“Of course he has, and he loves his Auntie Glory.”
“Sorry for being late. I went for a stroll and forgot the time.” Jo sat down and opened her bodice.
Benny arrived first. “Howdy, Jo. Howdy, Glory.”
“Merry Christmas, Benny,” they said. He beamed when Jo and Glory both gave him a parcel. Jo had made handkerchiefs for everyone with the recipient’s initials embroidered across one corner.
The Johnsons came next. They could hear the smithy’s booming laugh even before he entered the room. “Merry Christmas, everyone.”
“How are you, Mr. Johnson, Jacques, Henri,” Jo greeted them all enthusiastically. “Did you receive some nice presents, boys?”
“Yes, we both got a gun.”
“You’re too young, well, I mean…”
“Never too young to protect yourself, I’ll be teaching my boys how to use them properly. Guns can be a good friend to a man, but unfortunately lethal in some hands.”
The doctor arrived, his thin ascetic face set in its usual anxious lines, but a slight smile tugged at his lips. He was a short, slimly built man who walked with a stoop and he had worry lines crisscrossing his face. His voice sounded cultured, and though he had frequent drinking binges, never allowed himself to become disheveled or untidy. This man had obviously come down in the world.
“Merry Christmas, everyone. How are you feeling, Miss Saunders?”
“Fine, thank you.”
He bore no gifts, except a bottle of good wine that he gave to Glory. Considering the strange mixture of people, they all got on well. The doctor, who had spent several years in Rome, conversed with Rosa in her native tongue, much to her delight. As far as Jo knew, neither the doctor nor smithy ever visited Glory’s except in the line of duty.
Benny gave her a slobbering smile every now and again, his blue eyes wide with happiness. It took so little to make him happy.
They ate pumpkin soup followed by roast turkey and chicken, accompanied by various baked vegetables, and lastly hot, rich plum pudding in brandy sauce. They all gorged themselves until finally Jo couldn’t swallow another morsel.
Katie, for someone so slim, had an enormous appetite. After several glasses of wine, the lilting accent became even more pronounced than usual. The smithy laughed loudly all the time. He slapped the doctor’s back so hard the man almost ended up with his face in the dessert bowl.
Rosa, after numerous glasses of wine, kept breaking into song. Because the words were in Italian they could not understand them, but by the doctor’s embarrassed cough every now and again, Jo knew they were naughty.
“Gawd, I’m enjoying this. Best bloody Christmas in years,” Glory said every now and again. She too had partaken liberally of the wine.
Later in the afternoon, they ate fruit pies with their tea. Benny seemed fascinated with Mark and kept picking up his hands to stare at them, as if he could not quite believe they were so small. Of course, the baby loved all the extra attention thrust upon him.
The doctor even chucked him under the chin several times while Jacques and Henri took turns carting him around. Glory was his favorite, though, not six months old, he gurgled and dribbled happily every time she came near him.
This was one of the happiest Christmases Jo had ever spent even though Ian and Fiona weren’t sharing it with her. She went to bed that night feeling better than she had for months, but when she woke up in the morning her pillow felt damp with tears.
Luke, damn him.
***
A couple of days after Christmas, Luke stormed into Glory’s sitting room.
“Where’s Jo?”
“She’s working in her room.”
“You encouraged her to come here, didn’t you?” he snarled.
“Shut up, and listen to me,” Glory snapped. “It’s your bloody fault.”
“Me? I didn’t do anything.”
“You went on that drive and left her when she was vulnerable. How could you be so bloody selfish?”
“What do you mean, vulnerable?” He raked his fingers through his hair.
“She wanted you with her, wanted to know you cared and you’d do the right thing by her.”
“God almighty,” he flared. “I planned to marry her. I contacted her brother and asked him to come back. What more could I do?”
“Did you ask her to marry you?”
“Well, not in so many words, but I mean, she knew.”
“She didn’t, Luke, for Christ’s sake. She isn’t a bloody mind reader.”
“I wanted her. She knew I could hardly keep my hands off her.”
“She knew you wanted her in your bed, nothing else.”
“All right.” He threw his hands in the air.
“Go in and see her, but don’t let there be any misunderstanding this time. She’s talking of taking the baby and going to America. You’ll never get her back then,” Glory lied, watching with satisfaction as the color leached from his face. Bloody fools, the pair of them.
Luke strode up the passageway and pushed open the door to Jo’s room. She was bent over a ledger and he stood in the doorway drinking in the perfection of her. His gaze flicked to the cradle and he saw the baby, a miniature of himself, lying there kicking his legs energetically and sucking on his fingers. All this he took in for the few seconds before Jo raised her head.
“You!”
“What the hell are you doing here, Jo?”
Dark stubble covered his jaw and chin and he looked dusty and tired, but she hardened her heart.
“I’m working.”
“For God’s sake, why did you leave Kangaroo Gully?”
“Because I had no future there, once you got tired of having me in your bed.”
“You stupid little fool,” he interrupted, dragging her into his arms. His mouth claimed hers in a hot, urgent kiss. “I want to marry you,” he hissed in her ear.
“Oh, Luke.” She couldn’t speak for a moment; the words wouldn’t come out past the emotional lump in her throat. She had waited so long for this, lived in hope that he would do the right thing by her and Mark. She would regain her respectability. Mark would be legitimate as would the other baby she now knew she carried. Maybe in time Luke would grow to love all of them. For the moment marriage was enough, but later on she expected more. She rested her cheek against his chest and his heart thundered in her ear. “You smell sweaty.” She blurted out the first words that came to mind.
“I haven’t bathed, much less shaved for several days. As soon as Mrs. Osborne told me where you were, I got a fresh horse and came here straight away. I worked it all out on the drive. We can go to Melbourne in a couple of weeks or so and get the best wedding gown money can buy, maybe even have a holiday while we’re there.”
“But, Luke, couldn’t we get married straight away?” She lifted up her hand and rubbed it up and down over his bristly cheek. “Please.”
“No, a couple of months won’t make much difference. When I take you as my bride I want to do it in style, announce proudly to the world that Luke Campton is taking Jo Saunders as his wife. Mrs. Kilvain and her vicious cronies will have nothing to gossip about then.”
“Oh, yes they will. If we wait a couple of months, we’ll be giving them even more ammunition.”
“What the hell are you raving about?”
She took his hand and ran it across her stomach. “We’re having another baby.”
“What! Are you sure?”
The shocked expression on his face made her laugh. “Yes. I’ve been feeling sort of sick and weepy over the last couple of months and didn’t realize what it meant. I suppose I should have, but after being shot and with everything else that happened, well…”
“Come back to Kangaroo Gully with me now.” There was a gleam in his eye. “Tomorrow we’ll go and see the parson.” He grinned. “You’ll be wedded and bedded before the week is out.”
Chapter Sixteen
It was a fine morning as Luke rode towards town. Within a couple of days,
Jo would be his wife and his son would be legitimized. A second seed already planted deep inside Jo's beautiful body had come to fruition. In a few months she would bring forth their second child, hopefully another son.
The shot when it came caught him by surprise. When the bullet slammed into his chest, pain ricocheted through him. As he fought to control his rearing horse, he saw Cassandra’s brother, Ashley stepping out from behind a tree. Dirty little bastard had ambushed him. The horse stampeded into the bush and as he struggled to stay mounted, he did not see the low growing branch and was catapulted out of the saddle.
Luke came to consciousness to find his head and shoulders throbbing. He groaned loudly. Flies had settled on his bloodstained shirt. When he moved, they shifted away. Dear God, he had lost a lot of blood.
The stallion, nowhere to be seen, would head straight home. He tried to move his legs and found he could not. Someone would come. He was not all that far away from the main road. Death in itself held no fear for him, but if he should die, Mark would be the one to suffer because his parents were not married. Luke Campton's bastard. He would be branded for the rest of his life, the unborn child also.
Strange, how one could think clearly at a time like this. The bullet must have passed through his chest, perhaps lodged in his back, or maybe the fall broke his spine. He preferred death to the life of a cripple anyway, but he couldn’t die yet.
His life had not been without blemish. He felt no remorse for anything he did except for Jo. He must put things right. Kangaroo Gully would go to their first-born son, the other child and Jo needed protection as well.
Using his elbows and hands he dragged himself along. If he could get to the road, someone would find him. If he lay still, there might be a better chance of survival, but he had to be found quickly. Hopefully Ashley would be miles away by now, rotten little mongrel.
Luke considered his own life worthless compared to Kangaroo Gully and Jo. The pain above his belt suddenly became excruciating while below it he felt nothing. Within a short time, his shirtsleeves were ripped to shreds by the sharp stones and thorny undergrowth. The lacerated skin of his elbows and hands stung.
“God, help me.” It wasn't for life he prayed, just for time. Time to make Jo his wife. Time to legalize things for their son. After that nothing much mattered except making Ashley pay for what he did.
The sun hurt his eyes and thirst almost maddened him. Something came to him, a childhood memory perhaps. When Christ hung on the cross with his lifeblood pouring into the ground, he had cried out for water. The doctor, a veteran from the Crimean war, always said his most vivid memory of dying men were their cries for water. This spurred him to even greater effort. He could not die like a dog out here and let his son lose everything.
He flattened the blue hollyhocks and pink heath beneath the weight of his body. Strange how he never took any notice of wild flowers before. The white everlastings with their large, yellow moonlike centers nodded in the slight breeze and his blood stained them red.
The track at last, with failing strength he dragged himself out into the middle so anyone passing by would see him.
Jo came first, riding the stallion. He saw her pounding towards him and waved his hand.
“Luke, what happened? Are you all right?”
She vaulted from the saddle, her hair in flaming disarray, her eyes burning green as jade, the way he remembered her best.
“You've been hurt?”
“Ashley Wetherby shot me.”
“Oh, Luke.” She knelt beside him.
“There's not much time, get the Minister for God’s sake. If he's not there, a priest, anyone who can marry us.”
“I'll get the doctor first.” Her eyes swam with tears.
“No, the parson first. Get him to bring his marrying book, then the doctor.”
He watched her gallop away. When he could see her no more, he wearily let his eyelids droop over his aching eyes.
Jo urged the stallion to greater speed, and when he was running flat out, she had to hang on tight. She was still not fully recovered from her own injuries, but gritted her teeth, forcing herself to think of nothing except getting help.
The parson first, as he wanted, then the doctor. Surely a strong man like Luke would not die. Tears poured down her cheeks unchecked. Reverend Donaldson sat on the parsonage verandah and she screamed out to him.
“Miss Saunders what is it?”
Her terror was so great she could barely get the words out, but her urgency and desperation must be obvious. He sent his manservant for the doctor. Jo told him where to find Luke, then wheeling the stallion around, she galloped off.
Luke’s eyes were closed as she came up to him. His beautiful body lay limp as a rag doll, but his eyes flickered open when she called his name.
“Is the parson coming?” he asked huskily.
“Yes. Are you in much pain?” She ripped a piece off her petticoat, rolled it in a ball and held it against his wound to staunch the bleeding. With her free hand she stroked back a tendril of damp hair from his forehead. Her tears falling on his face left a trail of clean skin amidst the dirt and grime.
He was going to die, she knew this now, yet she prayed for some miracle that might save him. She wanted to scream but couldn’t. Wanted to rant and rave at fate for denying them the chance of happiness. The injustice of it all left a bitter taste in her mouth and a sickening, churning feeling in her stomach. Her injured shoulder throbbed. She licked suddenly dry lips. “Are you frightened, Luke?”
“No, death has never held any fear for me. A man is born. He lives. He dies when it's time.”
“Things were starting to come right for us. It isn't fair.”
He didn’t answer. She shivered in the bright sunshine. Not a vestige of color remained in his face now. He lay so still, even the blood stopped flowing from his wound.
“Luke, don't die.” She shook him. “Don't leave me like this. Think of Mark and Kangaroo Gully.”
“I'm not dead yet.” He moved his head. “Where the hell is the parson?”
“Don't curse, not now, he's coming. I can see him.”
“Hold my hand. Give me some of your strength until I do what has to be done,” he whispered.
The parson came with the bible already opened. “Don’t read any prayers over me, just marry us.”
“But, Mr. Campton, the doctor will be here soon.”
“He might be too late. Marry us now while there's still time. You know how things are.”
They held a brief bittersweet service with two passers by, strangers off to the gold fields, acting as witnesses.
“Kiss me, Jo.” Luke's voice was barely audible and his lips against hers were freezing. She shook so much she could barely sign her name on the page of the leather bound book, but Luke signed without so much as a quiver.
One witness could write and he signed, the other scratched an X on the paper, and the Minister wrote down his name underneath. Thus, Josephine Saunders finally became Mrs. Luke Campton.
Luke lost consciousness before the doctor arrived on the scene.
“Is he going to die, doctor?” Jo asked in a harsh whisper. Dread, like a lead ball, weighed down her heart. All her hopes and dreams for the future had been crushed by a murderer on a lonely, dust choked road.
“I don't know.” He glanced up from cutting Luke's shirt away. “The bullet seems to have passed right through his chest. Missed all the vital organs as far as I can tell, but he's lost a lot of blood. Bloody fool should have stayed put, only made things worse by moving.”
“I guess he wanted to make sure he would be found quickly,” she explained, pushing the words out past a lump in her throat.
The doctor snorted. “We'll take him to Kangaroo Gully, it's closer.”
The doctor and the parson with her help managed to get Luke into the doctor's cart. She sat in the back with his head resting on her knee. She wanted to cry and scream at the injustice of it all as she stared down into his ashen face. The t
ightly applied bandage had stemmed the worst of the bleeding, thank goodness.
It proved a nightmare trip, as they proceeded slowly so they could avoid the bumps. At her insistence, the parson returned to town, little for him to do except say a few prayers over Luke if he died.
“You're not going to die,” she vowed fiercely. “You're not.” Once they got to Kangaroo Gully there would be plenty of help to get him inside.
She anxiously watched the stallion tethered to the back of the cart. He kept tossing his head around but otherwise seemed reasonably docile. Probably too tired to play up.
Kangaroo Gully at last. “We're home,” she whispered, squeezing Luke’s hand. It wasn't her imagination; she did feel his fingers exert slight pressure against her own.
Once inside the homestead, Mrs. Osborne took control, and in no time Luke lay on the scrubbed table in the kitchen where the doctor, with Mrs. Osborne's help, tended his wounds. Jo, on the verge of collapse, staggered into the bedroom and let a maid help her into bed. Her shoulder throbbed, her head ached, but this wouldn't have stopped her from helping out in the kitchen. Only the fear of damaging her unborn baby made her obey the doctor's order to rest.
Mrs. Osborne bringing in a crying Mark to be fed woke her.
“How's Luke?” she asked as she put the hungry baby to her breast.
“He's doing quite well, under the circumstances. Luckily the doctor’s got experience treating gunshot wounds, says he saved dozens of men worse off than Mr. Campton in the Crimean war.”
“Can I see him?” Jo asked. “When I've finished feeding Mark?”
“The doctor gave him something to make him sleep and he won't wake up for hours. Finish feeding the baby and rest, Miss Jo. You've got the other child to think of as well now.”
***
A couple of weeks after Ashley Wetherby had tried to murder Luke some of the local aboriginal women and children wandered over, with a wizened old man who was apparently their leader. He spoke in broken English. Some of the women wailed and beat at their chests, and from what Jo could gather, they had been ordered to leave the lean-tos they occupied near the river.
Fiery Possession Page 27
