by Téa Cooper
‘Yes, Mam.’ He threw the words over his shoulder and disappeared, leaving his jacket hanging over the back of the chair. Thank goodness Aunt Lil couldn’t see him. He seemed closer to a street urchin than the restricted, frail little boy who’d first arrived in Wollombi.
Tutting, she cleared away the plates and set the evening meal on the fire, then returned to the parlour. The dress was almost finished and it had come up a treat. Hopefully Mrs Blackmore would agree.
The afternoon passed in a flash as every day had done since Mrs Blackmore’s first visit, and when the light began to fade her thoughts turned to Ruan. He hadn’t come home.
Leaving the parlour, she headed out of the back door and down the path to the brook. He’d be down there, searching for treasures or fishing, of that she was certain.
As she rounded the bend his head came into view sitting on the side of the brook next to, next to … She lifted her skirts and ran. ‘Ruan, come here, come here this minute.’
At the sound of her voice he stood, bending down to say something to the old man sitting under the tree. A black, a native. Oh for goodness sake. There were more dangers here than in Sydney where she’d kept him inside all the time. Whatever had possessed her to leave him to his own devices?
‘Goodbye,’ he called, lifting his hand before running to her.
‘What are you doing? You can’t just sit and talk to anyone. The natives can be dangerous.’
‘That’s Old Pella.’
She studied the hunched old man dressed in a ragged shirt and trousers cut off below the knee and held up at the waist by twine. ‘You can’t be friends with a native, no one is.’
‘Carrick is.’
Carrick again. Would the man always cause problems even when he wasn’t in town?
‘And Carrick will be back tomorrow.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Old Pella told me.’
‘And how would he know?’
Ruan shrugged his shoulders. ‘He just does. He knows everything and he knows so many stories. Dreaming stories, all about rainbow serpents and evil bunyips.’
‘You mustn’t talk to him, Ruan. If I can’t trust you to go out on your own, you will have to stay at home with me.’ She grabbed hold of his hand and towed him back up the path.
Eight
The late-afternoon sun had disappeared behind the hills as the dray weaved its way past the empty cattle yards back to the camp. More than anything Carrick wanted to go and knock on Roisin’s door and hope she invited him in for a cup of tea. After two weeks at the camp and the interminable trip he’d a need for her, to see her again, and the lad. She might turn him away, close down on him, but that was a risk he’d willingly run, and besides, he had the box for the lad. Polished bright and ready for a thousand treasures. Maybe that would change her mind.
After all the rain the trip from Morpeth had taken forever. They’d had ten wet, soggy, mud-strewn days. Even the bullocky had complained, giving the poor animals an unusual taste of the whip. When they finally drew up alongside the camp, the flames from the fire sparked high into the night sky, illuminating the motley group collected around and about. The smell of rum and the greasy remains of the mutton they’d roasted for tea stuck in his craw. Slinger’s fiddle cut the air with one of his madcap jigs and the clapping and stomping had begun.
He swung down from the dray, his gaze riveted on the lone figure leaping like a demented banshee around the flickering flames. The men’s raucous voices grew as they heckled the dancer on. He twisted and turned, arms flailing, leaping over the flames and circling the fire like a decapitated chicken, and then he stumbled and fell to wild applause.
A shiver ran down his spine, turning his skin clammy. This wasn’t the usual evening’s entertainment. A large figure loomed over the body on the ground and Carrick ran through the drunken audience, pushing them aside. The big bastard from the Paterson crew stood astride the prostrate body, with an upended flagon splashing rum over the crumbled, curled mass of bones huddled on the ground.
Carrick leapt forward, his fingers closing over the frail old man, his stomach roiling at the sour stench of panicked sweat and heated rum. ‘What the feck do you think you’re doing?’ He scooped up the shrivelled body and threw him over his shoulder.
‘A bit of entertainment.’
‘The old man’s half dead.’
‘Just a native.’ Another cutter shouldered his way through the crowd head down, hands clenched at the end of his long arms. ‘What’s your problem?’
Carrick wiped away the spittle that peppered his face.
‘Just a native dancing for his tea.’ The cutter lurched forward. ‘Bloody heathens.’
‘He’s a man and he deserves a bit of respect.’ Carrick hefted the limp, rum-soaked body of the old man across his shoulder. He’d worry about the idiots once he had Old Pella out of trouble.
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder, spinning him around. A fist came from nowhere and found his face. Rum took the power out of the bastard’s punch but made it more than clear he’d not be walking away. He lowered Old Pella to the ground.
The cutter swayed on his feet, his head down, ready to charge. Carrick raised his arm and pushed hard against the cutter’s shoulder, causing him to stagger backwards into Slinger’s waiting grasp. Slinger spun him around and belted him. The cutter flew backwards and landed with an earth-shattering thud, the wind knocked out of him. Slinger dusted his hands. ‘Who’s next?’
Carrick threw him a wry grin. ‘What the hell are you doin’ here?’ Then pain radiated up through his gut, igniting a blast of rage. He swivelled, sucked a breath of air into his parched lungs and lurched. His fist connected with bone with a sickening crunch. The cutter rocked back on his heels and let fly. Carrick ducked, dodged the flaying fists. The bastard was drunker than Old Pella. He’d knock him cold if he could get a decent punch. He stepped closer, blood boiling at the taunts from the other cutters. The old man groaned and curled himself into a tight bundle on the ground.
‘Forget it.’ The old man needed help. The Paterson cutters could wait. There’d be plenty of time for them later.
He bent down, half expecting to be sent sprawling. Thank God Slinger had his back. The old man cocooned in his smelly possum rug weighed no more than a sack of potatoes. He needed to get him somewhere safe, away from the drunken louts. Let them find another outlet for their sick games.
‘Sure you don’t want to finish this off?’ Slinger followed him away from the fire. ‘They’ve got it in for the pair of us. Time to teach ’em a lesson.’
‘They’ll not be learning anything from me. Why aren’t you in the forest with the boys?’
‘Needed a bit of a break. What’re you going to do with that bag of bones?’
‘Find him somewhere comfortable for the night, let him sleep off the rum.’
Slinger gave a derogatory sniff. ‘Got enough trouble with those Paterson cutters, bunch of mongrels, without taking on anyone else’s problems.’
‘Leave ’em be. They’ll be gone in the morning. And so will you.’ The old man wriggled and squirmed and Carrick shrugged him higher up onto his shoulder and clasped him firmly around the knees. ‘I’ll be seeing you later. And thanks.’ The sooner he found Old Pella somewhere to sleep, the better. With the mood Slinger was in he’d as likely go back and pick up where they left off.
He cast a glance back to the fire as Slinger made his way through the circle of men, somehow managing not to thump anyone. Old Pella needed somewhere dry to sleep; without the slightest breeze in the cool, crisp night there was a chance of frost. He meandered along the path by the brook until he found himself outside the back of Roisin’s cottage. No sign of life, no lamp burning in the kitchen, just the glow from the fire. What he’d not give to bunk down on her kitchen floor. The old man struggled and gave a pitiful moan. He’d have a head and a half tomorrow and he’d be needing somewhere to sleep off the effects.
Following the path of moonlight,
Carrick slipped through the lavender bushes and up to the woodshed. The perfect spot. He nudged the door open and carried the old man inside. Tucked in the back corner, he’d be out of harm’s way and a darn sight warmer than anywhere else. Carrick lowered him down onto the ground and folded his possum rug around him. The old man grunted and stirred and burrowed down into the loose dirt. ‘Sleep the night here, Old Pella. Good and warm.’
‘You got rum, boss?’
‘No, Old Pella, no rum. Too much is bad. You had too much.’
‘Makes troubles go away.’
‘No, it brings troubles.’ And didn’t he know it.
‘You staying, Carrick?’
‘No, I’m going to go and cut King Polai. You happy with that?’
‘Bad land there. Bunyip’s there.’
‘You sleep and I’ll come back later.’ Carrick sighed and rubbed his hand through his hair. Bloody cutters. He touched his cheek, flinching as his hand rasped the grazed skin. Why the hell couldn’t they live and let live? What harm had Old Pella ever done to them? The woodshed was virtually empty. He’d come back and cut some wood for Roisin tomorrow morning and check on the old man.
Roisin snuggled down beneath her quilt and gave a pleasurable sigh. The house was snug and cosy. She’d even put up the checked curtains at the kitchen windows, framing the view of the backyard, so she could keep half an eye on Ruan while she worked. Soon she’d clear a patch for some herbs. She’d found some old lavender bushes near the pump and with a bit of water they were already showing new growth. She’d plant some vegetables, maybe carrots and beans once the winter frosts had passed.
The sound of splitting wood seeped into her consciousness and she struggled from her bed, pulling her shawl around her shoulders. It would be Carrick. Elsie said the cutters were back and camped down by the brook again. To know Carrick cared enough to ensure their comfort stoked a curl of heat in her belly. She hadn’t expected him to come around after she’d packed him off last time. She’d been too harsh on him. Her own insecurities making her jump at shadows.
Pulling her shawl tight, she opened the back door, shivering in the morning chill, her breath puffing out in a fine white cloud. Carrick didn’t seem to feel the cold; he’d thrown his shirt and vest down on the dirt behind him. She stood admiring the play of his muscles as the axe rose and fell.
‘Carrick.’ He didn’t respond, didn’t hear her, the axe continued to fall, the rhythm a pleasure to watch. She turned inside and made a mug of tea and carried it back outside. When he dropped the axe and threw the last of the splits onto the pile she stepped forward. ‘Here’s some tea.’
He jumped at her words and turned with a grin. ‘Good morning.’
‘Good morning to you.’ Dark stubble dusted his chin and upper lip and his reddened eyes blinked owlishly at her. ‘That should see you through. I’m not going to be in town again for a while.’
She scanned his face, one eye swollen shut, blue and bruised, his skin pale, highlighting the split on his cheekbone and the swelling across the bridge of his nose. ‘You’ve hurt yourself.’
He rubbed his hand over his face and grimaced. ‘Busy night. Paterson cutters were in town.’
She held out the mug, their fingers brushing as he took it from her. ‘You’ve been fighting.’ The words slipped past her lips before she gave them a second thought.
‘Just a bit of rough and tumble around the fire.’
The need to soothe him almost overwhelmed her. She took a step closer, her hand outstretched.
He shook his head and turned his back on her, studying the woodpile. ‘No sympathy. My own fault.’
The skin on his upper arms was pale where the sun hadn’t reached and the early-morning light highlighted the planes of his muscles. He raised his shoulders as though he could feel her eyes on him and brought the mug to his lips. Across his right shoulder a puckered scar stood out. ‘You’ve hurt your shoulder, too.’ Her fingers reached out to soothe the shiny red skin and fell. It wasn’t a new injury. ‘Whatever is this?’
He flinched and dropped his mug to the ground and gathered up his shirt. When he turned, his face blanched chalky white and the fury blazing from his eyes sent her stepping back.
Shrugging into his shirt, he fumbled at the buttons. ‘It’s long gone.’ His colourless voice did nothing to betray his emotion, yet as if the clouds had covered the sun, his face closed tight. ‘A reminder not to tamper with the English.’
‘An Englishman did that to you?’ She’d never heard of anything so barbaric. She’d grown up in Sydney close to the barracks and the gaol, heard talk of punishments, floggings, even hangings, but the mark on Carrick’s shoulder was like a brand. The kind they put on cattle or horses claiming ownership. What had brought Carrick to Australia? He was certainly a freeman now, but maybe he’d been transported as a convict originally. Sydney was teeming with Irish men and women these days, some of them free settlers or assisted passages come to escape the horrors of the Famine, others political prisoners sent out in chains for their defiance against the English—that would be it. He must have been a political prisoner. Now was probably not the moment to ask. His reaction to her question had sparked such a change in his face.
His eyes, bleak pools of emptiness, stared at her. ‘Forget it. It was long ago. Not worth the worry.’
‘What about your face, does that hurt? Let me clean it and get some arnica.’
‘I said, forget it.’ He finished buttoning his shirt and tied his neckerchief. ‘I’ll stack the wood in the woodshed. Then I’ll be gone. Is the lad about?’
‘Please, stay for a while and have some breakfast.’ It was the least she could do, and then maybe she’d have time to apologise for the way she’d sent him away last time. She owed him that.
As though he could read her mind he grinned and reached for her hand. ‘Don’t worry about me. It’s nothing new. I can look after myself. Slinger had me back.’
When their palms touched a fizzy breathlessness seized her, making her legs almost buckle. She left her hand in his for a moment, against his hard, calloused palm. A lingering glow spread through her body, lodging deep in her belly. Fighting to control her breathing she dropped his hand, stepped back and bent down to pick up his mug.
He grabbed the first of the logs and began tossing them through the door into the woodshed. She sank down on the doorstep. The lines on his face softened with the exertion and every now and again he glanced up and threw her a rueful grin. She could have sat all morning watching him, the easy grace of his movements, his perfect balance and the pale morning light touching his dark hair. Maisie had picked it from the beginning—he was a handsome man and she couldn’t keep her eyes off him.
When he straightened up he slapped his palms together, sending a fine cloud of sawdust into the air. ‘That should keep you going for a while. The lad’s been keeping on top of the kindling. That’s good to see.’ He sat down on the doorstep next to her; the heat radiated from his body and the scent of fresh timber, and something very masculine swirled in the crisp morning air, leaving her short of breath.
He wiped his arm across his forehead. ‘So where is he?’
She dragged her eyes away from his thigh muscles, trying to concentrate on his words and not the delicious feelings slipping over her skin like a whispered dream. ‘Asleep still. I must get him up for his breakfast soon otherwise he’ll be late for school.’ Although it would be very pleasant to let Ruan sleep. Sitting here with the scent of the freshly chopped wood and this man beside her made her thoughts turn from the everyday to—well, to thoughts she’d never had before. Strange feelings that she didn’t understand and couldn’t prevent bubbled in her chest, making her limbs heavy and her skin flush.
‘So you sent him, then.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘To school.’ He smiled, cupped her face in his big hands and stared into her eyes. ‘Your eyes are the very colour of the damp Irish grass sparkling with morning dew.’
‘Yes.�
�� She swallowed. He’d think her mad. She’d never even set foot in Ireland, how would she know what colour the grass was, damp or otherwise. His eyes were dark, almost black, though when he smiled little flecks of colour danced. She shook her head. Concentrate. She must concentrate. ‘Mr Blackmore came to see me. I traded a makeover of his wife’s gown for Ruan’s school fees. Ruan was very keen to go.’
Carrick grunted and slid his fingers down to her chin, then dropped his hands. His voice lowered into a caress as potent as his hand on her skin. ‘A lad needs an education.’
‘He said you’d told him that.’
His face broke into an all-encompassing grin and the sparks of amusement danced in his eyes.
‘Something about hedge schools.’
He laughed and stood up, holding out a hand to help her to her feet. ‘I was telling him about my childhood in Ireland.’
So he wasn’t averse to talking about some aspects of his past. How she wanted to know. Know all there was about him. ‘Will you tell me about your past?’
As quickly as it had appeared the smile slipped from his face and he let go of her hand. ‘Those are stories no woman would want to hear.’
Holy Mary, what had made him say that? The touch of her cool fingers on his shoulder more than not. Even though the pain of the branding had long since gone he kept the scar covered. Easier than having questions asked. He shook his head; at least the boy hadn’t seen it. He’d be the last one he’d want to explain the indignity to. Best let it lie. The story belonged in Ireland and that’s where it would stay.
Inside the woodshed the pile of kindling stood stacked in the right-hand corner, just where he’d told Ruan to put it. No sign of Old Pella other than a hollowed-out patch in the dirt. The old man must have taken off before the sun came up.
Ruan was a good lad. Would Liam have been like that? He shook away the thought. It was a nonsense. Liam would be a man now—getting close, and a big, strapping lad at that. Ruan was only a young thing. He clenched his teeth, banishing his morbid thoughts.
