by Cathryn Hein
‘Sure. Another time.’
His disappointment ached. He glanced towards her desk, remembering once more the night she’d made him her king. The night he’d held her in the moonlight, marvelling at the exquisiteness of her, at his luck in finding her again. Knowing even then that he couldn’t let her go a second time, that this time he’d fight. Whichever way he could.
Wearing a plastered smile, he led her to the sink and turned on the hot water.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Washing your hands.’
‘What for?’ She glanced back at her half-dismembered chook. ‘I haven’t finished preparing dinner.’
‘Forget dinner,’ he said. ‘I have better ideas.’
Fourteen
‘I think I hate her,’ said Jas. ‘It’s unfair enough that she’s beautiful, but to look so bloody good on a horse as well?’ She shook her head in mock disgust. ‘There is no God.’
Em smiled and continued to observe Lod as he picked his way around a worn, circular track. Upon Jasmine’s arrival, confident that Felicity was in no danger of falling off or mistreating her mount, Em had left Digby in charge of the long lunge rein attached to Lod’s bridle. They were in the paddock next to the stables, on the stretch of flat ground that Em had laser-levelled a few years earlier, and where she did most of her training. When she’d learned that Felicity would be coming out that afternoon for a riding lesson, and with Rocking Horse Hill only a short detour from her way home, Jas couldn’t resist calling in for a chat and sticky-beak.
Felicity sat in the saddle, wearing a new black velvet-covered helmet, her cheeks blossoming with cold and pleasure, not in the slightest afraid. Not that she needed to be. Lod had been the perfect gentleman from the moment she mounted, and though Digby had never been much of a horse enthusiast, he knew enough of Lod’s temperament not to fret and risk infecting Felicity with his nerves.
For someone who’d never been on a horse before, Felicity showed remarkable poise. Her body possessed an innate suppleness and, unlike many learners, she didn’t rely on the reins for balance. Instead, she seemed to find a natural centredness that allowed her to sit with ease in the saddle.
Perhaps it was the stylish new riding attire she wore that made her look so competent: the fashionable check breeches with a black, full-seat suede insert; the tall leather riding boots; the parka shaped like a hunting coat that narrowed her waist and accentuated her straight shoulders; the matching black nappa leather gloves. Clothing that expensive and well cut would make anyone look good.
Jas lifted her face to the sky as a cloud scudded past and revealed a sudden streak of sun. ‘At least I can feel smug that she’ll have sore thighs by the end.’
The weather still hadn’t cleared completely and the forecast predicted more chilling wind and rain squalls. Em hankered for spring. Her garden and paddocks were saturated and bedraggled, and she worried for the buds on the stone fruit trees. The chooks ran about with their feathers ruffled, clucking in discontent. Though she’d moved them to the most sheltered paddock, Kicki and Cutie had spent the week standing forlornly with their rumps to the wind, looking as dejected as Em felt. Only Chelsea seemed to be enjoying herself, zooming around the garden, plucking slugs and half-drowned snails, and snorkelling her orange beak through puddles.
Em had never minded winter. Winter meant fires and comfort food, a time for nesting, but this winter seemed to drag. She wanted spring, sunshine, happiness. The chance to trot Lod around the crater after work and watch the sunset paint the slopes, to take her calligraphy outside and work in proper light, to hold family picnics and barbecues in the yard like they had when Adrienne and Digby lived at the hill. Watch her ruined garden bloom and abound with produce.
She rested against the fence’s top rail and closed her eyes, lifting her face to the sun as Jas had.
‘Have you heard from Teagan this week?’ Jas asked.
‘No. Have you?’
‘Not a peep.’
‘I rang and left a message on her mobile but she hasn’t called back.’ Em opened her eyes and frowned. ‘Come to think of it, that was Tuesday when I rang. That’s not like her. I’ll call her again.’
‘Do you think she gave her dad that money?’
‘I hope not. I hate the way he uses her. She should leave, find a job managing a property where they at least pay her for her work.’
‘She can’t. She loves the place. It’d be like telling you to leave here.’
‘I know.’ She turned back to listen to Digby and Felicity. Digby’s voice was filled with pride, his fiancée’s bright with delight.
‘I wish I could do this every day,’ Felicity was saying.
‘You’ll be able to when I buy you a horse.’
Excitement turned Felicity’s voice even huskier. ‘You’ll buy me a horse?’
‘Sure. Em will know where to get a good one. You can keep it here. Come out and ride whenever you want.’
Em pursed her lips and tried to remember that it was by Digby’s grace that she lived without charge at the hill. If he wanted to keep a horse here, she was in no position to argue.
‘They’re taking a few liberties, don’t you think?’ said Jas.
‘A bit, but depending on how today went I was going to offer to find Felicity a horse anyway.’
‘But for Digby to say she can come out whenever she likes. . .’
Em shrugged.
Jas ducked her head to make eye contact. ‘Em, this is your home.’
‘And Digby knows that.’
Jas watched her closely and Em knew she wanted to pursue the topic further. Ignoring her own doubts, she injected her voice with confidence. ‘It’s fine, honestly.’
‘If you’re sure.’
She wasn’t, but nor did she feel up to revealing how trapped and insecure all this made her feel. And Digby could hardly renege on his promise. All the family knew about it. Plus he was her brother. She had to believe he’d keep his word. Rocking Horse Hill would be her home for as long as she wished. Besides, Felicity, too, was well aware of how Em felt about the place. Digby had the stables, Camrick. Money. He didn’t need the hill. He didn’t even like the farm that much.
A throaty burst of laughter had Em regarding them again. While she might harbour some worries, one thing wasn’t in question: Felicity made Digby happy. That ugly business with Cait had battered his self-esteem. Now he walked with a swagger, almost like his dad, and he smiled more. Even the way he dressed showed more confidence. Today he looked like a typical rural bloke in a pair of well-fitting moleskin jeans and a blue-and-white striped shirt, an unzipped quilted vest over the top with leather patches over the shoulders.
He and Felicity looked like wealthy landed gentry, which, Em supposed, they were.
‘She’s done wonders for Digby.’
‘Must be all the testosterone swirling through his system from all that sex. He’d have balls the size of a bull elephant’s by now.’ As Em made a face, Jas nudged her. ‘Sex isn’t reserved exclusively for you, you know. Just because you’ve been going at it hammer and tongs with the sexpot.’
At the mention of Josh, Em’s contentment disappeared.
‘I don’t know how much longer that’s going to last.’ She smothered a stupid urge to cry. She’d been trying to put Josh’s strange behaviour out of her mind, but now her anxiety was back in full. ‘I think he’s going off me.’
‘Bullshit.’ Jas studied her, her expression softening when she saw that Em was serious. ‘Oh, Em, what makes you think that?’
‘The way he’s behaving?’
‘Like how?’
‘I don’t know. He keeps going quiet, as if he’s mulling over something. And I keep catching him watching me. It’s like he wants to tell me it’s over but doesn’t know how.’ She sighed. ‘He wanted me to go to the footy with him today but I said I couldn’t because Felicity was coming out. Then he made this snarky comment about it, and when I challenged him he just dragged me off to bed.’
‘Sounds a bit cave man.’
‘But that’s the thing. It wasn’t. Far from it.’ Her throat thickened and she bit her lip. Despite Josh’s tenderness, everything about last night made her feel sad. Even her bones felt heavy. ‘I think he still blames me for hurting him so badly. He says he doesn’t, but . . .’
‘You’re reading too much into it. He’s distracted by stuff at home. It’s a tough time. Anyway,’ said Jas, grinning, ‘how could he possibly go off you? You’re the biggest chicky babe around.’
‘After you, you mean,’ said Em, trying to lighten things up. Jas was probably right. She was reading too much into things. The same as with Digby and the hill. And Josh’s mum was terribly ill.
‘Naturally. But I thought that went without saying.’ Jas straightened. ‘I’d better get home and work Oxy. Poor old thing’s so fat he has cellulite on his bum.’ She screwed up her nose. ‘Like owner like horse, I suppose.’
‘You don’t have cellulite.’
‘I do. Mike pointed it out the other day.’ She darted a glance at Em. ‘Don’t say it.’
‘I wasn’t going to say anything.’
‘You never do but that doesn’t mean you don’t think it.’
‘You need a man who loves you, not one who points out your imperfections.’
Jas swung up her palms. ‘I know, I know.’
‘Then please end it. I worry about you.’
‘I’ll be okay. Anyway, it’s Teagan you should be most worried about.’
Em agreed. In time Jas would sort herself out. Teagan she wasn’t so sure about. ‘I’ll call her. See if I can con her into another girls’ night. We’ll ask Felicity along too, make it a big one.’
Em caught Jas’s flicker of consternation at the mention of Felicity and experienced a surge of irritation. This was her brother’s fiancée, her sister-in-law to be – of course she was going to include her.
Em hugged her goodbye anyway. Jas was her oldest friend; she wasn’t about to argue with her over something as stupid as this.
Fine days meant cold nights and when Digby and Felicity had finally left, happy and elated and talking shows and other horsey futures, Em had knuckled down to cooking, a task that usually left her soothed and settled.
With music on the stereo and the fire spreading warmth, she’d relaxed, convinced everything would work out with her and Josh. He would arrive soon. They’d open a bottle of wine, talk. And maybe she’d find the courage to ask him again where they were headed, how he felt. Maybe she might even hint at her own feelings. How they’d grown into something important, something she didn’t want to let go.
Around seven, the southerly that had been soft all day strengthened: a strong-armed wind that pried at the roof and yanked at the garden. Em ducked outside to check on the animals. She lingered in the cold for longer than necessary, hoping to spy the headlights of Josh’s ute on Bradley Road, but the only light was a waning moon and the distant glow of Levenham.
At eight she pulled the casserole from the oven and set it on a cork mat. The simple wholemeal soda bread she’d made earlier had long cooled.
Josh hadn’t promised anything. He’d left her early that morning with a simple kiss, citing chores to run and a need to spend some time with his mum before footy. Em had hovered at the edge of the orchard path, wanting to call him back, to say something, to hold him in a way he couldn’t mistake, but was too afraid of her neediness. Only when he’d stepped into the car and sat for a few moments, staring at her through the windscreen, had she experienced that same lurching sensation of the night before, that he wanted to say something important to her. Then he’d started the engine, saluting as he headed out the gate.
Stupidly, she’d assumed he’d come back.
‘You know what assuming does, hey Muff-Muff,’ she said, leaving the kitchen to crouch by the dog’s basket. She stroked the collie’s soft fur. ‘It makes an ass out of you and me.’ She kissed Muffy’s forehead and glanced around. Nothing to do except fill in the night with work.
Her glass of cabernet shone deep maroon and Em thought how perfect the colour would be for King Alfred’s cape: dramatic and predictive of the bloodshed to come. She pulled the sketch from her desk drawer, intending to make a note, but the sight of Josh’s face had her setting the paper aside, her heart ballooning with feeling. Love she knew she was losing. That she never really had.
She sipped her wine, resisting the urge to take a bigger gulp. Em needed a steady hand for gilding and she wanted this book to be perfect. No matter what happened between them, The Ballad of the White Horse now belonged to Josh. Her way of saying sorry for the strong heart she once broke.
Em cleared the desk and laid out the piece of parchment upon which she’d already completed the first page of script. At the top left, a box had been left clear. Pencilled inside was a drawing of the white horse. She’d toyed with painting the background green, to represent grass, but had instead decided to emboss it in gold. Around the edges of the illumination, and extending down and across the page as marginalia, vines would ramble, animals would peek and birds would wing, bringing the scene and lettering to life.
Ignoring the grumbles of the wind-wracked house, she concentrated on her task, soon finding herself soothed by the precise layering of glue that formed an essential underlay to the gilded surface.
She was peering closely at her work, using her pen nib to draw the gesso into a corner when three loud bangs sounded on the door. Her pen slipped. She swore and jerked back, bumping the desk with her knees and almost toppling her empty wine glass.
Muffy scrabbled out of her basket and ran, barking loudly, to the door. Em glanced across the room at the kitchen clock and rose, her heart thumping, momentarily fearing for her family. It was after ten, a Saturday night. A bad time for bad news. Then she registered Muffy wagging her tail and realised that whoever was there knew her. Besides, the police would come to the front door.
Josh. It had to be.
He was hunched against the cold, with only a thin long-sleeved shirt and jeans as protection. She paused, taking a moment to assess him, seeking too-bright eyes, the poor balance of someone who’d drunk too much.
Deciding he appeared sober enough, she slid open the door and leaned against the frame, arms crossed. ‘Good evening.’
‘Hey.’ When she didn’t move he glanced behind her, eyes narrowing in a way she wasn’t sure she liked. ‘Can I come in?’
She stepped aside, watching him as he crouched to greet Muffy, noting how he kept looking around the room. She slid the door closed but didn’t move from it, her arms tight under her breasts. Though Em knew it was unfair, her worry and hurt had turned to anger.
He glanced at the bench, where the pot, bread, crockery and cutlery still lay. His mouth thinned. ‘You cooked.’
‘Yes.’
‘For me.’
Em said nothing.
‘And now you’re pissed off.’
‘We didn’t make any plans,’ she said, raising her chin and attempting to cover her hurt with nonchalance.
‘No, we didn’t. We never make plans.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
This time, it was Josh’s turn to say nothing, which somehow made it worse. She walked away from him, crossing the room to hide her work in the narrow top draw of the desk and cover the remaining Ballad work in practice sheets. Once again, the picture of the king stalled her. She held it, the paper inexplicably shaking. What was going on with her? Where was her Wallace cool? She knew what he was here for. Football, a laugh and a few beers with the boys and now he was here for sex. And the stupidity of it was that she would let him, because she wanted him. She’d always wanted him; even when she made the cruellest decision of her life, she’d known she didn’t mean it.
Em let the paper fall and looked up. He was watching her, Muffy pressed against his leg, his hands shoved in his pockets.
‘Did you win?’
‘Yes, much to everyone’s shock.’<
br />
Em nodded and scratched around a few more papers.
‘How did it go with Felicity?’
‘She’s a natural. Digby’s going to buy her a horse. We’ll be able to go riding together.’ Those molasses eyes didn’t move from hers. What did he see? What did those ever-so-slightly pursed lips mean? She remained behind the desk, needing to keep a space between them. ‘Have you had dinner?’
‘Steak at the club.’ He frowned and pulled his hands free. ‘Look, Em, I think we need to talk.’
‘No.’
He stared.
‘Have a drink.’ She picked up her wine glass and headed for the kitchen. ‘It’s nice wine. A cab sav from the Coonawarra. Won the Jimmy Watson Trophy several years back. Mum knows the winemaker and he says it’s the best wine he’s ever made. You should try —’
He caught her hand as she rushed past, his half-fingers closing around hers, pulling her to a halt as he had outside Camrick. And, as before, her heart tumbled with the same shock and excitement at the resoluteness of his grip. The difference this time being that he didn’t let go.
‘Come here.’
He tugged lightly. Em followed until she stood between his parted legs, their hips touching, his hands falling to hook loosely around her waist, trapping her, but in a nice way. He pressed his forehead against hers and she could smell the faint scent of beer on his breath.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered.
‘You don’t have anything to be sorry for.’
‘I don’t?’
‘I just assumed.’
‘I was going to come and then. . .’ He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It does.’ She breathed in. ‘To me.’
He was watching her in that intense way, like he was trying to see inside her. ‘Does it?’
‘You know it does.’
Their gazes locked and then his mouth was on hers and she was soaring.
Em didn’t care why he’d stayed away. She didn’t care if he wanted to end things. Here, now, he was hers. And maybe, just maybe, she could convince him that he didn’t really want to let go.
