when he had not been patient, when his temper had been as hot as a lick of flame. No more of that. He was cured now. The Lord knew he had had enough practice at waiting alone.

There had been a girl. She had fallen from a stock horse, and the breath had been knocked from her body. Because she was alone and in trouble, he had gone to her aid. He had left the cavern and bent over her, raising her in his arms as she opened dazed brown eyes. He had smiled reassuringly, and would have spoken, but her father had ridden up in a flurry, and the girl had turned to him instead. She hadn't needed Flynn, so he had laid her down and retreated into the shadows.

That had been a while ago, and now it was night. The moon, that same moon that shone down on the green land of Ireland, edged out of the clouds again. Its rim was hard and bright as a coin, and the desert had a wild, clean charm of its own. Flynn's eyes began to blur and presently they closed. The cold receded as the dream began again.

Twisted skeins. Very twisted skeins had brought him to this moment in an alien land.

"It's all balls, this effin' equality shit." Curry rubbed his greasy hands down the sides of his legs and spat in the dust. "Women aren't up to it. They're not as strong as blokes."

"Better not let the boss hear you say that," advised Jason Riley. "She'd have your guts for garters."

Mark Curry looked sourly at his mate. "I wasn't talking about the boss; I was talking about that Bell woman. Anna-effin'-Bell. She don't fit in."

"Give her a go," said Riley.

"She's been here a month," said Hemmings, the third man. He was a little older than his colleagues, pale despite his weathered skin, and scarred across one cheek.

"A month too long." Curry downed the last of his lukewarm coffee. "If it'd been me that hit that effin' gatepost I'd never have heard the last of it. Just because it was her, Gibbons went easy as a tinny in the summer." He tipped his mug upside down against the persistent flies, then bent and squirmed back under the vehicle he was trying to repair. Like so many things at Ballahoo Station, the blue ute was on its last legs. Not because the station was poor, but because the owner, Asia Franklin, would never admit anything was past its use-by date. Especially not herself.

"She's okay for a jillaroo," said Riley.

Curry snorted. "She's not a jillaroo's elbow. Shouldn't've been driving the ute in the first place. She's supposed to be keeping that bloody mare exercised, not sitting on her arse in the ute."

"Aw, go easy on her, Curry." Riley puffed out his cheeks. "We needed another hand while the boss's laid up. At least she keeps Pepper Tess in work."

Curry snarled. He and Asia Franklin's mare disliked one another cordially.

"Not to speak of half the blokes off at the fires," said Riley quickly. "I reckon they like the pyrotechnics better than working here. Bloody arsonists. Probably lighting the fires themselves, by now." Sometimes Riley aspired to humor. He usually missed the target.

"Another hand, yeah," said Curry loudly from under the decrepit ute. "Not a flamin' fashion plate. Now pass the effin' wrench."

The other two crouched down to comment and give advice. In the process, the wrench took the skin off Curry's knuckles. He swore, and Annabel Falmouth, who was mixing mash for the fowls in the silo shed next door, shook her head wearily.

She didn't mind swearing, as such. What she hated was the mindless repetition of the same few grubby little words. Listening to Curry cursing the pain in his knuckles, the blood that trickled down his arm and the flakes of rust that fell on his upturned face, she was struck by the paucity of his vocabulary.

So much for the romance of the outback. So much for the bronzed young stockmen and the genial jackaroos of popular legend. The reality was rat-faced Curry with his greasy cap and foul tongue, silent Hemmings, and Jason Riley, who lived a different dream inside his head. He, at least, was cheerful, if a little short of sparkling intelligence.

Curry swore again, and Annabel added pollard to the bucket. Men! she thought, but it wasn't only the men who swore out here in the bush. Asia Franklin had a riper tongue than young Curry by far, yet Asia's salty language never made Annabel sigh with weary distaste. And cursing wasn't only rife in the bush. There were plenty of young men in the city who were at least as bad, in both their attitudes and their outlook.

Moreover, men who were not so young, who seldom cursed, and who were infinitely worse.

At least the Ballahoo men indulged in curses and not in crack cocaine. They might cultivate the odd marijuana plant in a private corner, but they didn't mug old women in Central Station or main line the hard stuff in the tractor shed. Hard stuff. Filthy stuff. If she had her way it would all be whisked from the face of the planet, along with those who made it or peddled it. And how many economies would go into a terminal slump as a direct result?

The mash was ready, so she emerged from the silo shed, closed the ramshackle, lean-to gate and headed for the yard. As she went, she took off her hat to shake her short-cropped hair. The fowls were scratching vigorously in the load of pea trash that had been dumped in the home paddock. The split, dried out pods that remained on the vines looked most unappetizing to Annabel, but the fowls were crooning in a self-satisfied manner as they harvested the treasure. Nothing was wasted at Ballahoo. Asia Franklin saw to that.

The Austral rooster spotted her first and strutted towards her, his comb bobbling ridiculously like a bunch of cherries on a musical comedy hat. Annabel flicked a glob of mash in his direction, and the rooster scooped it up. She glanced at the three young men. Curry was out of sight except for his stained and battered trainers, Jason Riley was playing an imaginary guitar, and Hemmings, silent Hemmings was gazing at the sky.

Rubbing a meal-covered hand across her forehead, Annabel considered the day's schedule, as laid out for her by Pete Gibbons, the station foreman. The chooks had to be fed, the eggs collected, the kitchen garden weeded. After that, she was to exercise the mare.

"Coop coop coop!" she cried in the high, coaxing tones the fowls expected. She scattered the mash, and the hens and rooster came racing up as if they weren't already full of garnered peas.

"Coop coop coop!" They jostled and fretted around her, covering her elastic-sided riding boots with mash and dust. She caught sight of her reflection in the curved side of the water tank and paused for a moment to study Jillaroo Anna Bell.

A streak of pollard decorated her jeans and her once-shapely fingernails were clipped short. With her cropped hair and skin a little tanned by the relentless sun, she appeared different, but to her apprehensive gaze she still looked just like Annabel Falmouth. It would take more than a new name, a new haircut-and-color, and a month in the bush to produce a new persona.

Annabel passed the bunkhouse and Pete Gibbons' cottage, and crossed to the homestead, where she slept alone in the little veranda room. Her domain was small and utilitarian; a monk's cell beside the one she had left behind. A worn patchwork quilt covered the bed that was flat and old enough to have obvious corners. The pillow was limp, and the furnishings old and smooth with use and beeswax polish. Not much. A wardrobe, a chest of drawers, a basin and mirror. A hard chair and her clothes still folded in her case. An electric jug, a little gas fridge and a door she could lock.

The room was short on comforts, but for a month, it had been her haven. At first, that had been enough, but now she found herself wondering how much longer it would serve. The simple, repetitive yard work left her with far too much time for thinking and worrying, and she couldn't see herself staying here for the rest of her life. At least, with the majority of the men off fighting fires, she did have some work to do.

Clean jeans and a cool shirt made her look and feel better; so did a swift, lukewarm wash and a lick of make-up. She brushed her hair and dabbed herself lightly with cologne, meeting her own wide gaze squarely in the mirror.

Those smoky eyes of hers were apprehensive still, but her face in repose was sculptured and remote. No wonder the station men didn't like her. If they had to have a jillaroo at all, they'd have preferred a curvy cheeky girl who'd sass them back and squeal if they goosed her in the barn. Or else a lean, wiry type who'd fit in as one of the lads. The boys of the bush were nothing if not old fashioned.

The telephone rang in the office, and Annabel closed her door and sprinted up the corridor. The answering service was on, and would take a message, but with fires all over and the hot dry winds, it paid to be alert, especially while the foreman was away in Noonan.

She lifted the receiver on the fifth ring. "Ballahoo Station," she said breathlessly, jamming her thumb on the re-set button to abort the message tape.

"Ms. Franklin?" The voice was educated, urbane. Somehow familiar.

She licked her lips. "She's not--"

"Actually, I'm trying to contact Annabel. Is she there?"

The color left her face in a cooling ebb tide. She drew in a long, slow breath and broadened her accent to echo Riley's tones. "Dunno anyone like that," she said. "Reckon you've got the wrong number."

"Annabel Falmouth? She's an old friend of mine, and I hear she's working at Ballahoo Station at present."

Annabel shook her head, frowning in a puzzled fashion just as if the caller could see her. Her mouth felt dry, as if her lips would crack if she tried to smile. "There isn't any Annabel--what's it?--here."

"My mistake," said the caller. "But, if you do see Annabel, tell her I heard about her on the telly, and say I've got a message for her." There was a pause as if he expected an answer. "She's borrowed something without permission and the owner wants it back."

"I told you, I don't know her."

"You tell her, if she ever turns up," said the caller, and disconnected.

Annabel sagged against the desk, her eyes wide with apprehension. Someone had talked. She didn't know who, or when or why, but someone had mentioned her name and location. God! Enough of procrastination. She'd have to take that bloody package and hide it where it wouldn't be found. Not at the homestead, or in the yard. Somewhere far away. But where? And how? What reason could she give for taking off for the day when they were so short-handed?

Annabel re-set the answering machine, hurried back up the corridor and plunged out into the blare of the sunlight to fetch the egg-basket. Briskly, she crossed the yard, her mind in overdrive, her intentions apparently on nothing more important that collecting eggs.

First stop, the old-fashioned barn. She rummaged in the loose straw, and then clambered up the stack of bales to grope in a hollow where the speckled Orpington often laid her eggs. Outside in the merciless sunlight, Curry's voice rose in lurid complaint, giving Annabel her cue.

She took a deep breath and climbed down the stack of bales, then swung out of the shadows. Entering stage left. "Morning, boys," she said lightly as she walked past the three men. Oh, let it annoy them! Let them think her a patronizing city bitch!

Hemmings ducked his head, and Riley flicked her a shamefaced grin. Curry scrambled out from under again and gave her a long, surly look before turning pointedly away.

"Who does the effin' bitch think she is?" he muttered to Riley as Annabel went on past towards the tractor shed. "G'morinin', boys!" he mimicked. "I'd like to see her grinning if she'd spent the whole effin' morning under the effin' ute someone else had buggered up."

"It's fixed," said Riley. "More or less."

"Yeah, and look how far it's set us back already!" snarled Curry. "We've still gotta drench the flamin' steers and do the boundary fence! We'll be up to our balls in shit and pee, and what's she going to be doin'?"

Out of sight behind the corrugated side of the shed, Annabel listened. Tempers were notoriously short in this heat, and with the others away fighting fires, there was some justice in the complaints.

"Tell you what, Curry; you do the boundary while Hemmings and me do the steers. You'd be back by tomorrow night if you take the bike." Riley laughed. "You can camp out at O'Connor's Leap tonight."

Curry snarled.

"Go on," urged Riley. "Be a devil."

"No way. The friggin' battery on the bike needs replacin'."

"Take Pepper Tess. She needs another gallop. Don't say you've lost your nerve, Curry, just because she chucked you last week!"

Curry snarled again. Like many natural mechanics, he was no friend of horses, and particularly not of Pepper Tess. "We ought to get Bell to do the boundary," he said viciously. "That way she'd earn her keep."

"Gibbons said she was to do the garden."

"Gibbons is probably knockin' her off before breakfast. That's why she gets all the easy lays. Because she is an easy lay."

Annabel took a deep breath and held it, feeling the blood mounting in her normally pale cheeks as Riley laughed yet again. Here was her chance and she'd better grab it now. "That's a filthy lie!" she flashed, as she emerged from behind the shed.

Riley stared at her, open-mouthed. "Jeez, Anna, we thought you'd gone!"

"Obviously! You wouldn't dare make insinuations like that to my face."

"We were only talking," said Riley, injured.

"You were being poisonous!" yelled Annabel. "You especially, Curry. What is it with you? Can't you get any?"

Curry's face went a dull red under the grease. "What're we s'posed to think? Here's the rest of us working our effin' guts out and what do you do, Ms. High and Mighty? Collect the friggin' eggs!"

"Okay, I'll ride the boundary fence on Pepper Tess!"

Curry laughed. "You and whose effin' army?"

"You just watch--I'll be round it and back before you even get your foot in the stirrup!"

"In your dreams, sister! In your friggin' dreams ... What you better do is run back to the effin' city and stay there."

"At least," she said deliberately, "I can keep my arse in the saddle!"

For a moment, she thought Curry was going to hit her. The ugliness boiled up. For a moment, she was back in the schoolyard ten years before, watching a punch-up behind the sports shed. The sordid scene had stayed with her for weeks but at least it had been fists and not guns. Dear heaven, at least they hadn't used guns.

The snap of a pistol in her memory, fogged about with maybes and perhapses. A face all blank--a neat round hole--

"Annabel, are you sure you remembered to take your pills? We can't have you seeing things again..."

"You bitch!" said Curry. "You think you're so good--come on, show us what you can do!"

Annabel was quaking, but she forced herself to stay cool. So much depended on the outcome of this scene. Far more than her acceptance, or the lack of it, by a trio of rough-edged young men. "I'll show you all right!" she flashed.

"Not on your own," protested Riley. "Not on a horse. You'd be out there at least three days."

"So? You reckon a kangaroo's going to assault me?"

"You don't know the way."

Annabel tossed her head. "There's a map in the study. All you need to do is follow the arrows and take a rough count of the stock. Child's play! And I bet Tess knows the way. That mare's got more sense in her fetlocks than you lot've got in your thick skulls."

"Mr. Gibbons will go apeshit." But Riley and Hemmings were exchanging hopeful glances, as if they now saw a way of getting everything done in the allotted time.

"Who cares?" said Annabel. "At least it will give me a chance to get away from you lot for a while!"

She turned and marched back towards the homestead. She had no idea if the young men were watching her, but she held on to her indignation and kept her shoulders stiff and her head erect until she knew she was out of sight. Only then did she allow herself to relax.

"Did it!" she whispered, but there was little time to waste in self-congratulation. Feigning rage and affront made a change from feigning calm and meekness when her knees were quaking, but that was child's play in comparison with the role she had played for so long. And 'child's play' was a good way of describing a thoroughly childish and degrading scene.

Such a ham performance! Did Curry and the others really think she cared a flick of her fingers for their opinions? She wasn't sleeping with Pete Gibbons, and if he chose to favor her when it came to the cushy jobs, then that was his problem, not hers.

The whole object of the exercise had been to get well away from the homestead. She needed to be somewhere where she wouldn't be observed. Maybe a three-day absence was stretching it rather, but at least it offered infinite opportunity to choose the perfect hiding place. It would have been easier to get away if Asia had been here, but Asia was laid up in a Sydney hospital. And if she hadn't been, Annabel wouldn't have been at Ballahoo at all.

Her satisfaction faded. Asia knew part of the truth, but she was the only one who did. Lies and half-truths, deception and misdirection. Jackson had taught her well by example and by fear. She supposed she was as he had made her. She didn't like what she had done to those unsophisticated boys, but forcing a scene had seemed the only way of getting away on her own.

The phone call. Pure luck that she had been the one to take it. It had been so brief, and, on the surface, so bland. A voice she might have recognized had asked for her under a name no one currently resident at Ballahoo should know. She'd denied herself quickly--perhaps too quickly. If she'd been half up to it she'd have pretended to be puzzled, and then laughed at the silly mistake.

"You're looking for a woman named 'Annabel Falmouth'?" she might have said. "Well, my name's 'Anna Bell'. Two words." And she could have laughed merrily over the confusion. "It isn't the first time something like this has happened", she might have said.

Maybe she should have played it like that, but if she had, who was to say her voice, some trick of phrasing or tone, or even her laugh, mightn't have given her away? The man had almost certainly known, in any case.

She packed her rucksack quickly. A spare pair of jeans, a flannel shirt, pullover, underwear and socks. That must suffice, and her ancient blanket coat would do for the nights. Basic foodstuffs, fly repellent, cooking and washing things. In they went, and what mattered now was speed. She must be gone before Gibbons returned, before one of the young men (probably Riley) began to have second thoughts.

Back in her room, she knelt again and slid her hand between the mattress and the wooden slats. For a moment her heart seemed to lurch, and then her groping fingers encountered the package. Hard and deadly, but maybe her salvation. Swiftly, she transferred it to her saddlebag then hurried out to the stable.

She was saddling Pepper Tess when Pete Gibbons came in behind her. Evidently, he had come back early from Noonan, where he had been flying a spotter-plane to check the fires. It was a legitimate task, but it worked for Gibbons as well. To keep his pilot's license he had to fly, and to keep the right to carry passengers he had to make a minimum of three take-offs and landings in every quarter.

"Steady, girl," he said, and laid his hand on the Pepper Tess's rump. The dun mare responded by folding back her ears and flashing the whites of her eyes. She was a stalwart mount, with easy gaits and a heart as big as the outback--so long as her rider was a woman. Unlike many animals, Tess preferred her own sex when it came to human companions. She couldn't refuse outright to carry males, but she could, and did, make the experience an uncomfortable one.

"Watch it," said Annabel shortly. She and Pepper Tess had been acquainted for only a few weeks, but she had had plenty of opportunity to see the mare's reaction when she saw a man or heard a masculine voice.

Gibbons stood back, acknowledging the warning, leaning on the door of the stall. "What are you up to?"

It was a perfectly legitimate question, since she was supposed to be weeding the garden, but it was also symptomatic of his covert hostility that he didn't address her by any name.

"I've done the yard work," she said calmly.

"That wasn't what I asked." He was staring at her, his rather hard blue eyes intelligent under his flop of dark hair. Gibbons had been a local boy, educated in the city and now, in maturity, preferring to work on the land. No doubt Gibbons had a long-term motive in working for a hale but aging and childless boss, but no one was likely to mention it in his hearing.

"I'm riding out on the mare," said Annabel.

Gibbons' gaze rested on the well-filled pack. "Not alone."

"The others do," she said, although the others were much more likely to ride a motorbike than a horse.

"They're men." He continued to look at her steadily. "And don't give me any lip about sexual discrimination in the workplace. That doesn't wash out here."

Annabel put her hands on her hips. "I get enough of that tired old crap from the men."

He was assessing her still. "Have they been harassing you?"

"No, Mr. Gibbons. I've been harassing them." She gave an apologetic smile. "I got mixed up in a debate about my place here. Stupid. I don't have to justify my job description to anyone but the boss."

She was challenging him now, subtly reminding him that he, too, had no right to question Asia Franklin's decisions.

"That's right," he said. "You should have ignored them. There's plenty of work for you to be getting on with."

"Suitable work?"

He smiled, but his eyes remained watchful. "The work Miss Franklin does. Work within your physical capabilities. Even Miss Franklin knows better than to wrestle a steer if I'm around. Now."

A score to him, if she was counting. Challenging a rackety steer had put Asia Franklin out of action for months.

"I'm not wrestling any steers, Mr. Gibbons," Annabel said mildly. "I'm going to ride the boundaries and check the yearling stock."

And hide that bloody package, just in case.

"And what if there's trouble?"

She turned out her hands. "I'll take the radio with me, and call in reports."

"All right," said Gibbons abruptly. "But keep in touch, and don't take any risks. Do you have the map?"

"Yes, Mr. Gibbons. I have the map. I should be back by Thursday afternoon."

"All right," he repeated. "If you run across a fire, or see any smoke, stay clear and let me know. And be sure to fill up your canteen when you get to Number Eleven and each of the bores after that. Do you know where they are?"

"They're on the map."

"Yes. There's good water at Eleven, and a bit of grass. There's also Hut Eleven, and that's where you'd better camp tonight."

"One of the boys said something about camping at O'Connor's Leap," she said.

"The boys were having you on."

"Not me," she said, "it was Curry they were hassling."

"Camp at Number Eleven. Not at O'Connor's Leap." His face was impassive, but his eyes didn't quite meet hers. "That's Miss Franklin's orders."

"Whatever you say."

She was itching to be gone, but he kept her there for another twenty minutes. Finally, after personally testing the batteries of the radio and examining her stores, he let her lead Pepper Tess out of the stable. The mare was impatient to be gone, swishing her tail and quivering her skin. The fly fringe of her bridle rattled as she tossed her head, a moist snort spattering tiny droplets on the back of Annabel's shirt.

"Don't get sunstroke," said Gibbons. "And don't get into any bloody trouble."

"I won't." She mounted the mare and rode away.

Pete Gibbons watched her out of sight, a frown between his eyes. There was something odd about Ms. Anna Bell.

Jillaroos, in his experience, came in basic categories. The first consisted of tough, leathery, thirty-something women who had been bred in the outback. The second types were usually idealistic city girls in very new western-style boots. Horse mad, full of the romance of the bush, this second type. Most were disappointed, but perhaps one in twenty would fall in love with reality instead of romance.

That was the type to marry, thought Gibbons, but only after you'd lived with them a year or three, to be sure that love would last. City-born wives might thrive for a while, but give them flood, fires or famine, drought and debts and soon they'd be taking ever longer trips home. Eventually, they wouldn't come back. He knew that for a fact.

Anna Bell conformed to neither category. Her skin and speech belonged to the urban world, to commuting and dining out with intellectual friends. Her surface competence with horses and other rural concerns smacked more of holidays spent in the country than any depth of knowledge. At twenty-seven or so, she was too old to fit the romantic mould. Her eyes were troubled; she had a haunted look. Pete knew, almost from the start, that Anna Bell was one of Asia Franklin's limping ducks.

Under her brisk, no-nonsense hide, the boss of Ballahoo Station had a weakness for fragile people. She offered second chances, quite on a whim. Laying up treasure in heaven, Pete supposed.

He had spoken to her on the telephone shortly before Anna Bell's arrival, but she hadn't told him much. She never did.

"I'm sending another yard-hand," she'd said abruptly, still wheezing a little from her bout with double pneumonia.

"No need to bother with that, Miss Franklin," he'd soothed. "I've already put out the word. I'll interview the applicants and save you the trouble." He'd employ the kind of worker he wanted for a change.

The boss had been obdurate. "Take the word in again, Peter. She's on her way."

"'She'?" Short-handed, under threat from fires, with a staff of unmarried men, the last thing he needed was a jillaroo.

"Any objection, Peter?" Her tone had told him there had better not be, outwardly, at least. "She's called Anna Bell, and she'll be with you on the third."

"Where did she hear of the vacancy?"

"From me." Her voice had been tiring, but her tone was very definite. "You're pissed off with women, Peter, since your wife. That's your problem. Don't make it hers. Anna can do my chores and exercise Pepper Tess."

"Whatever you say, boss."

"Yeah," she'd said forcefully. "It's still whatever I say, and don't you bloody forget it."

He wouldn't forget. Asia Franklin offered second chances, but demanded loyalty and obedience in exchange. Anyone who challenged her judgment was skating on very fragile ice, and Pete was grateful he had learned that lesson early. Ten years ago, in fact, when he'd thought it his duty to inform the boss of Neil Paterson's criminal record for forgery.

The look she'd given him then had set him straight.

"Ever considered promotion, Peter?" she asked abruptly. "You've risen as high as you can at Ballahoo. While I'm alive, that is." She'd paused, and rolled a cigarette, squinting at him as she licked the filmy paper. She never smoked any more, but at that time she had still enjoyed the habit of manufacture. "I hear Gang Gang Station's looking for a man," she'd added. "Of course, you'd start on the bottom rung if word got round I'd had to let you go."

That had been warning enough. Henceforth he had kept his investigations to himself. Hiring and firing was up to the boss, and on that occasion, she had proved a better judge than he had.

Paterson had been a success, and the current crop of youngsters who worked at Ballahoo showed Asia Franklin's proclivity was going strong. Curry, Hemmings and Riley were comprehensible choices, but Anna Bell was a horse of another color. Privilege breathed from her every pore, so what was she doing slumming at Ballahoo?

"Leave her alone," Asia had wheezed in closing. "No prying with this one, Peter. I mean it."

"I won't," he'd said. He didn't expect he'd have to pry, but he'd probably know in the end. Secrets had a habit of rising to the top.

Chapter Two

Ballahoo homestead receded in the haze, and Annabel began to relax. She was away, and, all being well, she had three days. A woman on horseback could cover a lot of ground in that time, even in rough terrain.

The yearling run comprised many square kilometers of semi-desert, a rocky ridge, and a sizeable range of mallee scrub. The cattle, a thousand or so head of young stock, could be anywhere, but the scrub was the most likely choice. According to the map, she wouldn't reach the scrub until tomorrow at the earliest, so for these first few hours of the ride she need only glance now and again at the fence to be sure that all was well.

It was bakingly hot and the flies were swarming misery. Annabel carried a leafy twig and swished it around her head. Pepper Tess was snorting, tossing or nodding her head in exasperation. It would be better once the sun went down, but Annabel's thoughts were troubled with more than flies and heat.

"Well," she said to Pepper Tess, speaking through half-closed lips, "I see why the boys like motorbikes. They're faster than flies."

She dismounted, and foraged in her pack for the can of fly repellent. The smell, as she applied it, mingled with the pungency of horse sweat and the faint reminder of Annabel's cologne. She had packed that cologne in her rucksack, along with a lipstick. Habit, perhaps, but she had to keep herself together; had to give herself the little comforts and rewards that life withheld.

For 'Life', read 'Jackson'.

"I'll always find you," he'd told her, back in the early days. "I have a nose for finding what I want."

It might have been romantic, spoken by a lover, but Jackson loved nothing but power. Jackson picked people as if they were apples, took a bite or so, then tossed away the remains and left them to rot.

The outback had flies. It had heat and remarkable chauvinism, but at least it was free of Jackson. For that reason alone, Annabel Falmouth was willing to love it.

Back in the saddle, she adjusted her hat and nudged the mare along. Riding could be pleasant, but out here in the desert it could soon become monumentally boring. Nothing to look at, save the best path for the horse's hooves, no shade, no variation. She loosened the reins and allowed herself to slump. Some stockmen could actually doze while riding; their horses knew the routes and also knew their way home.

Thinking about that, and the impossibility of going home, Annabel's mind began to wander off on old, unhappy and well-trodden paths.

She hadn't slept, but a considerable time had passed. The rough plain was the same, although there were, perhaps, more and larger outcrops of rock, but shadows were longer, the light softer and the silence more complete. It was an eerie feeling, knowing she had somehow misplaced anything from half an hour to several.

She glanced at her wrist for confirmation. A quarter to two. That couldn't be right! She stared at the liquid crystal display and willed it to flicker. Nothing. For a moment she was alarmed, but the feeling soon dissipated. She didn't need to know the time; she would ride until sunset, and then make camp while she could see what she was doing. She glanced over to her left; there, in the middle distance, she could see the fence.

The sky to the west was odd, with bruise-colored clouds that might betoken anything from the first smudge of sunset to an approaching storm. Whatever it was, she had better hurry, but first she removed the map from her saddlebag and unfolded it carefully across the high pommel of the saddle. Named landmarks were few, and the track that looked so clearly defined on the one inch ordnance survey map proved difficult to equate with the real surroundings.

A light plane passed overhead; she glanced up apprehensively when she heard the beat of the engine. It seemed to be circling like a hawk, but after a turn or two it passed on, heading for Noonan Airfield. And she must not be paranoid. No possible reason to believe it was connected with Jackson. No possible reason except for that phone call. No reason except that Jackson could fly a plane and often did. Light aircraft laughed at boundaries.

Annabel urged Tess to pick up her stride, but the long shadows grew rapidly and made the footing deceptive. Patches of shade became hollows in the ground, and clear patches were seldom as smooth as they appeared. Over to the right the way seemed less cluttered by the shoulders of rock. Perhaps one of those would do as a hiding place?

She must choose one that wasn't obvious, and one that she could be certain of finding again. That sounded simple in theory, but now she knew she would have to be very, very careful when she made her move. When she chose her hiding place, she must double and triple check her bearings, and take them from natural features that would not be destroyed by time and the weather.

Rocks were the thing. Take bearings from rocky outcrops, and be sure to observe them from every possible angle. A rock-pile resembling a camel from one elevation might easily look more like an upturned mixing bowl or even a scooped-out hollow from another. The fence would do for one reference point, and there was no need to be paranoid. There must be a million likely places.

"And why, my girl, didn't you take out a safety-deposit box with the bank?" she asked herself derisively. "Why didn't you post the thing to a friend--or the police?"

Banks demanded identification, friends would be in danger, and the police would never be satisfied with what she had to say. Jackson would see to that, and so would her medical record.

Annabel stopped as the light drained from the sky. She dismounted and gave Pepper Tess a drink from the billy-can. She must be somewhere near the bore, so she pulled out the radio from the saddlebag and put an obedient call through to Pete Gibbons.

"No trouble?" His voice was abrupt as always.

"Not a bit. I'm fine," she said.

"Have you found the yearlings?"

"Not yet. I expect they'll be at one of the bores or in the scrub. I'll call in when I find them and let you know."

It was a short conversation and she very nearly begged him not to answer the telephone if it rang. She swallowed the impulse. He disliked her enough already and the caller--whoever he was--had already delivered his message. That should be the end of it, at least, for now, and if the worst came to it, the package would be safe.

Just before full dark, she found herself looking down into a gully, a scoop of shadow overhung by a long ridge of the local rock.

Pepper Tess, who had been idling along, suddenly pricked her ears and gave a hollow snort. Her stride lengthened and her head came up as she snatched impatiently at the bit.

"Whoa," murmured Annabel. The mare's sudden sense of purpose was unnerving. "Whoa!" she insisted again, increasing the feel on the reins. Pepper Tess was jogging now, employing an odd sideways motion. She snorted again and a little way ahead, just out of vision in the dark, Annabel heard a sudden scramble of motion.

The mare shied, not violently, but enough to make Annabel lurch in the saddle. She lost one stirrup and clutched at the pommel and Pepper Tess's mane before long-buried skill returned and she sat down hard and regained control. The movement came again, no longer sinister but only the reaction of a mob of yearling cattle to an intruder.

Annabel swore softly and then laughed. She peered through the dusk, seeing the blurs of white faces and white-splashed flanks and shoulders. She could imagine, although she could not see, the mild, white-lashed gaze of their eyes, the pinkish muzzles, the stubby little horns.

"Well, you guys seem pretty settled here," she said aloud. "I suppose that means I've made it to Bore Eleven. Now where's this famous hut?"

She strained her eyes, but could see nothing more. She supposed she'd have to wait until moonrise. Until then, she could rest in this gully.

She dismounted from Tess and led her through the indifferent cattle, feeling with outstretched toes for the best place to walk. Rocks reared up from the gully floor, and to one side was the irregular outline of a small stand of trees. Underneath, she found plenty of dry sticks and branches. There were tough mallee roots, difficult to cut, but good for a few hours of firelight. She switched on the radio, to report on the cattle, and ask directions to the hut, but it rewarded her with nothing but a sizzle of static.

"Dammit!" she said to Pepper Tess. "Never mind. At least, I tried."

Working mostly by touch, Annabel replaced Tess's bridle with a head-collar then allowed the mare to guide her to a small, well-trodden depression. Was this the bore? It didn't seem big enough. Perhaps it was only a natural waterhole. She'd check the map, as soon as she could see.

After Tess had drunk, Annabel led her back to the trees, tied her to a sturdy branch and gave her a measure of feed. She was about to remove the saddle when it occurred to her she might have to move on as soon as she'd checked the map. She loosened the girth a couple of notches. The mare was feeding contentedly enough, so Annabel decided to light a fire and boil the billy while she waited for the moon to rise.

Flynn O'Connor was also waiting for moonrise. He had slept in patches throughout the day. Or possibly it was days.

He wondered if the girl who had fallen from her horse had sustained any injury. She had been so young, so alone--until her father came.

How long ago had it happened? His grip on time had been tenuous lately; he supposed because he was so much alone. His head ached sometimes, and he had an occasional feeling that all was not well with his perceptions.

He rose to his feet, wincing a little at the stiffness of his muscles. His fire was out; the ashes were cold to the touch. Starlight glowed faintly through the chimney of rock that served as ventilation for his cavern.

What had woken him? Not the wind through the rocks; he was used to that. The ghostly note was unnerving, but unease was the price he paid for his hidden camp. Was a vehicle passing? A horseman? Unlikely, in the darkness. He stretched, sniffing the coldness of stone, the faintly aromatic scent of the brush he used for bedding.

He touched his watch, but it told him nothing in the dark.

For a while he stood quietly, his fingers resting on the wall behind. He wished he could see the wide sweep of the sky, but camping under the stars would be very foolish. He could not afford to be surprised by Gibbons.

Gibbons!

The name had come unbidden, naturally, out of the silence. Perhaps Gibbons had come; perhaps he was waiting outside, now, in the starlight, listening as keenly as Flynn. But no. Gibbons had no idea that Flynn O'Connor was back from the city.

He would wait until moonrise, and then he would go to see who or what had disturbed his rest.

Quietly, Flynn sat down with his back to the rocky wall. He took his pistol from its place and checked it thoroughly, then reached out for the food he'd laid ready before he slept. His fingers brushed the dried jerky, and he put a strip in his mouth. It was disagreeable stuff, so hard and leathery it took a lot of saliva to wash it down. His water keg was within reach, but when he dipped a pannikin inside he found it dry.

He swallowed, hard, and settled again to his vigil.

The farm in Tasmania seemed a lifetime ago. It had been an idyllic existence, combining the best of urban and rural living, but at the time, Annabel had yearned for more. She was intelligent, attractive and intuitive, so there had seemed no reason why she shouldn't achieve her ambitions-once she had decided what they were.

Odd, how she had failed to appreciate what she had.

Her childhood skills were useful now; farming, horses and other livestock were familiar. The smell of hay and manure bothered her not at all, and only the sheer scale of the operations and the landscape itself was very different.

Patiently, she gathered twigs and curls of bark, tested the slight wind with a licked finger, and selected a sheltered place that she cleared scrupulously before lighting her modest fire. And it must be very modest; this season was burning its way into parochial records. The young cattle sniffed the air, then wandered away to settle for the night.

Annabel coaxed her fire into a small but steady blaze, then rinsed and filled the billy at the waterhole. Pleased with herself for remembering how, she set up a tripod for the billy-can. She settled back to examine the map by firelight, but had to admit defeat. This waterhole was probably marked, but in the uncertain light she couldn't read the references. She laid the map aside and decided to water Tess again then try to find the hut. It couldn't be very far.

It was dark beyond the flicker of the flames, rocks loomed as solid shadows, and the trees were almost invisible. She hoped it wasn't going to storm, but the stars were prickling out. It was probably the lack of moon that made it seem so dark. The billy boiled, and the beans she had set to heat in their opened tin were steaming. She tipped them onto an enamel plate and made the tea. Dinner was served.

She ate slowly, knowing contentment might not outlast her meal. The tea was bitter, but she sipped it gratefully, enjoying the beat of the flames and the shifting warmth across her face. It was cool now the sun was gone. She put aside her mug and gazed at the glowing coals, trying to read her future in the fire.

For so long now it had seemed like a maze of tunnels, dark and confining. Every turn might bring her deeper into the mire, but it might also find her stumbling into daylight, free and clear. Every turn might lead her to safety, to madness, to prison, or to Jackson.

She shivered. She was as free as she could be, here, but how free was that? Her time in the clinic had led to meeting Asia Franklin that had led to Ballahoo. The trail was clear if someone knew where to look. And someone did know. That phone call was proof of that.

"I heard about her on the telly..." That was what the man had said. On the telly? But how and why? Nobody knew but Asia Franklin, and Asia wouldn't talk.

Meeting Asia in the hospital had been an amazing stroke of luck. Annabel had been in the clinic herself for just three weeks at the time. Depression, they said. Delusions. She knew better, but had learned not to tell them so. There was no cure in pills for her, no cure in counseling. She must make a move, and soon, but she didn't know what to do.

She had been sitting listlessly in the general lounge, when a nurse wheeled in a trolley. On it lay a wizened figure that tugged at her memory. For a while, she had simply sat there, pulling her dressing gown about her, glancing at the woman on the trolley from time to time. She seemed to have no visitors, but eventually the nurse returned to take her away.

"About bloody time, chook!" the woman had wheezed. "I was about to take root in here!" Her voice was surprisingly harsh, but the grin on her face belied the words and tone. That gap-toothed grin, that voice, and the outback speech!

"Asia?" she'd called softly, unable to believe it still.

The leathery face with its bright brown eyes had oriented on her and another broad smile had split Asia Franklin's face in two. "G'day, chook, do I know you?"

"You bloody well ought to," Annabel had said, falling abruptly into the vernacular. "I'm the one that had the sense to come out of the bloody rain. Annabel Falmouth--remember me?"

"Do I bloody what! Come to my room and have a cup of tea!"

"I'm in for a while," Asia had complained once they were established in her private room. "I got smashed up and my chest is giving me hell. Now--tell me all about you!"

Annabel had found it impossible to talk about herself, so instead they had reminisced about their first meeting, during an island holiday full of rain. Annabel's mum had been chagrined, but Asia loved the rain, and her stories of thirsty Ballahoo had gone a long way to convincing Annabel that a deluge had its points.

They'd gone out walking every day, clad in shorts and sun tops, returning drenched and invigorated to the motel. Annabel's mother had shrugged and let them be. Asia Franklin, for all her odd ways, had a knack of inspiring confidence. In another time or place she might have been a headmistress, a dame, a queen or a mother superior.

Walking about the island, Ballahoo Station had come alive for Annabel, and when they'd parted a fortnight later, she had promised Asia that she'd visit one day.

The day had never come. Expense must be considered, and then HSC and University had intervened. After the move to Sydney, she'd hardly thought of Asia in years--except for Christmas cards and an occasional smile when the rain streamed down. 'Asian weather', she called it privately.

Asia had scarcely changed since then, but Annabel wasn't surprised that Asia hadn't recognized her. Fear and uncertainty had changed her face, and the fear intensified when the nurses told her she had a visitor.

Jackson brought her flowers, fruit and terror. He'd charmed the nurses with his concern. He had checked her locker, checked her vanity case. He had spoken quietly to a nurse, who had checked beneath the bed. He hadn't found what he wanted; he hadn't even told her what it was. But Annabel knew all right. And he knew she knew.

By the time he left she was at screaming point, shaking and knotted with fear. And that was when she realized, finally, that she couldn't go on like this. She had to get away and make herself a life.

She'd said goodbye to Asia and signed herself out of the clinic. On her return to her flat, she'd found it burgled. Nothing taken, no sign of forced entry. Nothing damaged nor disarranged. The police had sighed. Was she certain she'd locked it up? She had been confused, remember? And would she please think hard before she called them again?

She'd spent one night in the flat, and the telephone had rung repeatedly, but there never was anyone on the other end. It was all beginning again, the merry-go-round, and this time she couldn't bear it.

She couldn't use her telephone, but in the morning, she had gone to the public call-box in the library and dialed herself directly to Asia's room.

"Asia? Is that you?"

"Of course it is--hey chook, what's up?" Asia's voice has been full of rough concern.

"I can't face the city any more," she'd sobbed. "I've got to get away! Away from people and noise and everything else. Away from everyone who knows me and all the people who keep on watching me to see if I'm going mad!"

Away from Jackson, too.

"I'd be okay if only I had a chance to sort myself out!"

Asia had hushed her wailing, had offered her a job, a home and another name.

She'd gone to the shops and collected a layby, made in desperation three weeks before. A hair-cut and a packet color, then she'd collected a ticket arranged by Asia, and traveled for hours by bus and four-wheel-drive.

Annabel Falmouth was left behind in Sydney, and Anna Bell, a Jillaroo, arrived at Ballahoo Station.

She had a new life, but still she was running from shadows, fleeing from the homestead on the strength of one phone call. A three-day odyssey to hide a package. Using a sledge-hammer to kill an ant? Sometimes, she even wondered if medical reports were right and she was seriously paranoid. Spending more than one stretch in a mental health clinic did little for her credibility, and the drugs she had been given that first time had left her blurry.

"I'll always find you. I have a nose for finding what I want."

Had Jackson said that, or was it all delusion?

"Where is it, Annabel? Where did you put it?"

She had her evidence, her gray insurance policy, but did possession prove anything except that she was a thief?

"She borrowed something without permission and the owner wants it back."

Evidence? Insurance? A terrible mistake? Annabel wanted to be rid of it now. She could have destroyed it, but what if she needed proof one day? To save herself, she must keep it safe but hide it where it wouldn't be found by accident. The layby package had done well for the short-term, so had the mattress in her jillaroo's room, but she needed somewhere much more permanent now.

The wind was rising, and her fire was beginning to flicker audibly. A glowing mallee root crumbled into ash. She was safe in the outback, and soon she'd find a place to bury her package.

She must have slept, for the stars had wheeled around. Annabel sat up with a start, and leaned forward to push the remaining fuel together. The comforting level of light had fallen. Outside the rosy circle was the dark, not pressing but much too vast. No alleys, no corners and nowhere to hide. The wind switched direction, tossing her hair and puffing smoke into her eyes. A stick cracked sharply.

Had Pepper Tess trodden on a branch, or was it someone else? If Jackson came and found her now, he could put her away and no one would ever know. She wasn't at Number Eleven where she should have been camping tonight. And the radio wouldn't work.

Fear trod delicately up her backbone, fear made her cheeks tingle coldly. There were more sounds now, a restless wailing on the wind. Annabel swallowed. Despite the billy tea, her mouth was as dry as the arid ground. Be logical, she told herself. You're in no more danger here than you were at Ballahoo Homestead. The wind is only the wind. And, best of all, no one knows you're here.

Movement again. It had to be cattle. Her scalp prickled and she could feel her muscles aching with tension as well as fatigue. There seemed to be a glow on the horizon, and she closed her eyes. No. She was not going to start seeing things again. No lights, no living walls, no night terrors, no half-seen murders, ever again. It had to be a vehicle. The distant headlamps would make just such a dazzle. She had failed to maintain radio contact, so probably Pete Gibbons had decided to check her out.

Three deep breaths, and she opened her eyes again. The glow had intensified, and now she recognized it, with a jolt of reality, as the razor edge of the rising moon.

She should have known, but she simply wasn't used to seeing it come out of the land itself. There should be hills, or the leaching effect of city lights.

The moon. A slender blade that cast a little light, holding the ghostly form of its full-moon self in its arms.

"That's me," whispered Annabel. "I'm just like that, going through the motions with a whole chunk of myself all but invisible."

The Moon.

But not enough light to see by, to find a distant hut. Well, she'd have to stay here tonight. She would not be afraid of the dark. She wasn't a child. She watered Pepper Tess, and then made preparations for sleep.

The moon was late and thin tonight, and Flynn O'Connor was conscious of a feeling of unease. He had thought the moon would be full. Surely it had been close to full the night before. Had he not stood outside and gazed at its golden sovereign?

His long fingers stroked the stock of the pistol. "Don't you fail, me beauty," he murmured. Firearms meant death, but any Irishman worth the name could tell you that death was a part of the tapestry. Without death, or its possibility, who could appreciate life? Well did the Sidhe know the punishment they inflicted when they offered eternal life to the unwary.

Forget the Sidhe. The Sidhe were far in the past, buried in the peat bogs of the old country, buried within his mind.

"Holy Mother Mary!" said Flynn. It was seldom he had such profound thoughts, and why consider death right now? Eliza was full of life and love, and soon they would be together. If only they could escape from Gibbons, all would be well.

The moon blurred above, and he needed to be gone, but knew he must wait for Eliza. Wait in patience for her to come. There was peril in the air, and how long had he spent waiting here? Much longer than he had hoped and expected. No matter. She would come.

The moon was up, and the sense of someone out on the plain was strong. Flynn rose fluidly to his feet and glided to the entrance of his lair. The cleft in the rocks was narrow, and only by edging sideways was it possible to enter at all. He traversed the route with the ease of long acquaintance, stopping every pace to listen. He could hear the sound of the wind, howling and booming among the rocks.

A suggestion of smoke made him pause and test the air. It could not come from his own hearth, black and cold behind him. Perhaps there was a grass fire? Some careless stockman might have left an unquenched camp. He sniffed again, and the smell of smoke was definite now. Treading quietly, Flynn slid from concealment.

The moon made ill light, but over in the lee of the ridge he saw the glow of coals. Apprehension struck him. Who was stupid enough to advertise his presence with a light? Surely not Gibbons, who was as wily as he was suspicious. If Gibbons were waiting for Flynn O'Connor he would do so in company, or perhaps he would do it secretly and strike from behind.

Flynn's neck prickled. Sure, the fire might be a decoy, a lure to fetch him into the open. His narrowed eyes made out a hunched figure near the fire, but a figure need not be human. Many a fugitive had been fooled by a bolster or a man of straw. Above the booming of the wind, his ears detected the sound of shifting hooves. A tethered horse, or horses, under the trees.

Dangerous, thought Flynn. If a branch came down, a good horse might be hurt. He was gliding towards the horse when a flicker of light made him turn. The figure was sitting up, thrusting a branch into the coals. Something about the posture, the curve of the neck and angle of the cheek, made Flynn pause. His heart thumped, hard, so hard he thought she must hear it even above the unholy wind.

She. The figure was that of a woman.

Eliza! Tenderness flooded Flynn. Eliza had come to him at last. She had braved the arid land, the night, Gibbons' wrath, and had come to find him. She had promised to meet him, he knew that, but he could not remember when. No matter. The darling had found him for herself.

Flynn's heart seemed full with emotion; his arms ached to hold her against him. He had never in all his life wanted a woman as he wanted Eliza.

"You want what you shouldn't have, Flynn O'Connor." Eliza herself had summed up the situation thus, but the wry curve of her mouth made him laugh and kiss her again.

"If I had the pick of every woman that has ever walked the Earth, I'd still be wanting you." The extravagant claim was close to poetry, but love woke the poet in every Irishman. And perhaps the madman too.

She hadn't seen him yet, and if he came up out of the dark he would startle her. She always rode a chestnut mare, which had a kindness for him. If he went to Florrie she would nicker at him, inspect his pockets for apples. The mare would be disappointed in that, but her greeting would alert Eliza.

Smiling in the darkness, Flynn moved towards the mare. He whistled softly, no more than a gentle hiss of breath between his teeth. The chestnut had been dozing, one hind hoof propped on its tip in the manner of her kind, but she woke at his approach.

"Be easy, me darling," murmured Flynn, falling easily into the natural rhythms of his boyhood.

The mare's reaction startled him, for she shied away, uttering a hollow, ringing snort that her rider must have heard even above the wind.

"Tess?" The voice came quickly, questioningly, through the dark.

Tess? Eliza's mount was called Florrie.

Flynn stretched out a doubtful hand, soothing the creature, running his fingers over her mane. The texture was wrong, and the color, perhaps, a trifle light for chestnut.

"By easy, girl," he said as the mare plunged. His hand dropped to the strap that tethered her, but he was too late. The tether snapped and the animal swung round and bolted.

"Here's a do!" said Flynn, and turned ruefully towards Eliza who must surely know by now that he was here. She was sitting upright now, peering towards him. The glow of the fire displayed her for him in relief, but he was beyond the light and realized she wouldn't see him at all.

The coat had fallen from her shoulders and he could see her breast heaving in agitation as she scrambled to her feet. "No--stay back!" Her tone was anguished, and he knew in that instant that this must be a trap.

In one smooth movement he cocked his pistol, raised it to shoulder height. He might still retreat, but he had had enough of skulking in the shadows. Ireland had a turbulent history, but no one could call a son of Ireland a coward in love or battle. The mare had gone and, trap or not, he could not leave Eliza to suffer Gibbons' wrath. He strode forward, the nails of his boots striking sparks from the rock beneath his feet.

All Annabel's nightmares coalesced into a single horrified moment as she saw the figure of a man striding towards her. It never occurred to her for even an instant that it might be one of the men from Ballahoo. She knew their silhouettes and she knew their various gaits. This man moved with the grace of a dancer, his upraised hand held a pistol, and his approach held a purpose that could mean only one thing for Annabel.

The phone call had been a trick designed to spook her into doing something foolish. Something like leaving the relative safety of Ballahoo Homestead.

She'd left all right, bolting like a rabbit, and now Jackson had sent a gunman after her.

Pepper Tess had gone, stampeded into the night. Desperately, Annabel scrabbled away from the fire, knowing it must throw her body into relief. If she could get away into the darkness, perhaps she could escape.

Some hopes, jeered an ironic voice in her mind. Jackson never did things by quarters. If he wanted her dead or silent, dead or silent she would be. She groped for a weapon, a branch or a rock, but she had cleared the fire site too well. Desperately, she lunged to grab the end of the branch she had just thrust into the fire. It was blazing, so she brandished it like a sword.

"Keep back you bastard--back off!" Smoke streamed in her eyes and her short hair whipped about her cheeks.

The dark figure came on swiftly. He was saying something, but the wind roared in Annabel's ears, half-deafening her.

"Back off!" she shrieked again, and flung the flaming branch at his head.

She could never say clearly what happened after that. Certainly, the brand went cartwheeling away, the flames blew out with its passage, but the glowing tip and the plume of blue smoke was enough to let her track its trajectory.

She saw the man's features for an instant, mouth agape, eyes wide, illuminated as much by horror as by the spark of light.

She screamed, and so did he, as the branch struck home.

The ugliness of her actions struck like a blow, but to Annabel's bewilderment the charred branch, though checking a moment as it slammed into its target, continued to follow its original course. Mesmerized with horror, she heard it thump and clatter to the ground some meters beyond.

He stood frozen, his pistol still leveled, one arm flung up to protect his injured face. She stared for another split second as his arm came down and he seemed to be inspecting his hand.

"What the devil--" His voice rang out, pained and unfamiliar. There was a softness about his vowels, but Annabel, uttering another choked scream, fled away into the darkness.