by Darry Fraser
Eleanor just hoped that Sam would find Maggie, and that she’d come home to them. That they both would.
As they neared Ard’s cottage, a loud squall, a newborn’s, reached their ears.
‘Well, it appears Miss CeeCee is very good at coaxing,’ the doctor said and marched ahead of Eleanor into the house.
She took a moment outside to sag against the timber wall, squeezing her eyes shut and giving thanks for the sound of a strong, healthy baby.
Thirty-two
Bucky had decided to take himself out for another swim, but there were no big ducks to retrieve this time.
Watching him, Maggie stood in the sun, drying out her clothes that were bespattered with dirt and dog slobber. Her dress was filthy. Her bag was scuffed and damp, and there didn’t seem to be an end to the mud, dust and the twigs she brushed from it.
Vera had come down earlier to let her know that Jane was all right, despite being terrified by ‘that horrible man’, and that no physical harm had come to her. She’d just been given a great fright and she was resting. Jane would share Vera’s hut, taking refuge just in case, while Vera’s husband would sleep at night in Jane’s hut.
No mention was made of Maggie being offered any refuge. So she’d waited at the riverbank, in full view of the working men, so that if ‘that horrible man’ were to reappear, she could run for help. She didn’t think he would; he’d be lucky to leave alive if he did. He must be mad to chase her all the way here and then try to attack another woman in broad daylight.
Sam and a couple of others had headed out in the direction Boyd had taken and were yet to return. What they’d do with him if they caught up with him, she didn’t know. Before he’d left, Sam had stood by Pie and taken his rifle from the saddle, checked that the gun was ready. He’d pocketed bullets. Maggie hoped he wouldn’t have to use it and, if this new Sam was anything like the old, he wouldn’t use it unless he absolutely had to. He’d put animals out of their misery. He’d hunted when necessary. As far as she knew, he’d never fired in anger.
But what did she know? Bah—he wouldn’t have changed those sorts of things, you silly woman. But this new Sam was cool and distant. Not the Sam she remembered. The Sam who was hearty and open and warm, and loved to love her. Loved to love her all over. She reddened. No one could see that her face bloomed, bright with colour from within, and not from too much sunshine. Besides, no one could see for the dirt. She took off her hat and shook it out. Put it back on, tied it.
Well, what did she expect from Sam? She’d sent back his first letters, and that had been two years ago. Clearly, he’d just given up. Maybe—maybe he was married. She hadn’t thought of that. A dull thud hit her stomach. No, no. Her mother would have written to say so. Truth to tell, there was very little news of Sam in Eleanor’s letters, only one or two mentions of him, as he worked with Ard.
The Sam she remembered was a man who embraced her wholeheartedly when he could get his hands on her—which was any time they’d found themselves alone. He was so strong, so careful with that strength—not that she wasn’t a strong girl—but his sinewy arms were powerful and he barely knew how strong he was. He’d lugged cartwheels, for goodness sakes. And she couldn’t resist such a big heart as his, so earthy, and alive, warm, vibrant with laughter and jokes. A sharp, droll sense of humour. Lusty. And Sam wasn’t frightened of who he was. He wasn’t frightened of who she was.
And he’d sung to her.
What had possessed her to throw a tantrum and run for the hills? Well, for Renmark. She’d run to where her parents were. Anywhere but near Sam. And maybe, maybe there was a big dollop of immaturity on her part. She felt herself redden again. Tantrum was right, covering up for her flippant neglect of caution and modesty.
Modesty? Would he now think of her as a fallen woman because she had matched him so heartily?
She sighed, wondered if he still sang. Or did he now only sing when he got drunk? Did he even still get drunk? Of course he would.
Still in the water, Bucky barked. He paddled harder back to shore and, still barking, he landed and then shook himself wildly again. He took off into the bush at a run. Maggie, fearful Boyd might have returned, crouched, ready to run as well.
Emerging from the bush further along the bank, with a gleeful Bucky bouncing alongside, ears flapping, came Sam on Pie.
Sam shook his head. ‘No sign of him.’ He checked the rifle was snug in its sling on the saddle then dismounted. ‘He was a bloke who spoke to me at the Renmark wharf. Said he wanted to buy Pie.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘He said that he’d find me again, even after I’d told him the horse wasn’t for sale. I reckon he followed me here.’ He glanced at Maggie, who stood there, twisting the handle of her bag. He hadn’t seen her this nervous before. ‘How is Mrs Thompson?’ he asked.
‘Badly shaken, but all right.’
He nodded. ‘That’s good.’ He looked over his shoulder at the few men on horses who rode back into the village. ‘They don’t want you here, Maggie.’ He glanced back at her. Bedraggled, she looked like something the plough had turned over. Bits of sticks in her hair, smudges of dried mud on her face and her dress. He looked down at his hands, not wanting to stare. His mouth twitched. It was not the time to laugh.
‘What did you say?’ she asked, eyes wide.
He glanced at her, set his mouth. ‘I said, they don’t want you here.’
But her face immediately shut down and she bit her lip. ‘My hearing,’ she said, catching his eye. ‘The blast of the boiler. My hearing hasn’t returned to normal.’
Jesus. How had he forgotten what that might have been like for her? The urge, the need to grab her and hold her tight was strong. He bunched his hands. Better get used to resisting, Sam Taylor. Get her home and get the hell out of the way.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t have forgotten that.’ He looked up. The sun was on its way into late afternoon. ‘Ah, we need to figure out what we’re going to do. Too risky with that bloke on the loose to set off for home now.’ Home. He needed to tell her about Lorcan. ‘Before anything,’ he started, and she moved into his line of sight, trying to hear him better, he assumed. He gripped Pie’s reins. Bucky sat at his feet, his waggling tail creating havoc in the dust, kicking up a little storm over them. Sam pointed ahead, past the landing. ‘Let’s walk over there.’
‘What is it? Something at home?’ she asked, walking side on, watching his mouth move.
‘Your pa broke his leg.’
She reached out and gripped his forearm, a shocked breath following, and her face crumpled.
Sam leaned a bit closer so she could hear. ‘When I left, he was out to it. It happened a few days before your ma got the letter from Mrs Chaffey saying that you’d disappeared.’
‘Is he …?’
Sam could only shrug as her hand heated his skin. ‘Ard couldn’t come with your pa laid up, and his baby is coming real soon, maybe even born by now. Miss Linley was just about to—you know.’ Then deliberately, he looked down at her hand on his arm and she snatched it away. That’s how it should be; that’s how it’ll stay.
Leading Pie, and with Bucky following cheerfully barking at blowflies, they walked in silence until they reached a slight bend in the river, a little distance from where the men worked the sawmill.
‘I can camp here the night, but we need to find you somewhere,’ he said. He tied Pie’s reins to a low branch reaching out over the sand, its bare wood long dead. Was sturdy enough because Pie wouldn’t try going anywhere. Sam started undoing the girth then slipped the saddle off. ‘We’ll start back first thing in the morning.’
‘You said they don’t want me here. I’ll camp with you.’
He eyed her. ‘You won’t.’
‘Sleeping in the open doesn’t bother me. I don’t think they’ll help me with a place to stay.’
He swept the blanket from Pie’s back and tossed it over the saddle. ‘I’ll ask someone myself to take you in for the night. You will not be sleeping here.�
�� Sam didn’t need to look at her to feel the anger coming off her in waves. Too bad, Miss Maggie. ‘Wait here.’ That’s when he did look at her, to see if she got the message. ‘Wait here,’ he repeated, making sure she’d heard. She had, but she seemed nervous again. Sam relented. ‘He won’t come here now,’ he said. ‘And I’ll only be a few minutes then I’m back for—’ He broke off and looked over her shoulder.
Maggie had turned to see what he was staring at. A paddle-steamer was pulling in to the landing. He knew it, and not only for its name emblazoned on the wheelhouse.
The Sweet Georgie, Dane MacHenry’s sleek, shallow-draught steamer, glided to where the Jolly Miller had tied up, and a black-haired man on deck threw a mooring rope onto the landing.
Sam squinted at the boat in the late afternoon sun. ‘Maybe I won’t have to go to the village folk after all.’
Maggie watched as Sam greeted the captain of this fine-looking steamer, the Sweet Georgie. He’d said that it belonged to her cousin, Dane MacHenry, and that he’d met Dane at O’Rourke’s Run. Maggie had never met him or his wife Georgina.
She shaded her eyes from the sun. There were shoulders clapped, handshakes, and then the long gaze from Dane as he sought her out. He lifted a hand in greeting then, with Sam, wrestled the gangway over the side and strode off the boat to where she stood.
As they neared, Maggie saw the strong family resemblance. Dane could be her brother’s twin, they were so alike. The dark hair, the blue eyes and the set of their jaw. Ard was heavier built. Dane was taller. When he got closer, his gaze was familiar—the same as Ard’s when he studied something.
‘Delighted to meet you, cousin Maggie,’ he said and stepped forward to kiss her cheek.
‘And you, Dane.’ She attempted to dust herself off. ‘I must apologise for my appearance.’
‘Not at all.’ He was searching her face. ‘I believe you’ve had quite the adventure.’ He turned to Sam and clapped him on the shoulder again. ‘You must tell me all. We won’t be sailing through the night, I’m not a fan of it, so perhaps we can catch up on news over a meal and some wine.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘Head off in the morning for Renmark,’ he said. ‘I would be pleased to have you stay the night on board. There are cabins, and both of you are welcome.’
That would suit Maggie perfectly well, if she could get past thinking about the boat’s boiler. It might also mean she’d be able to have a proper wash.
‘Sounds good to me. Especially for Miss O’Rourke here,’ Sam said, indicating with a tilt of his head. ‘Hopefully you have a tub on board. Might have to sluice her down before she settles into a good night’s sleep.’
Dane chewed the inside of his cheek.
Maggie thought the steam coming up from her neck might be visible. She kept her eyes on her cousin. ‘Thank you. A good bed, and to have a good sleep would be just the thing.’ She hesitated. ‘I don’t mean to sound churlish or even naïve, but the … boiler? I was on Mr Finn’s boat, nearly right to the end.’ She closed her eyes a moment. ‘I saw one of the men, I couldn’t tell who, he was all burned … He slipped into the water to drown.’
Dane pressed her shoulder. ‘A mercy for him then.’ He drew in a deep breath. ‘But an horrific experience, for you. My dear cousin, we can never be sure of anything, but I can say that the Sweet Georgie’s boiler is many years younger than the Goodnight’s was, and is many journeys shy of the old lady’s record. I feel sure that we’ll be safe on board.’
Maggie gave a smile. ‘I would be happy to help prepare an evening meal.’
‘Wonderful. My man on board, Joe, is an old farrier, new to the boats these last years when he’s not looking after my horses, and he hasn’t taken to cooking. I’m only a passable cook.’
Maggie glanced at the boat. ‘Your wife is not with you?’
‘She decided to take the children to my mother’s in Swan Hill when we got news that the Goodnight had blown up. She knew Mr Finn, you see. Learning of his death was very tough for her too.’ He took a deep breath. ‘For all of us. We’ve just come back from the site. Nothing to see, we just paid our respects.’ He indicated the boat with a wave of his arm. ‘Shall we?’
Maggie stepped beside him to walk to the Sweet Georgie. Bucky bounded alongside, bumping her and then Sam in turn.
‘I hope you are somewhat recovered, Maggie,’ Dane said.
‘As well as can be. My hearing is still not so good at the moment.’
‘It might never repair.’
She nodded, had thought of that possibility. There was naught to do but bear it. She had her life; partial hearing loss could be lived with. Now she thought only of getting on board the boat and leaving this place, never to return.
‘I see you have one of these curlies.’ Dane pointed at Bucky. ‘Been meaning to acquire one for myself.’ He reached down and attempted to scratch Bucky’s ear. The dog gave a short gruff growl and danced away to the other side of Maggie. ‘Ah. A boy who looks after his mistress.’
At the gangway, Dane allowed Maggie to go ahead of him.
Sam said, ‘I’ll come back for dinner. I’ll take the dog and my horse and bunk down on the bank for the night.’
Maggie stepped onto the deck of the Sweet Georgie. ‘I’m sure Bucky will make up his own mind,’ she said.
‘I’m sure he will,’ Sam agreed politely, glancing at the tangle of twigs that dropped out of her hair.
Oh dear, I think I must look a sight. There was a comb somewhere in her bag, but when she peered inside for it, she felt dismay. Everything looks a sight.
‘Which cabin would you like me to have?’ she asked Dane.
He pointed across to the other side. ‘Around that way. I wasn’t expecting passengers, but there’s one we keep close to prepared just in case.’
Sam stood on the bank side of the gangway. He looked down at the dog. ‘Come on, Bucky. We’ll go back to Pie, wash up some, and return for dinner.’
Bucky seemed to consider that but then bounded up the gangway to sniff around near where Maggie stood, and plopped at her feet.
‘Good boy, Bucky,’ Maggie said.
When she looked at Sam, his usually placid features were disturbed by a frown.
Maggie thrust up from sleep, wide awake in the dark space, her mind still on the swirling smoke of her dream. Where am I? She relaxed and dropped back to the thin pillow. She was on Dane’s boat.
The evening’s meal had been simple. Fresh damper, a chunk of corned beef with fried onions. There was a pot of jam on board—fig, Dane had told her—so some simple biscuits of flour, water and sugar, baked with a spread of jam, had done for sweets. Maggie was too tired to be more creative.
Over dinner, she told them all that had happened at Olivewood on that awful day, and her reasons for running. Dane and Joe had interjected here and there, questioning this and that. Sam had remained stoic, unreadable, and concentrated on his meal.
Aches and pains in her back and legs had begun sometime after dinner. She was overtired, and her body cried out for the right sort of sleep. Would she ever be able to sleep that sort of sleep again?
Now, in bed, Maggie wriggled trying to relieve the restlessness in her legs, but no position seemed to work. Bathing last night using just a deep basin of hot water did not go far to easing her muscles and bones. A deep bath would have to wait.
She’d refreshed the water more than once, had washed her hair and sponged as much dirt as she could from her dress. Both would dry overnight. Her underwear had to be washed properly and so after retiring for the night, she’d stripped down to nothing but the bedsheet wrapped around her, to scrub at her chemise and drawers. They hung on a rope strung near the open window and hopefully would dry quickly. Her hat and pinafore had also been soundly washed and set out to dry. At least she felt some way towards looking more civilised than she had earlier. She remembered Sam’s comment about needing to be sluiced.
She touched the little purse still around her neck. If she had a chance to go to the
village in the morning, she’d offer the folk there some recompense for their trouble. It was the least she could do with what little she had.
A light breeze drifted in. She’d opened a window earlier, hoping the mosquitoes wouldn’t be too annoying at this time of year. There were a few buzzing pests around, but on the whole she’d been comfortable.
She peered outside to study the sky. It hosted a glaring three-quarter moon and a clear night sprinkled with clouds of bright stars. Maggie rested her chin on her arm against the sill. She was homeward bound. Safe on her cousin’s boat, she knew it wouldn’t be long before she was in her mother’s arms. She’d help at the Run, a place she’d not lived yet, and she’d nurse her father back to health if—please God—he was still alive. Perhaps she’d find paid work in due course. Maybe she’d venture back into South Australia. After all, women there would be voting soon. She had no idea when women in Victoria would be allowed to vote.
Perhaps she’d win Sam back, and they’d come to South Australia together, although she hadn’t yet asked him if he was married. Surely he would have said, or would have mentioned a wife as men do—oh-so-casually throw the words ‘my wife says this’ or ‘my wife did that’ into the conversation as if they thought their virtue needed protection from danger in the form of a single woman.
Maggie peered into the night to where Sam slept. A low glow of campfire marked the spot. She imagined him awake. Was he thinking of those two particularly wonderful times they’d spent together, when his callused hands had slid along her skin and tingles had followed, trailing breathtaking delight? Or when he’d brushed her breasts with his knuckles, until his hand slid over her belly and between her legs, stroking and teasing. Or when she gripped his wrist, begging him to stop, to keep going, to stop …
The secret part between her legs throbbed for his hand now, but the want of it only made her cry. Time and again she had touched herself there for pleasure, but tonight she was tired, and sad. It only made her feel lonely.
