Drew shovelled up the hot embers and took them inside. With the help of some extra logs, the hut’s long-abandoned fireplace soon blazed bright. For the first time in years, its cheerful radiance lit up the cracks and crevices in the rough-hewn timber walls. Its light would leave no shelter, Drew hoped, for dark secrets to hide. He buried a few spuds in the coals, found the chops in his saddlebag, and poured cups of black tea from the billy hanging over the fire. Sam lit a candle and dragged the wooden bench over. They sat side by side, staring into the flames, waiting for their dinner to cook.
She laid her head on his shoulder. Drew turned her face and kissed her. He could feel the sudden quiver of her breath, like the heart of a frightened bird. He traced her moist lips with his finger. ‘Sam?’ he said quietly. ‘Tell me about you and Charlie. I can’t go on with … with this, until you level with me.’
A long silence followed his question. She lifted her head and looked at him, boring in with those beautiful brown eyes. ‘Is that why you pulled away?’ she asked. ‘You did. You know you did. After New Year’s Eve, after Spike’s visit, you seemed …’ She paused, as if struggling to find the words. ‘You seemed almost frightened of me.’
It was his turn to struggle. How to explain? That Spike’s appearance had stirred up painful memories? That he’d suddenly realised how little he really knew about Sam and her life? She seemed so fresh, so innocent, so guileless. And yet he’d learned in life that things were rarely what they seemed. Sam was, after all, Charlie’s sister. He took her delicate hand in his and pressed it to his lips. ‘I suppose I was,’ he said. ‘Frightened of being in the dark. You still haven’t really told me what’s going on – where Charlie and Mary are, how come nobody has ever heard of you before, where you come from … how long you’ll stay.’
Sam looked away. ‘You’re right, Drew. I owe you an explanation.’
Over a dinner of lamb chops and roast spuds, washed down with billy tea, Sam told him everything. She told him about her solitary childhood, her absent father and controlling mother. About Pharaoh, and how horses had rescued her from a terrible loneliness. About how she’d discovered the reality of her adoption, and of her sister, in almost the same breath. Of Charlie’s deadly battle with cancer, and of the procedure that had transformed both of their lives.
‘Jesus, Sam. That’s some story.’ Drew sat awhile, trying to digest all he’d been told. ‘Come to think of it,’ he said, ‘Charlie did get pretty skinny last year. Although she’s such a tomboy, it was hard to tell. It’s not like she wears tight, sexy clothes.’ Something in Sam’s expression warned him to change tack. ‘Will she be all right?’ he asked. ‘When does she come home?’
‘Professor Sung predicts a full recovery, thank God.’ Sam sipped her tea. ‘As to when Charlie will be home, I don’t know. In a month maybe,’ she said, sounding oddly unenthusiastic about the prospect.
Drew reached for a log to add to the fire. Sam stopped his arm, with her hand on his. ‘Your turn,’ she said.
‘My turn?’ He grabbed the log, tossed it into the hearth and lit a candle.
‘Your turn to tell me about you,’ she said. ‘Go on.’
‘What do you want to know?’ he asked.
‘You’re being coy,’ she said with a laugh. ‘Just start at the start.’
‘It’s weird.’ Drew shook his head, as if in disbelief. ‘But thanks to some strange twist of fate, you and I have a lot in common.’
‘We do?’ she asked, sounding sceptical. ‘Certainly not the circumstances of our lives. Me in Melbourne and you …’ She swept her arm around. ‘You out here.’
He poured himself another mug of tea and stood with his back to Sam, facing the flames. ‘I’ve never told anybody this before,’ he said, ‘but I’m adopted too.’
‘You’re kidding me.’ Sam sat open-mouthed.
‘After my sister Melinda, Mum couldn’t have more kids. They wanted a boy. Well, Dad did anyway. My aunt worked for an adoption agency in Wodonga, and kept her eye out. I was born to a teenage mother, just like you were. She wasn’t seventeen, though – she was only fifteen, and her parents insisted she adopt me out. The family moved interstate afterwards. To make a fresh start for their daughter, I guess. I’ve only ever received two letters from my mother. One on my eighteenth birthday, and again last year on my twenty-first. She loves me, she says, but she’s married now with two children, a girl and a boy. Her husband doesn’t know she had a baby, and she wants to keep it that way.’
‘What about you?’ asked Sam. ‘Do you want to keep it that way?’
‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘She was just a kid. Who can blame her for wanting to live her life?’
‘Don’t you want to meet your brother and sister?’
‘Not now. It might spoil things for her, for them. She promised to tell them when they grow up. Then, if we get curious, we can arrange to meet up. But right now? It’s not that big a deal.’ Sam looked astonished. ‘I reckon it’s different for me,’ he said. ‘I always knew. Can’t ever remember not knowing. Mum and Dad were up-front right from the start.’
Sam stood up and slipped her slim arm round his waist. ‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘You knew, so you don’t have a trust issue with your parents.’
He cupped her chin in his hand and kissed her, savouring her sweetness. ‘No, I don’t,’ he said. ‘Not with my parents.’
Sam cocked her head and regarded him curiously. ‘With who, then?’
He laughed, trying to keep it light, hoping he didn’t sound bitter. ‘If you must know, I’ve had the odd girlfriend or two who I couldn’t trust.’ Sam opened her mouth to speak. ‘I’m definitely not going there tonight, though,’ he said, holding up his hand. ‘What is this? Truth or dare?’
‘If you won’t tell the truth,’ she said, ‘perhaps you’d rather a dare?’
‘Dare me to make a bed for you,’ he said, and pulled a rubber mat from his saddlebags.
‘It’s like the Tardis in there,’ she said, laughing.
‘May I present to you the Thermarest 2000, a self-inflating double mattress.’ He pulled out its plug, and the core immediately began to plump up.
‘You certainly came prepared,’ she said.
‘Would you rather sleep on those filthy horsehair mattresses?’ said Drew, pointing to the single bunks. He went over for a closer look. He peeled the pock-marked surface layer of timber from a bedpost, and held it up triumphantly. ‘Borers, m’lady,’ he announced. ‘I’m afraid occupational health and safety regulations preclude me from allowing you to use these beds.’
‘Kind sir,’ she said in mock seriousness. ‘I’m a law-abiding girl who wouldn’t dream of flaunting regulations.’ She stared down at the partly inflated rubber bed. ‘The Thermarest it is, then.’
Drew was down on his knees in a second, blowing great lungfuls of air through the plug to speed up the process. When he’d finished, he reached for Sam’s hand, anticipation shivering through his veins. She let him pull her down, and he kissed her gently, his lips exploring the contours of her face.
A sudden series of loud thumps and bumps sounded from the roof, accompanied by a blood-curdling screech. Sam rocketed into his arms. He stroked strands of hair from her face, ignoring the excited clenching in his abdomen. ‘Possums,’ he said, mouthing a silent prayer to the helpful little marsupials. ‘It’s just possums.’
‘It sounds more like World War Three.’ Sam sat up and looked doubtfully at the roof. ‘What are they doing?’
‘Mating,’ he answered. ‘Are you cold?’ She nodded, wide-eyed, trembling slightly – whether from nerves or cold, Drew couldn’t tell. He stood up, stoked the fire and fetched some blankets from a pile in the corner. The rooftop hissing and screaming reached fever pitch.
‘Truth or dare?’ whispered Sam, wrapping a cover around herself. ‘And you won’t like the dare, so you’d better take truth.’
‘Okay, hit me,’ he said, settling back down with her on the mattress. ‘Truth.’
�
��Why is this called Dead Man’s Hut?’
‘You really want to know the story?’ She nodded solemnly. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I just don’t want to scare you.’
‘You won’t scare me,’ she insisted, and moved closer, nestling into his shoulder.
‘Once upon a time,’ he said, like he was telling her a bedtime story, ‘there was a man who packed up his belongings and went to live in a hut he built in the bush.’
Sam stared up at him. ‘You mean this hut?’
Drew nodded. ‘He was a cattle duffer, by all accounts. Nicked cleanskin calves and grazed his mob around Snake Creek.’
‘What was his name?’
‘Nobody remembers,’ said Drew. ‘But he earned himself the nickname Brumby Jack. In fact, they named your place after him. Did you know that?’ Sam shook her head. ‘Jack claimed to be the son of Mad Dog Morgan, the bushranger, although nobody knows for certain whether he was telling the truth.’ Drew traced his finger down the bridge of her nose. ‘A man alone in the bush for too long can grow a bit peculiar. His imagination plays tricks on him. That’s what happened to Jack. He stopped coming into town for supplies, stopped dropping by musterers’ camps for a chat. Instead, he spent each day riding the range. Rain or shine, even in the winter snows.’
‘Why?’ asked Sam.
‘Jack was searching for a horse. He used to talk about a white stallion, told anyone who’d listen. Said it led a herd of mountain brumbies. Brumbies that became invisible when you chased them; brumbies that could fly. He became completely obsessed with catching this magic stallion. But of course it only existed in his imagination. One day his horse stumbled into Currajong, caked in sweat and bloodied from the spur. They sent riders up to check on the old man.’
‘And?’ asked Sam, staring at him with rapt attention.
‘And they found Jack lying out in the yard, a catching rope still clutched in his dead hand. One end was snubbed to a post. The noose end was snapped, like it wasn’t strong enough to stand the strain. The churned-up ground told of a terrible fight. Jack’s skull was crushed. But this was the strangest thing … the gate was shut tight, bound securely with ropes, yet the yard was empty. Whatever killed him had jumped eight-foot rails from a standing start.’
‘Or simply flown away,’ said Sam.
‘Don’t you start believing in magical brumbies. It’s just a story.’ His fingers reached for the buttons of her shirt. ‘How about you believe in me instead?’ Was that a shadow, or the first flush of arousal darkening her pale skin? He stretched out beside her and they kissed – ardent, but not urgent. They had all night, and he dared not rush a single, extraordinary moment. The smell of perfume and leather, her body soft and fresh, the firelight bright on her face. She closed her eyes and he willed her to open them, willed her to look at him. Drew nipped Sam’s ear and her lids flickered back up. Long lashes framing almond eyes, and real desire there. Drew leaned across and blew out the candle. His lips found the hollow of her neck in the dark, and he knew he would remember the curve of her throat and the taste of her skin for all of his life.
Early morning light filtered through the tiny hut window. Sam stretched and opened her eyes, feeling his sleeping warmth beside her. A possessive arm lay flung over her naked body. It was no dream. She kissed it, and placed the palm of her hand over his heart. Drew stirred and pulled her close, his eyes still shut, an expression of supreme contentment on his face. She took a deep breath and snuggled further under the covers, moulding her body to his. They were as one. It was hard to tell where her skin ended and his began. Drew looked like she felt: deeply happy.
Later, over mugs of breakfast tea and toast cooked on green twigs before the fire, Drew told her that he loved her.
Sam felt tears come into her eyes – tears of joy, tears of emotion. It was overwhelming. Was she supposed to say it back to him? Was that how it worked? The problem was that she couldn’t. Not because she didn’t love him. She thought that she probably did, but how to be sure? How to define these new feelings? Mouthing I love you seemed just too corny, seemed to trivialise the potent emotions he’d awakened in her.
‘It’s just the beginning …’ said Drew as he rolled up their bed, ‘and I’m already so crazy in love with you. I swear, nothing’s even come close to this.’ He dropped the bed and took her by the waist, kissing her roughly before waltzing her around the hut. His raw energy overcame her in a heady rush. She could feel her body’s automatic response and gasped for air. Like her first abseil, or a roller-coaster ride; the simultaneous thrill and terror of being out of control.
Drew swept her up in another long, sweet kiss that left her dizzy. When he let go, she sank down on the old bunk and shook her head to clear it. He fished around in his magic pudding of a saddlebag, and pulled out a little box.
‘For you,’ he said, tossing it onto her lap. ‘Bought it in Wodonga last week. It’s set up and ready to go.’ He’d bought her a present? That meant he’d been thinking about her all along. She opened the box. It was a new smart phone.
‘Thank you,’ said Sam, kissing him. ‘I love it.’ The present could have been a dish mop for all she cared, and she would have said the same thing. It was most definitely the thought that counted.
‘You never seem able to get reception with your old one,’ he said. ‘You’ll be able to ring Charlie whenever you want with that. Or your mother.’ He laughed at her bemused expression. ‘You’ve got two of those to keep happy, remember?’
Sam made a face. He pulled her in and clasped his strong hands behind her back. ‘I don’t suppose Charlie’s ever got any credit to ring you. How do you think they’re managing for money?’
‘That’s the peculiar thing,’ she said. ‘They’re doing just fine, apparently. Somebody’s been making deposits into Mary’s bank account. Generous deposits too. According to Charlie, they’ve never been better off.’
‘So Mary’s got an anonymous benefactor,’ said Drew.
‘Looks that way.’
‘I bet there’s a story there. No wonder she hasn’t made a fuss about Dad’s money.’
Sam nodded. ‘Just as well for us.’ She played with her new phone. ‘Thank you,’ she said again, hugging him. ‘You’re very thoughtful.’
He nodded. ‘I am, aren’t I?’
Sam wriggled free and punched him playfully. ‘Let’s go, you big egomaniac. I can’t wait to get home and have a long, long talk to Charlie.’
Chapter Twenty-One
Mary had met a man. Well, of course she had. She always did. Charlie shaded her eyes from the afternoon sun and watched from the window as her mother climbed into his battered old Buick. It was disgusting to see her giggling like a girl, flirting and simpering with ponytailed Carlos. They’d met at the hospital and bonded over cigarettes smoked outside on the street. It was a perfect match. Two ageing hippies, behaving like teenagers, not realising how pathetic and embarrassing they were.
The car drove off. It grew smaller and smaller, turned left around a corner and vanished. Charlie grabbed her giant soft-toy frog and collapsed on the bed in tears. She’d imagined that life in this East Melbourne apartment would have been a big improvement on the hospital. No more gowns or masks or over-the-top hand-washing. No more endless waiting: for engraftment, for blood-cell counts to return to safe levels, for side effects to lessen. But she’d been wrong. This lonely hole in the wall was worse than a prison.
Who would have thought she’d miss the nurses and doctors at that damned hospital? She even missed Colleen bossing her around, fussing like a mother hen. Here in the apartment she saw nobody but Mum. Oh, and Carlos, of course. She knew the drill. She should, after all these years. Carlos trying to be friends, laying it on with a trowel for her mother’s benefit. How many times had she been through this? It could be worse, she supposed. Carlos was a dork, and a massive pothead, but aside from that he was inoffensive enough. Some of her mum’s past boyfriends had not been so harmless. A suggestive comment here, a hand on her thigh there, gifts
of money or alcohol behind her mother’s back.
Charlie’s phone rang. She lunged for it. ‘Sam?’
No, just her mother, asking how she was and whether she needed anything. Charlie braced against the surge of disappointment. ‘Shit, Mum, you just left. What could have possibly changed?’ Charlie threw down her phone and it slid under the bed. Good fucking riddance.
She put on the kettle in the kitchenette and searched through the tea bags in the pantry. Just as she thought – every herbal concoction under the sun when what she really wanted was an old-fashioned cup of plain black tea. No, what she really wanted was a beer. Well, why not? Mum probably wouldn’t be back for hours. She’d gone ostensibly to buy a second-hand laptop from some dodgy friend of Carlos’s. A present, Mary had told her, so Charlie could keep in touch with friends, and download music and movies, that sort of thing. First, she didn’t have any friends. And second? It was more than likely that the pair would end up in a bar, forget all about the computer and not return until late at night. City living wasn’t good for her mother, Charlie had decided. Too much temptation.
On impulse Charlie found her wallet, slipped out the door and descended the steps to the lobby. Though well enough to leave the hospital, she was far from recovered. Some days she still felt too weak to do much more than sleep, sit up, and walk a bit around the apartment. Her only outings so far had been back to the hospital for tests.
According to Professor Sung, it could take six months before she was ready to fully resume normal activities. ‘During this period, your white-blood-cell count may be too low to provide normal protection against the viruses and bacteria encountered in everyday life,’ he’d explained. ‘You must therefore restrict contact with the general public. Crowded movie theatres, supermarkets, department stores – these are places you should avoid during your recuperation. Often patients like to wear protective masks when venturing outside the home.’
Fuck that. Charlie emerged from the double doors onto the street. At first the rush of human traffic made her dizzy, and a little afraid. There was nobody to lean on. But bit by bit, she found her land legs. The late-afternoon sun shone mellow and bright. It relieved the constant chill that still plagued her bones. Her reflection in the mirror of a shop window was frightening in its frailty. Look straight ahead, aim for that bottle shop on the corner, she told herself.
Brumby's Run Page 16