FOLLOW THE MORNING STAR Read online

  Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Di Morrissey is Australia’s most popular woman novelist. Her first book, Heart of the Dreaming, launched her bestselling career and paved the way for The Last Rose of Summer, Follow the Morning Star, The Last Mile Home, Tears of the Moon, When the Singing Stops, The Songmaster and her latest novel, Scatter the Stars.

  Well known as a TV presenter on the original ‘Good Morning Australia’, Di has always written – working as a journalist, advertising copywriter and screenwriter.

  Di has two children and lives in Byron Bay, NSW, where she devotes herself to writing, in between travelling to research her novels.

  Di Morrissey can be visited at her website:

  http://www.dimorrissey.com

  Also by Di Morrissey

  Heart of the Dreaming

  The Last Rose of Summer

  Follow the Morning Star

  The Last Mile Home

  Tears of the Moon

  When the Singing Stops

  The Songmaster

  Scatter the Stars

  Blaze

  The Bay

  Kimberley Sun

  Barra Creek

  The Reef

  First published 1993 in Pan by Pan Macmillan Publishers Australia

  This edition published 1995 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited St Martins Tower, 31 Market Street, Sydney

  Reprinted 1993, 1995 (twice), 1996 (twice), 1997, 1998, 1999 (twice), 2000, 2001, 2002 2003, 2004 (twice), 2005

  Copyright © Di Morrissey 1993

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  National Library of Australia

  cataloguing-in-publication data:

  Morrissey, Di.

  Follow the morning star.

  ISBN 0 330 27403 1.

  I. Title.

  A823.3

  Typeset in 11/13 pt Andover by Post Typesetters Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  These electronic editions published in 2007 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd 1 Market Street, Sydney 2000

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.

  Follow the Morning Star

  Di Morrissey

  Adobe eReader format 978-1-74197-045-6

  Microsoft Reader format 978-1-74197-246-7

  Mobipocket format 978-1-74197-447-8

  Online format 978-1-74197-648-9

  Macmillan Digital Australia

  www.macmillandigital.com.au

  Visit www.panmacmillan.com.au to read more about all our books and to buy both print and ebooks online. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events.

  For my mother

  always with love

  Acknowledgements

  For my beautiful daughter Gabrielle as she sets out on her own journey in life, and for my darling son Nick, for his love, support and humour.

  For Jim and Rosemary Revitt for your loving advice.

  For Tom Knapp, a good friend and an honourable lawyer.

  For Julia Stiles for your sensitive editing and patience

  For all those friends who love the land and stopped to yarn, answer questions and share your feelings.

  And, as always, for my guiding star who lights up my life.

  The Morning Star paled slowly, the Cross hung low to the sea.

  And down the shadowy reaches the tide came swirling free.

  The lustrous purple blackness of the soft Australian night

  Waned in the grey awakening that heralded the light . . .

  JAMES LISTER CUTHBERTSON

  Chapter One

  TR rolled over in bed and reached for Queenie. Discovering cool empty sheets, he opened his eyes. Dawn was breaking. With a jolt he remembered, Queenie was down in Sydney. Probably shopping her socks off, he thought, grinning as he swung out of bed. He fumbled about in their walk-in dressing room for the moleskin pants he’d dropped the night before and looked over to where Queenie’s clothes hung neatly. Impulsively he grabbed a handful of silk and cotton and buried his face in the softness, smelling the faint but familiar citrous tang of Queenie’s perfume.

  As he dressed he thought how Queenie’s spirit and beauty hadn’t faded since the first time he’d met her at her twenty-first birthday party here at Tingulla. She had climbed out of her bedroom window onto the roof to pick jasmine blooms from the vine entwined in the old peppercorn tree. Her startled emerald eyes staring down at him, a face like an angel framed in waves of golden-brown hair, was an image forever burned onto his memory.

  TR walked downstairs into the kitchen, lifted his well-worn Akubra off the peg where it hung beside Queenie’s at the back door, and stepped into the dawn.

  He had debated about going alone for their regular ride, savouring the knowledge that soon he and Queenie would be together for what she called their morning star ride. However, the horse needed exercise and he wanted to think through a few mundane business problems.

  At the stables he handed Queenie’s horse, Honey, a handful of oats to appease her for being left behind, and saddled his stallion, Star. The horse’s full name was Starlight Sky but it had been shortened because of the small star-shaped patch of white on its forehead.

  Deep in thought, TR rode out of the corral, past the stables and away from the homestead. Star automatically followed their regular track with Spike, TR’s blue heeler, leading the way. The dog zigzagged to and fro, stopping to sniff bits of grass and clumps of red soil, running twice the distance the horse travelled.

  Without Queenie riding at his s
ide, TR didn’t pay as much attention to the beauty of the early morning bush: the blush sweeping across the pale sky, the chorus of the birds, the clear light turning the red gumtips translucent ruby. The morning star had paled then disappeared in the brightening sunrise by the time TR reined in his horse at the top of the first rise and looked out over the view which never ceased to lift his spirits.

  The Blue Hills followed the rolling acres of Tingulla’s country — 250,000 acres of classic merino stud that had survived times of hardship over three generations to become one of the top wool producers in the country. Nestled in the heart of this land that Queenie’s family, the Hanlons, had carved out stood Tingulla homestead, a magnificent landmark. The double-storied mansion with its upper and lower verandahs and imposing front entrance faced the circle of the drive which embraced the dancing brolga fountain. A giant peppercorn and a white cedar, planted by great-grandfather Ned Hanlon, shaded the house and side garden. The driveway wound down through landscaped lawns and gardens to the imposing logs that formed the front gate archway two kilometres from the house.

  Star was fidgety. TR leant forward and scratched behind the horse’s ear, speaking softly. As he straightened up he heard what was bothering his mount — steady hoofbeats. TR turned and stood in the stirrups, looking back down through the trees. Who was following him and why?

  In a minute he had his answer. Honey trotted into view, riderless and unharnessed. TR realised that in his distracted and sleepy state he hadn’t latched the gate properly and Honey, wily beast that she was, had followed them.

  ‘Damn you, Honey,’ he sighed.

  The horse eyed him balefully and stopped a few metres away. TR whistled Spike, turned Star around, and began walking him back down the hillside. Honey didn’t move: this was not their normal pattern, there was still some distance to the crest of the hill, and she did not want to turn for home yet.

  TR knew she could be a temperamental horse who often only obeyed Queenie. He broke into a trot but the mare stood her ground, forcing TR to ride back to her. He unlooped the rope tied to his saddle, made a lasso and slipped it over Honey’s head.

  ‘Sorry to lead you this way, Honey, but I don’t trust you and I haven’t got the time to chase you all over the hills,’ TR said firmly.

  He moved off but Honey yanked her head back in alarm as she felt the rope tighten. TR spoke soothingly, giving a gentle tug, and the horse followed.

  Star was fretful and kept glancing back at the mare as they edged down the hillside. TR suddenly realised Honey was in season. So he decided to let her go now they were heading home. He began fumbling with the rope then saw it was tied around the pommel of his saddle. But before he could unknot it Honey reared and bolted for home. The sudden surge as she sped past caught TR off guard. Star was pulled by the lead rope and took off after Honey, both racing to get ahead of the other. The knot tightened with the strain and TR began frantically working to undo it, cursing himself for tying the rope to the pommel, something he knew he should never have done.

  He didn’t look up in time to see Honey swerve to round an old blue gum, pulling Star towards it. In the split second before colliding against the tree, TR swung hard across in the saddle. The horses went either side of the trunk but with the rope restricting space between them, there was little room. The right side of TR’s body slammed hard against the tree and he crashed to the ground, still and broken.

  Snowy, the wizened old Aborigine acknowledged as Tingulla’s spiritual guardian, was repairing a fence when a shiver ran through him. Puzzled, he stopped what he was doing and returned to the truck. Suddenly he heard the sound of horses galloping and within seconds two riderless horses sped past in the direction of the homestead. Snowy dropped his tools and hurried into the truck.

  Seeing the usually sedate Aboriginal elder roaring his old Toyota towards him, Ernie rushed over to see what was wrong.

  ‘What’s up, Snowy? Is somethin’ bad?’

  ‘The boss’s horse come back. Honey too. Bad accident, I reckon.’

  Ernie, faster and stronger than his tribal elder, raced for the stables where both horses now stood, stained with sweat and breathing heavily. Ernie tried to grab Honey but the horse swerved away from him, her eyes wide and nervous. Ernie grabbed the nearest unsaddled horse and swung onto its bare back. Snowy caught the foaming but quieter Star and climbed into the saddle, taking off after Ernie.

  They both knew Queenie and TR’s habit of an early morning ride and they set out towards the Blue Hills, dreading what they might find there.

  Half an hour later, they found TR lying unconscious where he had fallen, his blue heeler licking his face and whimpering. TR’s leg and hip were mangled and crushed, his right arm and collarbone looked broken, and a nasty gash was bleeding at the side of his head. Snowy and Ernie glanced fearfully at each other, both afraid to voice the same terrible thought.

  ‘Best not move ’im,’ said Snowy. ‘Go back and git the Flying Doc.’

  Ernie nodded and clung to his horse, his heart beating with alarm. As he galloped back to the homestead he muttered frantic pleas for help from his tribal spirits.

  Snowy crouched beside TR whose body looked like a broken toy flung to one side. Head bowed, his face creased in pain, Snowy rocked gently back and forth on his heels as tears ran unchecked down the furrows of his sad old face.

  ‘Don’t die, TR. Hang on, mate. Hang on.’

  Chapter Two

  The twin engine Piper Cherokee banked over Tingulla, the pilot admiring the scope and sheer beauty of the magnificent station. He’d flown over it countless times in the years he’d been in the district but he never ceased to marvel at it. Tingulla had survived flood and drought; good management had brought it through the hard times, and in the flush of the wool boom in the fifties its merino clip had earned princely sums.

  He glanced over at his passenger, the mistress of Tingulla. What a beautiful woman she was: slim and shapely, her thick long brown hair shot with burnished lights. She was a natural beauty with a gorgeous smile and when she turned her green eyes on them, men went weak at the knees. But it was also her strength, resilience and extraordinary bush skills that they respected. Privately, even tough men wondered if they could have coped so well with the hand fate had dealt Queenie in the past.

  The pilot smiled at her. ‘How’re things going, Queenie?’

  ‘Good thanks, Tom. Tingulla and Cricklewood are going great guns and Guneda, TR’s horse stud, is starting to make a real name for itself in the race world.’

  ‘Well there’s not much TR doesn’t know about horses.’

  Queenie smiled and nodded. How she longed to see and touch TR again. They had only been apart for a week, and she’d enjoyed the break, but now it seemed as if she’d been away too long. She missed TR. He was a part of her. He was her soul mate and her best friend. This fierce love of theirs had been hard won, but that was all behind them now. They were blissfully happy and the future stretched ahead of them, each day one of joy. TR felt as she did, and they both appreciated every moment together for they knew what a precious gift they had been given.

  As they began their descent Queenie tightened her seat belt and drew a deep breath. She was glad to be home, anxious to share her experiences with TR.

  As they approached the dirt strip she sat forward and peered out of the window. There was no mistaking the tall athletic frame of Tango standing at the edge of the runway. What had brought her son up from Guneda? She smiled to herself, how handsome he was, just like his father. At twenty-five he was tall and slim with deep blue eyes and burnished gold hair, yet he seemed completely unaware of his charm and looks.

  The plane landed with a bump, jolting Queenie out of her pleasant reverie. As the aircraft’s door was opened, she saw Tango hurrying towards her and she knew straightaway that something was dreadfully wrong.

  ‘Tango darling, what is it?’ demanded Queenie the second the pilot dropped down the small step.

  ‘It’s TR. He’s had
an accident. He’s in hospital. I think we should turn around and go back to Brisbane.’

  She gripped his arm. ‘Brisbane? Why is he over there? God, Tango, what’s happened?’

  Tango took her in his arms and held her tightly. ‘Dad fell from his horse, banged into a tree. He’s pretty badly smashed up.’

  Queenie’s knees buckled and a searing pain exploded in her chest then spread like a burn through her flesh. The blood drained from her face. ‘Oh no! How bad is it, Tango? Is he going to be all right? Tango? Tell me.’

  ‘Yes, Mum. Don’t worry,’ said Tango trying to disguise his own pain and fear. He turned to the pilot. ‘How soon can we leave?’

  ‘Now. I was going straight back anyway. I have clearance and fuel.’

  ‘Millie packed a bag for you and I’m coming too.’ Tango picked up the two small bags by his feet.

  Queenie nodded and climbed back into the plane, her face pale, her legs trembling.

  ‘Millie has everything under control. She and Jim send their love. We couldn’t reach you any sooner.’

  ‘How is he, exactly?’ she asked in a tiny voice, terrified of what the answer might be.

  ‘I don’t know. They won’t give out any more information till we get there. Until then, we’ll just have to hope . . . and pray.’

  Colin Hanlon could feel the surge of blood, power and passion rising to its delicious peak and he sucked in his breath and thrust feverishly, awaiting the glorious moment of release.

  The girl beneath him stirred and strained against him, pushing her hands against his shoulders in a feeble attempt to still him. ‘Colin, stop . . . wait . . .’