September Moon

by Candice Proctor

That she'd left.

  The sickening, soul-destroying, unthinkable thought had barely formed when he heard a distant cry.

  "Father."

  He lifted his head to see Liam pelting up the hill from the barns, one elbow cocked as he held his hat clapped to his head, the other arm pumping. "Father." The boy flung himself against O'Reilly's chest with something like a sob. "You're back."

  For the next twenty minutes, O'Reilly was surrounded by laughing, clinging children, a couple of wildly gesturing Chinese men, and a painfully sober Campbell, all talking at once.

  "Why were you so long?"

  "We thought you were dead!"

  "Tonight, I fix very special dish for supper, just for you." "Did you find a pasture for the sheep, Papa?"

  "If it keeps up like this, boss, the wells are all gonna run dry."

  He heard Amanda's name mentioned enough times to be certain that she hadn't left, but she didn't appear to join the noisy group in the parlor, either. Finally, he held up his hands and said, "Wait a minute here. Where is Miss Davenport?"

  It was Liam who answered. "I think she said she was going to plant some aloe on that child's grave, and then go for a ride."

  O'Reilly swung around to stare at his son. "What child's grave?"

  "Some people come through here, two, three day ago," said Chow. "People from small run to north. They have little girl, but she very sick. Miss Davenport try to help. Only little girl die."

  "Miss Davenport's been pretty upset about it," put in Missy. "I offered to go riding with her, but I think she wanted to be alone."

  O'Reilly felt an inexplicable surge of dread pumping through him. "Is she all right?"

  Hannah looked at him strangely. "Why wouldn't she be?"

  After that, it was another half hour before he managed to detach himself from his enthusiastic family and employees, and head down the path to the cemetery.

  The air hung heavy and uncomfortably close. He heard a chorus of fluttered cacklings from the chook house as the hens sought their perches early, and when he passed the hay barn, a couple of sheepdogs lying panting in the shade snarled and snapped at him. The smell of dust was bitter in his nostrils. He picked up his pace.

  Penyaka's cemetery had grown in the last couple of months, he noticed, as he worked his way across the rocky creek bed. He could see fresh mounds of bare red earth within the weathered gray wood of the post and rail fence. As he neared the gate, he spotted the simple cross marking a heartbreakingly tiny grave where someone had recently planted a young aloe.

  He stood beside the grave, his hat in his hands, his head bowed. He felt the wind gust hot and dusty around him as he wondered about all the things that must have happened in the last two months to the woman he'd ridden away from. She had nursed this unknown child, then buried it and obviously grieved for it. He glanced around the lonely, windblown cemetery and felt it again, that sense of uneasiness, of dread, tearing at his gut. What kind of effect had all this had on her, he wondered, on her plans to stay here and marry him? The Flinders Ranges had always been hard and dangerous. Now they had become deadly.

  He settled his hat back on his head. She was out riding, Hannah had said. Out riding alone, because she was upset. Riding and thinking about... what?

  The wind gusted again, spraying grit against his back. He swung around, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the ugly bank of clouds billowing on the northern horizon. The storm rolled across the sun-bleached sky, thunder shaking the parched earth. Only there was no rain in these clouds, just a deadly pall of dust that seemed to glow with a ghastly red and brown light of its own.

  "Bloody hell," he whispered, and took off in a run for the stables.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Amanda sat on the flat rock overlooking what she'd come to think of as her water hole. Although it wasn't a water hole anymore, just an expanse of drying, cracking mud. She had her arms wrapped around her updrawn legs, her cheek resting against her knees, her eyes closed. The rock beneath her felt solid, and warm still from the sun. The hot, thick air seemed to press down upon her, crushing her body, sucking the breath from her. Yet she felt as if she were drifting.

  For ten years she had known who she was—or at least who she had decided to become. Then she had found herself cast adrift in this raw, untamed land, and after years of denying what she wanted, of denying herself, she had felt it again—all those restless stirrings and wild yearnings she thought she had suppressed.

  She felt the way she had felt as a young girl, when she had wanted. Wanted so many things, so desperately. To be free to study and discuss the kinds of things with which women weren't supposed to concern themselves. To be loved by a handsome, virile young man, not tied to someone like a lifeless, unimaginative vicar. To be the woman she knew she'd been born to be, not the creature everyone expected her to be.

  It was exciting, but also frightening. If only O'Reilly were here...

  Calypso's nervous neighing brought Amanda's head up. "What's the matter, girl? Hmmm?" She slipped off the rock to rub the shivering mare's velvety black nose. "What has you so fidgety all of a sudden?"

  A hot blast of wind slammed into her, heavy with grit that

  stung Amanda's eyes. She swung her head away, her eyes squeezing shut with pain. When she opened them again, it was to stare to the north where thick, ugly brown clouds roiled like something alive, rushing forward, blotting out the sun to cast an ugly shadow over the parched valley.

  " Oh my God."

  She yanked Calypso's reins from the low-growing native myrtle and pulled herself into the saddle just as another ferocious rush of hot, sand-laden wind peppered her cheeks and brought a gum branch crashing down into the rocky creek bed beside them. The mare jumped and whinnied nervously, her head tossing, her nostrils flaring.

  "It's all right, Calypso," Amanda crooned, touching her heel to the mare's flank. "We're going home."

  Iron-shod hooves clattered over loose stones as she urged the jittery horse upstream toward the homestead. But as Amanda nervously watched the dust storm hurtle across the valley toward them, she knew they would never make it in time. It had been a mistake to leave the shelter of the gorge, she realized sickeningly, but it was too late to turn back now.

  She quickly ripped a strip off her petticoat to tie around her nose and mouth, then urged the mare on, faster. They were still a good two or three miles east of the woolshed when the full force of the storm hit.

  It came at her like a roaring, dirty brown tidal wave that engulfed her in a choking blanket of stinging sand. She could see nothing but dust, smell nothing but dust, breathe nothing but dust. The only sound was the howl of the wind and the rattle and smash of storm-tossed debris.

  Twigs, dead leaves, small branches ripped loose by the gale tore at her clothing, cut the mare's black hide. Wide-eyed, terrified, Calypso snorted and sidled, pulling at Amanda's aching arms as she fought to hold the horse on the path. Thunder rumbled around them, shaking the earth until it seemed to Amanda that she could feel the tremors in her very soul.

  A loud crack ripped through the thick, foul air. Amanda flung up her head and jerked the mare sideways just in time to keep from being swiped by the trunk of a falling wattle.

  Sheared-off limbs rained down around them, but she didn't dare pull away from the creek; she needed the ghostly, barely discernible line of towering river gums to guide her home through the blinding swirl of confusion. Then a thick branch slammed down on Calypso's withers. The mare reared up in terror and bolted.

  Bracing one hand halfway to the poll, Amanda immediately pulled up hard on the other rein, bending the horse's neck and muzzle until the mare was pulling against its own neck. Thrown off balance, Calypso turned sharply. But before Amanda had brought the mare completely under control, the black stumbled into a pit of sand and her legs shot out from under her.

  Squealing, the mare pitched forward onto her nose and rolled. Flung sideways, Amanda flew through the air to slam facedown against the ground. She hear
d Calypso scramble to her feet, felt the earth tremble beneath pounding hooves as the horse cantered into oblivion. Then there was only the wind and the dust.

  Amanda lay on her stomach, her weight propped on her forearms, her head bent as she gasped in pain, fighting to draw the breath back into her aching chest. Wincing, she rolled over and stared into the swirling, choking, all-enveloping cloud of hot sand.

  A funny sound popped out of her mouth, like an erupting bubble of panic. She swallowed hard, forcing it down.

  The first thing she had to do was find her way back to the creek, she decided. She was fairly certain the horse had not crossed the rocky bed when she bolted, which meant Amanda must still be somewhere south of the creek. And since she knew the wind was blowing out of the north, all she had to do was walk into the storm until she hit the creek, and then turn left.

  Setting her jaw, Amanda struggled to her feet, then stumbled as the full howling, stinging fury of the wind grabbed her, flung her around, sent her flying backward. She dropped back to the bare, rocky ground and began to crawl.

  Sharp stones tore the skirt of her riding habit, slashed her hands. She paused long enough to rip off strips of thick green cloth and wrap them around her bleeding palms. Then she pushed on.

  With her head bowed against the dust-laden wind, she didn't even see the gum-lined creek bed, only felt the change to smooth, water-polished stones beneath her lacerated hands and knees. Looking up, she spotted a big old coolabah tree and dragged herself toward it, collapsing with something like a sob behind its wide, sheltering trunk.

  Her eyes ached, her throat was parched, her lips cracked, her hands were slick with blood. Her arms and legs trembled, her lungs burned from the effort to draw breath out of the hot, dust-laden air. Wrapping her arms around her waist, she hugged herself as choking spasms convulsed her body, doubling her over.

  "I am not going to die here," she said aloud, gasping. "Not here." She hated this drought too much to let it defeat her. And she loved O'Reilly too much to die without seeing him again.

  And then he was there. A tall, masked man on a gray horse looming up out of the swirling darkness.

  "But he rides a chestnut," she said as he scooped her into his arms, holding her close to his strong, protective body. She clutched at him, her hands clenching fistfuls of cloth. She felt the familiar hard muscles beneath his heavy duster and rough shirt. Heard his breath expel in an almost painful-sounding sigh as he kissed her hair, her ear, her eyelids.

  "Amanda," he whispered hoarsely, saying her name over and over again. "Dear God, I thought I'd lost you."

  And then she knew that he was safe, and she was safe, and they were going home.

  He didn't notice when she first opened her eyes.

  He was lounging awkwardly in her straight-backed bedroom chair, his long frame curled sideways so that the dim light from the oil lamp on the round wooden table fell on the accounts he was studying.

  After bringing her home that afternoon, he had helped her to bathe, then tucked her into bed and held her until she slept. But that had been hours ago. It was late now. The house lay quiet around them, and except for the dim circle of light cast by the lamp, the bedroom was in darkness.

  She made no sound when she awoke. Yet he sensed her gaze upon him, and when he turned his head, he found her watching him, her cheek resting against the pillow, her eyes wide and still.

  He put aside his papers and went to stand beside her bed, his heart pounding almost painfully in his chest as he stared down at her. She looked so delicate, so fragile lying there, that it scared him. "How do you feel?" he asked softly.

  She smiled up at him. "Battered. How do I look?"

  He gave her a crooked grin. "Worse."

  She raised a bandaged hand to her face and winced. She had one cut over her right eye, another on her cheek, and her nose was bruised, as if she'd landed on it when the mare rolled. "It's not fair," she said. "I wanted to look beautiful the first time you saw me again. I even have a new dress that I made up from a bolt of material I bought at Mary's. I was going to rush in here and put it on as soon as I saw you coming. It's a brilliant green satin with a shockingly low-cut bodice and—"

  He pressed his fingers to her lips. "You will always be beautiful to me, Amanda. Always. Even when we're both old and gray." The words were simple, but he meant them. Sinking down on the edge of the bed, he took her hand in his. "Are you well enough to talk?"

  She nodded.

  For a long time, he said nothing, just let his eyes fill with the sight of her. The way her long, fire-licked hair spilled over the pillow. The gentle curve of her full, wonderful mouth. The way her gray eyes deepened with concern as she studied his face, waiting.

  He dropped his gaze to their entwined hands. "I can't imagine what it's been like for you here the last couple of months," he said. He ran his thumb over the back of her hand, and she shivered the way she always did when he touched her. "Things were bad before I left, but now . .. Penyaka looks like a desert. A desert strewn with the bodies of countless animals. Sheep, cattle, horses, kangaroos, birds—they're all dying out there. Riding back here—"

  His voice caught, and he had to swallow hard before he could go on. "Riding back here, I kept thinking about you. Worrying about how this bloody drought was going to affect things between us. I started wondering if maybe you'd changed your mind—no, let me finish," he said, when she would have interrupted him. "I was afraid maybe you'd decided that you couldn't stand living here, that you wanted to go back to England. But then..."

  He swung his head away to stare at the glowing lamp. "After a while, I realized I was only thinking about myself. About what I want. About what would be good for me." He brought his gaze back to her face. "This land is in my blood, Amanda; it's a part of who and what I am. But you're English. When you first came here, nothing was more important to you than getting back to England. You might be willing to stay here for my sake, and if things were as good as I know they can be, then I'm selfish enough that I'd ask it of you. But I love you too much to ask it of you now."

  Her eyes were two unfathomable pools, her lips parted as if she were afraid to breathe. "What exactly are you saying?"

  He curled his hand against her cheek. His fingers were so calloused, her skin so smooth and fine. "I'm saying I want you, Amanda. I want you in my life, beside me, always. I want you as my wife. I want you to have my babies. I want to grow old with you. But this bloody drought..."

  He let his breath ease out slowly, painfully. "Campbell says the mines are closing. That Christian's leaving for Adelaide at the end of the week. I want you to go with him and take the children to Hetty. Stay in Adelaide until it's over. Until the drought breaks and this land is livable again, or until, God help us, the drought breaks me. But I want you and the children out of this hell."

  She looked at him, her nostrils flaring, her face white. "Why?"

  He stood up to pace the room. "What do you mean, why? Jesus Christ." He swung around to face her. "You saw what happened to that family whose child you buried. Things are already worse here than I ever thought they could be. I want you out of this, and I want my children out of it."

  She pushed herself up into a sitting position. "It's because you still think I'm like them, don't you? You think I'm like your mother and Katherine. You think that if I stay here, now, through this, it will all get to be too much for me and I'll decide I can't take it, and I'll leave."

  He stared at her, nonplussed. "It's not the main reason, but... Ah, hell, Amanda. How can I help but worry about it?"

  She thrust her legs over the side of the bed and came to him, sliding her arms around his waist to hug him close, her cheek pressed to his chest. "I love you, O'Reilly. When are you going to get that through your thick Aussie skull?"

  He laughed softly, and she tilted back her head to look up at him wonderingly. "What's so funny?"

  He put his hands on her shoulders and rubbed the tight muscles of her neck. "Do you realize you've never
used my first name?" he said. "It's Patrick, you know."

  He watched her lips curl into a smile that made his chest ache. "You've always been O'Reilly to me."

  "Huh," he grunted. "Except when you're mad. Then I become Mister O'Reilly."

  She chuckled, and his gaze focused again on her mouth, with its full lips and white, even teeth. He tangled his fingers in her hair, and her laughter died away as his head dipped toward her. He wanted so desperately to kiss her, to taste her, to lay her down and bury himself inside her.

  He jerked his head up and sucked in a deep breath to steady himself, his thumbs rubbing restlessly back and forth over the line of her cheekbones. "There's something you need to know, Amanda. On my way back up from The Coorong, I stopped in Adelaide. It seems that once Katherine has been gone for seven years, I'll basically be free to remarry. But it's only been six and a half years now, and it might be better if we..."

  His voice trailed off as she looped herarms around his neck and leaned into him in a way that flattened her full breasts against his chest. She was wearing only her nightgown, and the material was very thin indeed. He was suddenly, achingly aware of her naked body beneath the nightdress.

  "Better if we ... what?" she asked in a husky voice as she looked up at him.

  "Better if we... waited—" He sucked in his breath with an audible hiss as she tilted her pelvis forward and rubbed her belly against his painfully straining erection.

  She raised herself on tiptoe, bringing her lips so close to his, they almost touched. Against his will, his hands slid down to her hips to hold her warm, sweet body close to his. "I've waited for you for over two months," she said, staring deep into his eyes. "I don't want to wait any longer."

  He sighed, his hands roaming feverishly up and down her back, her hips, her sides. He was so desperate to touch her, to feel her, to hold her, to make love to her. "Ah, Christ, Amanda. I am trying to be honorable. The last thing I want to do is get you with child when I'm not in a position to marry you yet. I promised myself—"