Chapter Three
Still simmering from her recent encounter with the Camptons, Jo accompanied Ian and Fiona on their weekly trip into town for supplies.
Sitting beside Fiona in the wagon, she smoothed down a crease in her cream silk gown. Having spent many a long night by lamplight sewing this outfit, she felt especially pleased with the matching bonnet.
Her sister-in-law looked fetching in her gown of pale blue poplin with the matching straw bonnet tipped fashionably forward over her fair curls. Narrow ribbons of deep blue and white flowers encircled its small shallow crown. Perched on Fiona's knee, Lucy was gorgeous in a white lawn dress, lavishly trimmed with lace.
“I'm proud of my three beautiful women.” Ian smiled, pride glittering in his blue eyes as the wagon rattled down the dusty road.
Jo had not forgotten her promise to Mary Smith. She would buy some material today to start the poor little baby's layette. How awful to be so alone and friendless.
They stopped at the blacksmith to order some spare horseshoes in preparation for Ian’s impending trip. The smithy was a massive man, close to seven feet tall. His arms, tanned to a deep coffee color, were thick as tree trunks but unusually hairless. Did he have Negro blood? The black fuzzy hair on his head and full lips indicated that he did.
Throwing down his hammer, the Smithy slapped an enormous hand against Ian’s back, almost knocking him over. Hopefully the hearty greeting hadn’t given him a spinal injury.
She stepped back a pace in case he slapped her back too. The slightest blow from his mighty paw would be catastrophic. “I’m thinking of starting up a school. Do you have any children who would be interested in coming?”
“Yeah. Good idea, good idea.” The blacksmith patted his big leather-apron and roared with laughter. “Get some learning into those two boys of mine.”
“How old are your children?” She returned the big man’s infectious smile.
“Jacques is ten, Henri's seven.” Pride glinted in his brown eyes.
“French names, that's nice.”
“My missus came from France.”
“Would she mind the children attending school?”
Ian leaned close and whispered. “She's dead.”
“Oh, I'm sorry.” Jo clapped her hand over her mouth.
“It's all right, Miss Saunders, I've still got my boys.” The big man folded his beefy arms across his chest.
“Of course you have. When I get things organized, I'll let you know.”
She stretched out her gloved hand. The blacksmith stared at it for a moment, and then with a grin, took it in his huge hand. His handshake was surprisingly gentle and she let out a relieved breath when he didn’t crush her fingers.
After they left the smithy, they drove to the parsonage. Reverend Thomas, the Methodist minister, agreed to announce the formation of the school from his pulpit next Sunday, provided the church council approved.
“Fiona, we've started something now,” she gloated, cautioning herself not to pick up her skirts and dance up the dusty street.
As Fiona and Ian walked on ahead, Jo paused to peer in a shop window. Spinning around, she cannoned into a hard wall of warm male flesh. Strong hands clamped either arm, stopping her falling into an undignified heap on the ground. Shocked, she glanced up into the cool, smoky grey eyes of Luke Campton.
“Why don't you watch where you're going?” Of their own volition, the angry words fell from her mouth. She was asking for trouble and knew it, but somehow couldn’t stop herself. It was a form of self-preservation. She had to dislike him and needed him to dislike her, so he would keep his distance.
As if finding her touch offensive, his hands dropped away.
“I did watch where I was going,” he growled. “You had your nose stuck so high in the air you couldn’t possibly see anything in front of you.”
“A gentleman would not speak to a lady in such an obnoxious manner.”
“I'm no gentleman.” His cold gaze ranged insolently all over her. “And you're no lady.”
Jo’s cheeks burned. Her behavior had been dreadful, but he drove her to it. Fuming, she swung away from him before he noticed how much his touch affected her. How she longed to reach out and touch his smooth tanned cheek, run her finger across his full sensuous lips. What would it be like to be kissed by him? Butterflies fluttered in the pit of her stomach. If she could have found a horse trough she would have flung herself in it to cool down.
She took several deep breaths to calm herself as she walked away. When she caught up with Ian and Fiona, they both looked worried. “What's wrong?”
“The bank wants their money by the end of the month,” Ian muttered. “I haven't a hope of giving it to them.”
“What will we do? They might take our home away.” Fiona’s eyes filled with tears.
“I've got a few pounds saved up, use that.”
Ian, who would normally be too proud to ever ask for financial help, hesitated before shaking his head. “No, we couldn't let you do it.”
“Of course you can. Think of it as a loan, you're feeding me, aren't you?”
He hugged her close. “Thanks, I shouldn't take your money, but I'm desperate enough to consider it.” Lines of worry etched his face.
“I insist. We'll go back to the bank this very minute. I mean it, Ian. Unless you want us to have a stand-up argument out here in the street, you'll take the money. I don't need it, pay me back later.”
Fiona took Lucy to the wagon while Jo and Ian went into the bank. The manager showed no surprise at seeing Ian again.
“Mr. Griffith, this is my sister, Josephine Saunders.”
She greeted the tall thin man with a smile. He wore an immaculate brown suit and spoke with an affected English accent. As she handed him the letter from a Melbourne bank, he patted the few strands of hair covering his receding hairline.
“Ah, seems in order, Miss Saunders.”
“You’ve got a few weeks reprieve now, so stop worrying. With me here to keep an eye on things, you can take the droving job. You’ll be able to pay the loan back in next to no time.”
“I won't forget this.” He squeezed her arm. “If it was just me, I wouldn't worry so much.”
“Cheer up, or you’ll be grey by the time you’re thirty,” she teased.
***
Early the next morning, Ian dashed into Jo’s room.
“Wild dogs have savaged six of my ewes.”
She shot upright in bed. “Why are these awful things happening to you?”
“I don't know. Others have been troubled, too. They rigged up traps and sat up some nights with a gun. I suppose I should have done the same.”
Yes, you should have. “You weren't to know,” was all she said, but inwardly worry overwhelmed her. This venture was doomed unless Ian showed more initiative. He didn’t know much about farming, maybe they could ask some of their neighbors for guidance?
“Get dressed and give us a hand. We might as well salvage some of the skins. I don’t want Fiona to know, it will upset her too much.”
Jo hurriedly pulled on her clothes and met him outside on the back porch. “Isn't there something you can do?”
His shoulders sagged and he gave no answer. She helped him drag the sheep into the shade of a huge tree, watching without speaking as he skinned them. His knife gleamed in the morning sunlight as he cut up the meat for their dogs.
“I can't even re-stock, the squatters have forced the prices up.”
They secured the skins to hooks along the wall of the barn to dry out.
“I could dye them, perhaps make some rugs.” She tried to cheer him up. There was a desperate kind of resignation about him now. He had reached a point where he could take no more and her heart ached for him.
“Things will come out all right, Ian. I'll fight the squatters to the death if necessary.”
“Go easy, maybe we should just cut our losses.”
“Never!” She stamped a booted foot, causing one of the work dogs t
o leave off the grisly task of eating the sheep's offal. “You know what?”
He leaned dejectedly with his elbows resting on the top rail of one of the few intact fences. “Don't try cheering me up because it won't work. Oh, I can put on an act in front of Fiona, but you and I were always straight with each other. I sometimes wonder what would have happened if we’d never left California.”
“You can’t turn back the clock.” She gave him a bracing pat on the arm. “I’ll need to raise money for the school. What do you think about holding a dance? Everybody loves them. Some families can provide refreshments while others will pay an entrance fee. I'll need money for slates, and I've got a few books left from my last school that we could use. I thought I’d charge a penny a week, but those who have no money can pay in goods. Of course, if they're poor, the children can attend for free.”
“Sounds all right. Think I’ll grub out some of those trees, we could do with a few more cleared acres.”
She realized he wasn’t concentrating on her plans. “I’ll help you.”
“No, it's all right.” He turned away, his shoulders slumped, his head bowed.
She gnawed at her lip. He had never been quite this down before. Feeling more depressed than ever, she wandered down to the creek meandering through their property. Eighty acres wasn’t much, yet the land could be productive with money spent on it. Ian wasn’t cut out to be a farmer. If only they could afford to pay an experienced man to help them, they could make a go of it.
Willow trees and native sarsaparillas lined banks that fell away steeply in parts; in other places it was flat. Plop, plop, one after another she threw pebbles into the water, watching them cause ripples before sinking.
To think was to act. Ian needed water. Luke Campton and his cronies had blocked off the creek. Time to sabotage his plans. Yes, Mr. Luke Campton, you might bluff my brother and the others around here, but not me.
Whistling tunelessly, with her hands thrust into the pockets of Ian’s breeches, no one would take her for a well brought up young lady. Her refined, well-bred mother would have had a fit of the vapors. Her father, a West Point graduate, would have applauded her enterprise. What kind of lives would they have led, if her father had not forsaken his army career to prospect for gold? When the gold petered out in California, he had dragged his family thousands of miles across the sea, and his dreams of wealth had soon turned into a nightmare.
She saddled one of the horses, found a spade and axe in the barn, and put these in a sack, which she tied to the saddle. Back in the homestead, she buttered a couple of slices of bread, shoved an apple in either pocket and set off.
Birds flittered overhead as she rode along, darting here and there, and she laughed at their antics. She wasn’t sure of the way, but by following the line of the creek it was easy to see where the water level had fallen. Pink dog roses scrambled along the banks intermingled with the purple sarsaparilla.
The kurrajongs flowered profusely. How pretty the creamy, bell-shaped flowers were. What a pity more didn’t grow on their property, because sheep and cattle could eat the foliage. Their wheat, even though Ian had planted only a small amount, would be harvested after Christmas with a little luck and some good weather.
Her horse was a nondescript looking nag. In stockman's garb, with her hair pushed up into her hat, even if someone did spot her from a distance, recognition would be virtually impossible. If Luke Campton ever found out what she contemplated today, retribution would be swift. Trepidation tinged with excitement, shimmied down her spine.
A sharp bend caught her by surprise. The creek here ran through a deep narrow gully before opening up into a large pool. She expelled an angry breath on seeing fallen trees forming the main wall of a dam. No wonder the water had slowed down to a mere trickle - they only received what overflowed across the logs. In summer when the water level dropped further, they would get nothing.
As she stared out over the large lagoon where fat cattle grazed on well-grassed pastures, anger burned right through her. To think that a man who owned so much could be despicable enough to deprive others of their lifeblood - water.
She tethered the horse to a bush, sat down on the soft grassy bank and removed her boots. After a quick glance around to make sure there were no witnesses, she rolled her trouser legs to knee level before entering the water. Ian's trousers getting wet did not bother her, but she dared not ruin her one decent pair of boots.
The cold water rippled against her bare toes. On one side of the fallen logs the creek ran deeply, on the other it reached calf level. All they got was a slight overflow, plus what came through the cracks where one trunk lay on top of the other. It would be impossible to move the bottom tree because of its enormous size. The second one seemed smaller, tapered at one end. She would start chopping here.
On and off over the years, she had split logs for the woodpile, when George, the old man who helped out at her Melbourne school, had been sick. This proved much harder. She applied the axe with vigor. After a dozen strokes, she had made little progress. Her arms ached. This would be a long, hard haul. She must pace herself. Six strokes then a rest, otherwise exhaustion would set in before the job was finished.
By midday, she could scarcely raise the axe above her head. As she ate her lunch she ruefully surveyed her burning hands. A blister in the centre of her right hand looked particularly nasty. Why hadn’t she thought to wear gloves?
There must be another way. After all her hard work she had cut away only a few branches. The one heartening aspect being that a small space had been cleared allowing more water to pass through. If the sand and stones packed around the bottom of the trunk loosened, the pressure of the water would force a passage through. Yes, she should have thought of this earlier.
Although her hands throbbed, she took up the spade with renewed vigor and entered the water once more. Her feet stung from where the sharp stones had jabbed her bare flesh.
After a few shovels full, a sudden gush of water knocked her over as it swirled through the opening. As she rose to her feet, the top trunk shuddered. There was a grating sound as it shifted, pain shot through her foot and she found herself wedged against the bank. Caught like a rat in a trap.
Panic screamed through her as she frantically worked to get free. The harder she struggled, the more wedged she became. The spade lay out of reach. No matter how hard she twisted or stretched, the handle eluded her. If only she could dig away some of the bank. Her hands tore at the earth. She wouldn’t drown or die of thirst, but visions of slow starvation brought sobs to her throat.
No one knew her whereabouts. Failure to return home would have Ian out searching, but Campton land would be the last place he would look.
“Stay calm.” She spoke out loud trying to steady herself. “Think, woman, think. If you panic, you're as good as dead.” Cold invaded her lower limbs now, but her hands and brow glistened with perspiration.
You impetuous idiot, see what you’ve done. Over the years Ian had continuously warned her about being so rash, and had she listened? No, too stubborn and headstrong to take heed. There was no pain in her foot, so it could not be broken. Maybe the circulation had stopped? Visions of losing a leg brought tears to her eyes. Didn't some man whose foot got caught in a steel trap amputate half his leg with an axe so he could get free?
“God, please help me.”
She half lay across the log. Maybe it would shift and release her. What if it moved, trapping her even more? Instinctively she glanced around for the axe. If she lived to be a hundred, she would never know whether to be glad or sorry it lay well out of reach.
She couldn’t be sure of how many hours had passed since she’d become stuck.
Choking back on a sob, she stopped digging to draw breath. She inspected her broken, mud-encrusted nails. You fool, she castigated herself, worrying about your wretched nails when you could be dead by morning.
In a patch of cleared ground a few feet away, yellow buttercups and blue native flax intermingle
d in a moving carpet. She concentrated on the scenery by counting the buttercups which didn’t appear as numerous as the flax, all the time whispering over and over. “Do not panic. Do not panic.”
She started singing. Someone would come, of course they would. While there was life there was hope. Dread formed a knot in her stomach and fear’s bitter taste fouled her mouth.
Her torn hands bled, yet still she struggled with the dirt. It had been soft and easy to move when using a spade, now it felt like rock.
The sounds of stock whips and bawling cattle broke the silence. Man and beast came into view simultaneously. Thank God, her prayers had been answered. No way could they miss seeing her, even if she didn’t wave her arms and yell at the top of her voice.
A young stockman leapt from his horse and dashed towards her. “Are you all right, Miss?”
“My foot got caught.”
“Let me see.” He squatted down on his haunches as another voice rang out.
“Leave her be.”
“But, boss.”
Mounted on a large chestnut horse, Luke Campton rode up to them. “Leave this to me.”
The stockman backed away.
“What are you doing here, Miss Saunders?” Luke demanded.
“I went for a ride and decided to stroll across your bridge, um, to pick some buttercups.”
“Use an axe to cut them with, do you?” Sarcasm dripped from his voice.
“Are you going to help me free my foot?”
“Why should I?”
“Please,” she pleaded.
Somehow her hand came in contact with the top of his boot and her torn flesh left a bloodied stain on his light color breeches.
Two other men dismounted and dashed up to them. “Need a hand, boss?”
“No. See to the cattle.”
“Go on,” she yelled. “Jump when the big boss man tells you to.”
“The cattle, you hear me.”
They left, clearly so in awe of their boss they were prepared to leave her to his mercy.
He dismounted with an easy, liquid grace. “Now tell me, what are you doing here?”
Fiery Possession Page 4