The Station Boss

by Jane Corrie

  She knew her answer had pleased him by his curt nod of the head and his, 'We'll get a late lunch when we arrive. We're well ahead of time.

  As the miles slid by, Sheena's thoughts turned to the life ahead of her. She was now fully awake and slightly apprehensive as to what lay in her future. `What kind of a smallholding did my father have?' she asked Clay.

  Without turning his attention from the road Clay replied, 'Fodder crops. A few pigs, and vegetables.'

  Sheena stared ahead of her, her eyes widened as she envisaged herself running such a business. Vegetables and fodder—well, she supposed she could learn how to cope with that side of the smallholding, but pigs ! She stared down at her small hands now twisted together in her lap, and swallowed hard as Doyle's scathing comments once again washed over her. She didn't mind growing fodder or vegetables, but keeping pigs was definitely out. She knew next to nothing about pig husbandry and was not inclined to become enlightened on this industry.

  Her eyes took on a bleak look. It was too late now to stop and consider whether she had done the right thing in coming north. But she didn't have to stay, she argued silently with herself. If things got too tough then she could pull out, maybe sell the smallholding and take on another job such as companion to someone, or housekeeping. She took a deep breath. No sense in worrying about it until she had to. There was time enough to work out her future, as empty as it now seemed to her.

  `I've been thinking,' said Clay, in a considering

  tone, 'about that smallholding. It might be as well if it were sold off. It's up to you, of course. In any case, I suggest that you get a man in to do the heavy work until you've found your feet and decided what to do about it.'

  Sheena looked at him. He had an uncanny way of reading her inner thoughts and she didn't like it, it put her at a disadvantage.

  `Oh, I don't know about that,' she replied slowly, as if that would have been the last thing she would have contemplated. I don't mind hard work, and I've got to start somewhere and learn how to cope on my own.'

  She received a swift hard look from Clay and sensed that she had displeased him, but she didn't mind that. She was grateful for what he had done for her father, and for bringing her back with him, but she didn't intend to be a burden to him. He had said that he was a busy man, hadn't he? He ought to be relieved that she was going to stand on her own two feet and not rely on others to cushion her from stark reality.

  She stole a quick glance at his hard profile. He didn't look relieved, she thought—the opposite in fact. She hadn't, she reminded herself with a pang of remorse, thanked him for what he had done, and she ought not to have dismissed his advice quite so nonchalantly as she had done, even though it was sheer pique that had made her do so. `Mr Dayman—' she began hesitantly, but Clay bit out at her, 'Clay's the name.'

  This slightly threw her off her course, but she took a deep breath and began again. 'Clay,' she said firmly, 'I haven't thanked you for what you've done for my father, or for bringing me here—and I am grateful, believe me.' She hesitated a second, then added on a gentler note, 'And I will think about what you've advised. It's just that ' she stopped to search for the right words to convey her thoughts to him. 'When Dad left, I hadn't got a home, and I know I've been well looked after since then, but it wasn't home,' she said quietly. Now I've a chance to have a home again and it will be mine, and not someone else's place.' She shook her head in a vague manner. 'I don't suppose any of this makes sense to you, and I'm not putting it very well. I suppose I just need time to settle down and think things out,' she ended lamely.

  Clay guided the car off the main highway and on to a side road that wound up a slight incline. When they had got to the brow of the hill, he pulled in to the side of the road and looked ahead of him, and Sheena followed his glance.

  She saw acres of paddocked land and set in the midst of the carefully tended gardens a large imposing-looking homestead built in the colonial style.

  `That's Rimini,' he said, and Sheena took due note of the pride in his voice as he said the name.

  `Rimini?' she repeated after him, thinking what an odd name it was.

  `My grandfather was Italian, he named it after his home town in Italy,' Clay told her.

  It took a second or so for Sheena to realise the significance of what Clay had just said, and when it did, her eyes widened. This was what he had described to Doyle as a 'holding of sorts'. She blinked. No wonder he had wanted to take a swing at Doyle ! Barter's Ridge was no mean property, but this was on an even grander scale.

  In the far distance she saw cattle grazing, the distinctive colouring of the herd pronouncing that they were Jerseys, and fine animals at that. So Clay Dayman was a dairy farmer, and a prosperous one by all accounts. Doyle had wanted to try his hand at dairy farming, Sheena recalled with a painful stab in her heart region. He had often spoken of the possibility of changing from sheep to the dairying industry.

  Sheena continued to gaze ahead of her, but her eyes had misted over. Why had she to remember things like that? It was no business of hers what Doyle wanted, or had wanted in the past. It hadn't concerned her for the past three years. She just had to get out of the habit of thinking about him.

  `This home you're looking forward to having might come as a bit of a shock to you,' said Clay, abruptly breaking into her miserable musings. 'It's a shack on the eastern boundary of my property, and in dire need of repair.'

  He waited while she digested this news, then added, 'I was hoping to persuade you to stay at Rimini until other arrangements had been made.'

  Sheena continued to look ahead of her, not want-

  ing him to see the disappointment she had felt at his news. She hadn't expected a palace, she told herself stoutly. If her father had lived there, then surely it was habitable? She didn't mind roughing it. At least it would be hers, and she wouldn't be dependent on anyone's charity.

  She blinked. Now what had made her think of her stay at Barter's Ridge as charity? She had paid for her board and lodging the only way she could. But it had been charity, and that was how she had looked at it deep within herself but would never have ad-mitted it. She had spoken the truth when she had told Clay that she had never looked on Barter's Ridge as her home, and considering that she might have become Doyle's wife this was a strange paradox.

  She glanced quickly at the silent man at her side now looking ahead of him. What manner of man was he? she wondered. She had told him things that she had not been able to admit to herself all the time she had stayed at Barter's Ridge. Whatever longings she had had, she had quashed them with fierce relentlessness, telling herself that she was lucky to have a roof over her head considering her father's treachery.

  Her eyes turned towards the imposing homestead. She didn't belong there any more than she had belonged at Barter's Ridge, for surely her position would be the same, and she couldn't bear to go through all that again. As kind as Clay Dayman had been in offering her accommodation, she would still

  feel like a stray kitten that he had picked up and felt obliged to see to its welfare.

  Her eyes left the homestead and rested on Clay, who in spite of his apparent absorption on the view in front of them was waiting for her reply. On recalling his annoyance when she had shown her independence earlier, she knew she had to be very careful how she answered this latest suggestion of his. `I wasn't expecting anything grand,' she said, managing to inject a light note into her voice. 'As long as it's got a roof, I won't mind—honestly.' The last word was added in a pleading manner, telling him that she hoped that he understood.

  If he did understand, there was no sign of it in his forbidding features as he surveyed her coolly. His dark eyes held an almost mesmeric hold upon her, and it was all Sheena could do not to backtrack hastily and say that she would be grateful and honoured to stay at his home. The past was still fresh in her mind, and that alone held her firm and her clear blue gaze did not waver as she met his inscrutable one.

  `I admire your pioneering spirit,' he sai
d dryly. `However, I must confess to having an ulterior motive in wanting your presence at the homestead.'

  Sheena's eyes now took on a wary look. Were they short of labour? she wondered, and experienced a sudden shock of disappointment at the thought. She had somehow thought Clay Dayman beyond such machinations, but then her father had worked for him, she reminded herself bleakly.

  'There's Vicky, you see,' he said carefully. 'She's young, and she needs company.' His eyes left Sheena and he looked towards the homestead again. It's an all-male domain down there, I'm afraid, and although she's never said so, I'm pretty certain she'd welcome another female's company into the household.' He was silent for a second or so, then added, 'She's been under medical observation for almost six months now, and it curtails her social activities.'

  Sheena looked quickly away from Clay. She could feel a net being placed slowly but irrevocably over her. To turn him down would sound not only ungrateful but extremely unkind. She presumed that Vicky was his wife and through her illness, whatever it was, she was unable to circulate amongst their friends. She was extremely sorry for her, but could hardly see what they would have in common should she succumb to this subtle blackmail he was using on her.

  'Perhaps I could visit her,' she said, carefully avoiding those hypnotic eyes of his, and again experiencing a desperate wish to please him and utterly miserable because she couldn't. It was her future she was fighting for, and to give in now would be stupid. She mightn't get on with Vicky, and then where would she be? If she was Clay's wife, then instinctively Sheena knew she would be a very lovely woman, and no matter how kind she was, there would be times when she would be watching points where Sheena and Clay were concerned. It would only be natural, she thought wretchedly, and hardly

  a point she could raise for Clay's attention without causing herself some embarrassment.

  Clay's deep resigned-sounding sigh, and his disappointment, 'Very well,' before he started up the engine and glided the car down over the brow and towards the outer boundaries of his property was not lost on the miserable Sheena, and his calm acceptance of her refusal to co-operate with his plans made her fervently wish that he would take her straight to the smallholding and leave her there.

  Soon it became apparent that they were not heading for the homestead but following a road that skirted it and out to an area well beyond the homestead precincts, and Sheena saw with no small relief that her unspoken wish was about to be fulfilled. He was taking her to the smallholding, she was sure of it.

  A few miles further on, however, she was not so certain, as he drew up beside an enclosed area and motioned that she should get out and join him. Then he led her through a wicket gate and down a paved path.

  When she realised that they were in a small enclosure that contained a graveyard, her steps faltered and she braced herself for the ordeal to come. Clay was taking her to her father's grave.

  The newly dug grave lay at the end of the enclosure, and there was a plain wooden cross at its head. Someone had placed a small bouquet of wild flowers on the grave that now looked somehow forlorn as the sun had slightly withered them. 'The smallhold-

  ing's only a mile further on,' commented Clay, 'but as we had to pass by here I thought you might like to visit.'

  Sheena nodded in reply, but could not speak. She felt numb. She knew no grief, and she ought to have done. She had loved her father once, but his selfishness in taking something that didn't belong to him and causing her so much heartbreak had replaced that love with bitterness.

  Her small hands clenched into fists by her side. She wanted to feel something and was astounded by her lack of emotion. It could be argued that the emotional storm that had suddenly erupted at the start of their journey north had left her spent of all emotion, but that didn't occur to her at the time, and she just stood looking at the grave.

  `Shall we move on?' said Clay quietly, yet there was a note in his voice that held a certain amount of censure in it, and Sheena, following him out of the graveyard, was very much aware of it. Her non-reaction had surprised herself, and she could well understand Clay's thoughts on the matter. Perhaps one day she would see things in a different light. She didn't want to go on feeling bitter about the past. -

  * * *

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CLAY closed the car door behind her and shut it with a hard final snap, then got in the driver's seat and turned on the ignition, but did not move out on to the road again. 'You're finding it hard to forgive him, aren't you?' he said.

  Sheena started, and stared at him. She didn't want to talk about it, but it seemed she didn't have much choice. She took a deep breath and looked back at the enclosed area they had just left. 'I can't understand why he did it. It was so stupid,' she replied in a low voice. 'It's not so much that I can't forgive—at least, I don't think so,' she added in a weary voice.

  `Lots of us do stupid things,' answered Clay. 'They could be called blind spots, when we act typically out of character, but there's always a reason for what we do, even if it's wrong.'

  Sheena looked back at him and her blue eyes were shadowed. 'Why didn't he write to me? And why didn't he tell Doyle where the money was, and apologise?' she asked in a low voice. 'It could have—' she broke off lamely. There was no point in going on. It was over, finished with.

  Made a difference where you and Charter were concerned?' asked Clay, finishing her sentence for her and making a deep flush appear on her cheeks.

  * * *

  `From what I saw of Charter, I'm of the opinion that it wouldn't have made any difference if he had,' he added darkly. 'The return of the money didn't either, did it?' he queried sarcastically.

  Sheena's hands clenched into fists so tightly that she could feel the point of her nails biting into her palms. What business was it of his? she asked herself bitterly. Why couldn't he leave her alone? Thank goodness she had turned his proposition down. He would be sure to discuss all this with his wife, and she would find herself having to accept unwanted advice from that quarter too.

  Her set lips and proud lift of her head as she looked straight ahead of her said more than words. She wanted them to be on their way. She was tired, but more than this, she needed to be alone.

  `Did it ever occur to you that your father was an exceedingly unhappy man?' said Clay, totally ignoring her wish that they should leave. 'I didn't know much about him when he first came looking for work, but I did know that he needed help, and I'm not talking about material needs.'

  Sheena gave a light shrug as if to say that if he was unhappy, then it was entirely his own fault.

  `I didn't probe into his past, and I didn't seek any references,' went on Clay steadily. 'It was fairly obvious that he expected to be turned down, but had to ask anyway. It's my guess that he'd sought work all the way up the coast, and received short shrift for his trouble. He hadn't used a penny of that money, remember, so he couldn't have had much on him by

  the time he got this far. Well, I took him on, and I never regretted my decision. I liked your father, Sheena, and knowing what I now know about his past, I would still like him, and I respect the kind of man he was.'

  With that he put his foot on the accelerator and guided the car on to the road again. 'He once told me he'd been a fool,' he said slowly, persisting with the subject that Sheena had hoped would be dropped now that they were on their way to the smallholding. `He said he didn't know why he'd done what he had, only that something had happened that had made his present existence intolerable. He said he ought to have seen it coming, and when it did, he couldn't take it.'

  He glanced at Sheena out of the corner of his eye. `Do you know what that was?' he queried softly, and when she said nothing he added, 'I think it was your engagement to Doyle Charter.'

  This brought a quick reaction from the hitherto silent Sheena, who gave a gasp and said indignantly, 'It couldn't have been ! He was really pleased about it, he said—' She faltered as she recalled her father's last words to her and how she hadn't been able to unders
tand the meaning behind what he had said—not until the next morning, when it all became painfully clear.

  `Well?' queried Clay mildly, waiting for her to go on.

  `Oh, nothing,' replied Sheena wearily.

  `You've remembered something, haven't you?' persisted Clay.

  I don't want to talk about it ! ' Sheena exclaimed on a note of sheer desperation. 'Can't you see that? Don't you think I haven't tried to make excuses for what he did? He had a good job with good wages. I made him comfortable and looked after him, just as Mum would have done if she'd still been with us. I know he felt her loss more than he'd ever let on.' She swallowed. used to say as long as we were together, we'd get by—and we did,' she ended on a cracked note.

  Clay nodded. 'Well, just keep thinking on those lines,' he said quietly, 'and perhaps you'll see things from a different point of view. You were all he had, remember. And for your sake he hadn't allowed himself to grieve for his wife. It might have been better if he had.'

  After this he fell silent and concentrated on his driving, and Sheena just looked ahead of her out of the window, hating him for bringing back the past with such painful clarity. She knew he was right, but she hadn't the will or the spirit to accept his advice. Tomorrow perhaps, or the next day—who knew?

  Sheena's first sight of her father's smallholding was not a comforting one. As she gazed over the roughly erected fencing that enclosed the property and saw the almost derelict-looking area in front of her, it was of no comfort to tell herself that her father's illness must have caused him to neglect the property. That crops had grown there and very probably produced a good harvest was hard to imagine, and she felt a lump rise in her throat. Doyle must have had second sight, she thought, for his descrip-