"Mary." Papa's deep, laughing voice sang out across the garden. "It's about time. I was beginning to think you weren't comin'."
Papa had been standing by the wisteria, talking to Miss Davenport. But when the cart pulled up at the gate, he left Miss Davenport and went to give Mrs. McCarthy a hand down from her seat.
Papa liked Mary McCarthy, too, same as Missy. He liked her a lot. Missy had asked him once if he liked Mrs. McCarthy enough to marry her. But Papa just laughed and tweaked her curls and told her neither he nor the widow was the marryin' kind. Missy thought it was a funny thing to say, since Papa and Mrs. McCarthy had both been married once, which seemed to indicate they were the marrying kind after all. But it'd relieved her just the same. Missy wouldn't have minded having Mrs. McCarthy for a new mama. But it woulda meant having Tad as a stepbrother, and Missy figured she couldn't abide that, so she was glad it wasn't going to happen.
She knew Mrs. McCarthy was older than Papa, but it was hard to tell how much older, because Aunt Hetty said the bush was hard on a woman's complexion. Missy wasn't sure what a complexion was, but she thought it was probably a grownup's word for a woman's face, because the few times Aunt Hetty had visited them, she never stuck her nose out of the house without a heavy veil on, and she spent hours rubbing funny-smelling creams into her skin.
Looking at her now, Missy supposed Mary McCarthy was pretty, in a way. Her hair was so dark, it was almost black, and she had dark-brown eyes that always seemed to laugh at whatever they saw. She was a tall woman, almost as tall as Papa, and tough as jerked beef. She'd spent so many years throwing around bags of grain and lifting heavy barrels that her arms were as hard and strong as most men's.
But that didn't stop her from taking Papa's hand and letting him help her climb down from the cart, as if she didn't do it all the time by herself. Even when she was standing solid on her own two feet, Papa still held her hand, and he smiled at her and sort of leaned toward her in a way that, for a moment at least, seemed to shut everyone else out. Then he said something to her in a low voice, something that must have been funny, because his dimples flashed and she laughed and reached out to playfully slap him on the cheek.
Missy could see Tad, still sitting on the bench of the cart and staring down at his mother. Tad was tall and dark-haired and wiry like his mother, but he wasn't pretty like her, and at the moment he had an awful scowl on his face. It had something to do with the time Papa spent alone with Mrs. McCarthy in her house, but Missy didn't understand it, and the threat about the soap meant she kept her mouth shut and didn't ask.
Something—a small sound, or maybe it was just a slight movement—made Missy glance back at Miss Davenport. She still stood by the wisteria, right where Papa had left her. She looked small and fragile and a little sad, standing there alone like that. Like Tad, she had a funny look on her face. Not sulky, like Tad. But there was still something about the way she stared at Papa and Mrs. McCarthy that reminded Missy of Tad. Her face looked pinched, like something was hurting her. She sucked in a deep breath and took a step forward, and Missy thought she meant to walk over and meet Mrs. McCarthy. Only instead, she did something strange.
Smoothing her hair with both hands, as if to make sure it wasn't messed up, she turned her back on Papa and Mrs. McCarthy and swung away to the left, to where Mr. Whittaker stood talking to some of the mining people from Brinkman.
Mr. Whittaker had just got back from Adelaide yesterday. He'd been away so long that Miss Davenport had been afraid he wouldn't get back in time for the dance, and she'd been really glad to see him when he rode up this morning.
Papa hadn't, though. It wasn't that he hadn't been friendly to Mr. Whittaker, because of course he had. It was just that, as he stood watching Miss Davenport go with Mr. Whittaker to see to the stabling of his horse, Missy had heard Papa muttering something.
Something about how he wished they'd have finished the shearing a few days earlier.
The horse races were scheduled to be held in the late afternoon, in the fields behind the woolshed.
But first came other, less serious events. Some were typical athletic competitions, such as one might see at any fair in England. But most were peculiar contests that involved things like men rolling down hills in barrels, or trying to run with pumpkins balanced on their heads.
Amanda turned her back on the field of laughing, half- drunken men trying to catch their tumbling pumpkins, and stared out over the crowd of unfamiliar people who had assembled for O'Reilly's after-shearing festivities.
She wished Christian hadn't left her here alone while he went in search of refreshment; without his solid, very English presence at her side, she felt out of place, adrift. A dusty wind tugged at her skirts and slapped her bonnet strings against her cheek and left her with a strange, restless feeling she didn't understand.
She didn't belong here. She didn't belong in this raw, wild, disturbing land. She didn't belong someplace where rough, hard-drinking, hard-swearing men in worn white moleskin trousers and high boots mingled freely and unconcernedly with ladies in silk dresses and gentlemen in high-buttoned frock coats and celluloid collars. Where men raced across sheep paddocks with pumpkins on their heads and dances were held in woolsheds.
"Frightfully sorry to have taken so long." Christian's well- bred English voice sounded behind her. "But I have, at last, returned."
She swung around to find him triumphantly bearing two mugs of cider. She was so glad to see his familiar, pleasant face that she laughed. "My dear Mr. Whittaker, I was beginning to fear you'd decided to emulate the indigenous practice, and gone walkabout."
He handed her one of the deliciously cool mugs and grimaced. "Peculiarly irrational practice, that. Actually, I was forced to send one of the lads up to the house for a fresh barrel of cider. Some cretin must have dumped at least two bottles of rum into the stuff in the woolshed."
"Probably Hannah and Liam," said Amanda, sipping the cider. It was sweet and tangy and decidedly nonalcoholic.
"Dear me." Mr. Whittaker looked shocked. "Do you think so? Well, at least they won't be able to tamper with this lot. I set Jacko to guarding the fresh barrel, so there shouldn't be any more problems of that sort."
Amanda swallowed a chuckle and swiveled away before her face could betray her. Evidently Mr. Whittaker didn't know that Jacko was the children's favorite accomplice.
The smile faded from her lips as her gaze fell on Patrick O'Reilly, standing in the center of the field. He was one of the rough men in moleskin trousers and worn leather boots. He had his blue cotton shirt open at the neck and his hat tipped back on his sun-streaked hair as he tried to organize some score or so half-grown boys jostling for position in a line. At the sight of him, her stomach clenched and her blood heated treacherously. Just at the sight of him.
"What are those lads doing?" she asked as she watched Liam shove Tad McCarthy hard enough to make the bigger boy stagger. Tad shoved Liam back, and O'Reilly stepped forward and separated the boys just in time to keep Liam from letting fly with his left fist. So the two lads disliked each other, did they? Amanda tried hard not to let the thought please her, but it did. "Isn't it almost time for the horse races to begin?"
Mr. Whittaker slipped two fingers into the pocket of his brocade waistcoat and pulled out a gold pocket watch at the end of a long chain. "No, still an hour yet." He snapped the watch closed and stowed it away again before squinting at the sun-washed field. "That would be the medley race assembling."
"The what?"
"It's a peculiar contest—Irish in origin, I should think. The first fifty yards are run on your hands and feet, the next fifty are run backward, and the final fifty are any way you can, no holds barred."
"That sounds like a recipe for disaster."
"It usually is."
O'Reilly stuck a sheepherder's whistle in his mouth and shouted something around it at the boys. The contestants hunkered over onto their hands and feet.
"Ready, lads? On your mark ... set ..." The she
er, piercing shriek of the whistle cut across the field. The boys lurched forward like a line of drunken camels.
"Oh, dear," said Amanda, her eyes on the scrambling contestants. "Liam isn't doing very well."
"No. His arms are too short compared to his legs. But just look at Tad McCarthy go."
Legs splayed outward, skinny arms flashing, his bony buttocks thrusting back and forth, Tad McCarthy charged down the field toward the first fifty-yard line.
"Come on, Tad!" Mary McCarthy's deep, throaty voice carried easily above the cheers and encouragements of the other spectators. "Good onya, lad!"
Amanda's gaze shifted from the cat-walking boys to the tall, dark-haired woman punching her fist into the air on the far side of the field. At the sight of her, something burned in Amanda's chest, something hot and uncomfortable that she realized with a sense of shame was jealousy.
The woman might lack Katherine O'Reilly's rare beauty and ethereal air of breeding, Amanda thought, and years of hard work and exposure to wind and sun might have thickened and tanned her skin, and set squint lines in the corners of her eyes and laugh lines around her mouth; but she was still a handsome woman. A woman strong enough and tough enough to take whatever this country could throw at her, and still survive.
As Amanda watched, the widow moved over to stand beside Patrick O'Reilly and rest one hand, casually, on his arm. O'Reilly's gaze left the field and he -smiled down at the woman beside him, his dimples deepening as a look passed between them, a look not meant to be seen by others.
For Amanda, it was as if the shouts and cheers of the crowd, the flashing arms and legs of the running boys, all disappeared. She was conscious only of the sun beating down on her from out of the hard blue sky and of the wind, gusting wild and lonesome across the dry grass as she stared at Patrick O'Reilly.
Her love for him might be unwanted, but it seemed to grow stronger, run deeper, with every passing day. It wasn't something she could control, however much she might wish she could. She wasn't even certain for how much longer she could control herself. Every night after she put out her lamp, she now found herself lying awake beneath her covers, her thoughts on the man in the room across from her own. It was as if she could hear his voice, calling to her, tempting her. Come to my bed tonight...
"Now they change. See?" Christian Whittaker's gently modulated voice broke through her thoughts. "Liam is good at this next bit."
Amanda's attention snapped back to the race. The boys were running upright now, but in reverse, their backs to the finish line, their elbows and heels pumping wildly as they churned backward, kicking up a cloud of dust that hung thick in the air.
Tad McCarthy led the field by a good five yards, followed by two other boys strung out behind him, then Liam. But Liam was gaining on the others rapidly. He might lack the McCarthy boy's height, but his legs were long, and he was as lithe and agile as a well-bred greyhound. While the other boys stumbled and flailed about awkwardly, Liam streaked backward down the field as if he were born to run in reverse.
He passed the two other boys easily, but Tad had set up a formidable lead over the first third of the course. If he could hold his own in this part, he was bound to win in the final sprint.
"Come on, Liam," Amanda whispered, straining forward. "Run." She might have had her problems with the boy in the past, but things had eased between them since the didgeridoo incident, and she suddenly, desperately wanted him to beat
Tad McCarthy. She wished she could hoot and wave her arms like the other men and women in the crowd, but of course she would never do anything so undignified and ungenteel. So she clenched her fists at her sides and whispered again, "Come on, Liam."
She saw the McCarthy boy's face darken with rage and determination as he watched Liam steadily gain on him. For Amanda, the race had narrowed down to these two boys; as far as she was concerned, the other lads on the field might as well have ceased to exist. Tad's mouth hung open as he sucked in air, his skinny, gangly arms and legs working hard. He kept swiveling his head back and forth, trying to keep his eye on where he was going, so that he wouldn't waver too far from a straight line. But he couldn't seem to stop himself from throwing wild glances back at the lean, brown-haired boy closing on him fast.
Like Tad, the other boys kept craning around, trying to watch where they were going. But Liam must have sighted on some distant point he used to keep his bearings, because he flew backward in a smooth, unbroken line, his brows drawn together in intense concentration. The distance between the two boys shortened to a couple of yards, then one. By the time they crossed the second fifty-yard line, Liam and Tad ran shoulder to shoulder.
They swung around at the same time, chests heaving, faces strained and sweat-streaked, arms and legs reaching forward to swallow the remaining distance in a final, wild sprint. Only, as they turned, Liam lurched sideways. Whether he did it deliberately or by accident, Amanda couldn't tell. The two boys collided with an audible smack of lean, hard flesh and bone.
Tad fell so hard, he practically did a complete somersault on the parched ground. Liam broke stride and pitched forward, falling on one knee. He flung out his hands to break the fall and, with a great heave, pushed himself back up off the ground. He was away again almost at once, but not before a blond-headed boy with a compact, powerful body streaked past him.
His face grimacing with effort and concentration and pain, the blond boy lunged through the tape. Whistles and horns sounded, the crowd cheered. Liam hurtled across the finish line three seconds behind the winner, followed closely by Tad.
"Oh," said Amanda, choking on disappointment. "He came so close. But at least he came in second."
"Jolly good race," agreed Mr. Whittaker.
"Come on, Miss Davenport," shouted Hannah, running past with Missy by the hand. The cheering crowd surged forward, and Amanda allowed herself to be swept out onto the field to where Liam stood bent over, his head bowed, his hands braced on his knees as he sucked in air.
She saw Tad McCarthy step forward. Liam straightened up, and the two boys stared at each other, both still breathing hard, chests heaving, nostrils flaring. She thought for a moment they would shake hands. Then Tad's fist flashed out, catching Liam high on the cheek.
The force of the impact was great enough to lift Liam off his feet and send him flying backward. He hit the ground, hard.
And he didn't get up.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
"He tripped me out there." Tad McCarthy yanked away from the two men who'd grabbed him. "The bastard deliberately tripped me."
Amanda watched O'Reilly hunker down beside his son's limp body.
"Liam!" Missy cried. Amanda caught her just in time to keep the little girl from throwing herself at her unconscious brother.
"What's wrong with him?" asked Amanda, holding Missy in front of her, her arms looped around the little girl's shoulders. She was aware of Hannah, silent but wide-eyed and anxious beside them.
"He hit his head on a rock when he fell," said O'Reilly, sliding his fingers, tenderly, beneath the boy's head.
Liam stirred and moaned softly. His eyelids fluttered open, closed, then opened again.
O'Reilly laid a hand on the boy's chest, restraining him when he would have struggled up. "Rest easy for a minute, son." He glanced around at the assembled crowd. "Anyone got some water?"
A canvas bag appeared, passed from hand to hand. O'Reilly twisted off the top and slipped one arm under Liam's shoulders to raise the boy's head. "Here, drink this."
Liam drank deeply.
"That's enough for now." O'Reilly folded his handkerchief into a pad and soaked it with water. Without turning his head, he handed the bag to Hannah. "Think you're ready to sit up?" he asked Liam.
Liam nodded. O'Reilly eased himself behind the boy until Liam was half sitting, half leaning against O'Reilly's leg.
"You got yourself a nasty bump there." O'Reilly pressed the soaked pad to the swelling at the back of the boy's head. "But other than that I think you'll b
e right, mate."
"He might have a concussion," said Mary McCarthy, crouching down beside father and son. "It would be best if he went up to the house and rested awhile."
O'Reilly's head swiveled around to meet the widow's concerned brown eyes. "You're probably right."
Her arms still around Missy, Amanda felt a bittersweet ache burn like tears in her throat as she watched another one of those wordless, intimate interchanges pass between the two.
Liam jerked and would have scrambled up if his father's arm hadn't tightened around him, holding him down. "I can't go to the house now," said Liam, his voice rising. "I'm riding Fire Dancer in the first race."
O'Reilly's lips tightened in a firm line. "You're not riding anything, son. Not after a blow to the head like that."
"Bloody hell, you can't do this to me! Just because that bloody—"
"Whoa there, boy," said O'Reilly. "You better watch your language before you shock Miss Davenport here." He surprised Amanda by throwing her a grin as he slipped his other arm beneath Liam's knees and rose gracefully to his feet, the boy held easily against his chest. "Now I'm going to put you in the cart and drive you back up to the house. And you're going to stay there, in bed, until I say you can get up. Or that bump on your head will be the least of your worries. Do I make myself understood?"
Liam's swirling green-brown eyes met his father's determined blue stare.
It was Liam's gaze that faltered and fell. "Yes, sir."
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