September Moon

by Candice Proctor

  Amanda's head jerked up. "Consumed?"

  "Yes. I understand you had it for dinner last night."

  Oblivious to her horrified, wide-eyed stare, he rolled on. "They usually grow to about four feet. The perentie—that's the Veranus giganteus, incidentally—can reach eight feet. But it is rarely seen north of Alligator Gorge."

  "I suppose I should be thankful for that, at least," said Amanda, forcing a tight smile.

  "Actually, it's not the goannas you need to worry about. It's the snakes that are poisonous—and the most deadly of all is the brown snake. If you ever see one of those, move away quickly."

  "Brown snakes?" repeated Amanda, swallowing hard. She reached quickly for the teapot. "Would you like some more tea?"

  "Please," he said, handing her his cup.

  He was younger than she'd first taken him to be, she decided; surely no more than twenty-four or -five. Yet it was obvious that he had been born and raised a gentleman. He was so polite, so reticent, so delightfully English. A man like Christian Whittaker, she thought, would never be caught publicly cavorting with loose widows in the middle of the afternoon. He would never boldly put his hands on a spinster governess's derriere, whatever the circumstances. And he would certainly never look at her with such naked heat in his eyes as to make her imagine for one, breathless moment that he was about to kiss her.

  Jerking her mind away from the thought, she carefully poured the tea. "Did you bring your family to Australia with you?"

  "Oh, I am not married yet. Not that I would have exposed a gently bred Englishwoman to this place, even if I were," he added, reaching for the cream.

  "Have you been here long?" she asked.

  "Three and a half years. Which means I have six months left of my four-year sentence."

  She laughed. "You make it sound like a prison term."

  His mustache lifted in a shy smile. "It feels like it, at times."

  "You mean to go back to England, then?"

  "Goodness, yes. I only came out because my father is a principal investor in the Brinkman Mining Company, and he wished me to keep an eye on things from this end. I fear I am not cut out to be a colonist. Apart from the fact that I think constantly of Home, I find this land too harsh. Too wild."

  "Yes. Its beauty is very stark, almost brutal, isn't it?" She stared off down the valley, over the barns and paddocks and stockyards of Penyaka. As she watched, O'Reilly came out of one of the stables and began to stroll up the hill toward the house. For some ridiculous reason, she felt her heart begin to beat faster.

  "You find it beautiful?" said Whittaker in surprise.

  "In a frightening, merciless way, yes. Don't you?"

  "At times, perhaps. Before this drought, the wildflowers used to bloom in the spring, and it could be surprisingly pretty. You wouldn't credit it looking at this scene now, but I've seen these hills knee-deep in lush green grass and the valley a waving sea of heliotrope daisies and bush bluebells and wild candytuft. And that creek ..." He gestured toward the twisted trail of dry rocks bleaching white in the sun. "It can run so full, you might think it a sizable river, if you did not know better."

  "This drought is bad, isn't it?" Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that O'Reilly had almost reached the entrance to the garden. With a peculiar sense of panic, she realized he was coming to join them on the veranda.

  She hadn't seen him since their encounter in the schoolroom last night, and she found herself suddenly wondering how she would comfortably be able to meet his eye. Which was ridiculous, she told herself. Nothing had happened. And yet... and yet, something had.

  Mr. Whittaker smoothed the ends of his mustache. "This drought will be the ruin of us all, I'm afraid, if it keeps up. Unless we get rain soon, all of the Flinders north of Melrose will be deserted except for the Aborigines and kangaroos— although I doubt there'll be many of them left either."

  She swung her head to stare at him. "Do you mean to say that O'Reilly is threatened? Here, on Penyaka?"

  His gaze flitted away from hers, as if he felt he'd said too much. "As to that, I don't know. Mr. O'Reilly is more fortunate than most in that his run contains a number of unusually deep water holes. The problem is the feed..."

  His voice trailed off as they watched Patrick O'Reilly come at them, the spurs on his boot heels rasping over the flagged garden path. He had a lean, long-legged way of walking, Amanda thought, that somehow managed to be both lazy and agile at the same time. His waistcoat hung open, and he had his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest so that she could see a swath of bare, sun-browned skin, tight with muscle, glistening with sweat. The man never seemed properly clothed.

  Her hand crept up to tug at her suddenly too-tight collar. She felt her pulse beating, fast, in the hollow of her neck as she watched him pause just short of the veranda, his thumb pushing his broad-brimmed hat back farther on his head. His vivid blue eyes met hers and for one, intense moment, a frisson of awareness passed between them. An intimate, frightening connection that she didn't want.

  Then he turned his head, and his gaze drifted to Mr. Whittaker and the very proper English tea she had laid out, and she saw a dimple crease his cheek. "Miss Davenport," he drawled, nodding to her. "Christian."

  She inclined her head and said, "Mr. O'Reilly," in a prim, stilted voice while Mr. Whittaker hastened to stand up and bow politely.

  O'Reilly sauntered over to the canvas water bag that hung in the shade of the veranda and reached for the tin mug dangling from its chain. "Warm this afternoon," he said over his

  Shoulder as he let the water splash into the mug. "Too bloody warm for August." With one fluid motion, he raised the cup and threw the water down his throat, then reached over to draw more.

  "Indeed," said Mr. Whittaker. "I shudder to think what it will be like in January."

  O'Reilly murmured something unintelligible. Tossing his hat to one side, he lifted the mug of water and upended it over the top of his head.

  He had his head flung back, his eyes squeezed shut. Amanda watched the water trickle down his lean, tanned cheeks to mingle with the sweat. More water darkened the tawny hair that curled against his forehead, and slid down the strong, taut curve of his throat. She felt something swell in her. Something secret and abandoned and painfully needy.

  "You haven't experienced an Australian summer yet, Miss Davenport," said Christian Whittaker, breaking into her thoughts.

  She jerked her gaze away from the raw, intensely physical man near the water bag. "No. I haven't."

  "The heat is indescribable. And the dust storms! Did you know it's possible to actually see one of them coming? It looks like a great, dirty curtain, being pulled across the sky by some giant, malevolent hand." He swept his arm dramatically through the air.

  'They'll be worse this year," said O'Reilly, coming to sprawl in the chair beside her, his long legs thrown out across the flagstones. He sat the way he walked, she decided: lazy, yet somehow exuding an aura of leashed energy.

  "Would you like some tea, Mr. O'Reilly?" she asked, reaching for a clean cup.

  "Tea?" He swung to face her, a gleam of amusement lighting his eyes. "Why, yes please, Miss Davenport."

  She could feel his teasing gaze upon her as she lifted the teapot and poured. She found it oddly disconcerting having him so close, knowing he was watching her. It was as if he radiated some sort of animal energy, so that even though she wasn't looking at him, she was still intensely aware of him, of his nearness, of his scent—the mingling of leather and hardworking man and the harsh Australian bush. When she passed him his tea, her hands shook so badly, the cup rattled in its saucer.

  She could not understand her absurd fascination with this Australian's body. The man virtually reveled in being uncultured, rude, irreverent—everything she despised. She glanced from Patrick O'Reilly, with his worn moleskins and unbuttoned serge shirt, to Mr. Whittaker, with his neat brown suit, bowler hat, and faint, pleasant aroma of bay rum and hair tonic, and felt a renewed surge of pleasu
re in the young Englishman's company.

  "I understand you ride out here to tutor Liam every week," she said, passing him a plate of sandwiches.

  "Every Thursday."

  "You must have tea with me again next week."

  "That would be wonderful, Miss Davenport," said Mr. Whittaker.

  She heard O'Reilly expel his breath in a little puff of air. She glanced at him sharply, but he had his hat pulled down low, hiding his face. If he were laughing at her, she couldn't see it.

  Then he pushed his hat back, his eyes narrowing as he stared off into the distance. Amanda twisted around to look, but all she could see was a red cloud of dust hovering heavy in the air, dispersing slowly on the breeze.

  "What is it?" she asked.

  "Bullockies, probably," he said. "Taking a load to the Cox run. The track cuts through Penyaka."

  She could see them now, two drays, each pulled by a team of eight bullocks. The drivers walked beside their loads, their enormous fourteen-foot bullwhips snapping as they called out to their teams. "Whoa back, Cranky. Come here, Blackie."

  They rolled up in front of the homestead, and O'Reilly stretched to his feet and lounged out to meet them. "G'day," he called, tucking the fingertips of both hands beneath his wide brown belt.

  "Will they spend the night here?" Amanda asked, watching O'Reilly walk up to the first driver, a tall, gangly man with a long, weather-worn face and protruding yellow teeth.

  "Probably," said Mr. Whittaker. "They often do."

  She could hear O'Reilly's voice, floating on the wattle- scented breeze. "... you can have all the water you want, and we've got tucker for you men. But we're mighty short on feed."

  One of the drivers—bullockies, O'Reilly had called them— worked his jaw and sent a stream of filthy tobacco juice shooting through the air to land with a splat in the dust. "No worries, mate. We're carryin' hay. Got to, these days."

  O'Reilly reached into his vest pocket to pul| out his pipe and tobacco pouch. "What's that do to your rate per ton- mile?"

  "We've had to put it up to three shillings."

  O'Reilly responded with a crude sexual expletive.

  Amanda's gaze flickered involuntarily to Christian Whittaker. He glanced away, his ruddy cheeks reddening. "Mr. O'Reilly's language can be ... colorful at times," he said awkwardly.

  "Yes. I had noticed."

  He looked at her then, his brown eyes warm with sympathy. "It must be very difficult for a lady of your obvious breeding and background to find herself in such primitive surroundings."

  She knew she should have welcomed his compassion and ready understanding of just how stressful her position here was; instead, she found that it irritated her for some reason, and she didn't quite know why.

  "Gee up." A shout from one of the bullockies brought them both around. "Gee up, Cranky." With a creaking of axles and a snapping of whips, the bullock teams moved off toward the creek bed. Amanda caught sight of Liam tearing alongside the lead dray, his head thrown back, whooping and laughing. His shirt was off, his young body lithe and brown in the sun. The dog Barrister barked joyously, racing by his side.

  "Oh, goodness." Mr. Whittaker started up. "There goes Liam, and I had a book in my satchel I meant to lend him."

  "I'll give it to him, if you like," said Amanda, also rising, but slowly, for she was not anxious for the afternoon with her new friend to end.

  "It's only a copy of Caesar's Commentaries on the Gallic War." He reached into the worn leather case beside his chair and came up with a small blue book. "I thought it might appeal to a boy such as Liam more than Virgil."

  He handed it to her and hesitated, seemingly as reluctant as she to end the interlude. "I suppose I must be off. The days are still fairly short and I don't like to ride in the dark." He settled his bowler hat on his neatly trimmed brown hair. "I shall see you next week?"

  "Yes." She tucked the slim volume under her arm and held out her hand. "I shall look forward to it."

  "As will I." He grasped her hand with gratifying warmth. "Good day, Miss Davenport. And thank you so much for the tea. It has been a pleasure."

  Still smiling faintly, she leaned against the veranda post to watch him leave. One of the men brought up Hermes, and her smile broadened as she watched Christian Whittaker coax his broad-backed roan into a reluctant trot that kicked up little eddies of dust still visible long after both man and horse had disappeared over the crest of the hill.

  Amanda lingered in the garden, enjoying the pleasant warmth of the evening until the hot ball of the sun sank toward the Flinders Ranges and a golden light drenched the valley, darkening the sky to a vivid indigo and throwing long shadows across hills bleached the color of ripe wheat.

  When she entered the parlor, she was surprised to find Hannah seated at the pedestal-based round cedar table that stood in the center of the room, her slim young body hunched over a book as she tried to read by the light of single candle.

  "You need more light, Hannah," Amanda said, closing the door behind her.

  Hannah's head jerked up. Slamming the book closed, she thrust it beneath the apron of the table and glared at Amanda, her hostile stare both willing her to go away and defying her to stay and interfere.

  "What are you reading?" Amanda asked.

  A muscle jumped along the girl's tightened jaw as she continued, silently, to stare at Amanda.

  Amanda walked over to the table and held out her hand. "Let me see it."

  She wasn't sure what she would have done if Hannah had refused. But after a moment's hesitation, Hannah sighed, threw Amanda a look of pure malice, and tossed the book onto the table.

  Amanda didn't know what to expect. A lurid romance, perhaps, which the child had somehow managed to acquire. The last thing she had anticipated was to find herself staring down at Liam's sadly abused copy of Virgil's Aeneid.

  The old chair creaked as Hannah thrust it back. She leapt to her feet and had half turned to leave before Amanda's hand flashed out to catch the girl's arm just above the elbow. "No. Hannah, wait."

  The girl's head whipped around. She stared at Amanda, a sneer on her lips, contempt flashing in her dark-brown eyes.

  Amanda stared back at her, feeling oddly at a loss. She picked up the book and held it out. "Why did you hide this from me?"

  Hannah glanced at the book but made no move to take it. "I'm not supposed to learn how to read it."

  "Who says?"

  Hannah laughed bitterly. "Miss Sutton. Miss Westbrook. Miss McDuff. Need I continue?"

  "I take it these ladies were some of your previous governesses?"

  Hannah nodded.

  "And they forbade you to learn Latin?"

  "Of course." She pinched her nose and raised her voice an octave in a vicious imitation of an English governess. "We women have delicate constitutions, weak spirits, and feeble mental abilities, my dear. It is not for us to go forth into the world, think great thoughts, and do great deeds. We leave that to the men, who are far better suited than us to a vigorous life. We females are destined for domesticity. The only education a woman needs is what is essential for her to please her husband, raise her children, and care for her household."

  "Do you believe that?"

  Hannah's hand fell slowly back to her side as she stared at Amanda in surprise. "No. Don't you?"

  "It would be difficult to reconcile with the realities of my own position in the world, now, wouldn't it?"

  Hannah paused, as if considering. "That didn't seem to bother any of the other governesses."

  "Perhaps not." Amanda held out the book again. "Here, take it. If you like, I could talk to your father about having you join Liam in his lessons with Mr. Whittaker. Or I could teach you myself."

  Hannah took the book, but only to drop it negligently back on the table and shrug. "No. Please don't. I'm not really that interested."

  Amanda wasn't convinced, but she decided to let it go for now. The girl thrust her hands in her pockets and turned away.

  "
Hannah?"

  She pivoted back around.

  "Do you know where Liam is? I have a book Mr. Whittaker asked me to give him."

  "He's probably hanging around the bullockies' camp. He usually does, whenever they come through. They don't let me stay because I'm a girl, but Liam likes to listen to their yarns. Sometimes they even let him have a sip or two."

  Surely she wasn't implying— It wasn't possible that— "A sip or two of what?" asked Amanda suspiciously.

  Hannah grinned at her. "Brandy. Rum. Whatever they've got."

  Amanda studied the girl, but Hannah was like her father and her brother; her face never gave anything away. "You're saying that to shock me, aren't you?"

  Hannah laughed out loud and turned away. Amanda walked slowly back to her room, convinced that Hannah was having her on again. Except what if she wasn't?

  With a muttered exclamation, Amanda grabbed a shawl and slammed out of the house.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The familiar scents of lavender and pinks rose up on the evening air to greet Amanda as she cut across the garden. But once she let herself out of the back gate to follow the dusty path toward the creek, she found herself in a different world.

  Without the benefits of the Chinese gardener's ingenious irrigation system, the vegetation here was parched, dying. Dry twigs and leaves snapped and crackled beneath the leather soles of her high-topped shoes. Withered grass rustled as her crinolined skirts swept the sides of the path. The air smelled of dust and the strange, volatile oils of the giant euca- lypts towering over her head.