September Moon

by Candice Proctor

  "I'll come and stay with the lad," said Mr. Whittaker, starting forward. "You'll be needing to get back down here to see to the horse races."

  "Thanks, Christian," said O'Reilly, heading for the cart that stood in the shade cast by the woolshed. "I'd appreciate it."

  "Do you think I should go, too?" asked Hannah, still clutching the water bag.

  "Probably not," said Amanda as she watched Mary McCarthy stalk over to where Tad stood alone, his head bowed, the toe of one scruffy boot digging a hole in the dusty paddock. "I'd have offered to go myself but, in my experience, boys Liam's age detest having females hover around them when they're hurt."

  Hannah gave a gentle, shaky laugh. "You're right. Liam doesn't like me making a fuss over him." Her gaze followed her father and brother off the field. The faint smile faded from her lips, and she swallowed hard. "Miss Davenport?"

  "Yes?"

  "Do you think Papa would let me ride Fire Dancer in the race? In Liam's place?"

  Instinctively, Amanda opened her mouth to say it wouldn't be proper; that it was indecent for a girl even to think about riding, astride, in a public race. But something about the needy, hopeful light she could see shining in Hannah's wide brown eyes stopped her.

  For Hannah, this race would be an unexpected chance to show her father just how competent and capable she was, to make him proud of her. Only there was more to it than that. Because it occurred to Amanda, looking at the girl's tightly drawn face, that this race also offered O'Reilly an opportunity. An opportunity to show his daughter that however strained their relationship might be—and for whatever reason—he still loved her. Loved her and trusted her and respected her.

  Amanda chewed her lower lip and regarded the girl beside her thoughtfully. "Can you do it, Hannah? I know you're a good rider, but—"

  "I can do it. I know I can."

  "Papa always says Hannah's the best horsewoman he's ever seen," put in Missy, looking up at her governess.

  Amanda drew in a deep breath, torn. She remembered the sight of Hannah galloping her black horse, bareback, across the hills near Cadnowie. But controlling a big, spirited stallion like Fire Dancer in a race in front of a cheering crowd was something else again.

  Hannah's hopeful, pleading gaze met Amanda's. "Papa would let me do it if you said it was all right. Will you talk to him for me?"

  Amanda hesitated only a moment. Then she gently laid one hand on the girl's thin shoulder. "I'll talk to him."

  O'Reilly was just leaving the homestead when he spotted Mary and Tad McCarthy coming up through the garden. He leaned against the doorjamb and fished his pipe out of his pocket, waiting for them.

  "Go on into the parlor. I'll be there in a moment, Thadeus," said Mary as they reached the veranda. "I want to talk to Mr. O'Reilly."

  Hiding his grin, O'Reilly shifted to one side so the boy could get past. Mary called the boy Thadeus only when she was really peeved at him.

  Tad hesitated, then shoved through the front door into the parlor, his shoulders slumped, his footsteps dragging.

  "How's Liam?" Mary asked, sinking down on one of the benches that lined the house wall, out of the sun.

  O'Reilly looked up from loading tobacco in his pipe and smiled. "Mad as hell about not being able to race Fire Dancer."

  Mary laughed. "I guess he's all right, then."

  O'Reilly reached over to strike a match against the worn wood of one of the veranda posts. "He's got a hard head."

  "Like his father."

  O'Reilly grunted around the stem of his pipe while Mary gave him a considering look and said, "Care to tell me what's goin' on between you and that pretty little English governess of yours?"

  O'Reilly choked, forgot he still held a lit match in his hand, and burned his fingers. "Bloody hell." He dropped the match and stuck his stinging fingers in his mouth. "You don't miss much, do you?" he said, shaking his hand.

  "Nope. Although you were both tryin' so hard not to look at each other, I doubt anyone else noticed."

  He eyed her thoughtfully. "Not jealous, are you, Mary?"

  The creases beside her eyes deepened. "No more'n you're jealous of Ian Stanley and Michael Tate."

  O'Reilly leaned back against the post and drew on his pipe. Michael Tate was the manager of Three Springs Station, on the other side of Brinkman. Like O'Reilly, Tate had been one of Mary's lovers for years. But the other man he'd never heard of. "Who the hell is Ian Stanley?" he asked.

  Mary tipped back her head and looked up at him. "A foreman with the Brinkman Mining Company. You invited him to your shindig today."

  "Did I? Guess I can't be too jealous, then."

  "I didn't think you would be." She loosened the pin that steadied her chip straw hat and took it off to use its broad brim as a fan. "Tell me somethin', O'Reilly: if I up and decided to marry one of the other men I see from time to time, how would you feel about it?"

  "Why, I'd be happy for you, of course. I really would be. You know that." He sucked on his pipe. "Why? You plannin' to settle down with this Stanley?"

  "Me?" Mary flapped her straw hat back and forth, and grinned. "Nah. I'm happy with my life the way it is. 1 just wanted to make sure you understood there'd be no hard feelings on my part, if you ever decided to settle down yourself."

  "Christalmighty." O'Reilly straightened up with a jerk. "I hope you're not suggesting I'm thinking about settling down with Amanda Davenport."

  "No? Well, I hate to tell you this, O'Reilly, but women like your Miss Davenport aren't usually comfortable with the kind of arrangements I like."

  "Hell, I know that."

  Mary stopped swinging her hat. "Then what exactly are you doin', O'Reilly? Ordo you even know?"

  O'Reilly knocked his pipe against the post and stared down at the hot ashes before grinding them beneath the sole of his boot. "I thought I did. It started out as ... oh, I don't know, some kind of a joke. It just got outa hand."

  "Did it?"

  He swiveled around to look down at her and smiled wryly. "Maybe you're right. Maybe that was just an excuse. Although after what my mother did to my father, and Katherine did to me, you'd think I'd be smart enough to steer clear of pretty women with English accents and snooty attitudes."

  "I didn't know your mother, of course. But from what little I've seen of Miss Davenport, I must say she doesn't remind me much of Katherine."

  O'Reilly shifted around to stare unseeingly out over Katherine's garden while his mind resurrected the image of his uninhibited, self-absorbed wife. "You're right, in a way. Amanda Davenport and Katherine are about as different as two women can get. .. except for their accents, and the fact that they both hate the Australian bush."

  Behind him, he heard Mary stand up. "Then you better think long and hard about what you're doing, Patrick O'Reilly." She moved forward to rest her hand, companion- ably, on his arm. "Because if Miss Davenport hates the bush, then she's never gonna to be happy here. And whether she leaves or stays, you're both gonna end up gettin' hurt."

  O'Reilly laid his hand over Mary's and met her frank brown eyes. "It's been good between us, Mary. Fun and uncomplicated."

  "Yeah." She smiled sadly. "But we both know it hasn't been as good as it can get. Which is probably why it's been so fun and uncomplicated."

  He swiveled around to rest his hands, lightly, on her waist, and kiss her cheek. "Know something, Mary? You're a very wise woman."

  "Nah. I'm just a woman." She gave his shoulder a light punch. "Go on now. You better get back down to the woolshed and see about those horse races. Tad and me'll stay up here with Christian and Liam for a while."

  * * *

  Halfway back down to the woolshed, O'Reilly was surprised to meet Amanda, coming up the dusty cart track toward him. "Somethin' wrong?" he asked.

  The climb to the house was steep enough that he could see her chest rise and fall with each labored breath as she paused beside him. She pressed the back of one white-gloved hand against her damp forehead, then frowned down at the res
ulting gritty smudge before saying, "There is something I wish to discuss with you."

  She'd been so ostentatiously avoiding him ever since that afternoon on the big flat rock that he tipped his hat back on his head and stared at her through narrowed eyes. "What's on your mind?"

  He watched her hesitate, and felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. Whatever it was, she wasn't overly eager to spit it out. "It's about"—she sucked in a deep breath—"the horse race. Who will ride Fire Dancer, now that Liam is unable to do so? You?"

  O'Reilly laughed. "At my weight? Not if I want the horse to have a fair chance at winning. I was thinkin' about gettin' Jacko to do it."

  "Oh?" She looked off across the dry creek bed to where a couple of kangaroos grazed with slow, graceful hops. "Is he a good rider?"

  O'Reilly studied her half-averted face, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. She was up to something, but he'd be damned if he could figure out what. "Good enough."

  "As good as Hannah?"

  If it'd been anyone other than Amanda who'd asked that question, he'd have suspected her of angling to convince him to let Hannah ride in the race. But surely Miss Don't-Say- That, Don't-Do-This, Don't-Touch-Me-There Davenport wasn't suggesting...

  "You care to explain that question?" he asked slowly.

  Her head swung around to meet his gaze squarely. "Hannah wants to ride in the race. And I think you ought to let her."

  He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned into her. "Oh you do, do you?"

  He watched her nostrils flare on a quickly indrawn breath. "Yes, I do."

  "You think I ought to let her ride in a horse race? In front of all those people? Wearing those trousers you're always carrying on about?"

  Her gaze flickered away from him again, and he knew the scheme didn't sit well with her. But for some reason he couldn't begin to understand, she was determined to push it.

  "She's wearing trousers now. Your guests have all seen her."

  "They haven't seen her astride that big bloodred stallion."

  The flush in her cheeks deepened, but she pushed on anyway. "Is Hannah as good a rider as Liam?"

  "Better." He propped his backside against a big old gum that had blown down at the side of the track a couple of years ago and now lay, pale and fading. "And it's not just because Hannah's older. I told you, she's one of the best riders I've seen in my life. It's a gift some people are born with, and she has it."

  "So you'll let her race?"

  O'Reilly let his breath out in a little huff. "I didn't say that. It's too dangerous. She could get hurt."

  "But..." He heard the confusion in her voice. "You just said she's a better rider than Liam, and you were willing to let him do it."

  "Liam's a boy."

  "What does that have to do with it?"

  "I can't believe you just said that. I'd have expected you of all people to agree that it has everything to do with it."

  "Well I don't." She gave him that thin-nosed, disdainful look she did so well. "Not in this instance."

  "Christ." He pushed away from the fallen tree and straightened up. "This is exactly the kind of instance in which it does matter. I might be willing to let Hannah wear her trousers, and I might teach her how to dip sheep and muster cattle, and I'll even let her learn to read Virgil if she wants to." He saw her eyebrows shoot up. "Yes, I know about that. But there's ab- solutely no reason or justification for me to let her run the kind of risks she'd face in that race."

  "Yet you'd let Liam?"

  "Damn it, Amanda. It's different with Liam, and you know it. Liam's a boy. Boys grow up and have to become men. Which means you can't coddle them, can't protect them too much—no matter how much you might want to. You need to let them challenge themselves. Face danger. Let them spread their wings and try to fly. Even if it means they might fall and hurt themselves."

  Her lips parted in a sad smile that tugged oddly at his heart. "You think girls don't yearn to fly free, too?"

  Whatever annoyance he'd felt melted away beneath an onslaught of unwanted emotions. He reached out one hand to rub his knuckles, very gently, against her petal-soft cheek. "Do you yearn to fly free, Amanda?" he asked hoarsely. "Then why don't you just let yourself go?"

  He felt her tremble, saw a glimmer of what might have been tears in her fine gray eyes. "I didn't come here to talk about myself."

  She would have turned away, but he dropped his hand to her shoulder, stopping her. "Maybe not. But we need to talk, you and I. We need to talk about a lot of things."

  Her gaze met his, and held it. The moment stretched out, taut, pregnant with meaning and emotion. He felt the hot, golden sun pouring down on them. Heard the quick intake of her breath and the buffeting of the wind that blew the worn gray ribbons of her bonnet across her lips.

  He reached up, gently, and smoothed the tattered ends down, his fingertips lingering against her strong chin.

  A loud burst of cheering and horn-blowing from down by the woolshed brought his head around. She slipped quickly out of his grasp to stand stiffly, hugging herself, her arms crossed at her chest, her hands gripping precisely where he'd touched her, her eyes huge in a pale, drawn face.

  "It must be almost time for the race,"-she said. "Will you let Hannah ride?"

  "You don't give up, do you?"

  "Not when it's this important."

  He shoved his fingertips beneath his belt and rocked back on his heels. "Why is it so important?"

  "Because Hannah doesn't believe you love her."

  He jerked. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. Why would she think a fool thing like that?"

  He saw Amanda hesitate, and knew she was keeping something back. "Because of the way you treat her."

  He stared at the tiny woman before him. "What's wrong with the way I treat Hannah?"

  "Everything." She leaned forward, her forehead knit with concern. "Don't you see? You neither coddle her the way you do Missy—"

  "Hannah doesn't want to be coddled. She never has. Even as a toddler, she never wanted to be held, or hugged, or kissed. She's not like Missy—"

  "Nor do you allow her to flyfree, the way you do Liam."

  "Bloody hell. She's a girl."

  "She's a girl who is desperate to prove herself to you. Desperate to make you proud of her. Desperate for some sign from you that you love her."

  "That's ridiculous. Of course I love her." He jabbed one finger into the air in front of her nose. "It's because I love her that I don't want her to get hurt."

  "She's already hurting." Amanda's voice broke, and he watched her swallow hard. "More than you'll ever know."

  He pushed out his breath in a long sigh. "You don't want her to ride in this race either, do you?"

  Her trembling smile answered him. "No. But my reasons aren't good enough to stand in her way."

  "Well, come on, then," he said, cupping his hand beneath her elbow to draw her down the track with him. "We'd better hurry."

  The course was a long one: two miles altogether, starting just beyond the gums on the far side of the dry creek bed, then stretching out into the valley, around an upthrust of splintered red rock on a rise about half a mile out, then back and around the loop again. The jumps had been formed of sheep hurdles, and there was a small creek bed, too, that would have to be jumped.

  Standing in the shade of a big old river gum, O'Reilly carefully tied his handkerchief to a stick, conscious of Amanda standing beside him, anxiously surveying the assembling field of horses and riders. Her teeth worried her bottom lip and she'd gone a bit white, as if she were already regretting whatever impulse it was that had led her to talk him into this.

  "Are you familiar with any of the other horses in the race?" she asked.

  "Some." He nodded to where the riders struggled to bring their mounts into line. "See that dark bay there? The one with the young Aboriginal stockman on him? He's from Arkaba. I've seen him run before. He's fast, but he's not reliable." O'Reilly clamped one end of the stick between his knees
to steady it. "The gray with the white blaze I don't know, but the way he keeps tossing his head and sidling isn't a good sign for anybody who's got money on him."

  Her gaze snapped to his. "Do you mean to tell me people are gambling on the outcome of this race?"

  He gave her a deliberately devilish grin and tightened the knot. "Some people, Miss Davenport. But I wouldn't bet on that glossy black stallion with the four white socks, if I were you. He's from Wilpena Pound. And while I'll allow he's showy enough, he's too long in the back and short in the leg for my taste." He nodded to the fourth horse in the field. "That big white mare's the one to watch. It belongs to Hannibal Cox."

  She studied the mare with interest. "Isn't that the gentleman from the run to the east of here? The man who originally brought Fire Dancer from New Zealand?"

  "That's right. I hear he's not too happy about the fact I ended up with Fire Dancer. He's been bragging that Cox's Lady there can beat my stallion any day of the week. That's his son, Richard, riding. He might be only fifteen, but he's a tough little bastard, and a damned good horseman."

  He expected her to make some comment about his language, only she didn't. She just stood staring at the assembling horses, her hands clenching and unclenching in front of her as she watched the carrot-headed, freckle-faced Cox boy, with his washed-out gray eyes and small mouth, pull his big white mare into line beside Fire Dancer.

  "Hey!" he called to Hannah. "What you doin' here? Ain't you supposed to be over in the woolshed, handin' out pies and cordials with the rest of the ladies?"

  The other boys in the race all laughed, and a few of the spectators, too. Hannah was leaning over to adjust her stirrup leather. At the sound of the boy's sneering voice, she froze for the briefest instant. O'Reilly saw her fingers tighten around the buckle, then slowly relax again. She straightened up, gathered her reins, and stared straight ahead.