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voice was low and shaken. “You’ll go to the shop?”
    â€œWhere else can I go, Joe?” Sarah flushed deeply, then went paper-white. “To the McQueens?”
    â€œSarah, Sarah,” Joe answered, his gentle voice torn. “You can come to me. You know that. I have plenty of room. I’m your friend. I brought you into the world. You could also go to Harriet. She’s always been your great supporter. She’d do anything to help you.”
    â€œI know that, Joe.” Sarah’s voice, like her body, was growing faint. She stiffened her back. “I could never forget either of you and your kindnesses. No, I’ll stay over the shop. Thank you for ringing, Joe.” Sarah couldn’t manage another word, so she hung up feeling as though she was dying herself. Swiftly she lowered her head to her knees. She would feel better in a moment. She had to feel better. She had things to do. She had to bury her mother. Her mother, her father and her child. She raised a pale, bitter face.
    And, God—are you up there? She seriously doubted it. I’m going to miss her so much!
    Â 
    I T WAS LATER AFTERNOON when Kyall McQueen touched down at Wunnamurra’s airstrip, taxiing the Beech Baron until it came to rest in the huge silver hangar with the station’s name and logo emblazoned in royal blue on itsroof. He’d been in Adelaide for almost a week, looking after McQueen business interests. Wunnamurra had always been among the nation’s finest merino-wool producers, but the family had long since diversified. It was Kyall who had convinced his grandmother to buy Beauview Station, owned by the Youngberg family, winegrowers in the beautiful South Australian Clare Valley. Carl Youngberg, the grandfather and head of the family, had died, leaving the business in crisis. Seeing an opportunity and loving the whole business of wine, Kyall had moved in. The next step had been to secure the services of a great winemaker returning home from years in Europe. It hadn’t been easy persuading the man to take over Beauview—he had a top name—but in the end they had stitched up a deal. It was, Kyall knew, a fantastic coup. Already the newly formed company had bounced back with the promise of wonderful wines from their new production manager/winemaker.
    There were other developments, too. McQueen Enterprises, of which he was now CEO since his grandmother had vacated the position, had moved into specialty foods, growing olives and mushrooms on their properties on the Darling Downs. To prevent waste and enhance that region’s culinary reputation, he had hired top people to open and run a factory making use of tree- and vine-ripened olives and tomatoes rather than see such splendid produce plowed back into the ground. Supermarkets only wanted produce that was picked green, which considerably affected the taste, especially of tomatoes. Now their factory made a whole range of sauces, relishes and preserves; these were proving a big hit in the specialty delicatessens.
    So one way or another, he was doing his bit and making life a little easier for a lot of people.
    Several members of the extended McQueen family had been brought into the company, boosting the capital. Everytime he visited Adelaide, the family arranged a few parties, a mixture of business, pleasure and moneymaking. They were all delighted that he was so good at this. Hell, what else did he have to devote himself to but work?
    Yesterday he’d talked over lunch with his great-uncle Raoul McQueen, a prominent merchant banker and McQueen board member, and his uncle’s lifelong friend, Senator Graham Preston. It was all very, very discreet, but he could see that they hoped he’d give running for Parliament a try in the not-too-distant future.
    They were at his uncle’s club, a haven of comfort and privacy, and a natural rendezvous spot for the country’s power brokers when in town.
    â€œMay I remind you,