Margaret Way - Secrets Of The Outback

Jewel’s expression was bleak as she looked at her aunt. “I don’t think I can bear this, Judith. I had an identity. Who am I now? I don’t even think I want to continue with the law firm. They represent Copeland Connellan. From the way Keefe Connellan spoke, he wants me out.”

“Does he, now? How could he blame you for anything?” Judith demanded hotly. “You had no control over your own birth.”

“Hard to argue with that, but he seems to think I’m manipulating the present situation.” She managed a discordant laugh. “And it’s all based on assumptions—on jumping to conclusions.”

“He may have discovered the truth, Jewel—a truth that’s as new to me as it is to you. But it all adds up. Travis Copeland used to visit the station on behalf of his father. Your mother was a very pretty girl.” Judith shook her head. “And she always did have a talent for keeping secrets.”

Dear Reader,

At some time we all have to grapple with the difficulties of family—as well as drawing strength and pleasure from its great joys. This story is about how one young woman tries to deal with her life when she discovers, at the age of twenty-five, that her true parentage has been kept secret from her. A monumental discovery and one that creates many new problems, invading every aspect of life. Think how those problems would be compounded if the “new” family considers itself under threat. Human beings aren’t always understanding and tolerant, let alone ready to accept an “outsider” without suspicion. The best one can do is find the courage to reach out, find a way to link the past with the present.

I hope you enjoy Jewel’s story. I enjoyed writing it. It has been a great pleasure and an exciting challenge for me to join the ranks of Harlequin Superromance. As always, I want to convey to my “new” audience my great love for my unique homeland, Australia. Who knows, it might lure you to come Down Under!

Margaret Way

This book is dedicated to Diana Palmer,

who once told me, “If I can do it, so can you!”

Thanks, Diana.

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

February, 1981

STEVE BISHOP, overseer of a remote Outback cattle station, sat in one of the back pews of the Anglican cathedral in the Queensland State capital, thinking he’d never had an experience like this. In fact, it had to be the most extraordinary occasion he had attended in his thirty-one years. Living the way he did in the vast, sparsely populated Outback, he was in awe of the crowd. Used to counting head of cattle, he estimated there had to be at least three thousand people packed into the church, all sitting bolt upright in the crush. Outside on the street, mourners who couldn’t make it through the door stood twenty deep, prepared to smile if a camera came near. Inner-city traffic had ground to a halt. So had business.

Today was the funeral of one of the most powerful and influential men in the nation: Sir Julius Copeland, mining magnate, land baron, executive chairman of the giant mining firm Copeland Connellan Carpentaria. Self-confessed Titan.

Important as Sir Julius had been, Steve had had no idea the funeral would be so huge. Or so glittering. Most people, himself included—and it had set him back—had suited themselves in funeral black. But the women treated their somber gear as some sort of blessing in disguise. They wore jewelry. None of your costume jewelry stuff. Lots of extravagant yellow gold. Ropes of pearls and diamond brooches that sparkled brilliantly as they caught the light. He had the notion that just one of those brooches could feed an Outback family for a year. The hats were spectacular, too. Fit for the Melbourne Cup.

The cathedral with its miles of red carpet was redolent with not only the vaguely sickening scent of flowers, great banks of them, but the smell of money. Big money. Power. The milieu in which Sir Julius had lived and become a monolith of industry.

As expected, the dignitaries sat up front, striving to look lofty—the governor of the state, along with the roly-poly premier who was working hard to suppress his usual big vote-winning smile. The dour leader of the Opposition sat a pew behind, holding a snowy white handkerchief to his face as though he had a nose-bleed or was grieving for the deceased. Steve recognized the federal senator sent to represent the prime minister. This was the same guy he and his cattleman friends had shouted down when the senator last came Outback to deliver more empty promises. Behind them sat the representatives of the legal and business communities, their expressions masked. Then there were the cattle barons, land owners and lesser mortals, all of whom had braved the scorching heat—heck, it was hotter in the capital than in his desert home!—to pay their respects to a giant among men. At least, that was how the press had described Sir Julius in his obituary.

Steve had read it that morning with a sense of mounting wonder and irony. Sir Julius had been all sorts of things, but no one in his right mind could’ve called him a nice guy. Julius Copeland had been an ogre. Six foot four, built like an armored tank. Voice like the rumble of thunder. Pale ice-blue eyes sharp enough to drill holes in cement. He might have been larger than life, cleverer, more determined, more ruthless than most, but he hadn’t been liked, let alone revered. Maybe loathed would describe it. Steve had been surprised by his boss’s sudden death of a massive heart attack, but he honestly couldn’t say he felt any sorrow. With no provocation, Julius Copeland had made life difficult for many, many people, including him.

Now it was time for Sir Julius to meet up with his own Boss. Yet as villains went, Steve supposed Copeland had to be a long way down the list. After all, there was Hitler, Stalin, Nero, Genghis Khan…

Across the aisle, in the front pew, sat the widow, Lady Davina Copeland, a woman much respected for her dedication to public affairs. Fighting for equality for minority groups, that kind of thing. One could say she had set herself in direct conflict with her husband. God knows why she’d ever married the man. They couldn’t have hit it off. Steve could only glimpse her from the back. She looked like a woman half her age. Of course, he’d seen grainy photographs of her in the newspapers over the years, but he’d never seen her in the flesh. She was supposed to be beautiful. Very glamorous. He was determined to get a good look at her before he went home. Her godawful son Travis sat beside her. Tall, dark, saturnine, a real personage in his own opinion. Some women might find him attractive, Steve reasoned, rubbing his chin, but Travis Copeland had always made him feel downright queasy. Though Travis always acted like a power to be reckoned with, he was in no way competent to step into his father’s shoes. He wasn’t a total dolt, either, Steve supposed. The business community would’ve figured that out. Travis’s upper-crust wife sat beside him, spine straight, allowing his body to touch hers at the shoulder. She was good-looking, sure, but skinny enough to make a man weep. It couldn’t be all sunshine for Travis. Steve had heard, too, that the wife was a bit of an ogress. Must’ve rubbed off from her father-in-law. Steve knew they had a child, Amelia, a few years older than his own little darling. Amelia wasn’t in attendance. Probably she’d been judged to be too young. Funerals weren’t very pleasant at the best of times, but especially if you were a friend of the family. Now, little Amelia’s grandfather, the man who’d been so very important to the state and to so many lives, would shortly be laid to rest.

If they ever got through the eulogies, Steve thought, loosening his tie. Too many. Too long. Some of them had to be tongue-in-cheek. Especially the archbishop’s. He had to have some knowledge of Copeland’s true nature. The Sir Julius that Steve knew, his boss, owner of Mingaree Station, and a string of other pastoral properties adding up to some five million hectares, was a bastard in anyone’s language, and you’d better believe it.

Forgive me, Lord. Steve momentarily bent his head, ashamed of his irreverence. Not that the good Lord wouldn’t agree after He’d talked to the man, however briefly. Julius Copeland had been intimidating beyond belief, so rough of tongue he made the crudest station hand blush. A complete contrast to his partner of the old days, Sir Stafford Connellan. Steve had had the greatest respect for Sir Stafford, knighted, like Copeland for service to his country. The big difference was that Sir Stafford had been a great man, a bred-in-the-bone gentleman. A real thoroughbred, now sadly deceased. Sir Stafford’s son, Earle, had succeeded his father in the firm. Steve could just see where Earle Connellan sat, his lean handsome face solemn, with his dark-haired wife, Rebecca and their only child, a son of around thirteen, Keefe. The boy was the image of his father which was to say strikingly handsome, but there was more to it. Like his father and grandfather before him, he had that aura of integrity and high intelligence. That special look of breeding. Industrial giant though he’d been, Sir Julius had never had that. No doubt, in time the boy Keefe would become a force in the firm. The Connellans were still major shareholders, despite Sir Julius’s best efforts to outwit them after Sir Stafford’s death. No sense of decency there.

The Connellans, too, were possessed of great wealth, but they’d always had virtually the opposite approach to it. Earle Connellan stood head and shoulders above the likes of Travis, whom Steve detested for a number of reasons. Earle was a great guy, a man you could talk with, no side to him for all his privileged background. Travis, though, was an arrogant son of a bitch. Pretty much thought himself a god. As did his old man. Not that Steve and Thea had to suffer Travis much these days. At one time, Travis had flown into the station regularly in his Beech Baron, but not for ages now. Come to that, Steve hadn’t visited the city in years. Today he was part of a contingent of cattlemen who’d traveled a thousand miles and more to attend the great man’s funeral. Damn near mandatory. It was easy to tell who the cattlemen were. Though suitably dark-suited, all of them to a man balanced their trademark akubras on their knees. As did Steve. He’d nodded to most of them as they made their bowlegged way in. Horsemen. And it showed.

Landowners were up front, as befitting the guys who owned the whole caboodle. Employees were at the back. Steve didn’t mind. He wasn’t part of this world of wealth and privilege. He didn’t want to be. Steve considered himself blessed. He had a job he enjoyed. Plenty of back-breaking work, of course, but he was well-paid and he had security of tenure if only because he knew his job and had a good business head. He had the sweetest wife, too, his loyal Thea. She had given him such happiness since the moment he put his ring on her pretty finger. Above all, he had Jewel. God, he adored that child! She was his life. Six going on seven. The most adorable, the spunkiest, smartest, most affectionate daughter a father could want. Hair of spun gold. In total contrast, her delicate winged eyebrows were many shades darker than her hair, almost black. She had blue eyes of such radiance that he had bypassed the name she’d been christened, Eugenia after Thea’s mother, to settle on the only name possible when one looked into those sparkling eyes—Jewel. Jewel Bishop. Nowadays no one on the station called her anything else. His little Jewel. His sweetheart. His treasure. He couldn’t wait to get back to his “girls.” He already knew what he was going to bring them as gifts. Every trip away, even a trip like this, Steve bought his girls surprises. He loved the moment they opened them, the way their eyes lit up with love for him. His girls. His life.