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KING OF THE OUTBACK’S HEIR

Clare Connelly

Chapter One

‘WHAT THE HELL?’ Tate Carrigan knew better than to slam his brakes on in rain like this—the kind of rain that the downs needed badly, to break the drought that had been plaguing them for almost two years. But given the two choices—skidding over the newly wet road or ramming right into this scrap of a woman—he chose the former.

Then again, there wasn’t really much risk. Tate Carrigan had been driving cars since he’d hit double digits, moving utes around the place pretty much unsupervised. He knew how to control a vehicle in just about any conditions, because he’d had to learn fast.

The woman barely had time to register him before he’d screeched the tyres and stopped the car about three feet short of her. He had a brief impression of shock on her face as she whipped around: long, chestnut-brown hair plastered to her cheeks by the unrelenting rain, slim body outlined by clothes that were wet through.

Behind her, the dust red of the desert plains, now stained a deep ochre, met the dark grey sky, and when he stepped out of the car, the unmistakable fragrance of petrichor tickled his nostrils. His lips formed a grim line. Rain was badly needed out here. The drought had put most other properties through the wringer; times were tough. But this kind of rain did more harm than good. Land that had been dried out formed a barrier, too hard for the water to penetrate when it fell so fast. Sure enough, the low point of the road just ahead was looking more like a creek bed.

It seemed appropriate, in a way. Today, of all days—the first anniversary of his father’s death. That bastard was probably laughing his head off. He’d always had a sick sense of humour.

As Tate stalked towards the woman, he noticed things he hadn’t at first. Her pale skin, her pink lips, shaped like a Cupid’s bow, eyes an almost-translucent blue. She was fine-boned and ethereal, reminding him of one of the sylph-like figures in the paintings Rex’s mother had collected. She was also terrified at the sight of him, he realised. Little wonder. Like his older brother, Rex, Tate had always been too big for his age. Tall, broad, built as though he were meant to wander this land and conquer it with his bare hands. He’d heard it often enough to know that his size was intimidating, and he saw it in the way she almost shrank back from him.

‘Who are you?’ His tone of voice didn’t help. The question emerged like a growl from deep in his chest. His voice was hoarse from disuse. Having spent the last three days out on the land, mustering as many cows as he could to higher ground in the hope they could ride out this storm, he’d barely had any cause to talk to another soul, except for a few radio calls to his team.

‘You scared me half to death!’ she said needlessly, lifting a still-trembling hand to her throat and pressing it there, brows knitting closer together. ‘Tell me you’re not some kind of axe murderer? Because, honestly, it would just be too cliché.’ She gestured, with her other hand, towards the storm, the rain that was pelting down on them, thick, heavy drops landing hard against their skin. Her accent was English, the words softly spoken.

He ignored her joke. ‘What the hell are you doing out here?’

Her smile slipped, her throat shifting visibly now as she swallowed, both hands dropping to her sides. ‘I got a flat tyre.’

Disapproval tightened in his gut. He shifted his gaze into the distance, then back to her when he saw no hint of a vehicle.

‘What about the spare?’

She looked embarrassed, and shook her head.

Anger sliced through him. What had she been thinking? ‘Where?’ he asked, tone grim.

‘About four hours that way.’ She gestured to her left.

Four hours? ‘You mean you’ve been walking around the whole time?’

‘Well, no, for the first hour I stayed with the car, but when it became abundantly clear that no one was likely to drive past, I decided I had to find my own help.’

He smothered a curse. ‘Why didn’t you just call someone?’

The flush on her cheeks did something strange to his gut. He felt her embarrassment deepen and had the strangest instinct to save her from it. An instinct he quickly quashed.

‘I—my phone died.’

Disapproval replaced pity.

‘And your satellite phone?’

Her brow furrowed.

‘Or your radio?’

She fidgeted with her fingers.

‘And I suppose you’d already got through your emergency rations? The water you brought with you just in case?’

He was making her squirm, and he didn’t have it in him to care. This land was the definition of inhospitable. No one had a right to come out here without being prepared for anything, and it was clear that this woman had done precisely zero planning before setting off on her ‘adventure’.