Starlight (45 page)

He pounded on Ollie’s door. “Get up, old man! You hear it as well as I do!”

Another quick smack made the hinges rattle. At the sound of boots thumping on the plank floor, Avery turned from that unpleasant chore. His uncle was the only family he had left. Though a drunk and a wastrel, the man knew grapes. He also knew the valleys of the Rhone Vineyard intimately, just as a husband would have memorized his wife’s curves.

Avery stuffed his wide-brimmed hat atop his head. Although he aspired to Ollie’s gifted understanding of the land they both nurtured, he had no intention of learning a woman so thoroughly. In Singleton, his
obsession with the Rhone Vineyard was legendary—as were the measures he’d taken to keep it. That unpleasant renown made him a candidate for no more than a sweaty romp.

He grabbed three day-old biscuits from the tin on the kitchen counter and shoved them in his coat pocket. Coffee would’ve been nice, but when the siren blared, there was no time.

“Ollie, get along!”

He stalked through the parlor and out into the brittle night. August in Australia. Nothing was sharper, colder, more beautifully sparkling.

And utterly deadly to the vines.

His second, Max Kovalev, was supervising the field hands in lighting bonfires at the ends of each row. Avery hustled to where the big, weathered pirate of a man lit another torch.

“How bad?” he asked.

“Bad enough to kill, Boss.”

The snap and damp in the air had already told him the worst. Maybe he just wanted someone else to be right for once. “Get those torches lit!”

Avery’s crew was comprised of former prostitutes, criminals, and orphaned youths—none of whom had compunctions against working for a man of his reputation. They had nowhere else to go.

But their fate was not his concern. Every one of them had made bad choices. Only keeping the Rhone mattered to Avery.

He clapped his hands to warm numbed fingers and rouse his troops. “Children over the age of six—out of bed. Anyone who doesn’t work loses their
pay, and I will personally escort you the hell off my land.”

He snatched the nearest torch and dipped the head into a bonfire’s crackling heat. Fire sizzled to life. He strode toward the farthest row, lighting each bonfire he passed. Soon flames blazed across the landscape in pinpricks of orange and yellow. A score of workers did the same along the interminable rows.

The vines appeared no more alive than rock. Their winter-pruned cordons were only stumps, like a man with his arms hacked off. But unlike a man, the vines kept their vigor under the soil, stored in roots so deep that they held the Rhone knitted with underground stitches.

But any extreme could be deadly. If the frost settled into the veins . . .

Avery reached the end of his row, where the youngest children waited with arms full of fans. Despite the frigid air, he stripped out of his coat and shirt. The work would soon turn blisteringly hot. He strapped suspenders over his long underwear and accepted a pair of fans. He paused to eye Max’s oldest son. Ivan was only ten, but his broadening shoulders and thick neck already attested to his father’s sturdy build.

“Pass that armful around, but keep a pair for yourself,” he said to Ivan. “You’re old enough to join us.”

The boy’s frown transformed into a beaming smile. Children tended the fans, stood at the ready near sand buckets, and brought water to the adults. Ivan was no longer a child, not by any standard Avery kept. He’d been even younger when his parents died.

Time for Ivan to earn an adult’s keep.

Avery strapped the fans to his arms and led the procession back toward the main house. Four dozen torches stretched between his body and that destination. Hefting the cloth fans, he used them like a bird used wings. Precious heat wanted to escape into the night, but he dragged it down toward the vines.

Muscles honed from years of labor tingled at the halfway point. Smoke and cinders bit his skin. He glanced across the hundreds of rows. His eyes glazed in a moment of panic. A third of the vineyard remained unlit. His pace far outstripped the others who wielded fans. What began as lightweight wings made of balsa and linen would soon weigh heavy on weary limbs.

“Pick it up!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Every minute counts!”

An hour later, the last of the bonfires and all of the torches sparked skyward. Tendrils of silver and charcoal blended into a hazy mass above the vines. Even that would help blanket the rows and trap the heat. Miles distant, smoke from other spreads proved that every vintner in Hunter Valley fought the frost.

The children skilled in more dangerous chores were tasked with refueling each station. More wood for the bonfires. More petroleum for the torches. Avery finished his third complete pass and accepted a dipper from Lucy Kilgore, a girl barely six years old.

“What are you doing out of bed?”

“Ma said we need to save the vines.”

“Your ma’s right.”

He swigged one more gulp of water, then soaked his hair and face. Soot washed down his skin. Lucy’s mother was out in the fields, laboring with the fans. In
keeping with her sordid history, Beatrice had offered her company to him on a number of occasions—and with increasing regularity.

He handed the dipper back to Lucy. The last thing he needed was to entangle himself in the girl’s future. He was not a surrogate father, and that was exactly what Beatrice desired.

Midway down another row, he knelt in the dirt. A layer of frost skated the surface. He clawed the earth, needing to know whether hope remained. The soil was chilly four inches down, but not strewn with ice crystals. A cutting from the nearest plant revealed what he needed to see: life. The vines yet pumped vital juices to their vulnerable extremities.

He glanced up to where Max had paused two rows over. “Keep at it,” Avery said. “We’ve got this.”

He broke off half a biscuit and shoved it in his mouth. Then back to the fans. By the time the first hint of dawn began to change the sky from fathomless black to deep, deep blue, his chest ached and his back screamed. Two hours later, the sun peeked above the horizon. Rays of pink and gold shot across the valley. The last snaking fingers of frost glittered briefly under that bright assault, then weakened. Only harmless dew.

“Fires out! Save the fuel!”

His crew rushed to obey his command. They doused the flames with sand, water, and caps for the torches. Acidic tinges of spent fires surged into the dawn air. Avery stank of smoke, and his long underwear was soaked through. He’d get cleaned up later. Just like he’d eat later and sleep later.

Back at the house, he found Max and another
overseer, Lucas Hoffer—a hearty Prussian with a keen sense of taste. His fair hair was almost white, yet he had the smooth skin of a man in his twenties.

“Everyone’s on frost chores after breakfast,” Avery said. “Replenish the fuel stores and sand buckets. Repair the fans. No one sleeps until the work is done, but no one works past three.”

Max and Lucas nodded and strode off to disseminate the orders, leaving Avery to take a deep, smoke-stung breath. He had survived another night. The sun was poised at the base of its arc across the sky. In summer, that same sun would be his enemy, but for now they were allies.

He blinked. The silhouette of a carriage materialized on the horizon. The mail coach wound down the snaking trail from the top of the valley toward his home.

At least he hoped it was the mail coach. The men from the bank weren’t due for another two months. Avery would have good news for them by then. The alternative, that his creditors would follow through with the threat of foreclosure, was too infuriating to contemplate. He could defend his home with fists and drawn weapons—and he sure as hell had. Fighting bankers, however, was like fighting phantoms.

Yet no businessmen emerged from what was, indeed, the mail coach. It was piled high with luggage, as if someone intended to stay awhile.

That someone was a stunning blonde. She tilted her wide-brimmed hat against the dawn as she stepped down from the carriage. A haughty glance assessed the smoke-grayed vineyard with one sweep. She wrinkled
her nose. That anyone would look on his night of hard work with such disdain made him feel like punching a hole through a wall.

She walked toward Avery as if strolling through immaculate gardens. Instead, loosened earth kicked up along the woman’s blue-and-cream day gown.

Who in the devil’s name was she?

“Excuse my arriving unannounced this morning,” she said. American? Maybe. “I’m looking for Mr. Avery Palmer.”

“That’s me.”

“Very good. I’m Gwyneth Christie. My late father was Sir William Christie.”

Avery tensed. Every muscle became as fixed as the unyielding vines he’d been so desperate to save. Desperation of another sort fused his fingers into fists. “Then you can get the hell off my land.”

Gwen
tried not to stare at the heathen man, just as she attempted to minimize the offense broached by his single harsh sentence. To no avail. She had never received such a discourteous welcome.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” she said.

Briefly, she wished she had as much natural, jovial tact as her twin brother, Jonesy. Ever the stickler for fashion, even Jonesy might’ve been at a loss when faced with the disheveled Mr. Palmer.

No use dwelling on the impossible. Her brother was half a world away and she needed to do this on her own. If this man was intent on behaving like a boor, she would do her best to charm him. Surely he could be no gruffer than the great Sir William.

“I believe my father’s attorney apprised you of my arrival. You know the nature of our situation.”

“You’re here to try and run my vineyard.”

“Hardly.” The idea of her
farming
was worthy of a genuine smile. “I’m sure I don’t know a thing about making wine or growing plants.”

The coldness of his expression banished any comparisons to her father. She had never known eyes of such a pale, icy green. Sunny brown hair poked out from beneath his hat. It was so in need of a trim that it curled at the base of his nape. His jaw and upper lip were lined with pale morning stubble, which lent him the appearance of someone half wild.

He narrowed his eyes in a squint that hid their distinctive color. His hard assessment from head to toe left her feeling judged—and found wanting. Gwen had been the object of adoration and male appreciation for so long that his obvious contempt rendered her breathless. Maybe charm wouldn’t work after all.

A sneer edged his finely shaped mouth. “I’d wager you know very little. About anything.”

He turned and trudged toward the main house. Sweat slicked his back. His long underwear clung to sharp shoulder blades and the long, strong column of his spine.
Muscles.
Good God, she couldn’t remember witnessing such a display of unpolished brawn. Aggravation and a twinge of fear mingled with pure feminine curiosity.

“I’m here,” she called after him, “because the vineyard is in arrears. Something about spoiled vintages? Tell me that isn’t the case and I’ll be on my way.”

Mr. Palmer stopped mid-stride. Those robust shoulders
tightened, as if pride could fuse bones. He inhaled. Gwen did, too, matching him in that moment. Waiting.

Mr. Palmer stalked back to where she stood. “I would appreciate if you kept from bellowing the details of my financial affairs.”

Gwen hoped her flinch was disguised by a heavy thump, as the driver deposited the last of her luggage onto the ground. He looked to Mr. Palmer with dread. She would’ve thought it laughable to imagine a burly coachman cowering before a man who tended grapes. She recalled similar expressions in town when, in seeking accommodations and transport, she had mentioned the man’s name.

Scorn. Loathing. Fear.

The truth glared down at her with icy green eyes. Mr. Palmer was very, very intimidating.

However, she had no intention of letting a bully dictate the terms of her stay. Sixty percent of the Rhone Vineyard belonged to the Christies. For no reason was she leaving Australia without earning her million-dollar bonus. She had put her career on hold just when she should’ve been performing every night. Singing. Receiving the applause of sold-out crowds.

Nothing but success would make that sacrifice worthwhile.

“Answer me,” Gwen said calmly. “Then I’ll know what sort of man you are.”

“Will you, now?” His voice was impossibly low, as if a thunderstorm could form words.

“I already know you’re hardworking.” She squelched the urge to add
if unsuitably dressed
. “I only ask that you do not spoil my impression by lying.”

He closed the distance between them. For a moment, all considerations fell away. Gwen found his bearing . . .
menacing
. He carried himself with such arrogance. Brawn added to his daunting appearance. Sturdy, thick shoulders, a flat stomach, powerful legs. He stood before her with his arms crossed over a chest indecently outlined with damp cotton.

Muscles
, she thought once more. Good Lord.

No other man, no matter how tall, had made her feel so petite, so tiny—verging on completely incapable. She did not care for that feeling. Not at all.