The stallion, rearing like an obstinate child, stepped forward and pushed James’s elbow, spilling feed along the ground. James brought up another handful and, with his back turned, held up his palm. The stallion smelled the oats, huffed, stepped back and then forward, took a nibble.
Slow and easy as a spring breeze, James brought his hand around to the onyx mane. The horse balked. James turned away. The stallion came up again, then recoiled. And they played this game for several rounds until gradually and nearly imperceptibly James’s hand moved across the thick muscled neck and rested on the mighty shoulders.
James did not give a hint of threat or impatience as he flowed around the horse. The stallion quieted but stretched eyes to watch him, showing the whites at the corners. Then, with one hand to the horse’s neck and another to the twitching back, James closed his eyes, held his breath and in one hard jump swung himself onto the long spine. The stallion reared and James squeezed his thighs and knees hard against the ribs, held to the neck with every muscle in his hands. The horse sprinted furiously to the other end of the ring, jumped over the high fence.
A cloud of dust erupted under the horse’s hooves. James buried his face in the thrashing mane, his hands white with his grip and his ears deaf with the angry pounding. Pulling every ounce of strength into his thighs until they locked hard and tight as steel, he held on—held on for the job, for the Shelbys, for Tom. And the gallop went on, blasted through trees, the limbs ripping his shirt and lashing his arms. The horse veered, splashed over creeks, splattering his face and body with mud, his inner thighs burning as they slipped over the wet hair.
Finally, after miles of terrain, the horse’s breathing labored and the slick, bulging muscles twitched, began to slow. Guardedly, James raised his head off the stallion’s mane and adjusted his numb jaw, his neck cracking with the turn. He released the pressure from his knees and his thighs trembled with the slack; his joints throbbed with the rush of restricted blood.
The horse trotted now and James stroked the subdued head, patted the great neck. Deep red gorges surrounded them, the sun hitting directly on the walls, blazing the stones blood orange. Stately tuart trees and red box gums stretched high, their trunks majestic and solid, the limbs flowering only at the peaks.
With a tired knee, James steered the horse to the creek and let him drink. James’s own mouth was dirty and parched, but he didn’t dare get off; he wouldn’t have the strength to remount. When the horse was sated, they left the gorge behind and traced the hoofprints back to the lost station.
The homestead emerged as a pale dot in the landscape, grew with each tempered step. A crowd had formed at the arena. Workmen put down hammers, stood to watch the sweaty, lathered horse and the mound of dust that rode him. Tom took off his hat and waved, worked hard to calm his lips.
Alex offered James a hand as he dismounted, held him up as his legs buckled. James gripped his knees, coughed the dust from his mouth. “So”—he raised one eye—“we got the job?”
Alex slapped him heartily on the back. “You got the job.”
CHAPTER 44
“Next!” The man sat behind a worn table, slouched over papers and stamps. He scratched at his eyebrows and did not look up. “Name?” he ordered.
“Ghan.”
The man bent forward to inspect the peg leg. “Pickin’ line’s full.”
“Ain’t here for pickin’.”
The man shook his head. “No cripples.” He shuffled his papers and hollered, “Next!”
“Now yeh wait just a minnit,” Ghan spoke up desperately. “Been workin’ underground more years than yeh’ve been walkin’. Leg don’t stop me none—not pickin’ rock wiv m’foot, gawd damn it! Got two strong hands like any other bloke.” He stuck out his palms as proof, pulled them back when they started to wobble. “Leg don’t matter! Always been a hard worker. Got the scars to show it. Hell, I could work wiv two pegs, ain’t pickin’ wiv my damn legs!” Ghan breathed hard; his lips quivered. He was hungry. So goddamn hungry. Sick and tired and hungry from not working, walking from one dead town to the next begging for work.
The man tapped his nails on the table. He was clean and white, not a man who knew life under the earth, only knew how to direct it from above like the almighty God. “Whot yeh say yer name was?” he asked.
“Ghan.”
He gritted his teeth. “Yer name, I said! Yer real name.”
“Claudio Petroni.”
“Italian?”
Ghan nodded.
The man studied him, the disinterest fading. “Ever been part of a strike?” he asked.
“Naw.”
“Ever join a union?”
“Ain’t no union gonna fight for a man wiv one leg.”
“Close the door for a sec!” the man ordered.
Ghan shut the door—shut out the waiting, vacant faces of the men standing in line.
“Got a new owner here—Mr. Harrington,” the man began. “He’s bringing in Italians to replace most of the old workers. First crew came ’bout a month ago. Hard workers, cheap. Another load arrives in a few weeks. People losin’ their jobs: Greek, Slavs, even Aussies. The ones that stay are getting’ their pay cut. Only keepin’ them on ’cause we got t’keep a ratio of blokes that speak English. Royal commission comes out an’ tests couple times a year.
“Look,” the man continued roughly. “I ain’t gonna sugarcoat this. I’d never think twice ’bout hirin’ a cripple, but yeh got ears”—he snickered—“at least one anyway. An’ that’s whot we need. Need somebody that don’t grab any attention, somebody t’let us know if there’s grumblings—anybody plannin’ somepin.”
“Yeh askin’ me t’spy?” Ghan spit in disgust.
“Naw. Just listen. Listen to both sides. See if anybody’s talkin’ ’bout the union. Listen to the Italians. They’re eager now, but that fades. Gotta know in advance ’bout any troublemakers. Send ’em back ’fore they start anythin’. A bad mouth heat ’em up faster than fever.”
“I don’t know,” Ghan mumbled. Nothing about it sounded right; left a swirling pain in his gut like eating meat that sat around too long.
“Thought yeh wanted work?”
“Course I want work.” He was so goddamn tired of walking. So goddamn hungry, scavenging for food, staring at a bait line for a fish, roasting under the sun trying to trap a rabbit.
“Look.” The man leaned back, the window on his patience closing. “I ain’t askin’ yeh t’do nothin’ but listen an’ give me the heads-up. That’s it. Yeh in or not?”
Ghan’s side cramped. “In.”
“Suppose I don’t have to tell yeh t’keep yer mouth shut ’bout all this?” Pulling out a square of paper, the man scribbled a few lines. “Mr. Harrington ain’t got patience for rousers or slackers. He wants profits. Yeh screw him an’ he’ll use that peg to fire the furnace.” He handed him the paper. “And you’ll be attached.”
CHAPTER 45
Almost overnight, Wanjarri Downs erupted from a quiet homestead into a full, bustling station. Livestock—chickens, pigs, goats—clucked, squealed, and baaed in distress as they were handled from crates. Three new stallions descended the transporter, their eyes panicked and blind in unleashed sunlight. Workmen pounded on roofs, on new fence posts, dug wells out in distant paddocks. The smell of sawdust and disturbed dirt rose with the grunts of sawing men, digging men and moving men.
Leonora unpacked the china from the cedar box, wiped the wood shavings off with a cloth and stacked the china on lace-lined shelves, each plate a promise of permanency, of home. She closed the glass-paneled doors to the cabinet, rubbed the smooth wood.
“You’ve been smiling this whole time.” Alex leaned against the doorjamb, his arms crossed. “I didn’t realize unpacking brought you such pleasure.”
She reached back and untied her apron. “I like it here.”
“I’ll never understand you, my dear.” He smoothed out his hair. “This place is the size of one of your servants’ quarters and your fa
ce shines like it’s a palace.”
“But it’s ours.” She reached for his hand, pulled him to a chair. “Let me make you some tea. Are you hungry?”
Alex followed her movements as she inspected the pantry. He bent his leg, put his ankle atop his other knee, picked at the fabric of his riding pants. “I’ve hired a cook and housekeeper. They start next week.”
“There’s no need to hire anyone, Alex.” Leonora brought out a crock of jelly and a tin of tea biscuits. “I don’t mind cooking. Or cleaning for that matter.”
“Nonsense.” He moved his fingers to the table, etched circles over the polished wood. “You have no idea the amount of cooking that needs to be done on a station, love.”
She turned away from the familiar condescending tone. “I suppose you’re right.”
“Besides, this far out, guests stay for several days, sometimes weeks. Then you have the workers, shearing just around the corner. There’ll be a lot of mouths to feed.”
She brought the biscuits to the table, poured the tea. “What are the men like?”
“Managers are good men.” He nodded with approval. “Typical cowboys, but young and smart. They’ll take over the details of this place. I’ve got enough to worry about with the mine.” Alex slung an elbow to the back of the chair, added a lump of sugar to his tea, stirred it delicately. “Should see their eyes pop at this place, Leonora.” Alex snickered. “The way the men look at the horses, at the land. Property’s half the size of Belgium, did you know that? Doubt they’ve ever seen anything like it.” Alex’s eyes slid over his wife. “Wait until they get a look at you.”
Alex rose from the chair, the biscuits left untouched, the tea hardly sipped. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pressed into the small of her back. She closed her eyes to the familiar precursor to lovemaking and tried to resist the urge to stiffen. He had never been rough with her again, never forced himself upon her like that first time, but she also never gave him reason, for she did not fight against his urges, let him find his pleasure and was glad when it was over.
Alex kissed the back of her neck and she fumbled for an excuse, used the only one that ever had an effect. “It’s not a good time, Alex. I could get pregnant.” And with that, he dropped his hands. Alex didn’t want children until his fortune was self-made and secure.
With an air of finality, Alex gulped down the rest of his tea, then clapped his hands. “You’ve been stuck in here long enough. Come out and meet the men.” He took her by the elbow. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”
Tom plopped the saddle near the open barn door. “Looks like the boss is givin’ the lady a tour. Wants everybody out by the ring.”
“Be out in a minute.” James hammered the thick nail with two quick pounds and hung the last harness to the wood. He wiped his hands on his trousers and went out to join Tom.
Alex centered the group of men, his arm around a woman’s waist, her eyes downcast. “Everyone, meet my lovely wife, Mrs. Harrington,” he addressed the men, made sure each man held a touch of envy at his good fortune. “Darling, these are the men who built our home, the men who will make Wanjarri Downs the best station in Western Australia.” There was an awkward silence as men bobbed and weaved, unclear if they should clap, shout or remain quiet.
James ignored the speech, wanted to get back to work. He met the glances of the other men, legs crossed or arms folded: men with hard faces, tan and full of lines, stubbly chins.
“O’Reilly!” Alex shouted. “Bring out Midnight.”
James went to the barn and brought out the black stallion, calmed after weeks of training. He handed the reins to Alex.
Alex led the horse to his wife. She rubbed the black silken nose. “He’s magnificent, Alex!” she gasped. The men all nodded. The stallion was a fine horse.
“Saddle him up,” Alex directed James. “I’m going to take him on a run.”
James pushed his hat above his eyes. “He’s not ready.”
“What are you talking about? You’ve been riding him for weeks now.”
“He’s used to me. Hasn’t let anyone else on him.”
Alex slit his eyes and looked around the group, chuckled. “I’ve been riding all my life; I think I can handle it. Saddle him up.”
James twisted his mouth, looked at the horse for a long while. He glanced at Tom, who shrugged his shoulders and mouthed, His funeral.
James strapped on the saddle and stepped back several feet, kept his body alert, readied for the moment he would need to step in.
With full confidence, Alex mounted and smiled. “Told you—”
The horse’s ears perked at the voice and in a wave of panic he beat his dark head, raised his front hooves up and down, reared higher with each flail. Sweat formed on Alex’s face as he worked to control the horse, his flawless hair now slipping unmanaged strands on either side of his forehead. The horse whined in fury and with one quick kick from his back legs bucked, sending Alex flying onto his belly, landing in dust in the middle of the men. A few snorts of laughter leaked from the crowd while the rest stayed quiet and watchful.
His wife inched forward. “Alex, are you all right?”
He lifted his head. The woman recoiled. Slowly, Alex stood, ran his hands over his clothes, the dust sticking like glue to his front. He cleared his throat. Stifled laughter grouped from the right. Feet shuffled from the left. Alex snickered for a moment, his eyes black. With a sudden slide of his hand, he pulled a pistol from his coat. Sun on silver blinded as Alex raised his arm stiffly and pointed the gun at the stallion’s head.
James braced to grab the horse, but the woman was there first, grabbing Midnight’s reins and planting herself under the horse’s chin. “No, Alex!”
Alex spit through his teeth, “Get out of the way!”
“No!” She cradled the horse’s head. “Put the gun down, Alex!”
“Get away, Leonora!” Alex pulled back the trigger, his hand twitching. “Move or I swear I’ll shoot you with it!”
Leonora. The name echoed in James’s ears, shuddered down his arms and legs, and for a moment he could not see past the solitary word. Leonora. He snapped the name away, inched his way to the horse, brushed his hand across the coat and subtly positioned himself in front of the woman, his frame eclipsing her tiny one. The horse reared again and James pulled the reins. “Whoa!” he shouted to the horse; shouted to Alex, “Can’t believe you mounted!” James forced a grin through his pounding heart. “Kicked Tom in the pants this morning just for standing close.”
Tom took the cue and grabbed his crotch, his expression pained. “Poor Mum won’t be gettin’ any grandbabies outta me!” The men all laughed and James used the distraction to pull the horse away, relieving the woman from the bullet’s aim.
Alex’s arm slacked, his eyes blinked through sweat.
“Stallion’s a beauty, though,” James continued. “No doubt about it. Maybe win you the Melbourne Cup.” Alex swallowed hard, lowered his hand, the gun still cocked.
James released the reins and walked toward Alex, gave him a manly wink. “After all”—his stomach turned sour with the words he needed to say—“horses are a lot like women: The spirited ones eventually give the most reward.”
The men laughed, nodded in agreement, and Alex relaxed. He put a hand on James’s shoulder. “True, my friend.” Alex strode to his wife and gave her a hard smack on the bottom. “True indeed!”
Leonora slammed the door, her face still red, the humiliation fresh, the anger burning. She heard Alex come through the front door and she turned on him. “How dare you—”
Alex grabbed her arm and twisted, the sudden pain shooting up her shoulder. “What did I tell you? ”
“What?” she cried. “Tell me what?”
“Don’t ever speak to me in front of the men like that again! Do you hear me?”
“You were going to shoot that horse!” He jerked her arm, twisted it farther, the force choking her. “Stop, Alex! You’re hurting me!”
�
�Never raise a voice to me again!” he screamed. “Never!”
“Please let go,” she pleaded, her whole arm unhinging from the shoulder. “I’m sorry!”
Alex shoved her away. He walked to the mirror, straightened his hair, opened the liquor cabinet and took out two brown bottles. The front door banged in his wake, leaving Leonora alone and stunned, clutching her bruises.
“What the hell was that?” Tom asked.
James ground his teeth, his brows low as he stared at the still house.
“Crazy bastard.” Tom tucked in his shirt. “Think he would have shot that horse? A thoroughbred, no less? Sure looked mad enough t’do it. Christ! I think he would have done it. Even with his wife stand-in’ there,” he rambled. “Remind me not to piss that bloke off.”
Tom’s lips turned slowly upward. He clicked his tongue against his cheek. “Wife’s a looker, though, eh? Guess that’s the kind of woman money buys.”
James turned on him, his eyes hot. “Take it back, Tom.”
“Whoa!” Tom stepped back. “What’s your problem, mate?”
“Just shut up.”
Tom laughed, raised an eyebrow. “So, red blood flows through your Irish veins after all.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Tom’s grin reached out broadly. “You fancy her.”
“I don’t fancy her!” James huffed.
“Known you a long time, mate, an’ I know that look. You’re smitten!” Tom smacked him on the back. “The boss’s wife, no less. You horny bastard.”
James’s face grew grave. “I think I know her.”
“What?” Tom was still smiling. “What the hell does that mean?”
“I think I know her.” James faced him, his eyes weighted. “From the orphanage.”
Tom’s smile froze, his mind trying to wrap around the words. “You’re jokin’.” He laughed without humor, stared at the big house. “Impossible, mate. She’s not even Australian.”
Daughter of Australia Page 26
