by Darry Fraser
Maggie’s ears rang with it as she struggled to get up onto her elbows. Pushing Bucky out of her way, Jane helped with an arm under her shoulders. Then the bony knees and the deep chest of a horse appeared in front of them.
Jane squeaked. The dog stopped barking and got onto his belly beside her. Looking up, Maggie’s breath caught at the sight of the man who leaned over the saddle, staring down at her.
Bucky growled low, a rumbling sound from his chest.
‘Look who I found. If it isn’t Miss Maggie O’Rourke,’ the man drawled.
The dog launched at Maggie, and down she went. If Sam hadn’t been searching for her, if he hadn’t been tearing out his own heart at letting her slip by him, he would have laughed aloud.
There she was, large as life, sprawled on the dirt. Alive. And well, by the looks of things—apart from a dog sitting on her. She wasn’t burned or singed. Jesus, his heart was singing at that. Her face was a little browned from the sun, more than he remembered, and she looked thinner, like she needed a good feed. He liked her better with curves.
Stop thinkin’ of that, Sammy-boy.
So there she was, flattened on the riverbank, with the stocky dog going all stupid over her, bringing her a stick and beating the dirt around her with his big nimble paws. Sam knew exactly how Bucky felt, the dog had just beaten him to it.
He stayed mounted on Pie, breathing deep and low and leaning over the saddle, watching her. The fire building in his belly wasn’t going to crackle him to cinders, nor was he going to let the welling emotion deep in his chest rise to choke him. He had the strangest notion to jump down off Pie, pick her up and … and he didn’t know what. What would he do? Grab her? Hug her? Kiss her? Hold her close and rock her hard against him, saying prayers of gratitude he’d forgotten to a god he didn’t remember, thankful that she was safe?
He set his mouth and didn’t let a muscle move on his face for fear it would splinter into shards and he’d never be able to pull himself together.
So he stared down at her and said, ‘Look who I found. If it isn’t Miss Maggie O’Rourke.’
She stared back, those blue eyes wide. ‘Sam.’
He never thought he’d hear her say his name again, and all breathy like that—as if maybe she was pleased to see him. It was all he could do not to grin like an idiot.
Bucky growled again, his keen yellow stare on Sam. His tail thumped twice in the dirt.
‘It’s all right, Bucky,’ Maggie said. ‘It’s Sam.’ Her voice shook.
The dog eyes stayed on Sam all the while.
‘Have you forgot me that quick, dog?’
Jane tugged at Maggie and sat her upright in the dirt. Then together they got her to her feet. ‘Mr Taylor, is this your Maggie O’Rourke?’ She still had Maggie by the arm and looked a bit put out.
He nodded, and when his voice would allow, said, ‘It is.’
Maggie gripped Jane’s hand. ‘I’m so sorry for the deception, Jane. That other man, he’s chasing me, and I had to—’
Jane let go of Maggie’s arm and held up her hand. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, and folded her arms over her chest. Her mouth set and her head down, she walked way.
Maggie watched with a look of despair as Jane headed back to the village. Then her flashing blue eyes, now bleak, looked back at him. ‘Sam, I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve done something … I did something. I thought I’d—’
‘What other man?’ Sam demanded.
Her heart skipped a beat as she gazed over his face. The dark golden whiskers shaded his chin and darkened the hollows of his cheeks. The hazel eyes she’d remembered as merry and warm were stern. He was no longer lean and rangy like he had been when she’d left; he was more filled out, muscle had bulked his frame. She had to look away.
Well, that only lasted a moment—she had to look back at him. The familiar tufts of hair on his chest poked through the open neck of his shirt, like they always used to do, and right now she wanted to slide her fingers … But he seemed different, now. Distant. He looked different, too, not just the physical, but she couldn’t—
‘What other man?’ he repeated, clipped, terse.
If he wasn’t at least going to be friendly … Don’t be daft, Maggie O’Rourke. There could be only one reason why he was here—it was to find her. News must have reached home that she’d gone missing.
‘Mairead?’ he prompted loudly.
Sounding like he was the boss. Oh, that annoyed her. She glared and said, all matter-of-fact, ‘A man by the name of Robert Boyd.’
She brushed herself down and glanced around. Boyd was nowhere in sight, but that didn’t mean anything. If Sam was just going to sit on that horse of his—the beautiful softie, Pie, she remembered—and act as if he’d only seen her yesterday, she would have to get on with things herself.
Adjusting her hat and brushing more dirt off her dress, she said, ‘I really have to get out of sight.’
Rattled by his aloof stare, Maggie turned towards the Jolly Miller and, as best she could in the soft sand of the bank, marched towards the boat. She couldn’t hear anything behind her, so didn’t know if Sam was following or not. Bucky kept close to her side. As she got nearer the Jolly Miller, she saw a man waving at her, saying something. He stepped off the gangway.
‘What did you say?’ she asked. ‘I’m afraid my hearing is not so good.’
‘I said, are you all right, miss?’ He spoke louder. ‘We was unloadin’ and seen you before, runnin’ up that way with Miz Jane, and then that big bloke who was on here with his horse tore off after ye.’
Maggie’s heart was thudding so hard that her head hurt. ‘I’m all right, but I need passage downriver,’ she said, her mouth dry. ‘If only to the first stop. I can pay.’
Before he’d even answered, she walked right by him and stepped on to the gangway, her hand reaching for her little purse snug under her dress. She took the last steps onto the deck and Bucky leapt on board with her.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Sam, still on Pie, was at the gangway. Her racing pulse sped up. He dismounted, seemed to be in no hurry.
‘I have to talk to you, Maggie,’ he called, throwing the reins over Pie’s neck. ‘Get off the boat.’
The steam engine rumbled to life, and its low chug throbbed underfoot. The man who’d been unloading freight raised his voice at her. ‘Ah, the cap’n might not want you on—’
A terrified shriek sounded from further up on the bank. Maggie turned, and saw Jane running across the powdery dirt. She had her skirt in both hands, her hat was missing, and her unbound hair streaked out behind her.
In pursuit and on foot, Robert Boyd came lumbering after Jane with surprising speed, yelling at her to stop. His horse trailed along behind. One of the Kelly gang boys sprinted towards it and grabbed up the reins. The other boys war-whooped at Boyd, hurling sticks and pebbles at him. A stone clocked him high on the shoulder. He turned and roared at the gang, waving a fist, but ran on. The boys followed, the whoops fading as they hung back at a safe distance.
Maggie’s mouth dropped open. ‘Jane!’
She flew back down the gangway, Bucky with her, past the captain—who looked as if he was preparing to say a few stern words—coming up onto the muddy edge of the water. Splashing onto dry land, she struggled to gain traction but fell to all fours, her bag dropping from her shoulder into the wet sand.
‘Christ, I know that man.’ Sam swung onto Pie and charged past her. Bucky let go with ear-splitting barks and followed.
More dirt, stones and twigs flew into her face. Oh my God, what have I led everyone into? She stared up as Sam disappeared. Searching the top of the bank, she couldn’t see anyone. Not Boyd, not Jane nor the Kelly gang … Couldn’t hear anything clearly. Perhaps only Bucky’s excited woofs fading into the air.
She clambered to her feet, clutching the dampened bag across her chest, and staggered up the slight incline. She saw that some of the working men had begun to run towards the ruckus, throwing down tools a
s they went. Someone grabbed Boyd’s horse from the Kelly gang lad and threw the reins over the branch of a tree. The lad shot off on foot after his mates, and the men followed.
Then nothing.
Maggie spun about. The Jolly Miller had chugged from the landing and was a few yards into the river when a screaming Jane burst from the scrub further on. She lifted her skirt, ran for the water and plunged straight in. Wading out, she screeched to the men on the boat. She ploughed further into the water and sank as if the river had gulped her, then floundered up, swinging her arms until her wet clothes began to drag her under.
The steamer picked up speed. The men on board were shouting and pointing in her direction.
Maggie stared, stuck fast. She saw Jane bob under the water and up again, gasping for air, then gurgle before she sank. The river, the river had her …
Shocked, stumbling, Maggie ran, not believing what she was seeing, and lurched along the bank. The steamer was close to Jane, but not gaining quickly enough. Men were shouting over the side, waving their arms. One was preparing to jump in, but others had a hold of him, clearly aware of the hidden dangers of this river. A man could lose his own life if he was snagged under water. They were still too far away to help, they had to get closer.
Maggie ploughed towards the water’s edge. She saw the yowling Kelly gang swarm out of the scrub, only to turn and hurl more sticks and stones as they ran. Boyd crashed out of the bush, arms waving as he fended off the missiles aimed at him. He bolted straight for his horse, heaved himself into the saddle, wheeled about and took off downriver.
The men from the boat were still shouting encouragement, still too far off to help.
‘Jane!’ Maggie, horrified, rushed into the shallows, her own skirt heavy in the water, and knew she couldn’t go further. Jane’s thrashing was weaker, her screams reduced to sputtered gasps each time she came up for air.
Suddenly, a curly coated bundle, travelling at the speed of light, leapt high in the air, paws working, and plunged into the water, landing full belly-whack. Bucky paddled out to Jane.
Sam had hauled up at the shoreline and slid off Pie. He waded in after the dog, whose nose was out of the water, his eyes keenly on his prize.
Maggie doubled over, breathless, staring at the dog. Bucky, Bucky, Bucky, get Jane …
Jane thrashed up but dropped under again.
Bucky, valiant, determined to get this large duck back to land, circled around the floating dress, and dived beneath the water. He nosed a flailing Jane to the surface, and his head tucked under her arm. Her sodden dress hampered him a little, but he made good progress, bumping her back to the surface when she slipped, shepherding her back to land.
The boat swung towards the bank, stayed idle, the men on deck watching, shouting.
Sam waded further in. ‘Come on, Bucky. Good laddie,’ he encouraged. ‘Come on, boy, keep coming.’
Bucky worked hard. Sam reached out for the drenched woman and grabbed her from the paddling dog before the sand underfoot gave way. He fell, righted himself and scrabbling back, he hauled Jane with him, dragging her onto the bank. She spat water, gagged and coughed as she sucked in air. The dog splashed in the shallows beside Sam, came to nudge Jane and sat, staring at her and then up at Sam.
‘Good lad, Bucky. Good lad,’ Sam said, his voice rough as he ruffled the top of the grinning dog’s sodden head.
Men from the sawmill had sprinted into the shallows to help. Sam got out of the way as they carried Jane up to where village women were rushing to meet them. Someone waved the boat off with a yell, ‘She’s all right, she’s all right.’ It answered with a blast of its whistle and took a graceful turn to the middle of the river. The men on board waved back. ‘Good dog, that curly,’ someone shouted from on board.
Bucky had gone back into the water, done a few paddles, then clambered out and bounded straight to Maggie, so very pleased with himself. She was about to throw her arms around the dog when, in a violent full-body shudder, he shook off an almighty amount of water, drenching her.
Laughing and crying, she sank in the puddles he’d made, in the dirt too dry to make mud. Bucky sat with her, his tongue lolling, his sopping rump on her hip. Exhausted, she dropped an arm around him as he snuggled closer. Maggie saw Sam’s booted feet and looked up.
‘Nothing’s ever quiet around you, is it, Maggie O’Rourke?’
Thirty
Myra Boyd was angry. As soon as the post office opened, she elbowed her way inside and pushed ahead of other customers.
Startled, Angus stared at her. ‘What is it, Myra? Can you wait until—’
‘Where is Robert?’ she demanded, leaning as far over the counter as she could. Her voice was low, her mouth pinched.
Angus leaned in as well. ‘No idea,’ he growled between his teeth. ‘He didn’t open the store yesterday afternoon. Why don’t you know where he is?’ Angus looked over her shoulder and nodded apologetically at the few people lined up behind her, before looking back at her. ‘Would you please let me deal with these customers?’
‘If I find you have covered up for more of his philandering—’
‘Myra.’ Angus flattened a hand on the counter with a loud slap. ‘This is not the time, and I haven’t done any such thing.’ He glowered. ‘I will come to your house when I finish up here, about midday. Now, please go.’
Glaring at him before she turned and swished away, she decided that he was not telling the truth, once again. Of course he must know where his brother had gone—they were thick as thieves despite fighting all the time, and likely, one was as bad as the other.
Marching back to her house, and thankful the two children had gone to school—without too much protest today—Myra went straight to her sewing box. The flask felt a little light. Then she remembered that she’d had more than her usual couple of sips yesterday. Nevertheless, she pulled the cork and drank straight from the bottle. Satisfied for the moment, she re-corked it, set it down, and waited for the warmth to permeate. There was no money in the house, she knew, so to purchase more of the illicit drink, she’d have to exchange another of the baubles she had stored under the bed.
At least those women, the previous owners of the baubles, had come to some use for her. Every cloud, silver lining, she thought. About to put the flask back in its hiding place, she told herself she could do with just another wee nip. So the cork came out again, and she took another swig. Much better. But of course, now there was less than half left, she might as well just finish it off, which she did. She decided she needed to visit Mrs McMinn to re-stock; a good idea to do so before Angus visited.
Midmorning, Angus greeted the unhappy looking man who marched into the post office. ‘G’day, Mr Cutler. How’s things with you down at the wharf?’ He swept dust off the counter as he spoke and straightened up his stamp blocks and ink pads.
‘Good as can be expected, Mr Boyd. But I haven’t come here to hand over me ledgers just yet.’
Cutler deemed himself to be a wharf master of sorts and kept records of boats and passengers coming and going in his shack there. The record keeping of produce and the like was the role of the postmaster. In any case, Cutler dutifully brought all his paperwork to the post office every month.
Angus looked over Cutler’s shoulder, pleased that there were no other customers. It seemed Mr Cutler wanted to say a few words, for some reason. ‘So what is it I can do for you, then?’ He laced his hands and rested them on the counter, an empty smile stuck on his face.
Cutler’s bushy eyebrows furrowed. ‘That brother of yours—’
The smile remained but Angus’s eye twitched.
‘—borrowed me horse to go off after some fella looking to camp on the Lyrup road. He never brought me horse back and I want it, so I’d like to have a word with Robert.’
Angus didn’t shift his gaze, but his smile reduced to one of concern. I’d like a word with the great idiot, too. ‘I haven’t seen him, Mr Cutler. You don’t think he’d have stolen—’
&nb
sp; ‘I’m not thinkin’ that. Yet. But he’s known for his shiftiness, your brother.’
Angus felt the blood warm his face. Bloody old git. ‘Didn’t he say when he’d be back?’
As he hadn’t yet spoken to Myra again, he had no clue what Robert had decided to do. The fact that the shop had been unattended meant that whatever stock he could have sold was clearly still sitting there—no money was coming in. He should never have made provision to partner Robert in the shop. It had never worked, and lately Robert was displaying even more erratic behaviour than usual.
Cutler heaved in a breath. ‘He said he wanted to take a quick ride to try and find this fella, and if he wasn’t back before dark last night, he’d be back at sun-up today.’ He pointed at the wall clock, the time nearly eleven-thirty. ‘Then someone told me he’d turned up back at the wharf and got on the Jolly Miller with me horse. I want me horse back. Robert’s late and I’m feelin’ nervous.’
Another customer opened the door and headed inside, removing his hat. He wasn’t wearing a coat and he had his sleeves rolled to the elbows. Around one leg of his trousers, he had a clip, the sort a bicycle rider would wear. Angus only vaguely recognised him. Holding an envelope, the man stood a little back behind Barnaby Cutler, and seemed content to wait his turn. Angus assumed he’d only want a stamp, so he greeted the man with a nod before returning his attention to Mr Cutler.
‘Yes, I see. He’s clearly late,’ Angus said, his face, he was sure, the picture of conciliation. ‘Tell you what, I’ll check with his wife immediately after my boss Mr McKenzie comes in to relieve me—only in a half-hour’s time. I’ll answer directly to you at the wharf with your horse’s whereabouts. How would that be?’
Cutler grunted. ‘Best as can be, I expect. Hope you bring me the right answer,’ he said, and still grumbling, he turned, nodded at the man behind him and left.
Angus schooled his features as he moved and replaced the already straightened stationery items on his benchtop. He brushed off his waistcoat and put on his smile for the next customer. ‘Morning,’ he said.
