The exclamation caused Luke to swivel his head back, just in time to see horse and rider sailing over one of the fences. Yes, the fellow could certainly ride. He watched with a grudging respect as the horse cleared the last fence and galloped towards the homestead. Barely had the horse been pulled up then the rider vaulted from the saddle.
“Jo Saunders,” Luke snarled. “What the hell does she want?”
She raced towards him. Her hat blew off and her hair spilled out like molten gold across her shoulders. Her green eyes burned fever bright. He had never seen such a dazzling color. Desire fired his loins with such heated intensity his manhood started to harden. Damn it all. He cursed under his breath.
“Get off my property.” He wondered whether this red-haired witch had any idea what affect she had on him.
“Where's Nat Smith? Mary's started to have her baby.”
“It’s nothing to do with me.” He thrust his hands into his pockets.
“She said he came here to be paid.”
“He left about an hour ago, Miss. Heading for the pub, at a guess,” the other man said.
“Oh God, no. I need help.” She glanced from one man to the other. “The baby and mother will die if someone doesn't come. Please, I'm not asking for myself.”
“I'll get someone, Miss.”
“You'll do no such thing, Parkinson,” Luke snapped. “There must be work requiring your attention.”
“But boss...”
“I pay you to be a bookkeeper, not a midwife.” He dismissed the man with a curt nod as he took a step towards Jo.
“Because you blame me for killing your brother, you'd let poor little Mary and her baby die,” Jo screamed. “You're no better than a murderer.”
“Don’t you dare accuse me of such a foul thing.”
She spun around and raced back to the horse. “I'm sorry, boy.” She patted his sweating neck.
“Wait.” Luke strode up to her.
She swung around.
“Exactly where is the Smith place? I'll get someone to go over,” he said abruptly.
The hard glitter remained in his eyes, and he stood so still he could have been a statue cast from stone.
In a few words she told him the exact location of the hut, mounted and galloped away.
On reaching the hut, she leapt from her horse and pushed the bag aside. A horrific sight met her.
She dropped to her knees on the ground. In the time it had taken to ride over to Campton’s place, little Mary had given birth and without help literally bled to death. A choking sound alerted Jo that death for one, meant life for another. Between the dead girl's legs a small scrap of humanity gasped for breath as the umbilical cord was wrapped around its neck.
She worked frantically to loosen the cord so the infant could breathe. She glanced around for something to cut the cord with. All she could find was an old knife with a broken handle. She covered the lifeless body with a blanket, and held the baby close so it might gain warmth from her body.
“You poor mite.” It was a girl, but so tiny it could have been one of Lucy's dolls.
She cleaned the birthing mucous out of the baby’s eyes and mouth and wrapped her in a shawl. Blood covered her own clothes and her hands felt sticky with it. She badly wanted to scream but couldn’t afford such a luxury.
On legs that could barely carry her weight, and with the infant pressed against her breast, she managed to mount her horse using one hand. The baby kept giving weak little whimpers and she wanted to take her to Fiona, but dared not. Kangaroo Gully was much closer. Had it only been herself to consider, a team of wild horses would not have dragged her back there again, but every second counted for this poor little mite.
“Please God, don’t let her die. Don’t let her die,” she whispered. By the time the homestead came into view, Jo verged on collapse. She hated having to use her heels so cruelly to force more and more speed from the tiring horse. Its sides were flecked with foam, its steps almost faltering when they pulled up in the front yard.
Diving to the ground, with the baby still clasped close to her breast, she screamed. “Help me, someone help.”
“What the hell!” Luke's snarl pulled her up near the front door.
“You monster, see what you did.” She thrust the little bundle at him. “Mary's dead.”
“What?”
He took the baby and held it in the crook of one arm. The shawl slipped down to allow him a glimpse of what it covered. Even in her distressed state, she saw the color recede from his face, and a nerve twitch at the side of his jaw.
“Mary's dead. Mary's dead and you killed her.”
He pushed her into a cane chair before disappearing with the baby into the house. The door slammed shut behind him. She huddled in one corner, her face buried in her hands. Time meant nothing now. It could have been hours, probably only minutes, when a voice broke through her cloak of anguish.
“Drink this.”
Her hands were removed firmly, her chin tilted, and a glass forced against her lips. The brandy burned, causing her to gasp for breath.
“Drink it all,” Luke ordered. “As soon as you've got yourself under control, one of my men will escort you home.”
“The baby?”
“I’m sorry, but she’s dead.”
“She can't be. She was alive, I know....”
“She was dead when you handed her to me.”
Jo lashed out at him, pummeling her fists against the hard wall of his chest. “You killed it, you let Mary die then you killed her baby. I despise you.”
He took hold of her flailing arms and held them. “Get control of yourself. The child had no chance. It was too tiny to survive.”
“You don't even care.” She stared into his face, surprised at the fleeting tenderness flickering in the deep grey depths of his eyes.
She scrubbed the tears away with her knuckles. “Will Mr. Smith see to things? What I mean is...”
“Everything needing to be done will be. You’d better come inside so my housekeeper can make you some tea.”
He stood aside as she rose but made no effort to help. It was then she noticed he wore dusty work clothes. The material of his damp, sweat stained shirt clung to his muscular back.
The entrance hall opened into a small sitting room, and scarcely had she seated herself on a brocaded chair than a short plump woman of indeterminable age bustled in.
“Mrs. Osborne, this is Miss Saunders. Bring her some tea will you please. Then get someone to check if Jack and his wife have left for Nat Smith's place. There's no urgency now.”
“Certainly, sir.” She bustled away.
“You didn't need to bother with tea. I've got myself under control now.” She knew a fat tear sliding down her cheek belied this statement.
To her astonishment, he dropped down on one knee beside the chair and using the flat of his thumb he gently smoothed away the moisture. This tender gesture brought a lump to her throat but she gulped it down. He must never know how his touch affected her. His face was now so close she could see how long and thick his eyelashes were; how they almost rested on his tanned cheeks.
“You're beautiful, Jo.” His knuckles caressed her chin. “You shouldn't be wearing men's clothing.”
She had an overwhelming desire to melt into his strong arms, to touch his smooth skin. “I wear these because they're comfortable to work in.”
Picking up her hand, he raised it to his lips. “You weren't meant to work as a farm laborer. You should be wearing pretty gowns, bonnets and jewelry, have servants to attend your needs.”
She snatched her hand away and wiped it on her pants. “You're disgusting.”
His face darkened, and she fled out of the room, almost colliding with the worried looking housekeeper carrying a bowl of water and a towel.
“Sorry,” Jo apologized. “I’m all right, thank you.” She sprinted down the hallway, her pace not slackening until she reached the front door. With her last vestige of control, she willed her legs to carry her, at a
more sedate pace, to her horse. It wasn't until she was halfway home that the recriminations set in. Could she have done more to help Mary Smith and her baby? Why had she accused Luke Campton of being a murderer? She slumped in the saddle.
Fiona came out to meet her. “Where have you been? I’ve been so worried! What happened?”
Jo collapsed on the step and took a couple of deep breaths, before she could explain what had transpired.
“How terrible.” Fiona’s eyes filled with tears. “The poor things.”
“It was the most pitiful sight I’ve ever seen.”
Chapter Five
Hot and dry, the wind gusted across the lonely churchyard as Jo watched the Minister performing the burial service for Mary Smith and her baby. No mourners attended. Nat Smith hadn’t drawn a sober breath for days, and no one from Kangaroo Gully bothered to attend. When she had gone to see the Minister he said Luke had already made the funeral arrangements with him. To have no friends or family to mourn one's passing was truly pitiful.
Two men lowered the coffin into the freshly dug grave. Jo threw in a bunch of wild flowers, and stood tearless, as a cemetery worker shoveled dirt on top of it.
“Is there any charge? What I mean is…” What an indelicate way of putting it.
“There's nothing owing.” The Minister patted her arm. “My services come free. Luke Campton paid the undertaker.”
“It's terrible, isn't it?” She shuddered. “To be so alone.”
“It's God's will, Miss Saunders. They had a bleak outlook in this life, so maybe the next one will be better for them.”
“Thank you for coming.”
She watched him trudge off before turning to go herself. Something made her glance up. Away on a distant hillside, a lone rider sat staring down on them. Luke Campton.
***
One evening, a few days after Mary’s funeral, Jim Talbot came over to visit Jo. “Oh Jim, how nice to see you again.” She hated herself for feeling a twinge of disappointment because it wasn’t Luke.
“I hope you don't mind me calling in like this, Miss Saunders”
“I'm pleased you did, but call me Jo. Come in. Ian's away droving.”
“Oh.” He hesitated.
“Don't worry, my sister-in-law is here.”
“That's all right then.” A relieved grin spread over his features.
“Come to tell me the story of your life?” she teased.
“Maybe.”
He wore freshly laundered moleskins, a white shirt and a burgundy silk waistcoat. He swept his hat off, showing slicked back brown hair and he now sported a moustache on his upper lip. She guessed his age to be about twenty-five. When she introduced him to Fiona, he bowed slightly. No ordinary stockman, this. He was a gentleman.
What are you doing in Australia, she wanted to ask, but bit back the impulsive query in case it offended him.
“There's a picnic race meeting on Saturday at Kangaroo Gully.” He inclined his head to include Fiona. “Would you like to accompany me?”
“Well, I don't know, Jim. Are all the gentry going?” It would be nice. She had never attended a function like this before.
“I'm riding in the main event, the Campton two mile steeple chase. There's a prize of ten pounds. Jack Mulvaney has won it for the last few years, but my stallion can beat any horse of his.”
“Sounds exciting, but won't the competition be fierce? I mean…” To those on the breadline like them, ten pounds sounded a veritable fortune.
“My stallion can win, he's bred to race.”
“You're not an ordinary stockman, are you, Jim?”
“No. My father’s the local squire in a small English village. He accused me of being a lazy young lay about who would starve except for him. I wanted to prove I'm man enough to stand on my own two feet.” He grinned. “I have, and it's been quite fun, really.”
“What about the stallion?” Jo asked.
“I imported him from England. My mother secretly got one of her brothers to organize things for me. She loaned me the money,” he confessed with a rueful grin. “I mean to pay it back, though. If I can win this race, well, my intention is to start up a stud. It would be excellent publicity. As it is now, who would want their mares served by… oh, I beg your pardon.” He flushed.
“Don't apologize, my father was an American cavalry officer, I'm quite familiar with the various terminology. All right, we’ll come. It will give us something to look forward to.”
“I don't know.” Fiona gnawed her lip.
“Come on, Mrs. Morrison. I can’t take Miss Jo without a chaperone and she does want to go.”
“It will be fun. We could leave Lucy with the Kirkmans. They won't mind.”
Still Fiona hesitated.
“I can always go without you.” Jo tried to keep exasperation from her tone.
“That wouldn't be proper. Ian would never agree to it.”
“I don't care if Jim and I get ourselves gossiped about.”
“All right, I'll go if the Kirkmans can take Lucy.”
“I'll pick you up at eleven,” he promised.
Over a cup of tea, he spoke about his life in England. He had attended Eton. Should have guessed as much, Jo thought.
“Then I went to Oxford for a couple of years,” he continued.
“I heard somewhere that Mr. Griffith from the bank went to Oxford,” Fiona said. “Did you know him?”
Jim laughed. “I happen to know his cousin, he attended Oxford with me. Our dear Mr. Griffith lasted a week before getting expelled. Before my time, but there was a frightful scandal.”
“How can a man like him be employed at the bank?” Fiona asked.
“Probably suits Campton and his kind, easy to wield power over a lackey like him,” Jim said.
“I didn't think about it that way,” Jo mused. “And he has the gall to look down on everyone else.”
Jo couldn’t suppress a twinge of disappointment when Jim left. She had enjoyed his friendly, uncomplicated company. He didn’t tie her emotions up in knots like Luke Campton always did.
“He seems nice, Jo, and very suitable.”
“For heaven’s sake, we hardly know him. Still, he is nice. I'm looking forward to going to Kangaroo Gully. Jim didn't say so, but I should imagine it would be exclusive, could be a lot of fun. We’ll wear our best gowns.” She gave a little skip of excitement.
***
Saturday dawned, showing promise of a warm and sunny day. Jim arrived at eleven o'clock, riding a magnificent stallion, a large bay with fire in his eyes, and a restless impatience to be off. Jo stared in envy. What she wouldn't give for a ride on him.
Jim wore finely cut breeches and black knee-length boots. With a top hat and dark riding jacket, he epitomized the English gentleman.
They brought a picnic hamper, cold chicken, and an assortment of salad vegetables, with apple and mince pies for dessert.
Jo chose to wear a white muslin gown, spot patterned in pale green, with plain fitted sleeves and eight pearl buttons fastened down the bodice. Three flounces on the skirt gave it an elegant finish and she felt pleased with her appearance. Fiona's pale blue gown had printed rose sprays, and narrow stripes on the gathered skirt. Their white natural straw hats had wreaths of colored flowers decorating the crowns.
“My, you do look beautiful.” Jim stared at Jo. “Both of you,” he added hastily. “I planned to tether this fellow behind the buggy and drive, but he's a bit skittish, so I’ll ride.” He patted the stallion’s glistening neck. “You know how important today is, don't you boy?”
Jo liked the way he spoke to his horse. In fact, she liked everything about Jim Talbot. He assisted both of them into the buggy and lifted Lucy up. He rode beside them, quite happy to let them do the talking.
“I’m glad we came.” Fiona’s eyes sparkled with excitement.
Arriving at Kangaroo Gully, they found a roped off area set aside for picnickers. It was near the river, about half a mile from the homestead.
> A festive air prevailed. Jo watched with surprise as Jim handed over a ticket. Admission must be by invitation only. Had he paid for it? She wondered whether to make an offer to pay their share, but decided against it. Luke would have issued tickets to keep poor farmers away. This seemed to be confirmed when they saw all the expensive carriages lined up. Their shabby buggy looked completely out of place.
Deliberately, she picked out the most pretentious carriage with some type of gold crest on the side, and drove in beside it. Jim must have guessed her intention because he burst out laughing. Fiona, awestruck, was too busy summing up the fashionable gowns of the other ladies to notice anything else.
There must be a hundred people here Jo thought, lifting her hand slightly, much as a duchess might, to Mrs. Kilvain. She inwardly laughed at the woman's disdainful look and completely ignored Mr. Griffith who held his head so high, he wouldn’t be able to see where he walked.
“This is a good spot,” Jo said. They selected a grassy section, a little away from the rest of the picnickers. Jim, who had gone to register for the race, came back grinning.
“Luke Campton invited me to eat at the official table.”
“Official table?”
“Yes, in that colorful tent affair.”
“Oh, I didn't see Mr. Griffith or the Kilvains heading over there.” Jo laughed.
He grinned. “I know, but they aren't quite social enough to mix with all the best people.”
“But you are?” He made light of his background, yet he was obviously well connected.
“You’re frowning, Miss Jo.”
“Am I? Sorry, just thinking.”
“I'm starving,” he complained.
“I think you invited us so we would feed you.”
“That wasn't the reason, was it, Jim?” Fiona always took things so literally.
“Of course not, Mrs. Morrison, Miss Jo is teasing me.”
“Jim for the last time, if you keep putting Miss in front of my name, I'll start calling you Mr. Talbot.”
He laughed. “All right, Jo it is.”
He ate with the hungry enthusiasm of a schoolboy, and kept Jo laughing with his funny stories. The Kilvains and the Griffiths sat some distance away, but she somehow knew they watched with disapproval. She didn’t care.
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