Amy's Touch

by Lynne Wilding

  Was he mad? Offering Beth marriage when he knew in his heart that he could never love her. His sense of rightness told him to break the engagement; that was the proper, the gentlemanly thing to do, for Beth’s sake. Why? For a moment or two he played his own devil’s advocate. Beth was a good woman, she would give him stability and be an equal partner in the management of Drovers, but she deserved more than he could offer her. Then he took the opposite tack. Wasn’t affection and respect enough on which to base a marriage? But without love to bind them to each other through the good times and the bad, would the relationship devolve into boredom, even into hatred?

  Seeing Randall standing immobile in the kitchen, seemingly lost in thought, Danny’s features mirrored concern as he asked, ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Just tired.’ Randall couldn’t meet Danny’s gaze. And, damn it, he was always tired. ‘Think I’ll lie down for a bit.’

  ‘You’re not to do any work. The doctor said so.’ Danny waggled a warning index finger at him. ‘We don’t want you having a relapse. Besides, Jim and I have things under control. We’ll be in the south paddock castrating the yearlings today, and Jim’s left a plate of cold cuts, pickles and bread in the meat safe for your lunch. We’ll be back before dusk.’ He paused to give his brother a critical once-over, his voice gruff with emotion as he admitted, ‘It’s good to have you back, Randall. Amy, the doctor and Meg took good care of you, but I reckon you’ll get better faster now that you’re home.’

  ‘I’m sure I will.’ At least physically, if not emotionally, the cynical thought ran through Randall’s head as he spoke. Not expecting an answer, he moved towards the hallway that led to the bedrooms.

  After removing his boots, Randall lay on the top of his bed and continued to wrestle with his thoughts. The only way he was going to survive, mentally and emotionally, was to forget what had happened last night. He made a grunting, derisive sound as he settled his head more comfortably on the pillow. That was going to be a mammoth challenge…!

  The winter of 1923 was long and harsh. There were stock losses and flooding that caused three deaths locally, which, in turn, led to several families selling up and leaving the area. The flooded Boolcunda Creek rose alarmingly, cutting Drovers off from Gindaroo by road as well as telephone—the water spread further than Danny and Randall had ever seen, to within sixty feet of the homestead’s gates.

  The inclement weather forced the brothers and Jim, after moving cattle and sheep to higher ground, to spend time indoors sprucing up the homestead’s interior. They painted most of the rooms, the hall and the kitchen, and decided on which rooms were to be refurnished.

  Standing by the drawing-room windows, looking out at the misty rain and the pastures under water, Danny, in his paint-spattered clothes, declared, ‘At least we won’t have to worry about drought or a lack of water in the creek next summer.’

  ‘No, but we might have more stock losses than usual,’ Randall put in dourly, ‘and with a percentage of topsoil being washed away we’ll lose maybe a third of the next wheat crop.’

  Danny rolled his eyes at Randall. ‘You worry too much, brother of mine. If I were a betting man I’d bet that stock losses will be minimal and the wheat harvest will be fine.’

  Randall suddenly grinned. Danny was ever the optimist. He saw a silver lining in every cloud. Randall considered himself a realist. It was a good balance, really. His gaze skittered around the room, admiring the work they had done. Danny and Jim were finishing off the woodwork and it was a pleasant surprise to see how much better the room looked without the heavy velvet drapes and the dated wallpaper. The marble mantelpiece—Carrara marble from Italy—had been cleaned up and the candlelit chandelier, modest by Ingleside’s standards, had been washed until the cut glass shone. Perhaps, he scratched the stubble on his chin as he thought it, Beth should choose the furnishings. She had inherited her mother’s good taste in home decorating and would do a better job than he or Danny.

  ‘Hey, mate, watch what you’re doing!’ Jim yelled at Danny, who, in his enthusiasm to finish the woodwork around the window, was splashing paint everywhere: on the old canvas drop sheets, the windowpanes, and Jim.

  ‘What’s the matter, scared of a little paint?’

  ‘You bet. It’s hard to get the bloody stuff off.’

  ‘Yeah, especially with your hairy arms,’ Danny taunted.

  Watching them, Randall recognised the mischievous gleam in his brother’s eyes and wisely retreated towards the drawing-room doors.

  ‘You know, I’d like to see how you’d look if you were a lighter shade, instead of a dark-skinned Itie.’ Chuckling, Danny flicked his paint-laden brush towards Jim, following it up before Jim knew what was happening with wide paint strokes down his tanned, bare arms.

  ‘Why, you…!’ Jim wasn’t going to take that without retaliating. He dipped his brush into the tin of light green enamel paint, stepped up to Danny and ran the brush over Danny’s face, down his chest and onto his right arm.

  After that the fun really began, with both men liberally daubing paint onto each other till they were almost completely covered in the colour. Then Jim, laughing, gave Danny a meaningful look, and wiggled his eyebrows as he gestured towards Randall. Danny nodded in agreement, and, dipping their brushes and filling the bristles with paint, they advanced on Randall.

  To their surprise, Randall adopted a pugilist’s pose. ‘Take one more step, either of you, and I’ll floor you.’

  ‘He’s going to floor both of us.’ Danny’s voice was edged with amusement. ‘I’m so scared.’

  Jim grinned. ‘Me too.’

  Danny and Jim stayed put. They raised their brushes and, after a mutual nod, flicked paint onto Randall until he was covered in green spots.

  ‘You’re both bloody mad. Now we’ll have to paint the doors again,’ Randall remonstrated, in between gusts of laughter.

  A combination of the weather, being forced to be inactive and just plain boredom had resulted in this mayhem, and the three now resembled a comedy scene from a moving picture.

  ‘Come on, let’s get cleaned up before the paint dries on us,’ Danny, who’d regained his common sense first, said.

  They were halfway to the kitchen and the back porch, where the tin of turpentine and cleaning rags were, when they heard several knocks on the front door.

  Randall, Danny and Jim stared at each other.

  ‘Who could it be?’ Jim asked what they were all thinking.

  ‘Someone stranded by the flood?’ Randall suggested. He moved towards the front door and opened it. His eyes widened with shock as he recognised Joe and Beth Walpole, and two of Ingleside’s stockmen.

  ‘Randall?’ Beth asked. Her gaze swept past him, through the homestead’s front hallway to the other green figures. ‘What on earth have you been doing?’

  Joe chuckled at the sight. ‘Geez, mate, what a mess.’

  ‘You’re dripping green paint all over the tiled floor,’ Beth pointed out.

  Obviously his future wife didn’t have a good sense of humour. Funny, in all the years that he’d known Beth, he hadn’t noticed that, at times, she could be prissy and formal. He supposed he saw it now because he was engaged to her and therefore had begun to pay more attention to the small details. It wasn’t, he decided instantly, an endearing trait.

  ‘More to the point,’ Randall said, ‘how did you get here?’

  ‘I found an old rowboat in one of our barns,’ Joe told him. ‘We rowed over. The flood’s starting to recede and Beth was worried ’cause she couldn’t contact you. Mother thought you might be low on food too, so we’ve brought supplies.’ Joe pointed to the two wooden boxes laden with dry food and vegetables.

  Randall tried to regain his composure, which was difficult because he was aware of how ridiculous he must look. ‘Very decent of you. Come in. Make yourself comfortable in the kitchen while we go out the back and clean up.’

  ‘I wish I had one of those new-fangled things—a camera—so I could take a phot
o of how you look. People won’t believe it otherwise,’ said Joe, who was enjoying Randall’s discomfort immensely.

  ‘Well, I don’t want people knowing that my fiancé can be so foolish,’ Beth stated. ‘Randall, do get cleaned up. I’ll put the kettle on for a pot of tea.’ She stared stony-faced at the man she was to marry. ‘I assume you do have tea!’

  ‘Of course. And, while you’re waiting, have a look around. I think you’ll like what we’ve done.’ He was annoyingly aware that his tone was placatory. After which, gathering what dignity he could, he turned and joined Danny and Jim, and the three men proceeded to the back porch and the much-appreciated tin of turpentine.

  The August day was cool, the sky clear as Amy drove her father’s automobile out to Drovers Way, intending to ride the Duchess, to see Danny and to talk about the wedding. After excessive rains and the flooding, the countryside was so lush and green it reminded her of the plains of Dover and, unfortunately, the war and the Spanish Flu epidemic, all of which now seemed so long ago. Her life had undergone much change since her return to Adelaide, and remarkably, in a few short years she had become accustomed to and was enjoying country life. But she noticed things, too: community things needed to be done in Gindaroo, and not just at the hospital. The town needed a new, larger schoolhouse, a second bridge across the creek, and better social and community facilities for the women of the district. But she also knew there were few funds in the district council’s coffers for such improvements. If only she could come up with—what? She shrugged; she didn’t quite know, yet.

  Her work at Gindaroo’s hospital kept her occupied, she was engaged to Danny, and—the renegade thought flew into her mind before she could stop it—her emotions were a fine mess. This was something she had been loath to admit for a long time, but she did now. She was going to marry the wrong man, and the man she loved was engaged to another woman. Adding to her frustration was the fact that she had no real understanding of why or how she had fallen in love with Randall. It made no sense, but she no longer doubted it. And the rub was that nothing could be done about the way she felt.

  Annoyed with herself for thinking about Randall, she pushed the clutch in with undue force and changed down a gear to go up the hill that led to Drovers. Since the interlude in the bedroom at Primrose Cottage she had seen Randall only rarely: once in town when he’d come in for supplies, and once at the Walpoles’ homestead. And, as luck would have it, on both occasions she had not been alone with him. That would have been too uncomfortable, for while neither of them had mentioned the events of that night, she could tell by the look in his eyes, his formality towards her, that he had not forgotten…and neither had she.

  Randall met her at the back porch after she had parked her father’s vehicle, accompanied by an excited Tinga, who always loved to see her. Dressed in old tweed trousers, a cotton shirt and a well-worn, hand-knitted brown sweater, he had regained the weight he’d lost after the wounding and looked remarkably fit.

  For a moment or two they stared at each other awkwardly. Amy spoke first. ‘Good morning, Randall. I’ve come to ride the Duchess, if that’s all right with you?’

  ‘Morning, Amy. Of course it’s all right. It is your horse.’

  She tried to ignore his frown and his equally dry reply. ‘Is Danny around?’

  ‘No. He and Jim aren’t back from Hawker yet. They drove a mob of fully grown sheep there for transport to Whyalla. Danny telephoned a while ago from a property along the way. They’ll be here some time this afternoon.’

  Should she stay and ride her horse or should she go? Glancing at Randall, she was of half a mind to press the automobile’s starter button and return home. But why should she? They wouldn’t be together. She would be on the Duchess and he would be doing chores around the property.

  She made a decision. ‘I’ll go and saddle the Duchess.’

  ‘Do you need any help?’ he asked, at pains to be polite.

  ‘I can manage, thank you.’ Her reply was waspish and she went off towards the shed they called their barn and the pasture where her horse was kept. Cinching up the saddle and putting the bridle on the Duchess by herself gave Amy a good deal of satisfaction; Randall’s offer of help had been edged with sarcasm, she was sure of it. But thanks to Danny’s tutelage, and through riding regularly, she had become proficient in the various aspects of caring for her horse, and she made a decision as she prepared to mount: if she could find a paddock closer to home she would move the Duchess there, though it would take a high level of diplomacy on her part.

  After mounting, the Duchess moved about friskily. Amy tightened her grip on the reins. ‘You’re ready for a gallop, aren’t you, girl?’ she whispered to the horse, and patted its neck with one gloved hand. She pushed her wide-brimmed hat more firmly onto her head and gave the command her horse was waiting for: ‘Let’s go.’

  The Duchess trotted across the home paddock into the bottom pasture and over the field to a stand of gums and huge rocky formations. Amy urged her forward, into a full gallop, and the horse obliged. It was invigorating, feeling the breeze on her face, being aware of the power of the horse she controlled. When she rode alone she felt uninhibited by social conventions and her city upbringing; riding set her spirit free and it was a superb feeling.

  Sheep scattered as Amy rode by. She skirted one of the wheat fields where new shoots were just breaking through the soil, and galloped to the banks of Boolcunda Creek. After all the rain they’d had, here and further north, the creek was almost but not quite a raging torrent. The other side, where she and Danny had picnicked and he’d proposed, was under water and probably would be for another month or so. She spied a safe place for her horse to drink, dismounted and led her to the water. She sat down on a gum tree that had fallen over, exposing its shallow root structure, and let the Duchess graze on the lush grass. The silence of the bush around her was a continuing source of wonder. At the moment there were no bird sounds, the trees were still, and everything was so quiet that if she concentrated she imagined that she could hear the beat of her heart.

  Lost in contemplation and mesmerised by the water in the creek rushing by, Amy didn’t hear the clip-clop of another horse until Randall was almost beside her. With a start, she looked up. His features were tight with anger and something else: she guessed it was concern.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘You’ve been gone for hours. I was worried you might have had an accident,’ he said as he dismounted.

  She glanced at her wristwatch, her eyes widening as she noted that almost two hours had passed. ‘I didn’t realise. I—I’m sorry.’

  He shrugged her apology off. ‘You’re all right, that’s the main thing. Danny would skin me alive if anything happened to you.’

  He dropped his horse’s reins and sat on the fallen tree, next to her. Sitting close to him made her heartbeat quicken. Could he hear it, she wondered? Dear God, she hoped not. She should get up, go, but an unfamiliar languor was taking possession of her limbs, making her loath to move. And it was nice, better than nice, sitting beside him, staring at the quick-flowing water in companionable silence. Almost as if they liked each other. If only…She forced the thought out of her head. No good could come of thinking such thoughts, of wanting, dreaming dreams that could never be. She was bound to Danny, and Randall to Beth.

  ‘The creek’s a peaceful place. Sometimes I ride here to sit and think through problems to do with Drovers.’ He made the admission in a contemplative tone.

  Amy hid her surprise, though it confirmed what she thought: Randall McLean was a complicated man. His admission about needing a quiet place to think, his recurrent nightmares, his ambition for Drovers Way, his kindness towards Jim Allen, all attested to the complexity of the man’s nature. There were times when she didn’t understand him at all and times like now, talking about the creek’s soothing capacity, when she thought she understood him perfectly.

  ‘On the other side, look. Near that clump of bushes.’ His voice was hushed as
he spoke and he used his index finger to point to the far side of the creek.

  Obediently her gaze followed his finger. ‘Oh, kangaroos,’ she whispered back. Three grey kangaroos, one with a joey in its pouch, were foraging in the four-inch-high grass. Delighted to see the animals, she gave him a brilliant smile. His spontaneous, returning smile reinforced the rare congeniality between them. Black eyes scanned her features and she couldn’t break away from his gaze.

  Amy felt something tighten in her chest at the warmth of his stare. Blood started to race through her veins; her mouth went dry. And as he continued to look at her, as if seeking her very soul, all reasonable thoughts ceased. Nervously, she chewed her bottom lip, but stopped. She knew he was studying her closely, and he seemed to be fascinated by the action of her teeth against her lip. After that her breathing went all funny, and suddenly she became short of breath. Desperate to break the spell, she turned away from him. She should move. She couldn’t, and the depth of her vulnerability frightened her. All the muscles in her body went limp, until he touched her.

  His hand covered hers and he began to stroke her skin. Each touch was like a charged jolt: it travelled up and down her spine, and sent innumerable shivers of awareness through her body until she was unbelievably sensitised.

  ‘We should…go,’ Amy heard herself say in a husky whisper.

  ‘We should.’ But obviously, like her, he did not have the will to move. ‘I feel I could sit here forever, with you. You are so very lovely, you know.’

  Part of her didn’t want him to say that, but another—the emotional part of her—did. ‘Randall, I…’ He silenced her by moving his finger to cover her lips. Then he traced the outline of her lips with his fingernail. The sensations that caused were incredibly erotic.

  Touching her lips wasn’t enough. Randall knew it never would be. He wanted more, he wanted all of her, to end the torment inside him. His lips found hers in a sweet, heart-rending kiss, almost reverent, and its very tenderness succeeded in breaking the control he’d been holding on to like an invisible lifeline. When, with a moan, she gave up and kissed him back, he accepted that just this once he would do what his heart told him, especially when her arms—instead of pushing him away—were clasped around his back and urged him closer.