by Laura Parker
“Bloody pommie!” she heard him hurl after her.
The blowing dust surprised her, for the ground was grassy for the most part; but the passage of hundreds of small hooves had stirred up the layer underneath, and she sneezed repeatedly as she walked toward the flock.
The sheep had poured forth in a widening circle from the narrow column that they had been forced to maintain by men and dogs. Now they spread across the grassy spaces between the tall trees which flanked the road. Feeling awkward as the sheep swirled in about her, she continued toward the drovers on horseback.
The barking dogs did not surprise her; they had been constant company the morning long as they helped the men keep the sheep moving smoothly. A long, low growl to her right did not unsettle her until she turned to face the gold-and-white dog a few feet away who had bared its teeth. Sheep, sensing danger, flowed away, leaving her and the dog inside an empty circle.
Misgiving flicked her spine as the dog lowered its head and flattened its ears back, but she was not afraid of animals. “Nice dog,” she said quietly, and tentatively offered the back of her hand for its inspection.
The dog’s snarling lunge for her hand came as a surprise, and she stumbled back with a cry of fright.
An instant later the report of a gun split the air, and with a yelp of pain the dog jerked and fell sideways, its legs jerking spasmodically.
“Oh, God!” She swung toward the source of the gunfire.
A few yards away Thomas sat astride his horse, a smoking pistol in his hand. Immediately he thrust the weapon back into his belt and dismounted.
“What the bloody hell were ye doing?” he roared as he caught Aisleen roughly by the arms.
“You killed it!” she accused, unable to believe that she had been in real danger.
“Bloody right I did!”
Aisleen stared up into his anger-distorted face, at his eyes bulging white about the deep blue irises. Rage trembled through his hands into her arms where he mercilessly gripped her. She had never before seen a man so angry, and the fierceness of it made her feel watery with fear. “I don’t understand,” she whispered. “What did I do?”
Jack Egan, his long legs dwarfing the size of the horse, road in close to the pair. “No good for the sheep, spooking them that way. Won’t be worth piss, they drop dead of fright.”
“Then ye’d best be calming them,” Thomas shot back. He looked about and saw that the other men had stopped to watch. “I’m paying ye wages for work!” he said roughly. “Get that carcass out of sight.”
He turned Aisleen away from the dead dog, pulling her along after him with a bruising hand on her upper arm. Only when they had cleared the flock did he pause and turn to her. “Never do that again, ye hear me?”
Aisleen nodded, unable to steady her voice for a moment. He was so angry, angrier than he had any right to be. “Is—is that all?”
The red cloud of rage that had overcome Thomas receded slowly. When her face was clearly before him he saw that her golden freckles stood out vividly on her too-pale skin. “Frightened ye, did it?”
She steadied her gaze on his. “You did.”
“Me?”
“You killed that poor dog,” she said, shrugging free of his touch. “You killed it for no reason. It did not touch me. It was only doing its job of protecting the flock. That was no reason to murder it. How could you?”
Irritation needled Thomas. “I was protecting ye, lass.”
“I don’t need that kind of protecting,” she answered and turned to hurry back toward the wagon.
He watched her go in mingled annoyance and chagrin. It had never occurred to him that she would do something as foolish as wade into the middle of a mob. What had brought her out here? That thought sent him striding after her, but Jack came riding up to intercept him, leading his horse.
“Sam’ll bury the dog,” he said, and he tossed the reins to Thomas. His eyes flickered over the younger man before resting speculatively on his face. “Leg’s paining ye,” he announced in a flat voice before moving on.
With a curse, Thomas lifted himself into the saddle, ignoring the twinge in his left calf. Perhaps he had overreacted. He had more cause than most.
He looked again toward Aisleen, but she was nearly back to the wagon, and he had things to do before they settled down for the evening meal. “Bloody hell!” he muttered, turning his mount away.
As she walked rapidly back to the cook wagon, Aisleen tried to put out of her mind the image of the dead dog. Yet it would not vanish, nor would the niggling possibility that its death was her fault. Had she provoked it? She had not meant to. The dogs she had known through the years were docile creatures, wagging friendly tails to elicit a pat on the head. The dust had confused her or she never would have waded into the center of the flock.
“Finish herding sheep, have ye?” the cook asked as she approached, and she knew that he had witnessed at least a part of the incident.
She crossed her arms and gripped her elbows, her voice defensive. “The dog attacked me. It might have caused me serious injury had my husband not shot it.”
“A man makes his choices. He can kill the thing that causes the trouble or kill the trouble. Seems like Tom took the long way round to it.”
“Hold yer tongue, ye bloody get!”
Aisleen looked back to find Jack’s long silhouette between her and the sun. “Ye’ll do, missus?” His tone belied interest in her welfare.
“Yes, thank you,” she answered, gripping her arms more tightly as she sensed his disapproval, She saw his gaze shift back to the cook.
“Tom says ye’re to show the missus the way of camp cooking.”
“Ain’t known ye to want a sheila along on a haul,” the cook ventured with a grin.
Jack’s voice was dry as dust. “Might improve the swill ye serve.”
“Bleeding better hope I stay!” the cook roared. “A pommie in the cha is as good as a dag on a sheep’s arse!”
Jack did not answer as he turned away.
“Well?” the cook barked at Aisleen. “What’re ye waiting for, yer majesty? Tom said I was to teach ye to cook and, by God, ye’ll learn or ye’ll flaming answer to me!” He picked up the billy can he had set near the fire and swung it across the flame to begin heating. “Get the tea.”
“Where is it?” Aisleen asked.
“In the flaming wagon!”
“If you do not cease that filthy language this minute, I shall report you to my husband,” she answered.
The cook unbent from his crouched position and took a menacing step toward her. “Ye do that, missus, and I’ve remedies that’ll see to it yer husband cannae plow yer field for some good long time!”
Aisleen did not understand the implications of the threat, but she did understand that it was a threat. “I am prepared to be civil, if you will. Kindly tell me what I must do instead of cursing me for not doing it.”
The cook snorted and spat to one side. “Where’s that blee—blooming tea?”
“In the wagon, of course,” Aisleen answered with a smile as she lifted her skirts and went to retrieve the item.
“Bloody pommie sow!” the cook muttered and returned to his fire.
*
Aisleen sat on the burned-out stump of a tree and surveyed the contents of her tin plate. Chunks of lamb swam in a greasy broth along with bits of undercooked dumpling and some leafy green vegetable of unidentifiable origin. She speared a bit of meat and gingerly bit into it, discovering that it was every bit as tough as it appeared. With a resigned sigh, she laid her fork back in her plate and looked up to gauge the reaction of the other diners.
A little distance away, the drovers had hunkered down around the cookfire, conversing in low monosyllables and forking food into their mouths at a speed that left no time to chew. Thomas was among them, his back half-turned to her as he balanced his arms on his knees and ate. He was silent, seemingly listening to his men, but she suspected that he was aware of her and that his avoidance of her
was deliberate. Two days had passed since the shooting of the dog, yet he had scarcely acknowledged her existence.
Disappointed, she waved a hand over her plate to discourage the flies who held her meal in greater regard than she. He was still angry and that disturbed her. And there was the dog. What sort of man shot a dog for no reason? She could not reconcile the action with the man she knew
Or thought I was beginning to know, she mused. There was no explanation for his rage.
From the corner of her eye she saw him rise to his feet, his meal finished. She rose, too, resolved to speak with him, but then he started across the yard.
He limped, his left leg thrown out stiffly each time. She had nearly forgotten about his limp. He had not favored the leg so strongly since the first day they met. She knew nothing about the cause of his affliction or the things that made it better or worse.
He turned toward her as if he had felt her stare, and their gazes locked across the distance. He was too far away for her to divine the expression in his dark blue eyes, yet she had the distinct impression that weariness was there, and something more. He made no gesture, nor spoke. Suddenly he swung away from her, grabbed his horse’s reins, vaulted into the saddle, and rode off.
She was not offended by his rudeness. She guessed the cause. She had seen his weakness, and he was too proud to accept the sympathy that must have been in her eyes.
“Tucker’s done!” the cook called to Aisleen as the other men rose, leaving their plates on the ground. She watched the men troop silently toward their mounts until the cook’s voice reached her once more. “If’n ye’ve finished, yer highness!”
The men’s heads swiveled toward her in unison, and she heard the mumbling of a comment too low to be understood and then galling masculine chuckles as they mounted up. Lips thinned in annoyance, she walked toward her tormentor.
When she reached the cook, she shoved her full plate at him and said, “It’s a wonder men eat the swill you serve. I, for one, cannot countenance it.”
The cook bared his ragged row of teeth as his face turned alarmingly red. “Swill, it is? Can ye do better?”
Aisleen lifted an eyebrow “I doubt I could do worse “
“Then, ye flaming slut, ye’re bloody well welcome to try!” He slammed down the plate she had given him and marched off, cursing roundly.
She watched him climb onto the wagon to grab his swag and then leap off. He glared at her, roaring, “Tell Tom I’ll collect me wages next time through!” before he set off on foot down the road from which they had come.
“Shouldn’t have done that.”
Aisleen looked up in unease to find Jack towering over her. Like an apparition, he unaccountably appeared when least expected. Had Thomas set him to spy on her? “Should not have done what?” she asked defensively as she gazed the long way up into his craggy face.
“Sacked the cook.” As before, he turned his back before she could reply.
She had not sacked the cook. He had quit. Jack must have heard the entire conversation, so why would he say that? Unless he, too, enjoyed her misery?
“I don’t care,” she murmured under her breath as she bent to pick up the tin plates. She had had enough of the cook’s insults and bad company. Certainly she could manage a meal that would not turn stomachs that had gulped down his inedible offerings.
When she had rinsed the cups and plates and put them away, she stacked the supplies in the back of the wagon and closed the tailgate, feeling quite proud of herself. But as she climbed up onto the wagon seat she realized the first of the problems the cook’s absence presented.
She gazed in misgiving at the traces wrapped around the brake lever. She knew nothing about handling a team, had never held reins in her hands before. Someone else would have to take the cook’s place on the wagon seat.
But when she raised her eyes, she saw that the sheep had begun to move, urged on by the whistles and cries of the drovers. Within minutes, men and sheep had disappeared around a curve in the road, and she was left all alone in the midst of the clearing with only the hum of insects and strange bird calls for company. Thomas would quickly miss the wagon, she surmised, and sat back to await the chagrin and the profuse apologies she was certain he would offer her when he learned of the cook’s rudeness.
After the first ten minutes, she began to lose patience. Sunlight slanted down harshly among the tall, pale trunks of the trees, and small flies gathered to sip greedily the perspiration the heat raised on her skin.
When a full hour had passed, impatience had turned to worry. More and more annoyed, she swatted at her face and neck continuously. Where was Thomas? Had Jack told him a lie that had made him too angry to return immediately for her?
She heard the pounding hooves of the horse a moment before she saw the rider on the track. She stood up in the wagon and waved her arms frantically, but it was unnecessary. The rider was heading straight for her. Recognition of Thomas made her stomach quiver with joy, her annoyance forgotten. But before she could greet him he reined in his horse and cried, “Where’s the cook?”
“He left,” she answered, a little disappointed that he had not asked first about her. In fact, the stern lines of his face were less than heartening.
“Left? Where’s he gone?”
“I do not know, nor do I care,” she replied.
Thomas stood in the stirrups and surveyed the area. “That won’t help,” she informed him crisply. “He left before you’d driven the flock out of sight. He quit.”
“Quit?” Thomas barked. “Why?”
For the first time in their acquaintance, she found she could not answer him with the complete truth. Her lashes fluttered down upon her cheeks. “He—he, I don’t know. Ask him yourself.”
Thomas swore under his breath and, pushing his hat down hard on his head, wheeled his horse about and galloped off.
Another long, tedious hour passed before she heard a horse coming back up the road. To her amazement, she saw that Thomas rode double—with the cook.
When they drew up even with the wagon, the cook slipped off and turned an indignant look on Thomas. “A man can take only so much!”
“Ye’re paid to cook, that’s a beginning and an end to it,” Thomas answered impatiently, his eyes on the road before him. “See that ye remember that!” Without a word to his wife, he kicked his horse into a canter.
Aisleen watched him in disbelief. He had brought the rude and vulgar man back without demanding so much as an apology to her from him.
Without a word, the cook climbed up beside her, unhitched the traces, released the brake, and, with an obscene shout and a flick of the stock whip, started the wagon rolling along the road.
*
“Ye’ll be knowing who to thank for the late tucker,” the cook said as new grumbles rose among the men who lounged about the campfire waiting for their evening meal. “City ways, mates. That’s the style this year.”
Aisleen ignored the snigger that accompanied his words as she tried unsuccessfully to lift the billy from its tripod without spilling water into the fire. The hiss of steam betrayed her failure, and the cook’s snigger turned into a blue streak of profanity that she could no longer block from her thoughts.
She turned to him and dropped the billy, sending scalding hot water in a flood toward his boots. “I quit!” she cried and stalked off.
“Can’t quit!” he called after her. “He’s yer boss more’n mine!”
Aisleen hunched her shoulders against the laughter that followed. The day’s journey had taken its toll. The jarring and lurching of the wagon had left her with muscles that trembled with fatigue and a head that throbbed. The cook’s return was humiliation enough. His taunts were beyond enduring. She could not understand why Thomas had brought him back. At the very least she deserved an explanation.
She found Thomas with the horses. He had stripped off his shirt, and his back gleamed palely in the amethyst twilight. As she neared, she saw that he rubbed the sweat from his horse�
�s flanks with a cloth. The muscles of his back rippled smoothly as be worked, but that was not what brought her to a stumbling halt. All at once, she knew that he was not alone.
Her skin began to tingle. The moon had risen. High overhead the boughs shifted in the breeze, scattering the moon’s pearly effluence over the violet shadows of twilight.
She saw him, no more than an adumbration before the softer shadows of the night. The scent of roses came strongly from him, blotting out the stink of horse and sheep and sweat. He took a step toward her, a hand outstretched, and moonlight cascaded across his tattered sleeve.
It could not be!
Thomas heard a gasp and swirled about. When he saw Aisleen, he reached for his sweat-soaked shirt. “Ye should warn a man when ye’re about,” he said nervously as he put his arms in his shirt.
Aisleen gazed at him blankly. What had happened? Had her eyes played a trick on her?
“Did ye want something?”
Aisleen blinked. Yes, of course, she wanted something. “I came to talk with you,” she said in a distracted tone. “About the cook.”
Thomas nodded and returned to his work. “He’s back. That’s an end to it.”
“Hardly,” she said tartly, drawn from her momentary confusion by his unsatisfactory reply. “He’s rude and vulgar.”
He looked up sharply. “He’s not laid a hand on ye?”
“That is the only thing he has not dared. His language is coarse enough to strain the patience of a saint. As for his manners, he has none. He orders me about as though I were a lackey. I will not endure his bullying a moment longer!”
Thomas shrugged. “Ye’ll learn to pay him no mind.”
“I will do no such thing!” Aisleen moved closer to him. “You must dismiss him.”
Thomas shook his head. “That I will nae do.”
“I am your wife. How can you permit his disrespect? He calls me a—” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “A slut!”
Thomas sighed. So that was the problem. “I will speak to him.”
“I don’t want him reprimanded. Dismiss him.”
He turned to her, his head cocked to one side as he folded his arms across his chest. “Maybe,” he agreed, “when we’ve made the journey west.”