The street erupted with hand-cranked sirens; a gunshot cracked in the distance. Leonora covered her mouth with a wet towel as the black smoke pillowed under the door. She tried to stay calm, tried to think straight above the terror. She didn’t understand what was happening. One minute she was dressing for dinner, and the next the whole city turned into a war zone. Adrenaline sped her thoughts, made her muscles tight. She fought the urge to curl in the corner, fought the urge to scream for help. No one would hear her. Think, Leonora. She had to keep her mouth closed, keep the smoke from filling her chest. Think.
There was too much smoke in the hallway; she’d have to escape through the window. Holding her breath against the rising poison, she pushed at the windowpane. Her hands slipped with the exertion. She tried again, harder, her nails breaking with the strained grip. A panicked sob left her throat, but she swallowed it. She couldn’t lose it. She had to think. She had to breathe carefully or she’d choke. Her fingers scanned the windowpane. There were nails in the corner. No. The window was nailed shut. She searched the growing and swirling darkness for something to break the window. Nothing. She beat against the glass with her fists. No! The smoke entered her mouth too quickly and she bent with hacking. She found her dropped towel and breathed into the wet fabric.
A woman screamed. A window smashed above or below or all around, the noise coming from every direction. Leonora coughed into the towel, held her ears against the chaos. Her lungs burned. She could die in this room or take her chances with the smoke in the hallway. She mapped out the exit in her mind, would run until it was clear or she collapsed; either way, she couldn’t stay here.
Men’s voices rang in the hallway. Thank God! They would help her. She was getting dizzy, her gait jagged. They could help her get out. Her eyes stung; her lungs gasped for fresh air. They’ll help me. She staggered to the door....
Alex peeked above shoulders. “The police are here, thank God.” The trapped heat was enormous. Perspiration beaded Alex’s face, made it look wet with tears as he yelled at James, “If you find Leonora, take her away. Get her out of here, you hear me!” Another bottle exploded above their heads and they crouched lower. Alex slit his eyes. “Just find her.”
James weaved through the bodies until he found the wide stairs, the top ones nearly invisible with smoke. He plowed to the second floor and hid his mouth in his shirt. The smoke burned at his eyes and he choked into the fabric. A large window was still intact in the hallway and the light from the fires cut a sliver of vision through the choking haze.
“Leo!” he hollered above the sirens. James coughed for oxygen and called out again, “Leo!” His voice grew hoarse and raw, the word inaudible now below the coughing. He stumbled across the empty hall, his eyes clouded and watering. He felt along the wall, the smoke slowing him down, his lungs shrinking.
“Leave her!” a voice spit in the darkness. “Police comin’!”
“Ain’t goin’ till I get whot I came fer!” A rough cough hacked. “Jist need to get ’er fuckin’ skirt off. . . .”
A cold hand wrapped around James’s heart, squeezed. His hand dropped from his nose. The fire, the smoke, disappeared. Blind, he charged the hall.
“Fuck!” A man fled into the smoke. Another gray face looked up from the floor, startled but fierce, his hand inching up a woman’s dress.
James kicked him square under the chin, the thrust of the boot knocking the man flat. Curling to his side, the man tried to rise. James didn’t wait, kicked hard into the ribs so the slumped figure rolled into the black. Now the breath came too fast to James’s lungs and the smoke filled, left him dizzy and clutching for the wall. A dull dragging sound slid up the hall. James tried to follow the men, but his chest convulsed. He pulled his shirt over his mouth, sank to his knees, slid his hands along the floor until he found the woman’s limp leg, his fingertips climbing up her body to her face.
“Leo!” James pulled the wilted body from the space and shook the shoulders. “Leo!”
James grabbed her around the waist and slung his arms under her knees, pressed her to his chest. Her head bounced against his shoulder as he carried her blindly down the steps. He coughed fiercely into his shoulder and slid against the railing. Police were shouting, people were screaming and running out the front lobby, but flames licked half the door. James turned away from the crowd and pushed through a black hall to a wooden locked door, beat it with his shoulder until the hinge cracked, then kicked it open.
The new air smacked him in the face. In the alley, James dropped to his knees, leaned his cheek against her mouth, felt no breath. He pressed his lips against hers, breathed from every pore into her lungs, fought against his own coughing until he had to pull back. Her head flopped to the side, hung over his fingertips.
He ripped the top of her dress, slid her necklace out of the way, dropped her head back and arched her spine. His eyes held to the white stone, focused on it as he filled his lungs with fresh oxygen, then pressed his mouth to hers. Years of loss washed over him, each wave a face, a memory. He blew quicker, harder. No more. “No more!” he ordered, begged between breaths.
James put his mouth upon her parted lips. “I can’t lose you, Leo,” he pleaded between exhales. “I can’t lose you again.”
Leonora’s neck craned and her eyes popped open. She choked, her body spasmed with hacking. James grabbed her head against his body and held her shoulders as she coughed and struggled violently for air. When he heard her inhale, he squeezed his cheek into her hair, kissed her head with quivering lips.
Shouts came from the street, woke him from heart-ripping relief. James didn’t waste another moment and scooped her up, ran for the tracks.
“James!” Tom rushed from the other end, his face bleeding above the eye. “Aw, Gawd, is she orright?”
“She will be. What happened to you?”
Tom touched his head, looked with amazement at the blood on his fingers. “Guess a piece of glass got me.” He wiped his sleeve against the wound carelessly. “I found Alex.”
“Me too.”
“He told me to grab his car. We’ll be right behind you. Just get her out of here.”
James lowered Leonora to the backseat, tried to get her to drink water, but she shook her head, unable to speak between hacking. But she was awake, she was breathing, she was alive. He got into the driver’s seat and drove over the tracks, his eyes on the mirror—on her.
Hours later, when the night sky was quiet and the stars offered the only light, James pulled the car to the front gate of Wanjarri Downs, got out and opened it, sat back into the seat and drove through. He did not stop to close the gate. They hadn’t spoken throughout the journey, only her intermittent and painful dry coughing cut the silence. Now he heard her grab the water, heard her drink it with slow gulps. He pulled over and turned his body, the engine vibrating under the car up through his legs. Leonora’s weak eyes met his. They were tired and bloodshot. Her face and dress smudged in soot.
Relief still gripped his throat. “Are you all right?”
She nodded. “Are you?” Her voice was raspy, strained.
“I am now.” He took his first full breath. “I’ll get you to the house, then grab the doctor.”
“No.” She clutched the seat. “I don’t need a doctor. Really.” She stifled a cough and lowered her eyes. “Is Alex all right?”
A pit filled his gut. “Yeah.” James turned around, pushed on the gas, stared stonily ahead. “Tom’s bringing him back.”
As James pulled into the drive, he pounded on the horn. After a minute or two, Meredith came fumbling down from the shearing shed fixing her hair and adjusting her blouse. James opened the back door of the car and slid his arm around Leonora’s waist. “I can manage,” she said. James ignored her and scooped her body up easily into his arms, met Meredith at the steps wringing her hands.
“Fer Christ sake!” Meredith quivered. “Whot’s happened?”
“There was rioting in Coolgardie. They burned the hotel.”
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“Gawd, no!”
James walked past her. “Make her a cup of hot tea, then run her a bath!” he ordered.
“Right away.”
James carried her agilely up the steps. “I can walk, you know,” she ventured.
“I know.” His jaw was tight, an intensity drawing down the lines of his face.
With his foot James nudged open the bedroom door, and laid her on top of the quilt. He cringed at the space where Alex had slept, where he would sleep. Leonora didn’t miss the look. “He’s not here, James.” He nodded and sat down at the edge of the bed next to her hip.
Meredith clambered up the steps and handed James the tea. “I’ll get that bath ready,” she said, and hurried back down, stern with purpose.
Leonora sipped the hot tea. Each gulp inflamed, then soothed her throat, the lining still raw from coughing. James watched her face as she stared into the tea, watched the tiny movements of her fingers around the mug. His brows pulled in and his whole face frowned. “Sure you don’t need a doctor?” he asked quietly.
“I’m sure.” She placed the mug on the nightstand, the ceramic covered in black smudges.
James stared at the door, his gaze reaching far beyond the room. And his silence rattled her, made her pulse speed. She looked down at her filthy dress, the bottom hem ripped and snagged. Then she turned her palms in her lap, the fingernails black with soot and cracked. “I must be a sight,” she said softly, retreating into the pillows.
He turned to her. “Is this the life you want, Leo?” James asked, his eyes unwavering, the question gruff and urgent.
Her eyes stung, the smoke long gone. “It doesn’t matter what I want,” she whispered.
“How can you say that?” His face twisted. “Damn it, Leo, you matter. You matter to me.” He straightened his spine like he was going to storm out but then turned, took her chin in his hand and kissed her, hard and firm, kissed her like a dying wish. His lips softened and he drew back slightly. “I thought I was going to lose you.”
She grabbed his shirt and pulled him to her mouth. His hand reached into her hair and cradled her scalp as he kissed her and leaned her head farther onto the pillow. She slid her arms around his neck and held him tight against her, let the heat from his body burn through her blood and singe her nerves.
The door slammed from downstairs. “Where is she?” came Alex’s desperate voice.
Leonora pulled away from the kiss, the voice icing her skin.
“Upstairs, sir,” Meredith answered quickly.
Leonora’s eyes leaped to the door. James stared at her lips, lips that weren’t his to kiss, and his face was deep with pain. “I can’t do this anymore, Leo.”
Alex’s footsteps rushed on the floorboards downstairs.
She fumbled for his hand. “Do what?”
“This. See you with him.” He pushed her hand away. “I can’t do it.”
Alex plowed through the door. “Thank God you’re all right!” He grabbed Leonora and hugged her to his chest. She turned her face away from him with a grimace and searched for James. But he was already gone.
CHAPTER 56
The newly shorn sheep pranced upon the dry land, faster and lighter and scrawnier without the heavy fleece. Their pink skin showed under the fuzz of wool left, the ripples of the shears still patterned in stripes across their sides. The last of the wool left in the morning. The shearers had broken their record for speed, finishing twenty thousand sheep in three weeks. The bales had been solid and heavy, the numbers exceeded. Alex kept good on his promise of bonuses and the men were robust with money, sore muscles, pride and whiskey. They surrounded the pit of fire, ate off of tin plates weighted with steak and mutton. Gravy dripped and spotted the dirt. They passed around the dark liquor until the bottles were clear and empty.
James and Tom sat along their outer ring. Tom yacked it up with the men; James lay on his back, his head resting on clasped hands, and stared at the sky. He couldn’t look at Alex. The man curled his stomach.
Since the riots, Alex had stayed home. His lackeys, the managers, came and stayed at the big house, their faces sly with thinking, plotting reprisals and ways to get the workers back on track. The news spread across the Outback as fast as the fire had licked the timber of the old Coolgardie buildings. Two Italians had died in the fighting, one Australian. An Italian boardinghouse, two pubs and countless homes were burned completely to the ground. The Imperial Hotel lost its top tiers, but the main floor still stood in a good, be it hatless, structure. The mine and its buildings weren’t touched.
James had not seen Leonora since the fire and he did not look for her. He kept his eyes away from the big house, kept his mind and body strangled with work. But she was in his dreams with soft, waiting lips and skin that slid under his fingertips. And he would wake from the dream and stretch in his bed, flop his arm over his forehead and push the images away. Then he would work—work away the sinking longing.
Alex rose from the ring of men, swaying from side to side. “A toast! To the best bloody shearers in Australia!” Alex raised his bottle into the air, slurring like an arrogant clown. The drunk men cheered and raised their drinks.
“Wait . . . Wait . . . Not yet!” Alex stopped them in mid-sip. “I’ve thanked them personally but want to do it publicly. James and Tom.” He found them with bobbing eyes over the crowd and raised his bottle. “You saved my wife, men.” His voice turned somber and firm. “And for that, I will be forever grateful. Cheers!” He thrust the bottle forward and brought it back to his lips. The men drank and hollered and had the sparkle of life in their eyes.
“Well, gentlemen, speaking of my wife”—Alex grinned and winked at the men—“it’s time I retire to the bedroom and give her a proper celebration!” He reached for a new bottle and swaggered.
The men broke out in loud hoots and applause. James bolted upright, his mind blank. “Don’t you lay a hand on—”
In an instant, Tom had him by the arm, his grip tight against his wrist. The men grew quiet. The flames crackled over dry sticks. Alex turned slowly and put his hand to his ear. “What’s that?”
Tom put a gruff arm around James’s neck in restraint and shouted out playfully, “You heard him, Alex! Don’t lay a hand on that drink or your wife be tryin’ to please a limp willy!”
With that, the men hooted even louder. Alex glared at James for an instant, then tilted his head and chuckled. “Duly noted!” Alex dropped the bottle to the ground and held up his empty hands. “Duly noted!” He laughed and swayed toward the house.
James wrenched his body from Tom, thought he might lay a fist into his jaw. But Tom was fierce and grabbed him by the arm again. “She ain’t your wife,” he whispered hotly. Then Tom released the limb and repeated, “She ain’t your wife, mate.”
Leonora lay in the darkness of the bedroom listening to the ebb and flow of laughter drifting in from the field. The men’s comradery made the loneliness of the house that much stronger. She tried to pick out the differentiating voices, but they all blended into one crude baritone. She listened for James’s voice, tuned her ears to his easy, soft speech, but could hear nothing among the hoots and hollers of drunk men. Her insides shrank and weakened from missing him.
The front door slammed, its loud, swift crack making her body jump in the bed and her heart speed. Alex was back and she knew by the hammering footsteps he was quite drunk. She waited to hear the squeak of his office door and the muffled click of the double mahogany doors. Instead, she heard the dull thudding of his shoes as they walked up the stairs to the bedroom. “Wake up, darling!”
Leonora rolled out of bed and threw herself at the door, locked the bolt tight just as the doorknob rattled. She climbed back into bed and sat with her knees at her chest, scrunched the covers under her chin.
The knob rattled impatiently. “Open the door, Leonora.” Alex’s voice was even. She didn’t make a sound. The door vibrated with a thrust against the knob. His fist pounded on the door. “Wake up and open th
is door, goddammit!”
Leonora reached for a long knitting needle and tucked it under the covers. The cool metal slid against her leg as her hands shook.
Alex banged his shoulder into the door. Thud. She heard him step back and then ram hard against the door, rattling the frame. “Fuck!” he screamed in pain. His back slid down the door amid spluttered curses and then it was quiet. Leonora waited, listened as her heartbeat filled the room. She loosened her grip on the needle and brought it with her as she approached the door. There was a sliding sound and then a dull thud as Alex’s head hit the floor. She put her ear against the wood. Alex’s drawn snoring began and filled the hall. Leonora pressed her cold forehead to the door and closed her eyes.
PART 6
CHAPTER 57
Danny, the postman, handled a fifty-mile mail route. After he traded in his stock horses and wagon for a motorized one, the mail was delivered every week instead of every two or three. Between the normal routes he delivered telegrams. But the gas-filled engine didn’t speed the man. Bowlegged as a wishbone and just as stiff, Danny moved unhurried, paid no attention to the impatient nods and quick greetings of his customers desperate for mail and catalogs and news from the outside world. He was a man of few words, but fuller of whistling than a magpie.
Danny tipped his hat to Leonora and whistled through his toothless grin. He rocked sideways on his bowed legs and pulled out an envelope. “Telegram fer Shelby.”
“I think he’s out with the horses.” Leonora took the letter. “I’ll bring it out to him.”
The November day was intense and pure with dry heat. The temperature reached over one hundred degrees, the hour only half past ten. The dry ground leaped around her steps and dusted the blue dress hem orange. Her heart skipped a beat as James came into view in the riding ring. He was leading the stallion by the bit, calming him with even strokes and pulls of the reins. Tom dismounted from a gray spotted mare and waved. “Hey, Smoky!”
Daughter of Australia Page 37
