Desert Flame

by Janine Grey

  Tyres crunched on the track, and a car engine shut off. Biting back a whimper, he managed to lift his head. He still couldn’t see anything for the sun but he heard a car door slam. Awkwardly, he shuffled backwards until he felt rock at his back which he could prop himself up against. Squinting into the bright sunlight, he made out the silhouette of a woman emerge out of the brilliant light. His eyes travelled up long, long legs – wearing loose cotton pants, cinched tight at the waist – and over breasts that . . . holy hell!

  He shook his head, trying to wake himself up, but she was still there when he opened his eyes again. Her face was shadowed by an akubra that looked straight out of the shop. As she came closer, she took off her large, Hollywood-style sunglasses and he felt like he was falling again – this time into eyes the deep, bottomless blue colour of the ocean.

  They stared at each other for a long moment. She was frowning, maybe in disapproval. He couldn’t blame her. She looked as if she’d stepped out of a magazine; he felt like something the rats had chewed at and discarded. Maybe he was hurt worse than he thought, or had a fatal case of dehydration. It must be my brain conjuring up this twisted fantasy – a mirage woman in the middle of the desert.

  ‘Are you —’ he started to say, but nothing came out except a croak. He tried again. ‘Are you real?’

  She frowned again. ‘Yes, of course. Are you dr—’ She cleared her throat. ‘Are you all right?’ Her voice was poised and crystal clear, with not a trace of outback drawl.

  Fin nodded and waved in the direction of the mine shaft. ‘Accident. Ladder broke last night. Only just got out. Rooted.’

  The blue eyes widened a little as she looked him over, then narrowed in suspicion. ‘You don’t have to make excuses to me, Mr McLeod.’

  Why would he do that? Fin tried to think of something witty to say, but his wit had been fried, along with his brains. The vestiges of polite society hadn’t quite left him so he put out a courteous hand. She stooped to take it, just as he realised it was black with dirt and dried blood. He withdrew hastily it before her smooth pale skin had a chance to make contact.

  Close as she was, Fin thought he could smell the sea. Maybe she was a mermaid. Her proximity made his parched mouth even drier, if that was possible. ‘Water,’ he croaked, waving a hand towards the fridge.

  Her eyes followed the direction of his hand. The next thing he knew, a bucketful of water walloped him in the face. Fin gasped as dust turned into rivulets running down his chin, along with bits of carrot and the odd pea. He shook his head, blinked and stared up at the woman as she put down the old bucket that had contained yesterday’s murky dishwater.

  As he gaped at her, wondering what he’d done to deserve that, he realised he’d left the washing-up bucket standing near the fridge.

  ‘I meant,’ he said with effort, ‘to drink.’

  *

  Mortified, Eliza felt her face begin to burn in a way that had nothing to do with the sun. But it wasn’t really her fault, she told herself. It had been the only water she could see, and he was clearly filthy – and filthy drunk.

  ‘Never mind.’ He heaved himself upright and shook his head like a wet animal. ‘I think I need a beer, anyway. You?’

  ‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough?’ she asked.

  He stopped, turned and looked at her from his dirt-spattered face. Eyes she’d thought were brown were actually a dark grey. ‘No such thing as enough. You clearly haven’t spent long in the outback.’

  When she didn’t reply he stumbled towards the small tent where he stiffly folded his length almost in half to fit through the gap. He came out carrying a large Esky, from which he took a bottle of beer, casually popped the top, tipped his head back and drank. His eyes closed in pleasure, a dark fan of lashes on his cheek.

  Eliza watched, fixated by the movement of his Adam’s apple. There was something devastatingly earthy about it – about him – that almost made her forget why she was here.

  When he lowered the bottle and looked her way, Eliza hurriedly glanced away, but it was too late. He’d seen her.

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘You are Fingal McLeod, aren’t you?’ she blurted, needing to make sure. He definitely wasn’t the twenty-two-year-old boy she’d envisaged, but a man about a decade older.

  ‘Who’s asking?’ He put his head back and his throat moved again.

  Eliza tore her eyes away. ‘Me. I mean, I am.’ She got a grip. ‘Eliza Mayberry, proprietor and CEO of —’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ he interrupted. ‘I’m not selling.’

  ‘Good, because I’m not buying,’ she shot back. ‘What aren’t you selling?’

  He waved a hand at a big hole in the ground, half surrounded by a pile of stones. ‘The mine, the claim.’

  ‘Oh.’ Was he serious? Who would want to buy this disaster zone? She’d seen car-wrecking yards that had more aesthetic appeal.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want a beer? You’re not making much sense.’

  He was right. She’d had her pitch perfected in her brain, which seemed to have gone to mush. But then, nothing much had unfolded as she’d expected after leaving Helton. For a start, she hadn’t expected a guy in his thirties, definitely not one who looked like roadkill at first sight and like a prime candidate for alcohol rehab at second. But she needed to win him over, and if that meant drinking alcohol at ten in the morning, she would do it. ‘I don’t suppose you have white wine?’ she asked.

  He stared at her like an alien at the moon landing. ‘You know, now I come to think of it, I might have a crisp little Chablis tucked away in the cellar, waiting for a celebration such as this.’

  Eliza scanned the camp. No cellar. Of course there was no cellar! There was the hole, a pile of rocks, some old tools, a humming box that had to be a generator, a tent and little else. And one tall, lean and very dusty man.

  ‘That’s not nice,’ she murmured.

  He laughed darkly and took another slug of beer. Draining the bottle, he tossed it into a plastic bag where it clinked against other empties.

  ‘So, Miss Whatever-your-name-is, why don’t you take a seat?’ He waved her towards a deck chair and got another from inside the tent. ‘And tell me what you’re doing here.’

  ‘Eliza,’ she reminded him. ‘Mayberry. You didn’t get my letters, then? I sent them to your mother’s old house in Toormina, which was the only address I had.’

  His eyes flickered just briefly. ‘Oh, that. I got a letter, yes. Thought it was a scam so I binned it.’

  ‘What?’ She was aghast. ‘No, it’s not a scam!’ At least she didn’t think it was, but then how much did she really know about Ernest Weaver? Still, eighty-two-year-old fraudsters were probably rare.

  ‘So,’ he said, his tone measured. ‘What exactly is it you want, Miss Mayberry?’

  ‘It’s Eliza, and I’m a Ms.’ Eliza held his gaze. ‘I want to take you to Sydney.’

  He responded by plucking a towel from a washing line strung between two bushes and scrubbing the dirty streaks from his face. He ran the cloth over his damp head, leaving his hair standing on end. When he’d finished, Eliza got her first look at what lay beneath the grime.

  Fingal McLeod was arresting rather than classically handsome, with a bone structure that would be as striking at ninety as it was now. Everything about his face screamed stubborn, except the narrowed dark-grey eyes, which whispered wary. Clearly he wasn’t a man who trusted easily.

  There was something fundamentally capable-looking about him. The scraped and scarred hands and the long, lean muscles were proof he was no stranger to manual work, but there was more to him than that, something elusive that intrigued her.

  ‘My mother warned me never to go anywhere with strangers.’

  Eliza jerked back to take in what he was saying rather than the mouth that was saying it.

  ‘Especially ones that look like you,’ he continued.

  ‘Like me?’ She looked down at her crisp white shirt and cotton pants. She’
d gone to infinite trouble to get her make-up, hair and wardrobe just right – for the location as well as her mission. Eliza was bewildered.

  ‘Too perfect,’ he clarified.

  Evidently she should have turned up with a burlap bag and a cigarette hanging from her mouth. But then, Fingal McLeod didn’t appear to be much concerned with appearances.

  ‘I’m a business professional,’ she said in an attempt to get back on solid ground. It didn’t matter what he thought of her, just that she could deliver him to Ernest Weaver before it was too late. ‘My company, KinSearchers, is a family business. We specialise in probate genealogy research and investigation on behalf of intestate estates.’

  ‘You figure out who might have a claim on disputed inheritances,’ he murmured.

  Eliza was a little surprised. Usually people got a glazed look whenever genealogy research was mentioned, or thought it was something to do with genetics. But he’d summed it up in a sentence. Not that the knowledge made him look any friendlier.

  ‘They’re not always disputed. Sometimes families lose touch, as in this case. My client is very elderly and in poor health. I’m led to believe he lost touch with his sister quite some time ago and now, at the end of his life, is seeking to connect with her descendants.’

  ‘He wants to give me some money?’

  Eliza hesitated. Ernest Weaver had never been explicit about his intentions for wanting Mairi McLeod’s son to come to Sydney. She assumed it was to discuss an inheritance. Maybe he wanted to meet Fin before deciding. Somehow she had to paper over her lack of information enough to be convincing without telling a lie. In the end, she did what she’d practised back at the Helton Hotel in front of the bathroom mirror. It was, she thought, what her mother might have said – heavy on potential but free of promises that might come back to bite her.

  ‘That would be between you and my client, but it is a possibility. Family becomes more important than ever when people are faced with their own mortality.’ Eliza wondered if her own father had thought of her as he’d stood high above the harbour preparing to jump. She bit down on her wobbling lip.

  Alarm flickered in his eyes. In silence, he fetched her a bottle of water. Crouching down in front of her, he winced a little. ‘Need to keep hydrated,’ he said gruffly, handing the bottle to her.

  Eliza took it, unscrewed the cap and drank thirstily, conscious of him watching her. When she was done, she put it down and smoothed back her hair, trying to restore her composure.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Feeling better?’

  ‘Yes. I just . . . Death is very final, Mr McLeod. You can’t go back, after the fact, and do things differently. You can’t change your mind when it’s too late. You might want to think about that before you decide.’ She stopped, realising she was on the brink of lecturing him.

  He stood up slowly, still holding her gaze. ‘My mother was left on her own with me when I was just a few months old. That might have been a good time for some family to come out of the woodwork.’

  She nodded and handed him a business card. ‘Whatever you decide to do, please let me know. I’m staying in Helton tonight and heading back to Lightning Ridge tomorrow before flying back to Sydney.’

  He frowned at her. ‘I can’t just up and leave this place. I’m on a tight schedule, and after yesterday’s setback, I need to make up lost time.’

  ‘So it was an accident. You weren’t . . .?’

  ‘Pissed? No.’ His mouth twisted with dark humour. ‘Pissed off, yes. And careless. The ladder’s as old as the mine, probably. I’ve always checked it before putting my full weight on it but last night I was so bloody tired. Anyway, lesson learnt. In any case, the new gear I ordered a while back, including a ladder, should arrive any day.’

  Eliza went to the edge of the mine and peered in. The squarish hole was narrow and dark and deep. She couldn’t imagine working down there, let alone working by herself.

  ‘How far is it to the bottom?’

  ‘Ten metres or so.’

  ‘And you fell all that way?’

  ‘Nah, only the last couple.’

  Eliza took a step back from the edge. ‘Do you think you’ll find anything?’ she asked as he came up beside her.

  ‘No bastard would do this kind of work without the chance of a decent payday at the end of it.’ He laughed, and then cut it off with a curse, holding his side.

  Alarmed, she saw the hand clutching his side was scraped and bloody. ‘You’re hurt! Let me see.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘You might have done serious damage.’

  He shook his head in irritation and the sun lit up strands of gold in among the brown. ‘I’ll be right. You should go.’

  Eliza hesitated, feeling there was something more to say, but he’d already turned and was limping away. Not a man who appreciated offers of help, then.

  As she walked back to the car, Eliza reminded herself that he hadn’t said no, at least not precisely. He might come around. Tomorrow she’d probably get a call asking how much the old man was worth.

  The prospect of being a beneficiary turned most people into avaricious monsters, according to her mother. But then, Fingal McLeod didn’t strike her as being like most people. Or like anybody she’d ever met before.

  CHAPTER 4

  ‘Got the church booked and the flowers ordered,’ Mick told Eliza, opening the car door with a flourish when she arrived back in Helton. ‘Knew you’d give the McLeod fella the boot and come back to me.’

  With a headache brewing from the sun, Eliza forced a smile. ‘I might already be married with half-a-dozen kids.’

  ‘No problem with polygamy, me,’ he retorted. ‘Course, the old lady might have a thing or two to say about it when she gets back from Darwin.’

  ‘Right now, I’d walk down the aisle with just about anyone who promised me a cool drink.’

  ‘Heat getting to you?’

  ‘A little,’ she admitted, walking with him into the hotel bar.

  ‘You should try being here around Chrissie. Shocking.’

  ‘I’ll be long gone by then.’ She slid onto a bar stool and ordered mineral water. ‘Do the mines close down in the summer?’ It must be intolerable.

  ‘Small claims like McLeod’s, the mines don’t generally get worked December to March. Underground it’s okay, but on top . . .’ He shook his shaggy head and signalled for Chris to pour him a beer. ‘I take it you found your man.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Strange bugger. Don’t usually see young fellas like him alone up there. More often it’s blokes in their fifties, sixties – marriage or job goes south and they come up north to hide from life. Like Old Pauly.’

  Eliza smiled. ‘You’re sounding very philosophical, Mick. Is that what happened to you?’

  He bumped her shoulder with his as though they’d known each other for twenty years. It gave her a warm feeling, as if she’d made a friend without even intending it. ‘Nah. Outback in me bones. Couldn’t live anywhere else.’

  ‘Hard life.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, it is that. Some blokes, most of them who come here to hide, think they’re here for a year. Two, maybe. Get their head straight, score the big one and go home a hero. Back in the day a few blokes did that – found some beauties and made a bundle. But them days are long gone.’

  Eliza was intrigued. ‘So, do you think that’s what Fingal McLeod’s doing? Hiding?’

  Mick shrugged. ‘Heard a rumour McLeod used to work for MineCorp but they shafted him. He might have had relationship troubles too. Only thing I know for certain is there’s no opal out there worth jack shit. Even Old Pauly figured that out eventually, and he was a lifer.’

  For the rest of the day, the information nagged at Eliza like a sore tooth. Eventually, she was sick of it. What did it matter that Fin McLeod had isolated himself up at Ruin Flat? Some people were just loners. Others needed to lick their wounds for a while. Now that she could sympathise with – wasn’t she doing much the same
thing?

  She stood on the small balcony of her room that night, staring out into infinity. The dusky hues of evening softened the harsh vista, and the clear sky was lit with an unknown number of stars. She felt enveloped and at the same time strangely liberated by the outback, as if anything was possible. There were worse places to hide.

  Maybe she was coming down with a case of outback fever.

  Laughing at herself, she stepped back into her room and closed the door. All too soon, she’d be back in the real world.

  The next morning, Eliza was up early to pack and head back to Sydney. She glanced at her phone but it remained frustratingly silent. She cursed herself for not asking Fingal McLeod for his number but she’d wanted to keep their meeting low key. She suspected the more she pushed, the deeper he’d dig his heels in.

  Eliza said her goodbyes, and set out towards Lightning Ridge, frustrated with herself and with Fingal McLeod. Her first – and only – case and she’d blown it! She should have handled things more strategically with the man, lied if necessary. Told him whatever he wanted to believe.

  Seething, she drove on for another five minutes, yesterday’s encounter with Fingal playing on a loop in her brain. Five minutes later, she pulled a sharp U-turn on the highway and sped back to Helton. She reparked outside the pub. Taking out her phone, she cancelled her flight and extended the car rental for another three days. All before stepping out of the car. She let out a breath.

  Eliza was spotted by Chris, who was cleaning the hotel windows. ‘Yoo-hoo, love. Changed your mind, did you?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Shame about you going up to Ruin Flat yesterday. We had a delivery this morning for the McLeod fella. You could have taken it up with you.’

  Eliza was curious. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Delivery bloke said it was a ladder and some other stuff for the mine. We’ll have to wait till he’s next in town.’

  ‘I’ll take it,’ Eliza said before she could think better of it. ‘I’m going back. I haven’t finished with Fingal McLeod yet.’

  *