Ella

by Virginia Taylor

  “It’s a shame he’s gone. Lately, he has had some amazingly progressive ideas.”

  He ignored her irony. “By my calculations, you would have about three thousand more head to shear, and if we collect as many today as we can, I can help collect the rest on Sunday. I don’t plan to go to church on my day of rest.”

  Ella and the team rounded up well over two thousand sheep and put them in the paddocks around the billabong so that, with the stragglers they expected to find, they would be watered and yet still close enough to transfer to the woolshed paddock. Ella wished she had Cal’s head for organizing. Failing that, she wished Papa had left instructions in his will, but perhaps his plan had never been this one. The last time he’d been present for shearing, he’d had three stockmen. The sheep could have been brought in and taken out any time.

  However, shearing had to be halted until the next day. Ned, the forecaster, thought the weather on Saturday would be fine. “They’ll dry out overnight,” he said with confidence. “Reckon it’d be close to ninety already and it’s bound to be hotter tomorrow.”

  Although she would have liked to bring in the last of the sheep, Ella didn’t have time that day. Nor could she dig her potato patch in wet soil.

  “Though it probably doesn’t matter,” Rose said while they prepared dinner. “With luck we’ll be gone before the harvest anyway.”

  * * * *

  That night, Ella stirred with sweaty dreams. She woke in time to see the predawn, ghostly haze. Outside the magpies warbled their morning songs and a flock of corellas screeched in delight about their morning raid on the fruit trees.

  She yawned and stretched and rubbed her eyes. A new day; an old loneliness. Cal wouldn’t touch her again, fearing she expected marriage. Her dreams of his mouth on hers and his confident hands on her body were merely that, dreams.

  She fumbled out of bed, struggled into her dressing gown, and made her way to the outside amenity. After that, she took her warm morning wash and, freshened, she dressed.

  The meat scraps from the previous evening’s meal sat under a cloth on the kitchen table. One dog yapped a greeting as she walked toward their enclosure. The night before they’d been as restless as she, barking at the full moon, no doubt.

  Again, she yawned as she set their dish inside their yard. Each dog had been tethered on a long rope for added security. Papa had insisted. This morning the ropes were tangled. “Dancing the maypole last night, were you?” She was answered with wagging tails, doggy smiles, and an attempted lick on her hand.

  She untangled the ropes and set the dogs free. They raced to the food, whuffling happily. For a moment she stood and watched. The life of a dog seemed uncomplicated—food, work, sleep—just as her life would be when Cal left. She pushed her hand through her hair, taking the weight back from her face and staring forlornly across at the stable paddock.

  She couldn’t see the Clydesdales. With rain possible, likely one of the men had put them under shelter last night. She wandered over to the stables. No friendly nickering greeted her. She heard no shifting hooves. She smelled chaff and oats, horse and leather. She saw farming implements, saddles and harness, but no horses.

  Standing, hands on hips, she frowned, worrying her bottom lip. Outside, she scanned the surrounding area. Not even a bird tweeted. With a fluttering in her chest, she inspected the paddock fence. The posts stood, sturdy and implacable. The gate was shut. Although tracks in the dust indicated hooves and booted feet, yesterday the men had saddled and used the horses. The tracks told her nothing.

  Her entire body began to shake. Alf had taken on a new shearer for the first time in years, a man who knew more about her station, her horses, and her craving body than anyone else in the world. This man whose surname she didn’t know had shown interest in her when no other had. He knew she had no support and too much pride.

  With her heart resounding loudly in her chest, she scrambled to the men’s quarters and then stood hesitant and short of air by the door. Inside, the floorboards creaked. Every nerve in her body stretched. The door eased open.

  Cal stood there, alert, familiar, eyebrows raised in query.

  She’d never seen such a glorious sight in her entire, fearful life. Hand at her throat, she ached with relief. He wore trousers only. His wavy dark hair was mussed with sleep and faint stubble shaded his jaw.

  “I heard you with the dogs,” he said, perhaps in explanation for his state of undress. He moved out of the quarters, shutting the door quietly behind him.

  “I don’t know if I’m fussing about nothing,” she murmured, unable to meet his questioning gaze. Someday, she would forgive herself for thinking a man as honorable as Cal had stolen her horses, but right now she deserved nothing but contempt for distrusting him. “But I can’t find the horses.”

  “Which horses?” He rubbed his hand in his hair as if to tidy himself and took her farther from the quarters. Clearly, he didn’t want the other men to hear them talking. “What’s the time?”

  “Almost dawn. Well, dawn.” She noted the orange hue of sunrise creeping from behind the hills. “I can’t find any of the horses.”

  “The Clydesdales are in the stable paddock. I saw them last night.”

  “They’re not there, nor in the stables. None of them. The chestnuts and the stock horses can’t open the doors to their stalls, let alone a heavy stable door. Nor can Miffy. And the Clydesdales couldn’t leap over the paddock fence.”

  He rubbed his hair again, but the crow’s nest he seemed to be aiming for settled into crushed velvet. “Let’s take another look.”

  Comforted by his presence, she watched as he inspected the stables and the paddock. He also carefully inspected the tracks by the gate. “Here. A side-worn riding heel,” he said, squatting down and running his forefinger over the print in the dust. “Not mine. Not Frank’s or Ned’s. Too large to be yours.”

  “And Jed doesn’t wear shoes.”

  Standing, he scanned the ground ahead. “Come with me.”

  She hadn’t noticed the scuffled tracks leading down to the river.

  “I can pick out five or six horses in this group,” he said, slowly following the traces. “And two men. As none of the shearers left the quarters last night…” He stopped, hands on his hips, and faced her. “Your horses have been stolen, Ella.”

  Chapter 8

  Ella couldn’t form a lucid reply. She stood, staring at the man whose advice she relied on far too much, the man she expected to fix all her problems, and realized she had to face reality. Running the station was now impossible. Turning, she walked off, heading back toward the homestead, desperate to be alone with her whirling thoughts.

  Cal swiftly moved in front of her, stopping her in her tracks. “So, do you think one of your neighbors will let me borrow a horse?”

  “They don’t know you.” She examined the tall, dark, handsome stranger, whose full name she had never asked. “Cal. Just a single, anonymous name. Just one. Do you have another?”

  “A few others. Alfred. Langdon.” He scrutinized her face. “I need a quicker way to follow the thieves than on foot, and I need to leave while the tracks are still fresh.”

  She shook her head. “That’s a job for the police. Mr. Lannock will be here soon with the milk. I’ll tell him that our horses have been stolen and ask him if he can inform the authorities.”

  “The matter is more urgent than that. The sooner I leave, the quicker I’ll catch up with them. Unlike them, I don’t have to match my pace with a couple of obstinate Clydesdales.”

  “Of course. The Clydesdales. If you don’t get them back, you won’t be able to leave when you finish shearing.” Her mouth twisted.

  “And if we don’t get your horses back, you won’t be able to continue your station work.”

  She stared over his shoulder to the paddocks dotted with the white, newly shorn sheep, to the homestead with the spiral of smoke issuing from the chimney, and then to the road beyond that f
ollowed the seashore to the city. “What work? You only need to shear the sheep we brought in yesterday and then you will have to leave. And so will my sisters and I. We won’t be staying. I’ve done my best to manage with one stockman, and I was willing to try with no stockman, but I can’t cope when if it’s not one thing, it’s the next.” She firmed her face. “A life on the land is not for me.”

  His eyebrows lowered. “How can you leave? What will you do for money?”

  “We’ll sell the sheep.” She evaded his gaze.

  “No one will buy five or more thousand sheep in a drought year. You’d be lucky to give them away.”

  “They can die out here for all I care.” Her voice cracked. “Each day we live on this thankless property we run up more debt. We can’t pay the money we owe until we get the wool payment. So, until then we will comply with Rose’s godmother’s request to stay with her.” Clamping her lips, she turned.

  “Ella.” He stopped her by a grip on her shoulders. “If you get your horses back and if you sell your carriage pair, you’ll have enough money to buy your own house in the city. Your horses are your greatest asset.”

  She gave him a hard, cynical smile. “A couple of horses will bring perhaps twenty pounds. I couldn’t find a hovel for less than a hundred and you know it.”

  “You would make at least two hundred guineas for that pair. I know someone who just last year bought a pair of grays not half as fine as your chestnuts and she paid two hundred. They’re in great demand. All the ladies want matched pairs.”

  Her eyes fixed on his and her mouth dried. “Two hundred guineas? Are you sure?”

  He nodded.

  She swallowed. “In that case, I’ll have to go out and bring them back.”

  “Not you. I.”

  “No. They’re mine. Papa left them to me.” Turning, she strode off to the homestead.

  Cal dogged her footsteps. Unwilling to let him help, she ignored him. Within moments they reached the corner of the house, each as determined as the other. Then she heard the clop of hooves and the rattle of cans and saw the local dairyman turn his milk wagon through the front gate. With Cal, she waited until the horses clinked to the veranda.

  “Good morning.” Ella looked up at Mr. Lannock. She used a shaky hand to indicate the stable paddock. “We had horse thieves during the night, we think.”

  “Are you sure?” Mr. Lannock climbed off the driver’s seat and dragged a can from the back. The container landed with a clatter. He stopped and stared at Ella with a concerned expression on his long, melancholy face. “Your horses could have wandered off. Them fences of yours are none too sturdy. I’ve been meaning to send John over to help Jed fix them.”

  “Cal—this is Cal Langdon by the way—overseer—repaired the stable paddock fence a week ago.” She reddened with her mauled explanation as to why a stranger stood implacable by her side. “This morning he found tracks indicating that the horses were led away. I plan to get them back, make no mistake.”

  The older man reached over and shook Cal’s hand. “Nathaniel Lannock.” He pursed his lips at Ella. “And how do you expect to do that, Missy?” He planted his chapped fists on his hips.

  “I’ll send some men after the thieves.” She shot Cal a silencing look.

  “How, if they’ve taken your horses?”

  “Perhaps I’ll ask...” She cleared her throat. “If I can borrow a couple of yours.”

  Mr. Lannock nodded. “I’ll do better than lend you a couple of horses. I’ll send John and William.”

  “No need,” Cal said, firming his jaw. “It’s my job as overseer.”

  Lannock rubbed his bristled chin. “Maybe you’re needed here.”

  “He’s invaluable, just as John and Willie are invaluable at home. Thank you for your generous offer, but if we could borrow the horses that would be far more help than we ought to expect of you.”

  “Glad to be able to do something.” Lannock’s gaze flickered to Cal’s bare chest.

  “She woke me the moment she discovered the horses were missing.” Cal spared Ella the awkwardness of an explanation for his state of undress.

  Mr. Lannock came to his decision and, lifting his chin, said, “Hop up on the wagon, then, Langdon, and I’ll take you back to my place to fetch the horses.”

  “I’ll put on a shirt and shoes, if you don’t mind waiting a minute or two.” Grabbing the milk can, Cal hauled the weight to the back door.

  Ella sighed with relief that Mr. Lannock had accepted Cal as the overseer. Her steadiness of character might be maligned in this very small community if Mr. Lannock jumped to erroneous conclusions about a young lady attended by a half-dressed man so early in the morning. The gossip would only be repeated with more relish if she accompanied that same man out into the bush for who knew how long.

  The shearers had begun to stir, but Cal would doubtless offer them some explanation as to what had happened. Ella had barely entered the kitchen when she heard him and Mr. Lannock clatter down the driveway in the milk wagon.

  “Our horses have been stolen,” she said without preamble to Rose, who stood bent over the kitchen fire. “Cal is borrowing a couple more from the Lannocks, and we’ll chase the thieves. When the police arrive, you must send them after us.”

  Rose glanced at her with disbelief. “Stolen? Who would steal our horses?”

  “They took the Clydesdales, too, which is why Cal is coming along with me. I thought I should go alone because we lost five horses, and the shearers only lost two, but Mr. Lannock wouldn’t have let me take his horses...and I don’t have time to argue.” Ella eyed Rose, hearing every objection without a word being spoken.

  Rose slumped on a kitchen chair, staring at her clasped hands. With a sigh, she raised her face to Ella’s. “You can’t go after the thieves. What will you do if you find them? They won’t take a bit of notice of a man and a young woman, and they certainly won’t give back the horses simply because you ask.”

  “Should we not try just in case we fail?”

  “I don’t want you endangered. We need you, Vianna and I. Let Cal go alone. He could take Papa’s rifle and—”

  “Rose!” Ella said, shocked. “We can’t expect a total stranger to risk himself for our horses. Until a few minutes ago, I didn’t even know his full name.”

  “If he said he would...”

  “He takes over far too often. And I can’t let him. I am responsible for the land and the livestock. I won’t relent, Rose. Since needs must, I’ll take him with me, but I certainly won’t leave the whole thing to him.”

  “And what if you need to stay out overnight?”

  Ella shook her head. “He seems to think we can catch up with them quickly.”

  “But if not, you can’t spend the night with the man.”

  “Cal wouldn’t touch me,” Ella said, her voice firm. “I gave him the opportunity, and he rejected me.”

  “You gave him the opportunity?”

  Ella moved to the hall doorway. “The wasted opportunity, as it happens. I’m not even sure the man likes me as much as he likes telling me how to run my life. As far as I can tell, the efficiency of stations interests him more than desperate spinsters.”

  With no time to waste, she left to change into her riding clothes. Cal, elusive and mysterious, had saved her life, eased her workload, and done his best to teach her station work. She could trust him, none better. Yet, for one brief moment this morning, she had suspected him of having far more dastardly designs than lusting for her body—she had suspected him of ingratiating himself so he could steal the horses. Had he done so, he would have disappeared.

  Perhaps she wished him gone. The man was too helpful, too willing, and growing far too necessary.

  * * * *

  Edward slowly climbed out of the carriage onto the gravel driveway. He and Sam had rested a day outside Adelaide and had left early this morning to avoid traveling during the heat of the day.

  Althoug
h he hadn’t sent word of his plans to Irene, Charlton’s mother, he expected her to accommodate him. After all, he owned her fine mansion, a gracious building fronted by the city parks of Adelaide, and he had supported his daughter-in-law in luxury since the day she had married his son. He didn’t need to rap on the door. The carriage had been heard. A maidservant ushered him and the silenced Sam into Irene’s august presence.

  “Edward! My dear. And Mr., er, um.” She rose to her feet. Although in her middle forties, she had the waist of a seventeen-year-old and soft, white, youthful skin. Edward didn’t doubt she used cosmetics, but none showed, and as usual she was impeccably dressed and groomed, her dark hair lifted in high curls.

  “Just call him Sam. Or Mr. Edyvean. Not Mr. Erum.”

  “You look tired.” Her face held no expression.

  “I’m old. You’d look tired if you were my age.” He indicated the chair to her. She sat again, straight-backed, her graceful white hands folded in her lap as he lowered himself to a plump sofa by the carved marble fireplace. Sam stood near the window awkwardly. “Sam, go to the gardener’s cottage and see if they can put you up. Failing that, come back here and you can have the best guest bedroom.”

  Irene tightened her lips. “Bespeak a room for Mr. Edyvean in the coach house and make up Mr. Lynton’s room.” The young hovering maid stepped back to the doorway. “And bring us tea.”

  “No tea for me, ma’am. I’m more comfortable with the outside staff. Sides, I won’t be getting no ’oliday like m’lud promised me if I have to stay where he can see me. I’m off to the coach house.” With that, Sam backed out as if in the presence of royalty and disappeared.

  Edward allowed himself to grin.

  Irene raised her eyebrows. “You don’t usually take a holiday at this time of the year. Surely this is your busiest season on the station.”