Daughter of Australia

by Harmony Verna

  Leonora whimpered and tried to pull her hands away. The nails dug farther, cut through the skin. “I don’t know!”

  Alex dropped her hands and slapped her square across the face, the force snapping her head to her shoulder. Leonora clutched the burning cheek, tasted the blood that trickled out the corner of her mouth. “Please, Alex!” she begged.

  But he was blind. He seized her by the shoulders and shook her as a dog shakes a rabbit. “Tell me who it was or so help me . . . !”

  “He was from the hospital!” Leonora screamed with a desperate attempt to end it. Her mind scrambled for a name. “Dr. Edwards!”

  Alex released his hands like her skin was acid.

  “It was after the funeral . . . ,” she hurried, “when you were at the mill.” Her mind sped with the lie. “I’m sorry, Alex.”

  For a moment, he stood perfectly still. But then his black eyes flitted, back and forth like the insane. He twisted his neck, his lips wet. “Dr. Edwards died in the war.”

  Leonora screamed in terror. She backed up, shielded her stomach. Alex lurched and grabbed her by the hair, tossed her against the wall, sending a mirror crashing to the floor.

  Meredith ran in from the kitchen. “Whot’s wrong? I heard—”

  Alex grabbed Leonora by the throat. “You lying whore!”

  “Get yer bloody ’ands off her!” Meredith shouted as she tried to pry his fingers from Leonora’s neck. With his left hand, Alex smashed his palm into the woman’s face, sent her flying. Meredith scrambled for the front door, crawling on her hands and knees.

  James led the stallion around the riding ring. A noise, high-pitched and indistinguishable, caught his ear, raised the hairs along his arms. The sound drew in from its echo, sharpened to screaming. James jumped over the split-rail fence.

  “Help!” Meredith’s large frame circled in front of the house. “Somebody help! Help!” She saw James. “Mrs. ’Arrington!” she screamed. “He’s tryin’ t’kill her!”

  James charged the house, his mind blank, every muscle, every nerve, a live, twitching wire. He plowed through the front door, heard Alex’s curses from the next room, heard a head thumping against the wall.

  “No!” James pounced on Alex, grabbed his shirt and threw him to the floor. Leonora slid down the wall. “Leo!” James grabbed her limp neck in his hands, frantically kissed her forehead. “Leo, can you hear me?”

  “You!” Alex spit, pushed up to his knees. “It was you!”

  James turned just as Alex’s fist barreled into his shoulder. But the white rage blocked out the blow and James balled his hand, punched Alex square in the jaw. Alex fell, but James grabbed him by the shirt collar, pummeled him again and again until his fist slipped on blood and Alex’s body flopped in his grip. James saw the blood then, looked at his raw, red-stained knuckles, dropped him with quick release. Alex lay hunched and crumpled as a rag.

  James pulled his gaze from his bloodied hands and slid down to Leonora’s side. He rubbed her hair, tried to rouse her. Her mouth was bloodied, her cheek purple and swollen.

  “That fuckin’ bastard!” Tom stood in the doorway, his eyes bouncing from Alex’s body to Leonora’s and then back again.

  “Get the doctor!” James ordered. “Better get the sheriff, too.”

  Leonora moved her head, opened her eyes and looked at James, let her gaze drip over his features as if she couldn’t quite see them. James kissed her eyelids. “Thank God.” He kissed her hair. He pressed his forehead against hers. “Thank God you’re all right.”

  Leonora touched her cheek gingerly, then pulled her hand away from the pain. She saw Alex’s body and her mouth dropped. “Is he . . .”

  “No.” James seethed for a different answer. “He’s not dead.” James stroked her hair. “What happened, Leo?”

  She touched her belly. “I’m pregnant.”

  James’s jaw dropped. Adrenaline flooded under his skin.

  “It’s yours. Ours, James.” She squeezed his hand. “Ever since that day in the paddocks, that first day you kissed me, I never let him touch me again. I swear it, James.”

  It wouldn’t have mattered. But the relief was still there, warm and full. James put his hand against her unmarked cheek and kissed the bridge of her nose. He moved his hand down and placed it against her belly. He smiled, closed his lips in amazement.

  James turned to Alex and his eyes turned hard again. “We’re getting out of here.”

  “But James—” she started, but he cut her off.

  “I don’t care, Leo.” His face grew fierce. “I only care about you right now.” James looked down at his bleeding knuckles. “Tom went to get the sheriff and the doctor. Then we go.”

  Suddenly, Leonora bent forward and grabbed her stomach, her face distorting in agony. “What’s wrong?” James wound her into his arms. “Leo?”

  She gasped soundlessly. James took her elbow and helped her up, scooped her gently into his arms. “You need to lie down, Leo.”

  The usual warmth of her body was fading, her face pale. An old image of Tess flashed, left him unnerved. James pulled Leonora closer to his chest, carried her up the stairs. Her eyes were down, the focus directed at her stomach. James lowered her to the bed and she faced the wall, curled away from him, brought her knees to her chest and held them with her arms.

  James swallowed, reached out a hand to rub her shoulder, then pulled it back. “I’ll bring you some tea,” he said, the offer hesitant. Leonora did not move, did not answer, her gaze vacant.

  James nodded at the curved spine and turned away, rubbed his eyes with his palms and pulled at the front of his hair. His limbs were heavy and sluggish as he left her, walked down the steps to the dining room. Alex’s body remained broken and clumped on the floor.

  James stopped with his boot against Alex’s back. The man’s face was crusted with blood, the nostrils blocked and black. The white shirt was ripped and stained with rust-colored fingerprints. James knelt down slowly, his knee hovering over Alex’s purpling, bruised face. “I should kill you.”

  A stream of light filtered from the window. The sharp gleam of metal picked up the yellow light and highlighted the revolver hanging inside Alex’s jacket. James reached for the gun, rubbed the cool, smooth steel with his fingers, his reflection blurry and distorted in the cylinder’s curve. A painful vibrancy itched under his skin. His palm wrapped around the sculpted handle, his index finger found the arch of the trigger. James stood to his full height. He pointed the gun at Alex. The gun grew into his hand and up his arm, turned his flesh into one cold, silver extension. Then, without a bend of his elbow, James lowered his arm, let it drop straight by his side. The gun dangled loosely from his finger and he didn’t look at it again. James turned from Alex, entered the kitchen and dropped the gun into the garbage.

  James scraped the teakettle harshly across the stove burners and set it under the faucet. His brows pulled at the skin of his forehead, tried to drag it past his eyes. The water splashed into the bottom of the hollow kettle, the sound dull as it filled. He smacked the faucet off and dropped the kettle to the stove. Beads of blood formed across his knuckles as the thin, newly formed scabs broke open again. He lit the pilot light, stared at the blue flames as they licked the bottom of the black iron.

  James opened the icebox and shoveled some shavings into a bowl. He slammed the door closed and thrust his cut fist into the hard ice. It numbed the raw pain. His fingers throbbed, matched his pulse beat for beat. James glanced at the garbage, saw the gun resting upon broken eggshells and coffee grinds and wilted lettuce. James stuck out a long leg and kicked the garbage can into the pantry. He slammed the door closed and pounded his fist back into the ice.

  The teakettle hissed. Boiling water spluttered out of the spout of the overfilled pot and fell upon the flames, turning them white and yellow as they flickered. The kettle blew its whistle, shrieked with sudden impatience. James snapped off the flame. A shadow elongated and took shape above his own. A shift of air passed across h
is back. His head cracked. James fell hard to his knees. The teakettle exhaled with a waning wail. The smack crashed across his lower back. His head bounced and landed hard on the floor.

  Leonora’s throat ached as she swallowed, the pain waking her. She didn’t know she had fallen asleep. James hadn’t returned with the tea. She bent into her abdomen, the pain grating and cramped. At intervals, the pain grew with steady steps and cut like razors, every organ twisted like a wrung towel. Then everything loosened, returned to grating and cramping again. She was sweating, her body tired with the straining waves of pain. She didn’t want James to see her like this. She tried to straighten her body, but her knees wouldn’t leave her chest. Her head was fuzzy. She was thirsty. The clock on the wall ticked loudly, each second noisy and magnified within the quiet room.

  Leonora closed her eyes. With the lack of sight, her ears heard more and listened. There was another sound—a muffled one behind the rhythmic swing of the clock’s pendulum. She opened her eyes and tried to focus on the dull drumming. It was coming from outside. She cursed the clock to quiet. There it was again—a shout or a horse or a yell. Her flesh iced. There was anger in the noise. A distant laugh. A voice. Alex.

  Leonora shot out of bed. Vertigo seized and she grabbed the bedpost for support. A knife ripped at her stomach; her mouth gasped for air. She forced her legs to move against the agony. At the stairs, she hugged the banister with two hands. Something warm trickled down her inner thighs. A cry left her lips.

  The steady beats from outside grew louder. She tore her thoughts from her body and propelled herself through the rooms, through the open front door. The sun flashed in her eyes as she stumbled to the verandah. The sounds stopped. Her eyes focused. “No!”

  Alex stood at the drive; standing before him were Beecher and Russell. Between them, a man stood hunched over, his arms pinned behind his back. The two roustabouts saw Leonora, their faces suddenly shamed and contrite. They let go of the body and it dropped with a lifeless thud into the dust. Alex stepped back, wiped his bleeding nose and looked with pleasure at his red, raw hand. He bowed to Leonora and waved a hand out toward the slumped body. “Your prince!” Alex laughed between labored breaths. Beecher and Russell backed away.

  Leonora screamed. She tried to move, but her insides cramped in roped knots.

  The smugness washed from Alex’s face and his jaw fell slack. “You’re bleeding.”

  Leonora looked down at the growing circle of blood. The world was made of blood. Blood. James. Pain. Blood! Claws ripped. She doubled over and collapsed upon the steps.

  A horn blasted from the road, grew louder and more urgent as the two vehicles sped closer, the honking quick and high as a goose searching for its young. Beecher and Russell ran off. A police truck drove in first and Tom jumped out before the wheels slowed. “You fuckin’ bastard!” Tom dived at Alex. The men fell to the ground with fists buried and jabbing at any skin or bone within reach.

  Two men bolted from the police car and worked to pry Tom off. As they held him, Alex recovered, landed a hard blow to the side of Tom’s face. The sheriff grabbed Alex hard by the shirt. “That’s enough!” he ordered. Alex jerked away from the hold and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his chest heaving and his lips twisted.

  Tom struggled as the deputy fiercely screwed his elbow up to his shoulder blades. “Let me go, you fuckin’ . . . !” he hissed under his breaking arm, and slammed his head back into the deputy’s face.

  The officer dropped Tom’s wrist and clutched his nose with his hand before reaching for his gun, his round face red and crazed. “So help me, I’ll kill yeh!”

  The sheriff smacked the gun. “Enough, I said! Jesus Christ, Murphy!” The sheriff peered at the ring of angry men. “Everybody just settle fer a fuckin’ minute!” he shouted. “Somebody wanna tell me what the hell’s goin’ on?”

  Tom knelt down next to James and turned his body over, the face motionless and caked with blood. The sheriff looked hard at Alex. “What’s this all about, Alex?”

  Alex rubbed his jaw and grinned. “Son of a bitch broke into my safe.”

  Tom stepped forward menacingly. “You lyin’ bastard!”

  “Check his pockets!” Alex ordered. “Go on. See for yourself.”

  The sheriff knelt next to James, pulled out the wad of bills from the hip pocket. From the other he pulled out a gold watch, read the inscription on the back.

  Tom’s eyes danced wildly. “He fuckin’ planted it!” Tom lunged at Alex’s smirking face again, but the deputy held him tight by the elbows. “Can’t you see what he’s doin’?” he yelled.

  The next car stopped with a screech. Meredith ran out the passenger side, her dress hunched up around her knees. Dr. Meade ran after her in a stilted gait while he held his hat to his head and his medical bag in his fist. He leaned over James, checked his pulse.

  Meredith squeaked, her heavy figure staring agape at the big house. All eyes shifted to her focus. “Mrs. ’Arrington!”

  Leonora felt the hands upon her skin, felt someone pry her fingers from her abdomen. She opened her eyes, saw the scared faces around her converge and distort as if she were looking through a glass bowl. She followed their gaze to her dried, red hands and the saturated dress beneath them. Her mouth fell open, her throat closed. She met Meredith’s sorrow-filled eyes and the woman turned her face away. And then the world took shape, the lens of her vision widened. She saw past the doctor to the drive, saw Alex and the police and Tom. She saw James still unconscious. “James!” she tried to scream, made a weak, incomprehensible wail.

  Dr. Meade pushed her down. “Be still, Mrs. Harrington!” He held her arm with one hand and dug in his bag with the other. “Hold her,” he directed Meredith.

  Leonora fought to free herself. “Tom!” she shrieked. “Tom!”

  Tom broke from the deputy and pushed past Meredith. His face turned white with the sight of blood. Leonora scratched for his arm. “James?” she cried.

  “He’ll be orright.” Tom squeezed her hand.

  Something pricked her arm. She turned and stared at the needle. “No!” she shouted, struggled from the doctor’s grip.

  The doctor pulled out another syringe and aimed it in the air. “You need to rest!”

  “My baby!”

  “Ain’t no baby!”

  The needle stabbed again. Her arm turned to lead, the heaviness spreading up her shoulder. She pulled weakly at Tom, who was fading by the second. “Don’t leave James alone with those men!” she begged, her words slurring. “Don’t leave him!”

  Tom nodded rapidly, his eyes wet. He turned to Meredith. “I’ll stay wiv ’er!” she growled as rough as a guard dog. “Mr. ’Arrington won’t touch ’er.”

  Tom was leaving. Meredith faded. The doctor and his needles disappeared. Through slit lids she searched the darkness for James’s body. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish set upon dry land before the world went black.

  Sharp, steady points jabbed his lung. His head bounced against the back of the seat. Thump. Thump. Thump. James moaned. He tried to open his eyes, but only one allowed a slit of vision.

  “You orright, mate?” Tom asked quietly, his voice deep and low.

  James bent forward and hot pokers burned his insides. He gasped with the thrust of pain and leaned back. “Christ!”

  “Your ribs?” Tom asked.

  James nodded, winced with even the smallest movement. He opened his eye a crack again. Tom sat next to him. Two men sat in the front seat. He could only see the backs of their heads and the sweaty, unshaven necks. “Where are we going?” James asked dryly.

  “Police station,” Tom answered.

  “Police? What’s going on—” James stopped. The pain blasted away. “Leo!” He jolted upright, hit his head against the car ceiling. “Where’s Leo?”

  The deputy watched him through the mirror as he drove. The sheriff turned around with a slung arm. “Sit down, James!” the sheriff ordered.

  “Where is she?” J
ames yelled. Tom wouldn’t look at him.

  “She lost the baby,” Tom whispered.

  The pain came back bright and flashing and had nothing to do with his bruises. “Is she all right?” James choked.

  Tom looked at him now and nodded. “The doc’s with her. Meredith, too.”

  Alex. James grabbed the sheriff’s shoulder. “You got to go back!”

  “Settle yerself!” the sheriff warned.

  The deputy reached for his gun, his eyes black and mean in the mirror. “Put that thing away, Murphy!” The sheriff pushed the man’s arm away. “Christ, yer trigger-happy t’day.”

  The sheriff turned his body around to face James. He was a strong, lean sunburned man, his eyes steady. “This didn’t have anything t’do with the money, did it?” he asked.

  “What money?”

  “Alex planted money in your pocket,” Tom seethed. “Said you stole it.”

  “What?” His mind blurred like the trees speeding outside the car. “When?”

  “After they beat the crap outta you.”

  The car was quiet. The sheriff nodded, pursed his lips. “Any fool can see this is about the woman. If yeh was messin’ wiv his wife, Alex got every right beatin’ yeh.”

  “Fuck right!” growled the deputy.

  The sheriff glared at the officer. “Got somepin yeh want t’say, Murphy?” The man sank down into the seat, his eyes glowering. “Well?” The sheriff rolled his eyes at Tom and James and pointed his thumb back at the driver. “Fuckin’ new guys,” he joked. “Get all hopped up wiv the badge.” The deputy slunk farther, held the steering wheel with white knuckles.

  The sheriff folded his arms on the top of the seat. “Ain’t none of my business whot goes on between a man an’ a woman,” he told James. “If yeh break the law, then it’s my business.”

  James leaned into a cracked rib. “Alex had her by the throat.”

  “Ain’t none of my business, like I said. Ain’t yers, either. Men an’ women got t’settle things between ’em.” He inspected a fingernail, then shrugged. “Don’t care fer that rough business, beatin’ on a woman. But sometimes it happens.”