Born of the Wind

by Margaret Pargeter

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Yet, for all the rigours and drawbacks of outback life, Sherry loved it. Despite the minimal rainfall, searing temperatures and frequent dust storms, she had no real fault to find with it. The wide plains of what was commonly referred to as Back o' Bourke were rough, wild and inhospitable, but there was so much beauty too—the drought-dried river beds, the white ghostgums, the creeks lined with coolabah and sandlewood which somehow managed to survive the fiercest bush fires. Even the twisting wind devils that could scour an area, she found fascinating. The landscape had a sinister beauty. To a visitor it might often appear alien and strange, but for the farmer and grazier, for whom it was home, it represented a way of life few would exchange for any other.

  The holding yards next to the shearing sheds were full of mobs of sheep when the shearing contractor turned up. He had his usual number of men, but unfortunately no cook. Sherry listened in dismay to Sam when he came from their quarters.

  'Seems like he took, sick yesterday, Miss Sherry, an' they had to fly him into town. Doc suspects something's wrong, but it could be a day or two before he's sure. Real crook, he is, they say.'

  Sherry knew crook meant sick, and it wasn't a word the average Australian used lightly. All the same, she frowned. 'Surely they could have found another cook?'

  'Seems not,' Sam looked uncomfortable, 'and they didn't want to wait, not when we wus expecting them. Do you think you could do the job, Miss Sherry?'

  While they both knew her grandfather would never have approved, Sherry felt she couldn't refuse. She cooked for the shearers and it proved very hot and tiring. The facilities for cooking at the shearers' quarters were no better than those at the house and with only the help of Leda, the little Aborigine girl, who stayed with her at nights, she struggled to feed numerous men who seemed possessed of enormous appetites. She had little time to watch the actual clipping, although she did manage once or twice to get down to the big sheds to see how swiftly the shearers could remove a sheep's fleece.

  By evening she was usually exhausted, but always next morning she was up early, refreshed, ready for another day. Her own vitality surprised her and she didn't really mind being extra busy as it didn't leave her much time to think of Scott. She hadn't decided yet how she was going to tell him about Kim, and the longer she put off the more difficult it was going to be. If he heard the true story from someone else, she could imagine his anger. Rather than think of it, she concentrated on other things.

  The shearers, Sam said, should be through by the end of the week. Sam was working hard as well, supervising the grading and packing of the wool, while Jamie and the other station hands saw to getting the shorn sheep back to the paddocks again. They would all be tired by the end of the week, but this would be just one more job completed before they started on another.

  On Thursday evening, Sherry and Leda began stacking dishes after pouring out what seemed like gallons of tea and coffee for the shearing team. The men had just eaten a huge meal and were relaxed as they talked and joked. Bob McKenzie, the contract boss, was making sure the conversation didn't become ribald, so as not to offend the two girls, but he needn't have worried, for the men liked Sherry and had a great respect for her. They knew her from the previous years, when she had followed her grandfather round the sheds, showing a great interest in what they were doing.

  Someone got out his guitar and began to strum until Bob called for Waltzing Matilda and they all started singing. Leda nudged Sherry and they stopped washing up to listen.

  Waltzing Matilda was Australia's national folk song and was famous throughout the world. The lyrics for it had been written about eighty years ago by A. B. 'Banjo' Paterson, while visiting a cattle station in Queensland. Sherry wondered if many other songs would ever be quite so well known.

  She and Leda not only listened, they joined in the chorus, and when it was finished, Sherry impulsively asked one of the men, whom she knew only as Will, if he still remembered Clancy of the Overflow, one of Paterson's other ballads, which she had happened to hear him reciting the year before. Much to her delight he said he did and amidst cheers and a few catcalls from the others, he stood up, bowed to Sherry and began.

  'He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent a letter to him,

  Just on spec, addressed as follows, "Clancy, of The Overflow."

  And the answer came directed in a writing unexpected (And I think the same was written with a thumb nail dipped in tar);

  'Twas his shearing mates who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it,

  "Clancy's gone to Queensland droving, and we don't know where he are".

  In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy gone a-droving down the Cooper where the Western drovers go,

  As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing,

  For the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know.'

  Will had a good voice for poetry and Sherry was disappointed when he stopped abruptly. Thinking he had forgotten the rest, she was just about to beg him to continue when she realised everyone was' looking at something behind her. With a start she swung round to find Scott standing in the doorway.

  He nodded to the men without altering the grimness of his face, but it was to Sherry he spoke. 'Could I have a word with you?'

  The men were finished, anyway. They disappeared, leaving her alone with him. Leda went too. Sherry felt deserted and unfairly, she thought, loaded with a sense of guilt. As Scott's glacial glance again toured the makeshift kitchen, she was even more disconcerted to hear herself stammering awkwardly. 'S-someone had to do it. Their cook is ill.' Scott's eyes swung back to her, pinning her disapprovingly. 'I could have supplied half a dozen cooks. All you had to do was ring.' 'You were away.' ,

  'I left instructions that you were to have all the help you required.'

  She stared at his rigid features. 'But that's ridiculous,' she retorted. 'I know you offered assistance, but I imagined you'd set limits?'

  His eyes darkened. 'Could we go to the house?' he asked politely. 'We can't talk here.'

  All her protective hackles said no. She glanced at the sink wildly. 'I have these dishes to finish and breakfast to set.'

  'Leave it.' His mouth compressed as he almost swept her outside. When she stumbled he merely picked her up and walked on without pausing. 'I'll have a new cook here first thing in the morning. He'll deal with all that.'

  Sherry tried to free herself, but his arms held her fast. She was ashamed that she didn't struggle harder, but either tiredness or the feeling of his heart beating strongly against hers caused all her strength to leave her. It was dark, she comforted herself, when Scott clearly showed no intention of putting her down. No one would see.

  Scott bent his head, freezing her with an oppressive glance, making sure she didn't argue. Their eyes caught and held and the sudden contact made all her pulses race. The body warmth between them was making her languorous, she began to feel she was floating. She watched the hard line of his face achingly, unaware of how much of herself she was revealing.

  His footsteps halted under the shadow of a tree that enclosed them in secret scents and privacy. What now? she wondered, resting her cheek weakly against his shoulder. If he put her down she might faint, so overwhelming were the emotions rushing through her.

  He didn't put her down—if anything his arms tightened. His hand tugged at her hair, pulling back her head, and his mouth slowly touched her lips, brushing them so lightly it was merely a feather-like sensation on her skin. She felt her lips part and violent feelings, such as she had never known before, wrenched through her. Suddenly she wanted Scott to crush her. She didn't want mercy or tenderness, she wanted his ruthlessness and passion.

  His lips hardened as he felt the explosive desire between them, and for a moment, as her mouth shuddered open beneath his and her arms wound fast about his neck, he didn't spare her. It wasn't until she winced that he set her down.

  Sherry was shattered and trembling. Had
she really asked for that? Scott's voice mocked her.

  'Until you learn to recognise what you're inviting, you'd better stop playing games.'

  She must have swayed, because although he didn't take hold of her again, he grasped her arm. 'Come on,' he said curtly. 'We were on our way somewhere, remember?'

  Leda had reached the house before them. Scott told , her to run along home and come back in an hour. As the girl obeyed without a murmur, Sherry's indignation returned in a rush.

  'You aren't at Coomarlee now, you know! You can't act like a dictator here, ordering people about. I don't know what the shearers will think!'

  'They're a decent bunch of men,' he retorted coldly. 'Strange as it may seem to you, they might even approve of my intervention. Someone has to look after you. Where was Sam?'

  'He left only minutes before you arrived,' she replied sullenly. 'He shouldn't have,' Scott said firmly. 'I'll have a word with him.'

  Sherry bristled,, resenting his high-handedness, even though she loved him. As soon as he had appeared, the shearers had gone, melting away like the snowflakes she'd almost forgotten about. They hadn't looked like frightened men, just very obliging ones, and she could guess why. They sheared for Scott, too, which would be much more lucrative than the amount they collected from Googon. Whereas at Googon, they kept mostly the Peppin Merino, which accounted for the great bulk of the national clip, Scott, especially on his more southern properties, ran predominantly the very fine wooled Saxon Merino, whose wool brought the highest prices. Which probably meant the shearers got higher percentages.

  'I'd rather you didn't interfere,' she said tersely, trying not to allow her eyes to dispute her anger by feasting on him as if she hadn't seen him for a year instead of a mere week. 'I'm old enough to take care of myself and I can do what I like.'

  'Would your brother have let you be shearers' cook?' he asked mildly.

  Sherry flushed. 'He—well, no, he mightn't have, but it—it's nothing to be ashamed of!'

  'All the same,' Scott looked at her adamantly, 'you won't do it again.'

  Sherry couldn't let it go. 'All right,' she glared at him from indignant blue eyes, 'so you send over a cook. Have you ever thought of what people might say?'

  'Why should anyone say anything?' he snapped.

  Knowing she deserved the mocking censure in his voice, the pink in Sherry's cheeks deepened. It was unlikely that anyone would connect their names, either romantically or otherwise. He was only emphasising what he had told her before, that socially they were so far apart it would be ludicrous.

  'I'm sorry,' she sighed unhappily.

  He sighed, a hard sound, his eyes boring into the back of her suddenly bent head. 'What was going on down at the sheds, anyway?'

  'Just a bit of a sing-song. I was enjoying it.'

  'You're better out of it,' he said abruptly. 'In a situation like that, men can easily forget women are present. Your ears could soon have been burning.'

  She felt they might argue over it all night! 'Did you come for anything special?' she asked quickly. 'You did say you wanted to speak to me.'

  The mocking glint in his eyes betrayed that he saw through her tentative attempt to divert him. 'I did,' he nodded coolly. 'I wanted to hear how you were surviving. I presume your brother is still hiding out?'

  Sherry stiffened. 'Yes.'

  'Haven't you any idea where he is, so you can tell him it's not necessary?'

  All Sherry's old fears of Scott's anger, whether for Kim or herself, converged on her, making the truth something still impossible to confess. 'He's sure to be back,' she muttered indistinctly.

  'He's taking his time.'

  In panicky haste, she offered Scott a drink, with over-profuse apologies for keeping him standing around without anything.

  He heard her out patiently, his eyes slightly narrowed. 'I wouldn't mind—if you'll join me?'

  She glanced down at her sticky hands, her clothing, damp with perspiration. 'I'm scarcely in a fit state,' she murmured, hoping he would take the hint and leave.

  If she was throwing out hints, he wasn't biting. 'Go and have a shower,' he suggested blandly, 'I'll be making coffee while you're busy. At least we can be sure you won't burn yourself again.'

  She gazed at him wonderingly. 'You haven't forgotten?'

  His eyes narrowed darkly. 'I've been worried about you while I've been away. Apparently not without reason.'

  She said quickly, 'Did you have a good trip?'

  Wryly, he gave her a firm push. 'Run along.'

  After showering hastily, Sherry put on a pair of clean jeans and a shirt. She only took time over her hair, brushing it into a silky cloud. It fell well past her shoulders and she resolved to have it cut at the first opportunity. She didn't bother with make-up, just a touch of lip-gloss that made her skin look whiter and matched the faint blush of pink in her cheeks. It was hot and she daringly opened her shirt a little more. Scott Brady was unlikely to notice if she unbuttoned it all the way to her waist!

  He had coffee made, but instead of being in the kitchen she found him in the lounge. He had placed the tray on a small table and was studying the shabby carpet, the cane furniture which, though comfortable, had seen better days.

  Sherry paused in the doorway, watching him, drinking in his tall darkness, the strong lines of his powerful body. His kisses, half an hour ago, had shaken her to her very roots, yet he might only need to crook his little finger to have her flying into his arms again.

  He glanced up, and meeting the long stare of his cool grey eyes, she felt the familiar spark leap between them.

  Slowly he walked towards her. 'You look—' he hesitated, as though the word he had chosen wouldn't do, 'better.'

  Firmly leading her to the sofa, he made her sit down while he poured their coffee. She didn't protest but kept her eyes on his hands, focussing blindly on the dark hairs on his wrist. Slowly she lifted her eyes to his face, her glance touching the hard line of his mouth again, incredibly dazed.

  He sat down beside her, not saying anything more until they finished their coffee, when he pushed the table away.

  'Did you enjoy that?' he asked abruptly.

  'Yes, you make very good coffee,' she smiled, unable to remember what it tasted like, but Scott's easier tones loosening her tongue. 'You still haven't told me how you got on in Melbourne.'

  'It was hot,' he frowned broodingly, his eyes on her hair. 'The heat was intense, dry and crackling. They're afraid of fire.'

  'That bad?' she gazed at him apprehensively. Scott Brady wasn't a man to exaggerate and she knew the disaster bush fires could bring in their wake.

  'Probably,' he brushed her fears aside. 'I wasn't there long.'

  Sherry bit her lip. 'You were going to see Barry White?' She wouldn't have asked him this, but she was really probing for news of Ellen.

  'I saw him,' he replied, his mouth tightening, daring her to ask more.

  That was clearly all she was going to get out of him. Scott thought she was being too curious. Sherry sighed, moving restlessly.

  'Do you still not want me to make enquiries regarding your brother?' he asked, bending anxiously towards her.

  It was his query, not his nearness, that caused her to jump to her feet like a startled fawn. She didn't want to discuss Kim, but she didn't want Scott to know she didn't; she was still too unsure of the situation to tell him anything. 'I wish you'd m-mind your own business!' she cried without thinking.

  'Okay,' he was standing beside her before she'd realised he'd moved, his face a hard, dark mask. 'Don't alarm yourself, Sherry. That's one of the easiest things to do. I can oblige immediately.'

  'Oh, please!' as she realised he was furious, anguish darkened her eyes. 'I'm sorry.'

  'You didn't mean it?'

  His curtness made her hesitate as it somehow aroused her own anger again. Instead of shaking her head, she heard herself snapping wildly, 'Yes, on second thoughts, I do. At least in some things I wish you wouldn't interfere.'

 
; He replied coldly. 'In that case it might be better if I stayed away. Then I won't need to worry over making a mistake.' He paused, a muscle flexing in his jaw where the tanned skin stretched taut. 'I'll see you have all the assistance you need until your brother returns, of course. I believe in recompense.'

  He was at the door before she could collect herself, because it had all happened so quickly she felt stunned. One moment they had been talking quietly, the next quarrelling violently. And now Scott was leaving. She heard her voice call his name on a high note.

  'Stay where you are, Sherry,' he barely glanced over his shoulder at her distraught face, 'I'll see myself out.'

  When he had gone, Sherry collapsed where she was and burst into tears, wishing suddenly that she was dead. Scott had left in anger. This time she had provoked him beyond what he was prepared to put up with and he wouldn't be coming back. Although she couldn't bear to think of not seeing him again, when she was more composed she tried to convince herself it was just as well. The less she saw of him, the sooner she might forget him. She had to believe that, or else she might go insane! Wearily she dragged herself from the living room and went to bed.

  She was dismayed the next morning, on rising early, to find a new cook already in control. The new cook, moreover, had orders not to let her even set foot in the shearers' kitchen. For Sherry Grant this was now out of bounds.

  For an impulsive moment Sherry thought angrily of telling the man to go back to Coomarlee, or wherever he came from, but she was frightened of provoking a scene. Instead she contented herself with a repressive glance and ran angrily to find Sam. She had to get rid of the man, and Sam would know how to do it without causing further offence.

  Having counted on Sam's support, she was daunted when he refused to give it. When she protested that she could have easily gone on cooking for the shearers, he refused to agree. Quite curtly, for Sam, he told her he thought Scott was quite right in sending a man to do it. He'd had a long talk with Scott, last night, and didn't want to go against him.