by Susan Napier;Kathryn Ross;Kelly Hunter;Sandra Marton;Katherine Garbera;Margaret Mayo
She didn’t know.
Uneasiness came quickly, spreading over her like a blanket as the noise came again; a harsh, anguished cry of grief and desperation that was universally recognisable, never mind that it was wordless.
Tristan.
Erin hadn’t been dreaming. But Tristan was.
What to do?
Her first instinct was to go to him, hold him, and let him take from her what comfort he could. Her second instinct was to feed him. Damn! She lay in bed, listening to him thrash about, and then the noise stopped abruptly and light crept into her room from the gap beneath the door. He was awake.
She heard his bedroom door open, heard him go into the bathroom and then there was the splash of running water and she figured he was dousing his face. She wanted to go to him then, and ask him what was troubling him, but she stayed where she was, motionless in her indecision. He wouldn’t thank her for her interference. He’d close up tight, stare at her with eyes as fierce as any mountain cat and tell her that it was nothing, that he was fine, and that she should go back to bed.
Damned if he’d tell her anything. She knew the breed.
Damned if he would.
She heard him turn the tap off, heard the click of a light switch as he turned the bathroom light off and padded quietly down the hallway.
He didn’t turn his bedroom light off. She could picture him sitting on the bed with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands and cursed him afresh for being what he was. For making her care that he was hurting.
She wanted to go to him. She desperately wanted to help him. And knew that she could not.
Maybe he was reading. She hoped that was what he was doing.
Or maybe he simply slept better these days with the light on.
Chapter Five
BREAKFAST the following morning was a subdued affair; never mind that the sun was shining and the prospect of hunting down the perfect opal loomed bright. Erin watched in silence as Tristan, freshly showered and shaved, slotted two bits of raisin bread into the toaster. He knew his way around a kitchen, that much was certain. The dishes from last night had been washed and stowed away, and the tea towel had been hung to dry. What was more, the bathroom was tidy too, not a toothpaste smear or a dropped towel in sight. Just the lingering scent of soap and man, and the memory of a cry in the darkness that she couldn’t forget. ‘Sleep well?’ she asked casually.
‘Fine,’ he said. And after a moment, ‘You?’
‘Like a baby.’
‘Good.’ He nodded, waited for the toast to pop.
He wasn’t going to tell her about his nightmare. Wasn’t even going to acknowledge its existence. Her father and Rory were the same. Forever shutting her out and telling her everything was okay when, clearly, all hell had broken loose. Trying to protect her, she knew that. Trying to shield her from the darkness that came with war, and she appreciated their concern, she really did, but she resented it too. She was stronger than they gave her credit for. Strong enough to listen. Plenty strong enough to help.
Toast popped and Tristan slid the pieces onto a plate and slathered them with butter, before loading up the toaster again. ‘Want some?’ he offered, gesturing towards the plate.
Sighing, Erin took a piece. ‘Coffee’s hot,’ she said by way of contribution to the breakfast cause. Given the night he’d just had she figured he was going to need a couple of cups before he’d be ready to seize the day. ‘There’s a one-man mine about forty kilometres northeast of here,’ she said. ‘I thought we might head out there first up this morning.’
‘You don’t need to phone ahead?’
Erin shook her head. ‘Can’t. Old Frank’s not one for phones. The upside is that he does love his opals.’ Another thought occurred to her. ‘Er, he likes his guns too. You’re not going to get all righteous about him having unlicensed firearms on the premises, are you?’
‘Only if he’s waving one of them in my face,’ said Tristan.
This was a distinct possibility. Frank and his twenty-two tended to meet potential customers shortly after they pulled up on his plot. Mind you, that particular gun probably was licensed. ‘Maybe you could wait in the car while I go and find him.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Tristan’s voice was implacable.
‘Ooh, tough guy. Be still my beating heart.’
The tough guy favoured her with a look that could have frozen Sydney harbour and Erin sent him a sunny smile in return. She’d worry about who went and found Frank when they got there, she decided, because there was obviously no sense talking about it now. One thing was for certain, she thought smugly. Tristan wasn’t thinking about whatever was giving him nightmares any more. No. He was thinking about ways to chain her to the car.
Tristan’s eyes narrowed. ‘I know that smile,’ he said warningly. ‘My sister has one just like it.’
‘Really?’ Erin’s smile widened. ‘More toast?’
An hour later they rolled onto Frank’s patch of dirt, studiously ignoring the barrage of no-trespassing signs and the bone-white cow skull mounted on a stake by the front gate.
‘Colourful,’ said Tristan as he got out of the car and came to help her drag the broken-hinged farm gate closed behind them. ‘How did you come across this place again?’
‘Rory and I were out this way about two years back and stopped to help Frank with a busted radiator hose. Of course, we didn’t know who he was back then, but we got to talking and one thing led to another.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘Next thing you know we’re getting a tour of his mine and I’m sifting through a handful of rough-cut opal and doing business. I think it was fate.’
‘Not horoscopes?’
‘That too.’ Erin scoured the desolate landscape in front of them and waved energetically in the general direction of the old silver caravan in the distance. ‘I think he’s home. I just saw a glint of sunlight on steel.’
‘Where?’
‘Over by the caravan.’
‘Great,’ said Tristan. ‘Get in the car.’
She got in the driver’s side, held out her hand for the keys, and when Tristan somewhat reluctantly handed them over she headed for the caravan.
‘Do you think he’ll remember you?’ asked Tristan
‘I’m pretty sure he will,’ she said, with a nod of her head for good measure. Eventually.
Frank West did remember her. The grin on his sun-battered face and the lack of a twenty-two in his hands confirmed it. He didn’t remember Tristan.
‘Who’s the muscle?’ he wanted to know.
‘Frank, this is Tristan. Tristan, meet Frank.’
Tristan nodded.
Frank eyed Tristan curiously. ‘Seems a bit uptight,’ he said.
‘We’re working on it,’ said Erin, and smothered a smile when Tristan sent her a glance that told her she could work on him forever; he still wasn’t going to bend.
‘Got me some nice black opal,’ said Frank.
‘Sorry, Frank. The budget won’t run to the blacks.’ There was a ten-thousand-dollar limit on the cost of materials for the competition pieces, to even the playing field. Anyone could make a million dollars’ worth of Argyle diamonds look good. ‘I’m after some rough-cut boulder opal.’
‘Got some good quality blues,’ he said. ‘What shape?’
‘Freeform.’
Frank’s eyes brightened considerably. Freeform was a harder sell than the more common oval and square shapes. ‘Better come into the office,’ he said, and sat them down at the table in the little silver caravan that doubled as both living quarters and business premises. ‘Sure you don’t want to take a look at the blacks?’
‘Bring them out by all means,’ she said with a grin, ‘but unless you have any for sale under two thousand, all I’m going to do is admire them.’
Frank sighed and turned his attention to a row of opal-filled jam jars high up on a shelf. He bypassed the first half a dozen jam jars on the ledge in favour of a selection fro
m further along, eventually taking down three jars and setting them on the table. He opened one up, and poured the contents carefully onto the table. ‘Homebrew?’ he asked Tristan. ‘I figure you’re going to need it before she’s through.’
‘Go ahead,’ murmured Erin as she started sorting through the opals, piece by piece. ‘This could take a while.’
‘She was here for three hours last time she came,’ said Frank.
‘How long?’ said Tristan.
‘I figure that’s a yes,’ said Frank and opened the fridge door to reveal a tub of margarine, half a tomato, a row of empty beer glasses where the milk should be, and a twenty litre steel keg, complete with tap. He filled three glasses with beer from the keg, one for each of them, and took a seat.
‘How long do you think she’ll take this time?’ asked Tristan.
‘I’ve gotten smarter in my old age, see? That there first jar is to help her get her eye in. It’s a practice jar, so to speak, to remind her what she’s not looking for.’
‘Gee, thanks, Frank,’ said Erin, not bothering to look up from the opals she was sorting. ‘What’s in the second jar?’
‘You’ll find some nice opal in the second.’
‘And the third?’ asked Tristan.
‘My best boulder pieces. She’ll find what she’s looking for in the third.’
‘Why not give her the third jar first?’ said Tristan.
Frank eyed him pityingly. ‘You don’t know much about women, do you, son?’
Tristan sighed, and reached for his beer.
‘Would you like to see some black opal?’ Frank asked Tristan speculatively. ‘Got a stone there that’d make a fine engagement ring for a non-traditional kind of woman.’
Tristan froze with his beer halfway to his lips and Erin sniggered. ‘Frank, you’re scaring him.’
‘A man needs to contemplate the future every now and then,’ said Frank with a toothless grin as he headed past a curtain of faded blue cloth and into the bedroom section of the caravan. He came back with a small roll of red velvet cradled gently in the crook of his arm and Erin sighed and abandoned the opals on the table in favour of scooting over, closer to Tristan. Frank was determined to show off his blacks to someone and it was useless to pretend she wasn’t interested.
There was a fortune in opals nestling on that there red velvet strip, she thought in awe as the old miner unrolled his best onto the table in front of him. Enough to buy Frank a mansion if he wanted one. Five mansions.
‘This here’s the latest,’ said Frank proudly, turning over an opal the size of a twenty-cent piece. It was turquoise on black, shot through with yellow and a brilliant fiery red. ‘Haven’t seen colour like that in thirty years. Not since old Fisty dug up the Sorcerer’s Stone and you know what happened to that.’
Tristan didn’t.
‘It vanished,’ said Frank. ‘Disappeared into thin air. One minute it was there on its pedestal and the next minute…poof. Gone! Saw it happen with my own eyes. That’s why I never put my stones on display under glass. They don’t like it. They disappear.’
‘Someone could have taken it,’ said Tristan mildly.
‘That there room was locked down tighter than a Russian submarine the minute it disappeared, and everyone in the room was body-searched. Nothing!’
‘Maybe someone swallowed it,’ said Tristan.
‘It was the size of a tennis ball.’
‘Or hid it.’
‘In that room?’ Frank shook his head. ‘It was one of them contemporary museums. You couldn’t hide dust in that place.’
‘Which museum was that?’ asked Tristan and Erin lifted her gaze from the opals to stare at him with amused exasperation. His interest in the opals set out in front of him was cursory. His interest in Frank’s story was all-encompassing. ‘You can’t help yourself, can you?’
‘What?’ he said.
‘Doing the cop thing. Aren’t you supposed to be on leave?’
‘I am on leave.’
‘Yet you’re sitting here asking questions about a legendary fire opal that’s been missing for, what, twenty years?’
‘More like thirty,’ said Frank.
‘Just curious,’ said Tristan.
‘You were working it,’ she said sternly. ‘Trying to solve a thirty-year-old crime in your spare time.’
‘Don’t you have boulder opal to look at?’ he countered.
‘I’ll get back to them eventually.’ Just as soon as she’d finished ogling the blacks and making her point. ‘You know what your problem is? You’ve lost your balance. You’re all work.’
‘Really?’ said Tristan coolly.
‘Yes, really.’ Erin stood her ground. ‘You’ve been so busy chasing villains that you’ve forgotten how to chase rainbows.’
‘I know perfectly well how to chase rainbows,’ he said.
‘Oh, yeah? When was the last time you acted on impulse? When was the last time you let whimsy have its way?’
Tristan’s eyes lightened as he sent her a lopsided smile she couldn’t even begin to resist. ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’
Erin found the perfect opal pieces in the third jar she looked in, just as Frank had predicted. There were three of them altogether. Two halves of the same opal, expertly cut into slim columns of shimmering blues and greens and perfect for earrings. The third piece showed similar colour and form; only this one had a thin streak of potch running through it like a silvery grey river. This one would form the basis of the necklace, she decided, never mind its irregularity, and when Frank named a price that was more than reasonable, she was decided.
‘There’s better than that in there,’ he said bluntly.
‘I know…’ Erin picked up the stone and held it up to the light, turning it this way and that. ‘But the colour’s exquisite and there’s just something about it.’ She paid cash for the stones and stood just inside the caravan door, rubbing the opal between her fingers as she watched Tristan wander over towards a rusty old ute that Frank seemed to be using as a storage cupboard. There was something about Tristan too. An almost irresistible blend of vulnerability and strength that called to her, even as she railed against it. ‘I know it’ll be a challenge,’ she said absently, ‘but that’s the one I want.’
‘Women,’ muttered Frank, and Erin tore her gaze away from Tristan to raise an eyebrow in silent query.
‘You give that boy some room to move, y’hear? It don’t always help to have a woman pointing out the obvious. Sometimes a man needs to solve things his own way, and in his own good time.’
‘What if his way’s not working,’ she countered, thinking of Tristan’s nightmare.
‘Then ya gotta get sneaky.’
‘You mean subtle.’
‘Subtle. Sneaky. Never could tell the difference, between the two.’
‘It’s a good thing we women can tell the difference then, isn’t it?’
Frank snorted, handed her a plastic Ziploc bag to put the opals in and with the deal done they headed over towards Tristan, still standing there eyeing the ute.
‘It’s a thirty-nine Ford,’ said Tristan.
‘Bought that old girl from a broke miner for a hundred dollars,’ said Frank. ‘Look at the lines on her!’
Tristan was looking. ‘Is it for sale?’
‘Depends what you wanted to do with her,’ said Frank. ‘I wouldn’t sell her to just anyone.’
‘I want to restore it,’ said Tristan. ‘I’ll give you six hundred for it.’
‘Twelve hundred,’ said Frank.
‘There’s a lot of rust,’ said Tristan.
‘Surface rust,’ said Frank.
Surface rust? Erin bent down and picked at a flake of it with her index finger and stifled a giggle as it fell to the ground leaving a hole the size of a twenty-cent piece.
‘Five hundred,’ said Tristan, and Erin stared from the rusted wreck to Tristan in bemusement. The man lived in England. In London. In an apartment. What on earth was he going to do with a thi
rty-nine Ford ute?
‘Does it run?’ she asked as Frank wrestled with the bonnet to reveal one of the biggest engines she’d ever seen.
‘Had her purring like a kitten fifteen years ago.’
‘Yes, but does it purr now?’
‘Four hundred,’ said Tristan as he worked his way around the old engine. ‘Know anyone who could get her to Sydney for me?’
‘That’ll cost you an extra two hundred,’ said Frank. ‘Six-fifty all up should about cover it.’
‘Done,’ said Tristan, and shaking hands with Frank, became the proud owner of a rusty paddock junker.
‘What are you going to do with it after you’ve restored it?’ she asked him. ‘Have it shipped over to London?’ By the time he’d finished restoring and transporting it, the old heap would have cost him a fortune.
Tristan shrugged. ‘I haven’t really thought about it.’
‘That’s ridiculous!’
‘No,’ he said, the ghost of a smile hovering around his lips. ‘It’s a rainbow.’
They visited three more opal mines after that, two of them on Frank’s recommendation, and Tristan suffered the shopping in stoic silence. He didn’t rush her, distract her, or try to influence her. If it took an hour to sort through a tinful of boulder opals, then that was what it took. Cops obviously acquired a lot of patience in the course of their work, Erin decided approvingly. Rory’s would have run out around midday.
It was after five by the time they reached the motel and Erin was no richer for opal than she had been when they’d left Frank’s. Not that it mattered. She had three pieces; three extraordinary pieces of opal and the jewellery that would come of them would be stunning. As far as opal-buying was concerned, she was done.
‘We won’t be needing that third night after all,’ she told Delia, when they stopped by reception on the way back to their rooms. ‘We’ll head off in the morning.’
‘Checkout’s at eleven,’ said Delia, eyeballing them both. ‘You look spent. You need to go and have a soak in the hot pool. Here.’ She reached beneath the counter and came up with a small gold-coloured entry coin. ‘A two-night stay’ll get you a single entry into the pool complex. Try it.’