Her Outback Rescuer

by Marion Lennox

  ‘So you and Rachel both learned?’ he said, watching her with a certain amount of caution. ‘Can Rachel throw a man, too?’

  ‘Any man you care to mention.’

  ‘And I’ve invited two of you to stay!’

  ‘We’re peaceable,’ she said, and he thought she was having trouble sounding peaceable. ‘We only defend ourselves—and, unlike some we could mention, we’ve never carried machine guns.’ She lifted her finger, blew imaginary powder from its trigger and reholstered it with a cowboy-like shrug. ‘Our bodies are our defence.’

  He laughed. He couldn’t help himself. No, she wasn’t carrying a machine gun. She wasn’t a threat. She was, though, quite simply adorable. Yeah, Maud was matchmaking, and no, he couldn’t take this further even if he wanted—though there was a big part of him saying that was a shame and a half. But his problems were his problems and to make her day miserable because of them was unforgivable.

  So get a grip, he told himself, and he eased the backpack around and flipped it open.

  ‘Truce,’ he said. ‘Sandwiches?’

  She didn’t move. She was standing ten feet away and she was still looking cautious.

  ‘They’re not loaded,’ he said. ‘I believe they’re egg and lettuce, and roast beef and salad.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have thrown you.’

  ‘Not before you made sure the sandwiches were safe. I agree.’

  ‘No retaliatory action?’

  ‘I’ve retired from action.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really,’ he said.

  She still didn’t come close.

  ‘Is that another way of saying you’ve retired from the army and life’s about to get boring?’

  Where had that come from? One minute they were talking about Tae Kwon Do. The next they were talking about his life?

  ‘Like you and ballet, I suspect,’ he said, trying to keep it light. ‘We’re buying ourselves carpet slippers and stoking up our sitting room fires.’

  ‘I can’t see you as the head of Thurston Holdings in carpet slippers.’

  ‘I can’t see me as head of Thurston Holdings. Have a sandwich.’

  She ventured close and squatted beside him—still a wee bit cautious—and chose a sandwich, then settled on a rock nearby and ate half before she said anything more. ‘What do you see yourself as?’ she asked.

  ‘Private,’ he said before he gave himself time to think about it. But she thought about it. She was watching him, considering, weighing him up. She ate a bit more sandwich before she responded.

  ‘I’d imagine,’ she said at last, ‘that the head of Thurston Holdings can buy private.’

  She was probing where she had no place to be. She was pushing into his solitude, but the thought came suddenly: this is Amy. This woman is no threat.

  Or not in any way he’d known before.

  ‘I can come here,’ he told her. ‘That’s why James built this place. No one in his face.’

  ‘Scary things, cameras.’

  ‘You can’t imagine.’

  ‘You’re scared?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘But I imagine you’re wary. Rumours are your parents liked the media attention, and as a kid that must have been appalling. Is that why you went into the army?’

  See, that was the problem with media attention. The whole world knew about his childhood. Including this chameleon of a woman. This woman who made him feel...

  No. Do not feel. ‘That’s...’

  ‘None of my business,’ she agreed. ‘Can I have another sandwich?’

  ‘Have three.’

  ‘And shut up?’

  ‘You said it.’

  ‘Fine,’ she said and subsided.

  She really did subside. What was more, she didn’t seem to mind subsiding. She was no longer accusing him of sulking; she was simply content to retire into her own space.

  She wandered across the ridge as she ate her sandwiches. She munched an apple and drank her water. She checked out the view from every angle. She squatted and watched a bunch of bull ants filing in and out of their nest. She gazed upward at the hawks soaring above them.

  Then she lay back on a sun-warmed rock, put her hands behind her head and closed her eyes. She was waiting for him to finish his lunch, or waiting for him to tell her it was time to go, or waiting for him to tell her it was okay, she was allowed to talk again.

  She was infuriating. Fascinating.

  Irresistible?

  ‘You can talk,’ he said at last, goaded. ‘I thought we weren’t doing the sulking thing any more.’

  ‘Shush.’

  ‘What do you mean, shush?’

  ‘You’re messing with my serenity, plus I’m in the middle of a plan.’

  ‘Which would be?’ This woman, he thought, seemed to have an infinite capacity to surprise him.

  ‘For how you can cope with the media when you hate it. I’ve watched your grandpa in action. He was great.’

  ‘They never let him alone.’

  ‘He was too nice,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Too polite—except for when he was wild on Maud’s account. But anger’s not good, either. That gets you more attention. And neither is being good-looking,’ she added, obviously thinking as she spoke. ‘The problem for your grandpa, of course, was that he had dignity. And Maud was beautiful, so he and Maud were media darlings.’ She was surveying him with care. ‘But you’re good-looking, too, plus you’re a soldier. That’s infinitely sexy. The women’s pages will love you. So I’m thinking... Maybe the best idea is to dye your hair grey—I think a sort of yellowish-grey is best, none of your distinguished white—and start wearing home-knitted pullovers.’

  He choked.

  ‘There,’ she said approvingly. ‘You agree? My plan has you in Fair Isle sweaters—maybe something a yodeller would wear, one of those guys who carries cute little accordions and do tap dances on the side. That’s fashion. Then...presentation... I think when anyone asks you anything, you should just bore them to death. Like if they say: why did Thurstons’ share price drop this week? You tell them it’s the same set of conditions that existed in ninety-four, or was that ninety-three, and before that maybe eighty-one. You drone on a bit about why they varied then. Then you say: have you ever noticed how share prices seem to be as variable as the weather? Like today, the forecast is for great weather, but that weird cloud over there is looking threatening. Maybe the wind will spring up, just like it did last weekend when you were trying to read the papers after your morning coffee. Has anyone else noticed how hard it is to read those wide broadsheets? Are you guys responsible for paper sizing? And, by the way, has anyone noticed how the quality of coffee’s gone off in the past few years? Why don’t they write a piece on that instead of haranguing you?’

  She grinned as he looked stunned. ‘Okay, that’s detail,’ she told him. ‘But you need something more—broader brush strokes.’ She considered for a bit and then nodded, decision made. ‘I know. I think you need a chatty wife who wears tweeds and who has a moustache. I believe she should be interested in something like turnip propagation. You should then have at least six children who are all brainy, who are all passionate about turnips and who don’t do drugs except for turnip fertiliser.’

  She wrinkled her brow, thinking it through a bit more. ‘I suspect that’ll work,’ she decreed at last. ‘Have I missed anything? I agree, it’ll take planning but you’re a soldier—planning’s
your thing. That’s that. Can we get on with our day now?’

  ‘I guess we can,’ he said a trifle unsteadily.

  ‘Excellent,’ she said and hauled Rachel’s list out of her pocket. ‘The dome to the left of us looks like our first destination. Rachel wants a core sample chipped two inches in, taken just below the summit. She has GPS coordinates here. You want to chip or shall I?’ She’d been carrying a light pack. She swung it round, hauled it open and produced a sharp-looking pick.

  ‘You told me you weren’t armed,’ he said, trying—and failing—to keep his voice steady. ‘Maybe I’m not brave enough to accompany you.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ she said and started packing up the sandwiches. ‘I’m good on my own. I promised I’m not about to jump you. Neither shall I use my pick or my martial arts, but if you want to split up, I’m happy.’

  ‘I won’t be,’ he said and pulled himself together and hauled his backpack back on. Trying not to laugh. Trying to focus on something other than Amy.

  Rachel’s list.

  The Olgas.

  It was no good. Amy was front and centre. She was simply...gorgeous.

  * * *

  They worked steadily for two hours, climbing from site to site, taking the samples Rachel had asked for, taking notes, taking pictures from every angle of the sites where they’d removed the rock—taking pleasure in each other’s company.

  The talk was still pared to a minimum but things had changed. He’d relaxed and so had Amy. She was enjoying herself, he thought, and so was he.

  The work was physically hard. Rachel had suggested they take two days to do it, or even not finish—she’d listed her samples in order of importance so if they didn’t finish it was no drama—but there was no thought of stopping.

  They were blessed by the weather. They had plenty of drinking water and sunscreen. There were shady spots to stop for breaks but Amy didn’t need a break.

  She rock-hopped like one of the shy wallabies they glimpsed from time to time, and more than once he remembered her decision to retire and thought surely it hadn’t been because of physical disability.

  He’d trained in some of the harshest conditions in the world, yet she kept up with him with ease. Her hair was tousled by the light wind. Her nose was painted white with sunscreen. She finished taking each sample and looked at the next GPS coordinate with anticipation.

  ‘So why did you retire from the ballet?’ he asked once as she leaped a rock chasm that he’d assumed she’d climb around.

  ‘Ooh, I can feel a very long discussion about wide newspapers and standards of today’s coffee coming on,’ she said and grinned to take the sting out of the snub.

  He grinned back.

  He was loving this.

  Loving...her?

  Um...not. He’d known her a few days. You didn’t fall in love in a few days, and he didn’t fall in love at all.

  And she wasn’t wearing tweeds and a moustache.

  But still... He watched her clambering up a pebble strewn scree, as nimble as a small mountain goat, and he wondered.

  She turned and stared down at him. He was at the bottom of the scree, just watching her.

  ‘What?’ she demanded. And then, ‘Would you like a hand up?’

  ‘No,’ he said, revolted.

  ‘Or a wee nap?’

  ‘Amy...’

  ‘Just asking,’ she said blithely and turned to continue to climb. ‘I’m thinking the Australian army needs to send their soldiers to our ballet academy for a bit of toughening up.’

  Not so much. He could overtake her in a heartbeat, he thought.

  Why would he want to?

  ‘Hugo?’

  She’d reached the top of the rise and was standing still, looking away from him. Her voice was suddenly unsure. Worried?

  He was with her in seconds, scrambling up the scree as if it didn’t exist. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘There’s a wallaby.’

  There was, not fifteen feet from where she stood.

  It wasn’t moving.

  Was it injured?

  She put a hand out to stop him going further, but he knew not to frighten.

  The rock wallabies were beautiful, tiny, delicate, kangaroo-like creatures which bounded around this rocky habitat with an ease that was breathtaking. They were also intractably shy. He’d seen glimpses of them during the day, but glimpses only. In daylight hours they’d be hiding in the shadows. Hugo had felt watched every moment they’d been here, and these creatures were the reason why.

  A shadow passed over their heads—a great wheeling hawk—and he saw the wallaby cringe but not move.

  The hawk was in surveillance mode. Exposed on the rock ledge, the wallaby was an easy target. The hawk was wheeling, watching, waiting to move in for the kill. If he and Amy hadn’t arrived, the wallaby might already be taken.

  ‘Why is she here?’ Amy breathed. ‘She must be injured.’

  In which case, maybe it was kinder to simply back off and let the hawk get on with it, Hugo thought grimly. It’d be a swift end.

  ‘Amy...’

  ‘I know,’ she whispered, desolate. ‘I’m my grandma’s daughter and I know bush ways. I’m not suggesting we take an old, ill wallaby and pay a fortune on vet’s bills and then try and rehabilitate it when the end’s inevitable. But...’

  But. Both of them were thinking but.

  ‘Her pouch is extended,’ Hugo said after a while. ‘But empty.’

  They watched on. Above them, the hawk looped lazily, content to wait until they moved away before it did what had to be done.

  What was wrong with it?

  Hugo knew rock wallabies. He knew joeys stayed with their mother until they were almost fully mature. By the time they were half-grown the mother’s pouch was starting to look stretched and saggy.

  As was this one. The pouch was sagging, but there was no bulge inside. There was no joey in sight.

  Maybe the hawk had taken it?

  If it had, he thought, why was the wallaby staying here, in full sun, when the hawk was still wheeling overhead? When their presence must be pushing her every instinct to flee.

  There was a ledge right beside her.

  ‘Let’s see,’ he said, and inched forward, trying not to startle the animal more than he must.

  He got to within about ten feet of the wallaby before she moved, which in itself was astonishing. It made him think she must be hurt, but when she finally bounded away there was no trace of injury. She took three fast leaps into the shadows of the rock-face behind, but then she stopped. She was still not far enough to make him think this was a normal retreat.

  He’d reached the ledge. He looked down, and by the time he did he almost expected what he saw.

  Here was her joey, gangly and half-grown.

  Stuck.

  The ledge formed the side of a crevice almost fifteen feet deep. Smooth red rock rose on every side, almost vertical. The crevice was too high to jump out of, too steep to climb.

  At the base was flat ground, sandy, smooth. Littered with bones.

  This was a trap for the unwary, he thought, seeing exactly how it could happen. An immature joey, filled with youthful confidence, that his mother could keep him safe from danger, had bounded too close and slipped.

  He mustn’t have been there for long. He looked alert, sitting back on his haunches, looking upward. His head was cocked on one side, as if he were asking: Mum, what’s taking you so long to
get me out?

  There was no way his mother could get him out, and if she stayed peering down at him she’d be the hawk’s next meal.

  ‘Oh, no.’ Amy had slid up to lie beside him. ‘How can we get him out?’

  Signs in the car park were clear as to how tourists were to handle wildlife. Short answer—don’t. This was a National Park. Nature could seem harsh, but if humans interfered then the balance was upset. The hawk had to eat.

  Maybe, Hugo thought, but leaving a wallaby facing a quick death from a hawk was a far cry from knowing that its mother’s death meant slow dehydration for the joey below.

  But how to get down there? Fifteen feet...

  ‘You didn’t bring a ladder in your backpack, I suppose?’ Amy asked.

  ‘No.’ He was trying to think. He had no rope. The sides were too steep to get down and up again.

  He could radio the rangers and ask them to help, he thought, but the signs back in the car park made him pause. He knew what their answer would be.

  But to walk away...

  Maybe he could make a rope, but there was nothing to tie it to. He searched the vertical walls for toe holds and found none.

  ‘If we made a rope, do you reckon you could hold me?’ Amy asked.

  ‘Hold you?’

  ‘Lower me down and up again. I’m not all that heavy. My partners heave me round all the time. I know ballerinas have better training regimes than soldiers, but if you tried very hard...’

  He had to smile. But... ‘You’re not going down,’ he said. ‘What if you got stuck?’

  ‘Then you’ll lower the rest of the sandwiches and the water and go for help. I’ll play the dumb tourist and there’ll be rescue helicopters here in no time.’

  ‘To pull you out of a chasm.’

  ‘With Joey,’ she said. ‘If I can hide Buster, I can hide him—though a helicopter would probably make his mother take fright. It’ll be better if you can just grit your teeth and pull.’