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Claiming His Billion-Dollar Bride /
Marrying Her Outback Enemy

PROLOGUE

​

Garrison Downs,

June

 

Rose stared at George Harrington who sat behind her father’s desk in her father’s chair and it took all of her strength not to stand up and yell at him to get out from behind it. The aging family lawyer didn’t deserve that. He’d checked with her first, had asked her permission. It made sense that he sat where the rest of the room could see him.

   But it still felt like sacrilege.

   Glancing out of the French windows at the ancient gums, golden grasses and red dirt in the middle distance, she searched for calm, aching to turn and clasp Tilly’s hand, but afraid if she did she might actually burst into ugly sobs. She wouldn’t freak Tilly out like that. Concentrating on her breathing, she sent Tilly all the buck-up, you’re-not-alone sister vibes that she could.

   For the past month, she and her sisters had survived the shock of their father’s death, the national outpouring of grief that had followed, and all the pomp and ceremony of a state funeral. Only allowing themselves to grieve in tiny pockets of downtime. For Holt Waverly, their father, had been a national icon, a legend, and everyone had wanted to claim him as their own.

   Everyone had had a story they’d wanted to tell. Everyone had wanted their share of the… In her darker moments she called it drama, but she knew it was a combination of shock and grief—lesser than hers admittedly, but real nonetheless. She’d managed to say all that was right and appropriate when cameras had flashed in her face half blinding her, microphones shoved under her nose and questions barked at her.

   ‘Your father’s death must’ve come as a shock?’

   ‘How much of an impact will this have on Garrison Downs?’

   ‘You must be missing him?’

   She’d had to steel herself over and over. Calling the media morons wouldn’t help anyone, it wouldn’t do Holt proud. And she’d do him proud now if it killed her.

   As aware as she was of Tilly on the sofa behind her, she was equally aware of Eve on the big screen on the back wall, video-conferencing in from her office in London.

A bitter smile twisted through her. When she said she and her sisters had got through the shock and ordeal of the last month, she meant she and Tilly. Eve hadn’t been here. Eve hadn’t come home. Not even for the funeral.

   Rose had reconciled herself to never knowing what had happened between Eve and their father, but to not come home…to not—

   Don’t think about that now.

   Once this will-reading was done, she could stride out of here and make sure the section of fence at Devil’s Bend had been fixed, get an update on Jasper’s swollen fetlock, ensure that Aaron, her head stockman, had a handle on the bore-running rota she’d set up, and that Ricky and Blue, the new station hands, were keeping their late-night partying within limits. The boys were young, but complaints had been made and there were phone calls from fretting mothers to negotiate. After that she really needed to make a start on the backlog of correspondence, schedule an appointment with the accountant, and at some point next week she needed to check in with Franz Arteta about their contract.

   There was so much to do. Her father had made it look easy, but it wasn’t. At least, it wasn’t for her. How on earth was she supposed to fill such big shoes? How—?

   Don’t think about that now.

   She refocussed on the view outside again. There were too many people in the room—she could see their reflections in the window glass as they moved—and George Harrington’s voice droned on and on.

   Bequests were made to various agricultural organisations, and the academic and industry-based research projects Holt had sponsored, a generous donation made to the arts—no doubt in honour of Tilly, which briefly made her smile—and an ongoing commitment pledged to the fund set up in their mother’s name for cancer research.

   Eventually George paused, cleared his throat. ‘To my daughters, I leave all my worldly possessions not listed hereupon, including, but not limited to, the entirety of Garrison Downs.’

   The voice seemed to come from a long way away. And now that the reading of the will was drawing to a close, Rose contrarily wanted to slow time. These were the last words her father would ever speak to her. She wasn’t ready. He should still be here laughing with them, offering advice in his quiet laconic way, riding out on his black stallion, Jasper, and living to a ripe old age here on the land he loved.

   ‘Let it be known that it is my wish that my eldest daughter, Rose Lavigne Waverly, take over full control of management of Garrison Downs. If that is her wish. If not, I bow to her choice.’

   She flinched. She’d always expected to take over one day. Her father and grandfather had instilled in her a deep love of the land, had groomed her to one day take up the reins of Garrison Downs.

   But not yet.

   ‘At this point, could we please clear the room,’ George said, ‘of everyone bar family?’

   She let out a careful breath, didn’t turn to watch as people filed out. Perhaps Dad had left them some final word—a loving message meant for their ears only.

   George took off his glasses and rubbed his hand across his forehead.

   She leaned forward.

    ‘There is a condition placed over the bequest. One that has been attached to the property since its transfer to your family years ago.’

   George laid his glasses on top of the papers in front of him. ‘As I’m sure you know, the history of Garrison Downs is…complicated, what with your great-great-grandmother having won the land from the Garrison family in a poker game in 1904.’

   That poker match had become local legend—one of those tales of derring-do that was bandied about whenever the beer flowed too freely. But it had also been the cause of a lot of ill will between the Waverly and Garrison families.

   ‘Any time the land has been passed down since, certain conditions had to be met.’ He read from the will directly. ‘Any male Waverly heir, currently living, naturally inherits the estate.’

   ‘Naturally,’ Rose murmured, rolling her eyes.

   ‘But,’ George continued, ‘if the situation arises where there is no direct male heir, any and all daughters, of marrying age, must be wed within a year of the reading of the will, in order to inherit as a whole.’

   She stared, tried to make sense of the words he’d uttered.

   On the screen behind her, Eve laughed.

   She swung around. ‘You think this is funny?’

   ‘I think it’s hilarious, Rose. I mean, come on, what century do you think we’re in, Harrington?’

   Eve sounded so sure. Rose shook her head. This had to be someone’s idea of a sick joke. ‘What am I missing?’

   ‘The land,’ Tilly said quietly, ‘is entailed to sons. If there is no son, the Waverly women can inherit, but only if all of us are married.’

   Rose gripped the arms of her chair so hard her fingers started to ache. Then she leapt up to pace. ‘That can’t possibly be legal, not in this day and age. Surely?’

   ‘Too right, it can’t be,’ Eve said, sounding battle-ready.

   ‘It is…arcane,’ said George. ‘But it has been a part of the lore of this land for several generations. So far as I see it, and so far as your father must have wanted, it stands.’

   She slammed her hands to her hips. ‘How has this never come up before?’

   ‘Sons,’ said Tilly. ‘Dad was an only child. Pop only had brothers, though one died of measles and the other drowned, meaning the farm passed straight to him. Waverlys have always been most excellent at having at least one strapping farm-loving son. Until us.’

   Rose swung to Tilly, lifted her hands as if to say, What the actual…?

   Tilly nodded, silently saying, I know, right?

   But there was no time for that. She planted her feet, turned back. ‘And what happens if we refuse to…marry?’

   ‘If the condition is not met, the land goes back to the current head of the Garrison family. Clay Garrison.’

   ‘That double-dealing, underhand, two-faced old goat can’t tell the back end of a bull from the front.’

   George winced. ‘The son seems a reasonable sort—’

   ‘Lincoln? If he stopped partying long enough to even notice the level of responsibility coming his way…’ She pressed her palms to her eyes and tried to stop treacherous toes from curling as pictures of Lincoln flooded her mind. ‘If our land, our home, the business that we’ve built—’ that her father had built ‘—fell into their hands, I—I can’t even think it.’

   This land was her destiny and had been ever since she’d understood what that word meant. She couldn’t let her father down, Pop, all the Waverlys before her…or the generations of Waverlys to come. A wave of dizziness shook her and she braced her hands on her knees, forced herself to breathe slowly and deeply.

   ‘Don’t waste your time worrying about it, Rose, because it isn’t going to happen,’ Eve assured her from the screen. ‘Not now. Not ever.’

   George’s gaze moved from her to Tilly…and Eve…and to the far wall. ‘As it stands, unless all four of Holt Waverly’s daughters are married within twelve months of the reading of this document—’

   ‘Twelve months?’ Rose straightened. ‘But I can’t… I’m not… I mean, none of us are even seeing anyone right now. Are we? Eve? Tilly?’

   Tilly shook her head.

   Rose went to glance at the screen but stopped herself at the last moment. What was the point? Eve shared so little of herself these days.

   ‘Wait.’ Tilly sat bolt upright. ‘Back up a second. You said four daughters. There are only three of us.’

   Rose followed Tilly’s gaze to a slight dark-haired woman she hadn’t noticed, sitting in their mother’s chair. The young woman rose.

   ‘Who are you?’ Tilly asked, not unkindly. But then Tilly was constitutionally incapable of unkindness. It was one of the things they all loved about her.

   The unknown woman swallowed, looking as if she wished herself a million miles away. ‘Ana.’

   ‘Who are you talking to, Tilly?’ Eve said. ‘I can’t see.’

   Her father’s chair squeaked as George raced out from behind the desk, moving towards this Ana, his hand outstretched. ‘Come forward, girl.’

   Ana moved forward with a hesitant step.

   ‘Anastasia, this is Matilda Waverly.’ George smiled at Tilly. ‘That there is Rose. And up on the screen is Evelyn. Girls, this is Anastasia Horvath.’

   All the hairs on Rose’s arms lifted. Four daughters.

   No, that couldn’t—

   ‘Ana, here, is your father’s daughter. Your half-sister. And therefore, according to your father’s will...’

   The rest of George’s words faded away. Half-sister!

   Spots formed in front of her eyes. The room spun. She’d known her parents’ marriage had experienced rocky moments, but her father had adored his wife. He’d adored them. He’d have never…

   But Anastasia’s eyes were the same piercing blue as hers, Tilly’s and Eve’s. As Holt’s. And George would know. He’d know the truth. He’d never allow an imposter to claim part of Holt Waverly’s legacy.

   George collapsed to the arm of the velvet sofa saying something about them still having their trusts and being wealthy women in their own rights. ‘But the land itself, the Garrison Downs station and all of its holdings, will belong to the Garrison family unless you, Rose, Evelyn, Matilda, and Anastasia, are all married within the next twelve months.’

   Even Ana was expected to shoulder this ridiculous burden?

   When she’d never been allowed to be a part of their lives?

   Reaching out, Rose grabbed the back of her chair, pieces of a giant jigsaw puzzle assembling themselves in her mind, falling into place—making a picture she didn’t want to see.

   ‘Rose?’ Tilly started.

   ‘Hang on, Evie.’ She lifted her head to meet Eve’s eyes fully for the first time in too long. ‘Did you know? Is this why—?’

   ‘I have to go,’ said Eve just before her face abruptly disappeared as she disconnected from the call. Rose stared at the blank screen, her chest burning. Evie had known about her father’s affair.

   Oh, Evie, you shouldn’t have had to bear that on your own.

She clenched her hands so hard she started to shake. How dared he? How dared her father keep a sister from them?

   She stared at the door, willing him to walk through it and explain, to make things right somehow. A harsh laugh scraped her throat raw. An impossibility. An impossibility even if he were still alive!

   Clenching her hands, she started for the door. If she didn’t get out of here, she’d explode, and nobody in the room deserved that. ‘I can’t—I don’t have time for this. I have a station to run.’

   But before she strode out of the door she pointed at Ana. ‘Stay!’ She barked it like an order, as she would at some cocky station hand who’d tested her authority. She didn’t mean to sound so bossy, but her voice was beyond control.

   Continuing through the door, she hollered, ‘Lindy, can you see that the yellow suite is made up for Anastasia, please? She’ll be staying with us for a bit.’

© 2022 by Michelle Douglas. Proudly created with Wix.com

Cover art copyright © by Harlequin Enterprises Limited ® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher.

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