by Darry Fraser
Her hands were damp. They were all but healed from the rope burn. She wiped one, then the other, switching the bundle of letters as she did so. All those letters, and she hadn’t received any of them. It could only have been one person’s handwriting that scrawled Return to Sender on each of them—that awful Angus Boyd. Maggie shuddered. She really must write to Mrs Chaffey to explain herself, to apologise, and properly inform her about what had happened. She’d write to Nara, too.
A noise. What’s that? She looked at Bucky. The dog stared back at her then swung his head upriver towards Echuca, and his tail began to wag.
The boat was on its way. The Lady Mitchell appeared, serene and graceful, gliding over the water. So nervous, Maggie was having trouble keeping still.
As soon as she figured the man in the wheelhouse would be able see her, she started to wave. Waved madly when it looked like the boat wasn’t going to stop, so she waved again, both hands this time. As it came closer, she could see two men at the wheel. Mr Strike and … not Sam.
Then closer still and she could hear the pistons working, the paddle wheels gently slapping on the water, but couldn’t hear or see any signs of the boat slowing down. For the first time, she felt afraid that her plan might fail. The steamer was so close she could see the pipe in Mr Strike’s mouth. He lifted one finger off the wheel at her and reached up to pull a lever. The boat’s whistle blasted her ears and she covered them before the noise of it pierced her fragile eardrums. Her brains rattled. At the same time, Bucky let out the wildest barks she had ever heard, dancing round ’n round on the landing.
The boat wasn’t going to stop. Maggie stared at it, stared hard at any individual on board that she could see, most of whom waved at her as they glided by. Dumbfounded, all she could think of was that Sam had kept himself out of sight. Even hidden his horse, for God’s sake. How ridiculous was that?
Bucky was going mad behind her. She spun around. There, mounted on Pie and watching her with intense interest, was Sam Taylor.
He leaned over the saddle, reins loose in his hands. ‘Morning, Maggie-mine. Waiting for freight or something?’
‘Sam.’ His name was a breath on her voice. Her eyes smarted with tears that still wouldn’t come. Her throat had a lump in it.
He looked pointedly at the bundle of letters in her hand. ‘I’ll have a word with your brother when I see him.’ Then he nodded in the direction of the steamer that left a frothy wake behind. ‘You missed the boat.’
She held up the bundle and ignored his quip. ‘I wanted you to see that, except for the two I did send back, it’s not my handwriting on the envelopes. I didn’t receive them to return them. And, I did send a few letters afterwards.’
Unflappable Sam shook his head. ‘Never got ’em.’
‘It must have been Angus Boyd at the post office tampered with our mail.’
‘And why would he have done that?’
‘Perhaps he thought you were a problem. To him. He’d asked me to walk out with him. I didn’t want that.’
He tilted his head, considering that. ‘All right.’
‘You missed the boat,’ she said into the silence. ‘Ard said you’d gone to town.’
‘Hmm.’ He nodded. ‘Changed my mind. I camped out, just over there,’ he said pointing over his shoulder. ‘Wanted some peace and quiet. No singing, no drinking.’
‘Why are you here now, then?’ she asked.
He lifted a shoulder as if his reason was nothing noteworthy. ‘What are you doing here, on the landing?’
‘I had to stop you leaving.’ She waved the letters. She might as well, her hand was shaking anyway.
‘You could have just thrown them back on the fire. I don’t need them.’ His hazel gaze was still on her as he leaned over the saddle.
She shook her head. ‘I had to stop you leaving.’
‘You said.’
She sniffed, held her head up high. ‘I think I should marry you, after all.’
He waited a beat. Long enough for a bloom of heat to creep up her neck, along her jaw and over her cheeks. She felt it scorch her scalp.
‘Hmm.’ He tilted his head, considering again. ‘All that drudgery and bein’ enslaved to the laundry tubs and the fifty babies? I don’t think so, Maggie O’Rourke.’
Still holding her head high, she said, ‘We will make it so that we each have our own interests while we are married. And we’ll … raise the family, the children who might come, together.’
‘Will we?’
‘Yes. That’s fair, I think. And I will support you in what you want to do, and you will support me in what I want to do. Like Ard and Linley. Or like Dane and Georgina. Or our parents.’
‘Hmm. That is fair.’
‘Within reason,’ she said.
But he still hadn’t moved a muscle.
When he did, it was only to sit up straight and stretch. ‘I’m not negotiating the finer details now. I just want to know that I’ve got a woman who wants to be with me. Me, Sam Taylor.’ He tapped his chest. ‘That’s why I’m here, to tell you one more time. One last time. I want a woman who wants to be with me,’ he repeated. ‘For who I am.’
She nodded. ‘I’m her.’
‘Are you?’
‘I am.’ She nodded again. ‘I am that woman.’
He slid off Pie, let the reins dangle over the horse’s neck. ‘I sing when I’m drunk. I build things, and I’m a smithy, by my father’s trade. I know my a-b-c, thanks to my ma making sure I went to school.’ He took a breath. ‘I want you. I want kids. Most of all, I want you to be you, whatever that is. That’s all there ever was for me. Nothing else.’
He was standing so close, Maggie had to look up a bit. ‘You sing when you’re sober, too.’
‘When I’m happy.’ He brushed loose hair out of her eyes. ‘For a job, I want to breed horses.’ He looked down at Bucky wedging between them. ‘Maybe dogs, too. I want to finish building the house I started. For you, for us, Maggie. We can make our life something to look forward to each day. Not drudgery, not stifling.’
‘I know we can do it.’
‘I love you more than—’ He held up her hand that held his letters. ‘More than words could say in a million letters. And I have done for all of my life.’
‘I know …’ Her voice broke and she stopped.
‘And when babies come?’ he asked, still holding her hand.
‘Everyone loves babies,’ she burst.
He waited.
She swallowed. ‘I’m scared about babies, Sam. But I don’t want to be without you, I’m more scared of that. I love you, and I’ll love them, too. Of course I will.’
He considered again. ‘Well, we’ll have to make getting babies far more interesting, then. Do a bit more of that wondrous business.’
She sobbed a laugh. Stepped into him.
Bucky ducked out of the way and ran off back down the track.
Sam wrapped his arms around her. She felt the heat of him, smelled the sweat of the day before. Then his whiskers were scratchy on her cheek, and his chin lightly slid down her throat.
She pressed his chest and leaned away. Gripping his arms, she held on. ‘Don’t let me go again, Sam Taylor.’
‘I don’t believe I ever will, Maggie O’Rourke.’
Acknowledgements
Thank you, dear readers—it’s all about you! Big and hearty thanks to my beta reader, Susan Parslow for the red-pen edits. Grateful thanks to Heather Everingham, historian Renmark-Paringa, for answering email after email of mine, ensuring I had invaluable, correct information that gave me a lively picture of the Renmark township in the mid-1890s. Any mistakes within are mine. To the proud volunteers keeping the history alive at Olivewood, the Chaffey’s nineteenth century home. To Barry and Maureen Wright, Burra, for their River Murray knowledge, their book River Murray Charts and their kind replies to my emails seeking information. Again, any mistakes are mine. Thanks also to Captain Toby Henson, Swan Hill, and to Ronald and Margaret Baker’s book, Murray Rive
r Pilot. To Chris and Andrew ‘Brownie’ Brown of Ocean Grove—in June 2018 they visited Kangaroo Island alerting me to the Murray River Retriever, and to the Facebook group, I Own A Murray River Retriever. I hope I’ve done this wonderful breed of dog justice in my Bucky. The real Bucky’s story c1931 can be found on my website www.darryfraser.com. As always, to Fiona for traipsing the countryside on research trips with me, and to Tony for holding their fort while we’re away. To the Harlequin Mira team at HarperCollins Australia, and to Jo Mackay, my publisher, my editors in-house Laurie Ormond and Chrysoula Aiello, and editors Dianne Blacklock and Libby Turner for once again making this journey back in time live and breathe. With the magic performed by Christine Armstrong, Maggie O’Rourke lives on the cover, and thanks to Sarana Behan, my brand manager. We couldn’t do without our book retailers and our libraries. To my local booksellers, Big Quince Print, Kingscote Gift Shop, and Kingscote Newsagency—thank you. To the library staff and the community of Kangaroo Island. To friends who look after this authorly cave-dweller, and to family who’ve been on this journey with me the whole time. Lastly to the wonder dog, Hamish—life in the cave would be so different without him.
* * *
To Elder Uncle Barney Lindsey (with permission), Ngarrindjeri man, Gerard, South Australia, for his help on an earlier draft of the manuscript. To Tamara Hunyadi, Office of Deans: External Relations and Strategic Projects Portfolio - Chancellery and Council, University of South Australia for putting me in touch with Mr Lindsey.
ISBN: 9781489272140
TITLE: THE GOOD WOMAN OF RENMARK
First Australian Publication 2019
Copyright © 2019 Darry Fraser
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