She shivered with fear and cold. Her teeth chattered and her fingers felt numb. A muscle twitched in his jaw, momentarily his eyes darkened with concern, then turned hard, pitiless.
“All right, I wanted to let more water come down the creek to us.”
“Why didn't you say so in the first place? It doesn't pay to fight me because I always win.”
She would have given a great deal to be in a position to slap the leer off his handsome face.
“Don't try it.” He might well have read her mind. “You being a woman wouldn't stop me from hitting you back.”
With gentle hands he examined her ankle. “I don't think it's broken. It would take a team of horses to drag that trunk away. He reached out and picked up the spade.
She stood upright now, her hand resting on the trunk for support. Luke wielded the spade carefully and within a short time freed her foot.
He picked her up, sat her on the trunk as if she were a child, and rested the injured foot between both hands. Because he was bent over so closely, she saw thin lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes, and the dark stubble of beard on his jaw and cheeks. The scar stood out white, jagged looking against his tanned skin.
“Does this hurt?” He moved her foot in a slow circular motion.
“A little.”
“It isn't broken.” He rubbed her foot between his hands to warm it up, his touch gentle, almost caressing. “Right, see if you can put your weight on it.”
She rested her hand on his shoulder for support, and as her foot took her full weight, excruciating pain shot up her leg.
“Lucky for you, it's only bruised and swollen.” He lifted her into the saddle and swung up behind her so suddenly she had no time to protest. “Sorry to make you carry double, boy,” he muttered, patting his horse’s neck.
Her heart hammered so loudly in her chest she prayed he wouldn’t hear it.
“Are you all right, Miss?” the young stockman called out from where he had been hovering a little distance away.
“She's all right. Get the gear on the horse; we've wasted enough time as it is.”
“Thank you, Mr. Campton, but I'll be all right now.”
His arms tightened around her waist.
“I'll take you home.” Turning his head he said to the stockman, “give me the horse, I'll lead it, you help the others with the cattle.” He took the proffered reins.
“Thank you,” she smiled. “I'm quite all right now.” She wasn't, but the young man seemed so worried she wanted to reassure him. “It's kind of you to take me home, Mr. Campton.”
“Kindness doesn't come into it. I want to speak with your brother.”
“Ian didn't know, I swear it.”
“No man would be stupid enough to try what you did. I want to tell him to keep a tighter rein on his sister, or I'll put the law on her for trespassing on my land, and for malicious damage.”
As they rode in silence, bile rose in her throat. She swallowed it down for as long as possible.
“Stop! Quick! I'm going to be sick!”
He pulled the horse up, allowing her to slide to the ground. She landed in an inelegant heap. There she stayed, vomiting her heart out, the ultimate humiliation. Weakly climbing to her feet, she wiped her trembling mouth with the back of one hand.
“I'm all right now, I can ride.”
“No, you come up with me. We can’t have you fainting and falling off your horse.” He kneed his mount forward, bent down and scooped her back up in front of him again. As they travelled along she slumped against him more and more often, no matter how she fought against it.
“You've got guts, Yankee woman.” His warm breath skimmed one side of her neck. “Don't fight me. You can't win, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Are you threatening me?”
He made no reply, but his arm about her waist tightened and he pulled her so close her back slammed against his chest. The heat of his body seared through her clothes. His heart beat strongly. His male scent infused her nostrils, a combination of leather, soap and virile man. Why hadn’t they met under different circumstances? She admired strong, resilient men who were prepared to take what they wanted and fight to keep it. Men like him had tamed this harsh, inhospitable land. She bit back on a sigh of regret. If only he hadn’t wanted Ian’s little farm.
Turning, she glanced at him. For a split second something burned in his eyes, a light so strong she clenched her ravaged hands together. When she glanced at him again, it had gone.
The homestead came into her view. Against a backdrop of mountains, darkening to purple in the dusk as the dying rays of the sun disappeared, it looked serene and mellow. Ian and Fiona stood on the verandah, like tiny toys in the distance, but the figure detaching itself and hurrying toward them was her brother.
Luke dropped the reins of her horse. The fingertips of one hand trailed across her cheek in a feather soft caress. He loosened his grasp on her and she slid to the ground.
“Ian!” Ignoring her throbbing hands and knees, and her awkward limping gait, she rushed into his arms.
“What happened?” He hugged her close. “Your clothes are all wet.”
“Your sister has been tampering with my dam,” Luke growled. “Almost got herself drowned in the process. Don't you have the guts to do your own dirty work?”
“What do you mean?”
“Don't argue with him,” Jo interrupted. “Courtesy dictates I should thank you for rescuing me, Mr. Campton, but don't expect me to apologize for what I did. I'm sorry I didn't do more damage.”
He savaged her with a hostile glare, wheeled his horse and galloped away.
Jo fell to the ground in a dead faint.
She awoke in bed to find Ian forcing brandy through her lips.
“I must have fainted.”
“You certainly did.”
Fiona came in with some salve and a dish of warm water. “You were so brave. I'll bathe your hands. What happened?”
“I tried to break down that dam the squatters erected.”
Ian thumped the bed with his hand. “For God's sake, young ladies don't go around doing things like that. You've got to stop these wild schemes before you land in real trouble. No one defies Luke Campton and gets away with it. He's too rich and powerful.”
“He only has as much power as people give him.”
“I forbid you to go near, touch, or do anything to bring yourself in contact with him again.”
She laughed. Wearing a clean nightgown, which Fiona must have put on while she lay unconscious, and with her fingers soaking in warm scented water, the pain subsided and her courage returned.
“If you could just see yourself, Ian, you look like father when he used to lay down the law to us.”
Fiona laughed. “You did sound severe.”
“I suppose it is a little late playing the heavy-handed big brother now.” He grinned. “But for your own sake, be careful. Luke Campton is dangerous.” He lowered his voice, but his eyes burned. “They say his father flogged a man to death, and Tim, well you've met him. Luke's supposed to have almost killed a man with his bare fists in a fight once. It's been said Sam Campton thrashed Luke with a stock whip after catching him in bed with his wife, would have killed him if someone hadn’t dragged him away.”
“Don't go into such graphic detail,” Fiona pleaded. “Not when we’re about to eat.”
“I’ve worked like a slave all day, with only a couple of pieces of bread for lunch,” Jo broke in on them. “I'm starving.”
Lucy toddled in, dragging a rag doll by one arm. “Come to Auntie Jo.”
“Jo, Jo,” the child chortled, raising her arms to be picked up. Fiona lifted her on to the bed so she could snuggle under the blankets.
“I deserve to be waited on.” Jo grinned. “I've earned it.” The three adults laughed.
“I'll see to the milking. Give me half an hour or so.” Ian strode off, his black mood of a few moments ago now dissolved.
Fiona b
ustled off to organize their meal. In between playing with Lucy and the rag doll, she inspected her hands. It would be days before they became presentable. I'll rest tomorrow, and then visit Mary Smith the next day.
***
Jo developed a chill and two days passed before she could visit Mary. Fiona suggested taking some cake and biscuits along. “Tell her to have them for lunch, keeps her pride intact.”
“Good idea. Be back in the afternoon some time.” She pulled on a pair of kid gloves, mounted her horse and rode off
Arriving at Mary Smith's squalid little place, she dismounted. The bag remained in place over the doorway although the fire burned. Supposing the poor thing had gone into premature labor? Oh God, she gritted her teeth, now wasn’t the time to have an attack of nerves, even though she felt like it.
“J…Jo.” She almost collapsed with relief when Mary stuttered her name from behind a clump of bushes. She appeared carrying a bucket of water in either hand, even more bedraggled and pathetic looking than before.
Her hair hung in matted strips about her shoulders as Jo came up to relieve her of the buckets. “You shouldn't carry these heavy things now.”
“Who else is there?”
“Don't you have anywhere you can stay?”
“No. Did you bring the things for my b…baby?” she babbled.
“Yes, in my saddle bag. You can't handle baby linen like that.”
Mary stared in puzzlement.
“What I mean is.” There was no way of putting it delicately. “Your hands are grubby; babies have to be kept clean.”
“It's hard.” Her lips trembled.
“I know, Mary.” She held the bag back so they could enter the humpy. Poor girl. Poor baby. “You'll have to try and keep things cleaner, babies easily pick up germs. I'm not blaming you, of course,” she added hastily. “Where will I put these buckets?”
“On the box.”
Mary rinsed her hands in a dented dish half full of water.
“We’ll use the cleanest of these boxes as our workbench,” Jo said.
“Jo?” Mary dried her hands on a grubby rag.
“Yes.”
“See what Nat made for our baby.”
She turned around as Mary lifted a bag lying across what she presumed to be a packing case. It turned out to be a cradle, made from a hollowed out log. Although rough on the outside it had been painstakingly smoothed down on the inside.
“He's been doing it while he minded the sheep, and look, one of the lambs died a while back. S...see, the baby can lie on the skin.”
“What a fine idea.” Maybe Nat wasn’t such a no-hoper after all. “I'll go and get the things. Fiona made some cake and biscuits yesterday so I thought we could share them for lunch.”
“I wanted to make damper.” Mary’s pale lips drooped.
“Of course, I expected you to invite me for lunch, but if you have to spend time preparing food for me, we won’t get much sewing done.”
When she opened the package containing the lace trimmings and lawn, Mary nearly burst into tears. How could such an emotional young thing expect to cope with a baby in these primitive surroundings?
They set to work with a will. She showed the girl the basics and she caught on fast, only needing a little encouragement.
They paused for lunch. She nibbled at a biscuit, Mary ate as if she had not tasted food for days, probably hadn't.
“What happened to your hands?” Mary stopped chewing long enough to ask.
“Nothing much. I tried to chop too much wood.”
By the time she left in the late afternoon, the baby's nightgowns were well on the way to completion. She instructed Mary on how to do the finishing off, promising to return in a few days with more materials.
Jo arrived home and saw a wagon drawn up outside. She dismounted anxiously, but the sounds of laughter coming from the back verandah allayed her fears. After unsaddling the horse she strode towards the homestead, to be met at the door by a grinning Ian.
“Here she is. Jo, I’d like you to meet Flora and William Kirkman.” He introduced her to the couple sitting on the sofa.
“Oh my.” She raked her hands through her tousled hair and glanced at her masculine attire. “I wasn't expecting visitors, sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” The plump middle-aged woman smiled. “Ian told us about you helping that poor, wretched little Smith girl.”
Fiona served afternoon tea. As she handed out biscuits and tea, Jo thought she should be presiding over a large house, not a rough little homestead. She looked as out of place as a delicate rose in the desert.
These people were neighbors. She immediately liked the cheerful couple who sounded eager for a school to open up.
“We can be the fundraising committee.” Flora laughed. “I don't care what I do as long as I can sit down. My feet have been killing me over the last couple of weeks.” She went into peals of laughter causing her double chins to wobble together.
“I suggested a barn dance to some of the families I visited and they seemed quite enthusiastic,” Jo said.
They discussed possibilities, rejecting and accepting a number of ideas before deciding to hold a dance. William offered his barn for the night.
“We can decorate it with flowers, get some musicians even.” Jo clapped her hands together.
“There are a couple of local lads who play the fiddle,” Flora said. “They’d help out.”
They decided families would provide supper and single men would pay a door fee.
“We might not get many single men.” Jo bit her lip. “Why would they be interested in a school?”
Flora laughed. “They'll come, plenty of them, never fear. All the stockmen from the outlying properties will attend. There are so few social events around here. The gentry put things on, but only for their own kind.”
They agreed on a date for two weeks time. “I’ll write out some notices and display them in as many places as possible, and we can spread the word by mouth.” Jo clapped her hands in expectation of a successful venture.
***
Life became hectic in the days leading up to the dance. Jo spent hours riding around to distribute the notices. Some she displayed in store windows in town, others she fastened to trees along various tracks. She still made time to call in on Mary Smith with a few more lengths of material, some for the baby, others so the girl could make herself a couple of gowns.
“I didn’t run into the Camptons on my travels, thank goodness,” she said, watching Ian unsaddle her horse.
“You were lucky. They’re busy with the shearing.” He dragged the saddle off and propped it against the barn wall.
“Bet they exploit their workers, too,” she accused.
“Old Sam Campton did, he was hated. No shearer would go there if they could help it. Luke's a hard task master, God knows, but he never has trouble getting men to work for him, pays good wages. I heard working conditions on his place are well above average.”
***
The day of the dance dawned fine and warm. After breakfast, Jo rode over to the Kirkman property to help with the preparations. She hummed gaily and when a kookaburra laughed near by, she imitated his call. A grey kangaroo peeped out from behind some wattle trees and she pulled her horse up to watch him. After a few seconds, as if sensing danger, the creature bounded deeper into the scrub.
The Kirkman farm had reverted to native bush. The ringing of an axe in the distance intruded on the brooding bush silence. The bark roofed hut was built of split logs, with a stone chimney at one end.
When Flora invited her inside, Jo glanced around with interest. The kitchen and parlor were combined. The ceilings were lined with calico, the walls plastered with newspapers and the floor made from anthill clay. The chimney was built of whitewashed stone. Sturdy roof beams of pit-sawn logs were crowded with prime joints of dried beef, filches of bacon, pumpkins and melons
“I've got the kettle on.” Flora beamed as Jo sat down on a chair hewn from a tree trun
k and scoured to a gleaming white.
Amy Kirkman, a slim fifteen-year old, giggled when her mother introduced her to Jo. The two older boys were out with their father. Two little ones, Ethel, seven, and six-year-old Wee Will, as his mother called him, were happy, fair-haired youngsters. They volunteered to help pick the flowers and greenery needed for decorating the barn.
“Don't bring wattle inside, it's bad luck,” Granny Kirkman, a wizened old woman, warned them, removing the clay pipe she smoked.
“That's silly, Granny.”
“No, Amy, it's not. At one place where I got assigned, I heard about a woman dying because of it.”
Jo gasped in surprise.
“Yes, I’m an ex-convict, not ashamed to admit it, either. Seven years they gave me for stealing some bread. My mother was left a widow with six children and we were starving. I hadn’t even turned fifteen at the time.”
“Was it as frightful as they say?” She leaned closer to the old woman.
“Worse. You’ve got a funny accent. Where do you come from?”
“I spent the first half of my life in America.”
“I thought they were transporting me there, but I ended up here. Didn’t know the difference. Both horrible places. I could tell you things that would make your hair stand on end.”
“If you get Granny started on the bad old days, she won't stop in a hurry.” Flora’s laugh was warm, good-natured.
“Well, I like history, Mrs.…”
The old lady gave a gummy smile. “Call me Granny, everyone else does.”
“All right, Granny.” Jo bit into some shortbread. “Mm, nice.”
“Real Scottish shortbread, an old family recipe,” Flora said.
“Oh?” She turned to Granny.
“Not from my family, couldn’t cook much.” She cackled. “I'm Will's mother. My Will's the only one I got, married late in life, you see.”
“Was your husband a convict, too?”
“No. Arthur got a grant of land through being friends with a government official. Pretty poor place, though. We eked out a living for a while. Bush fires ruined us in the end, so he worked for other people.”
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