Walkabout Wife

by Dorothy Cork

  But what was the truth? That she was married—to a stranger—and that she'd be unmarried again very shortly. Oh God, what a secret to have on your conscience if ever you wanted to marry again ! How would Joe feel about her, for instance, if he knew of this—adventure? Well, she'd never be interested in marrying him—or anyone else, come to that, she told herself despairingly ...

  Over dinner, Drew was as polite as he had been when he had spoken to her earlier, and he was still abstracted. Some way or other, he managed to keep the conversation impersonal and to avoid awkward silences. No one listening to them, Edie thought, would ever dream they were married, had felt passion for each other, had groaned against each other's lips. If Drew was getting back to his idea that they should forget their marriage, then he was doing so with a vengeance. But he had plainly abandoned the idea that they should aim for a better understanding of each other.

  Afterwards, he complimented her conventionally on the meal she had cooked, but he didn't offer to help with the washing up, which, instead of leaving it to the girls, she decided to do herself. She wasn't sure if he

  expected her to join him in the sitting room afterwards, and she was very much tempted to go to her room. Except that if she did so, he might follow her there to see what the trouble was. And even in his present mood, she didn't want him in her bedroom. She didn't trust him, and still less did she trust herself.

  She finally found a writing pad, took her letter from Barb, and went determinedly into the sitting room.

  He was there—leaning back in a chair, a glass in his hand, the whisky decanter and a small jug of water on the low table beside him. He wore black pants and a violet silk shirt, and he looked absolutely stunning. Edie couldn't keep her eyes off him—that tanned skin, that thick wave of smoke-brown hair. He was somehow more masculine than any man she had ever known, which was weird in a way, with that pretty violet shirt. He had worn a black tie at dinner, but he had discarded it and the three top buttons of his shirt were undone revealing the thick hair on his chest.

  He didn't look up as she came in, but stared moodily at the glass in his hand, and she studied him for a long moment, aware of the quickening beat of her heart. He was her husband, she found herself thinking. They were legally married. Why should she worry about his past—about Laurel Clarkson? Couldn't she apologise, start again, persuade him to—

  She pulled up her thoughts quickly. What she wanted and what he wanted could very easily be two different things.

  After a few seconds, she went to sit on the couch near the reading light, settling her writing pad on her lap and smoothing down her long skirt over her knees, admiring for a moment its lovely burnt orange colour.

  He lifted his head and smiled at her slightly, raising one eyebrow in a way that had become familiar to her.

  `Washing up finished?' he asked.

  She nodded. 'I'm going to write a letter,'

  `Who to?' He narrowed his eyes and leaned forward to pour himself another whisky.

  `To my flatmate. My—my letter was from her.'

  `I guessed as much. The writing looked like a woman's ... Would you like a drink?'

  `No, thank you.'

  He didn't push it, but asked abruptly, shifting his position so he was looking straight at her, 'What did your flatmate have to say?'

  Edie blinked. 'Nothing much.'

  `Oh, come on—she must have had something to say. Didn't you write to her from Narrunga—before we were married?'

  `Well then—'

  Edie stared back at him frustrated. What right had he to question her about her personal letters? None, as far as she could see. No more right than she had to question him about his. But as he continued to hold her gaze, she said unwillingly, 'She wants to know what's happening, that's all.'

  `I suppose she does. She knows all about your answering my advertisement, doesn't she? I remember you said it was she who had pointed it out to you.' He took a gulp of his whisky and looked at her fixedly over the glass. 'And what's happening in Sydney? Any news of the boy-friend you were consigning to limbo?'

  `Yes,' she said after a moment. She wet her lips. 'As a matter of fact, he's—he's changed his ideas about marriage'

  The expression in his eyes altered slightly.

  `You mean he wants to marry you now?'

  `I—I suppose so.'

  `Then that's too bad for him—because you're married already. Does he know that?'

  `No,' she said unwillingly. She wished he wouldn't continue to look at her that way. Her nerves were screaming and she couldn't concentrate on what she was saying. After a silence that seemed to have become dangerous, she asked him wildly, 'Who was your mail from? Or—or do you object to my asking?'

  Not at all,' he said, his eyes still darkly on hers. 'My mail's mostly business, in any case.'

  `Mostly?' she repeated, thinking of the letter he had been reading so absorbedly in the office.

  `Yes, mostly. But if you're curious

  `No more curious than you are,' she interrupted, defensively.

  `—then the only personal mail I had was from Ireland. My dear aunt sees fit now and again to let me know what's happening over there on the other side of the world,' he concluded, a sardonic twist to his mouth.

  `Have you—let her know you're married?' she asked jerkily, remembering that Laurel was in Ireland too.

  `No, I have not,' he said shortly, and returned his attention to his whisky glass,

  So he hadn't told his aunt. So Laurel didn't know. What did it all mean? she wondered. But of course, this marriage was merely a stratagem to attain a certain end—it wasn't the sort of marriage you wanted to broadcast. All the same, his aunt was concerned, since her son would inherit Dhoora Dhoora if Drew didn't. Well, it was his business, and plainly he wasn't going to talk to her about it. She opened her writing pad determinedly.

  `Dear Barb,' she wrote, 'I'm sorry I didn't write sooner, but as you might guess the mail doesn't go out from here very often.' She paused. What came after

  that? How could she explain the situation to Barb in terms that made it sound reasonable, even acceptable? Or would she skate over the whole thing and not tell her anything? But Barb was a good friend and she was genuinely worried, and she deserved better than evasions that were no more than lies.

  After a little thought, she continued slowly, 'It was lovely hearing all the news from you. (Like hearing news from another planet, her thoughts told her.) It's funny about Joe, isn't it? It just shows you. About Drew Sutton—my cattleman—' She paused again. My cattleman. She didn't dare raise her eyes to look at him, but she was aware he had tossed down his whisky and poured himself another one, and she had the distinct and uneasy feeling he was watching her.

  `We're married,' she wrote recklessly. 'I expect you'll think I'm out of my mind, but the fact is he had to get married for a specific reason that's to do with this property. I won't bore you with all the details now, but it was rather urgent and as I'd answered the ad and he'd sent the tickets, it really wouldn't have been fair to back out. I know you'll find it hard to understand, and I can't really explain how I fell for it, but he's not just any old cattleman. He's terribly good-looking and attractive, in fact. But don't worry—I'll try not to lose my head. It's only a temporary thing—the marriage will be annulled in a few weeks. I'm not gullible enough to think he wants to make it permanent. Don't give Joe my address—I'll be back.'

  She raised her lashes cautiously to look across at him, and with a shock that went right through her she encountered his eyes and saw in them a look so hotly and openly sexy she couldn't help knowing what he was thinking about.

  She blushed, slowly and deeply, to the very roots of

  her hair, yet she didn't look away. She didn't want to. She could feel all the primitive urges within her surfacing, and her awareness shifted from outside to the most sensitive nerve ends of her system. It was shocking, so suddenly and without warning, to want him like this—to long for him to come and take her in his arms
and make love to her. To be unable to deny it even to herself because her body wouldn't allow any denials.

  She should have stayed in her room. She knew it now. She shouldn't have come to join him here, where he could sit and drink his whisky and stare at her—and she could raise her eyes and stare at him ...

  When he moved eventually it was not to get up and come to her. He merely put down his empty glass and leaned towards her, his legs apart, his forearms on his thighs, his hands lightly clasped.

  `Who's the letter for? Your flatmate? Or—Joe?' he asked a little thickly.

  `My—my flatmate,' she said, her voice sounding unnatural in her own ears.

  `What are you telling her?'

  `About us,' she said, reluctantly.

  `Show me.' He shifted his position and reached out his hand.

  Instantly she drew back her hands covering the sheet of notepaper. 'No ! It's none of your business.'

  But it is,' he insisted unsmilingly. 'You're writing about us. Come on—I want to see what you've said.'

  She shook her head, but he stood up and now he was looking down at her with purpose in his eyes, and she suspected he was at least a little drunk.

  `I want to know what's going on in your mind.' he said. 'You won't tell me—perhaps your letter will.'

  `It won't tell you a thing you don't know,' Edie said quietly, but he reached down for her wrist and pulled

  her mercilessly to her feet, his free hand grabbing for the writing pad that she'd automatically put behind her back.

  There was a brief struggle. She heard herself utter a sob as the writing pad fell to the floor and her body was locked with his. She twisted her head aside, aware of the smell of whisky as the warmth of his breath touched her brow, then abruptly her resistance went. She lowered her head with a soft moan and leaned her cheek against his chest, feeling the roughness of the hair inside the opening of his shirt. Her eyes were closed and she could feel the blood pounding at her temples, pounding through her veins. She heard the beat of his heart and felt the rise and fall of his chest under her cheek as their bodies clung together. In her mind she could hear his voice saying over and over, `Come to bed, Edie—come to bed.' Tears filled her eyes and slid down her cheeks, and she felt their warm wetness slippery under his hand as his fingers caressed her face, and he raised it gently to his. She opened her eyes wide to stare into the silvery secrets of his, and everything she felt was there for him to see.

  Her lips parted, whether to say I love you or just to receive his kiss she was never to know, for suddenly he broke the spell with a crude exclamation and abruptly put her from him.

  He stooped to pick up her writing pad, then flung himself back in the chair where he had been sitting previously, completely ignoring her.

  Edie stood with her head bowed, her body aching with unfulfilled hunger for him. She was only vaguely aware that he was reading her letter. She had too much else to contend with to care, and it seemed an eternity before she had gained enough control over her mind to tell herself she was glad he had let her go before she

  made a complete fool of herself. Her body and mind were in hopeless confusion. She wanted him but she didn't want him, she hated him but she loved him, and she discovered she was staring at him fixedly.. Had he said Come to bed? or had she merely imagined it? One thing was for sure, though. He hadn't said I love you. And she had no way of knowing what his feelings were for Laurel Clarkson.

  At that moment, he raised his head and looked at her.

  `You've got a funny way of trying not to lose your head, Edie.'

  `What?' she said stupidly.

  He didn't repeat ft. 'I haven't been helping you, of course. Believe it or not, I didn't mean to touch you tonight—not since you told me so plainly to lay off. I was sitting here drinking my Scotch and swearing I'd leave you alone. But I can't and that's basic, and it's time to lay our cards on the table. If what's upset you is the idea I've been fooling you—that I didn't really mean we'd think about taking our marriage seriously, and that's about what you say in your letter, isn't it?—then let's get that point cleared up for a start.' He put the writing pad on the table near his glass and looked into her eyes. 'Edie, will you marry me?'

  Edie sank down into the chair behind her before her legs gave way. The colour drained from her face. 'You —you've had too much to drink,' she said shakily. 'We are married—'

  He made an impatient gesture and his eyes smouldered across at her.

  `Okay, I've had too much to drink. But not so much I don't know what I'm saying. The fact is, from almost the minute you and I have met, we've been juggling with our emotions. Despite the suggestion I made the

  other morning, I can't forget we're legally married—and I don't believe you can either. We're like two people who've fallen into the sea. It's no use trying to pretend we're still safely walking about on dry land. So I'll say it again—will you marry me?—for better or worse.'

  `But you don't—we don't—' she stammered, unable to collect her senses.

  `We don't what?'

  `We don't—don't know each other. Not really'

  He looked at her through narrowed eyes. 'Is that what you really mean? Or are you trying to say we don't love each other—that love is in fact more than sexual attraction? I'm afraid just at this moment, I'm not capable of being metaphysical about it all ... Have you ever been in love, Edie?'

  She moistened her lips, but instead of answering 'him she asked, 'Have you?'

  He smiled crookedly. 'I'm thirty-five. It'd be odd if I hadn't been.' He lit a cigarette and offered it to her, then when she refused it, drew on it himself, frowningly. 'I've told you about Deborah. But that was a long time ago.'

  `Yes, I know, but isn't there—someone else?' she asked. 'Laurel,' she wanted to say. 'Laurel Clarkson. You were engaged to her. Weren't you in love with her? Are you still in love with her?'

  `Someone else?' he repeated. 'Now, you mean? For God's sake—what do you think? If there were someone else I'd hardly have got myself into this situation with you, would I? And I certainly wouldn't be asking you to marry me—again, and differently. I hope that answers your question. And now how about answering mine? Have you ever been in love?'

  `Only with you,' she wanted to say, but he'd never

  believe that. She said reluctantly, 'I suppose I've imagined I was in love.'

  `Then try the real thing, Edie. Try falling in love with me, in fact. Stop fighting against nature and admit that the makings of love are there. Haven't you heard it said love's one of the pleasant end products of proximity? If that's so, then we've got it made—or just about. You can't get much closer than in bed together in the middle of the outback, I shouldn't imagine ... Now don't look at me like that. We've agreed I've had too much to drink and I'm not suggesting we start our new relationship within the next five minutes or so. I'll give you a day—two days—three, if you need them, to think the thing over. If your answer's no, then we'll have to part. We can't go on much longer the way things are—either of us.'

  No, they couldn't—of course they couldn't, and Edie knew it. It was the old thing of playing with fire, and she was the one who was most likely to get burned. It made sense to sort it all out, once and for all, and of course she didn't want to go. She had a mad impulse to say, 'Yes, I'll marry you—I don't need time to think about it—' but before she could say it he had got to his feet.

  `I'm going to take a walk, Edie, so I'll say goodnight now. You'll tell me during the next day or two what you've decided, won't you? In the meantime, perhaps you'd better not post that letter.'

  In a moment he had gone, and even if he wasn't sober, his progress from the room was straight and steady. Edie sat staring ahead of her unseeingly for a full minute before, with a sigh, she tore the sheet from the pad, crumpled up her letter, and took herself off to bed.

  CHAPTER NINE

  DURING the night, she made up her mind recklessly but definitely that her answer was going to be yes. It couldn't possibly be any
thing else. To refuse him meant she would have to go, there was no argument about that. It was perfectly plain what was going to happen, and happen very soon, if she stayed, and she told herself she would forget about Laurel—he'd said there was no one else. Of course it would have been a great deal more reassuring if he'd said something casual such as, 'I was engaged to another girl recently, but we called it off. It was the fact that he hadn't even mentioned Laurel that made her so uneasy.

  Before she fell asleep she knew that even though he hadn't been quite sober— 'No, let's face it,' she corrected herself wryly, he'd been definitely drunk—when he 'proposed' to her, she was going to tell him yes.

  She had had vague ideas of rising early and getting it over and done with before Drew left the homestead for the muster camp, but although she woke early she didn't get up. She lay in bed listening to the faint sounds as he moved about the house—showering, dressing, getting his breakfast—and she made no move to go and find him. It was as if she were suddenly nervous of him. And anyhow, she excused herself, she didn't want to appear over-eager. Though that might appear just a little bit funny when you considered her—willingness in his arms.

  `Tonight,' she thought, 'when we're in the sitting room after dinner. He'll ask me then if I've decided.'

  Perhaps she'd tell him she had, or perhaps she'd say she hadn't quite made up her mind. It all depended how persuasive he was. Meanwhile, she wouldn't write to Barb. Not until it was all straightened out. It was crazy, really, when she came to think about it. She'd come racing up north to meet—and, perhaps to marry—a complete stranger, with scarcely a qualm. And now that she'd actually fallen in love with him, she was almost sick with nerves at the idea of making the marriage real.