The Horse Thief

by Téa Cooper

  ‘That’s sad. Don’t you wish you had children?’

  ‘Got children, haven’t I? Got you and Violet.’ She ran the duster over the two matching candelabra on either end of the mantel.

  ‘Not while we were at school.’

  ‘True. There were holidays, and Anya needed a lot of help with your mother in those days.’

  ‘I think Mama’s quite a lot better. I just wish she wouldn’t ride out at night.’

  ‘Time heals.’ Peggy resumed her dusting with a burst of vigour.

  ‘She spoke to me the other day.’

  The feather duster stopped in midair and Peggy spun around. ‘She did?’

  ‘Mmm. She said she’d seen Goodfellow.’

  ‘What, him?’ She gave the portrait a dismissive flick. ‘He’s dead and buried under that there rock. Doesn’t sound like she’s getting better to me.’

  ‘I think she became confused. Remember Jim said he’d seen a woman riding around the lagoon on the evening he arrived? Mama must have seen him. Jefferson’s a lot like Goodfellow.’

  ‘Aye, he is that.’ Peggy picked up a handful of loose papers and shuffled them into a neat pile. ‘Haven’t you got work to do? I thought this was your day for catching up.’

  ‘It is.’ India sighed. She’d prefer to be outside with Jim, maybe taking a ride down to the river again. ‘Jim’s setting up our first pairing.’ The thought sent a tremor of excitement rippling through her. ‘The paperwork is going to have to wait. I’ve backed myself into a bit of a corner. I hadn’t thought out the routine well enough. Out of the twelve brood mares I only have eight I can use with the young stallions—the others are all related.’ She followed the lines in the studbook. ‘I need another unrelated stallion. I’m going to have to buy services from one of the other studs. That’s going to take time and put me behind schedule. I planned to have the paddock full of foals by August next year.’

  ‘You’re talking to the wrong person. I don’t know nowt about this breeding lark.’

  ‘It’s just like people, Peggy. You can’t marry your uncle.’

  ‘Oh no! You wouldn’t want to be doing that. Makes for weak babies.’

  ‘Exactly, and we don’t want weak foals.’

  Receiving no answer India looked up. Peggy’s duster hovered around the portrait, her head cocked to one side. ‘You have got an unrelated stallion on the property, you know.’

  India frowned and looked at the portrait, then closed the studbook with a snap. She shot out of the chair and grasped Peggy in a bear hug. ‘You’re right! I have. Jefferson.’

  A big grin split Peggy’s face. ‘See, I’m not as ’alfwitted as I think I am.’

  ‘No, you’re not, not at all. I’ll have to pay him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jim.’

  ‘You’re going to have to pay for any animal if it’s not your own, and that Jefferson he’s ’ere right now.’

  Turning over one of the unpaid bills India licked her pencil and sketched a few notes on the back. ‘Peggy Dickson, you are a marvel. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’ She planted a firm kiss on Peggy’s pink cheek then made for the door.

  It was the ideal solution. Jefferson was a great horse, with speed and stamina, perfect conformation. She capered across the courtyard and coasted to a sedate walk as she rounded the corner to the mating yard.

  Jim leant against the fence, his broad shoulders straining his shirt. Inside the mating yard Mistral and Maestro circled each other. There was a lot of tail flicking and nose rubbing going on but not much else. She dropped her hand onto his arm, loath to speak and disturb the two animals.

  Jim turned. His smile sent a warm shiver through her. Something in her tummy twisted as she looked into his eyes.

  ‘Morning beautiful,’ he whispered. ‘Looks as though this might be our first success.’

  She nodded. ‘Can we talk? I’ve had an idea.’

  He tipped his head in the direction of the cottage. ‘Come and sit down over here. I’ll make us a cup of tea. Nothing’s going to happen for a while yet.’

  Leaning with her back against the warm sandstock wall India fiddled with the scrap of paper, re-reading and checking her plans.

  ‘There we are.’ Jim handed her an enamelled mug. She put the paper on her lap and took the tea.

  He sat so close she could feel the warmth of his thigh through the thin cotton of her skirt and smell his heavenly scent of leather and soap. And a tang of lucerne, she discovered as she pretended to inhale the steam from her tea.

  ‘Well? You’ve had an idea,’ he said.

  Dragging her mind back to her plan she turned to face him. ‘I have a problem and I think you can solve it for me.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’ His green-gold eyes twinkled, flecks of amusement dancing in their depths.

  She handed him the piece of paper. ‘I’ve been working out the breeding lines. I have four related mares and no unrelated stallion. I don’t want to run the risk of interbreeding. I’m going to have to purchase four outside services.’

  ‘That’s a nuisance.’ He studied the paper. ‘You could approach Munmurra or one of the other Hunter studs. We’d have to take the mares to them. They won’t send a stallion here.’ He scratched his head. ‘You’ll be lucky if you can get them bred to anything worthwhile this spring. You might have to wait until next year. I could have a word with Munmurra and see if they can help.’

  India’s lips twitched as she waited for him to finish, itching to blurt out her perfect solution.

  He frowned at her and then a grin split his face. ‘But you’ve got an idea.’

  He read her so well. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because you’re not very good at hiding your emotions. It’s easy to see what you’re feeling.’ He clasped her hand sitting in her lap and squeezed.

  The colour flamed across her face and she snatched her hand back, spilling her tea. Plonking the mug down on the ground she took three deep steadying breaths.

  ‘And when you’re embarrassed you close your eyes and take deep breaths.’

  ‘I’m not emba—’

  ‘I’m sorry that wasn’t fair.’ He ran his finger down her cheek. ‘Tell me about your plan.’

  Dragging her hair back from her overheated face she twisted it out of the way. ‘I want to use Jefferson over those four females.’

  ‘You want to do what?’ Jim stared at her, his mouth gaping wide.

  A trickle of unease worked its way across her shoulders. ‘I’ll pay you for the services, whatever is a suitable fee.’

  ‘No!’

  The force of his refusal split the air and he surged to his feet, sending his mug of tea rolling across the dusty ground. It clattered to a halt against the wall of the cottage in a soggy puddle.

  India peered at him. Two spots of bright colour stained his cheeks and he shook his head slowly from side to side.

  ‘Why not? It’s the perfect solution. Jefferson’s not infertile, is he?’

  ‘No. I’ve never tried him. I doubt it. There’s nothing in his bloodlines to …’ His voice trailed off and he scuffed the toe of his worn boot in the dirt, studying the puffs of dust with a fierce concentration.

  ‘Then why not?’

  She stood and tried to make eye contact with him. He stared down at the ground. Hard furrows creased his brow as though something hurt. He let out a shuddering sigh and glared at her. ‘Can’t you take no for an answer?’

  ‘I can. It’s just that I don’t understand why.’

  ‘You wouldn’t.’ He stormed into the cottage and slammed the door.

  India sank back down onto the bench and rested her head back against the rough wall. It didn’t make sense. Surely it wouldn’t harm Jefferson. And she was quite prepared to pay Jim a fee. Picking up the mugs from the ground she settled them on the bench and peered through the window into the front room. Two overstuffed chairs flanked the fireplace but there was no sign of movement in the cottage. With a shrug she wandered
over to the stables.

  Jefferson stood in his stall munching on his morning feed of lucerne. He was a magnificent animal. He couldn’t be infertile. She stretched out her hand and smoothed the soft velvet of his nose. He snuffled in appreciation then turned back to his breakfast. She would have to think again. So much for Peggy and her great ideas.

  Jim pushed himself up out of the chair and shivered. The sweat had dried on his skin, leaving him cold. Not only his body, his mind as well. India’s suggestion made his flesh creep. She couldn’t use Jefferson. He was related through Goodfellow to all her mares. It had never crossed his mind she would ask that of him. What else could he have said? For a moment he’d been tempted to tell her the truth. Tell her why he’d answered her advertisement. Tell her he’d come to check for Jefferson’s lineage and find the deed of sale for Goodfellow. There were too many unanswered questions. Why was Goodfellow supposedly buried out under the fig trees? He wasn’t dead. He was at Munmurra grazing happily in a paddock, a bit long in the tooth but a long way from dead. Was that what his father had meant when he said he’d done something he wasn’t proud of? Had he taken Goodfellow without permission?

  Maybe his dream of racing Jefferson in Victoria was far-fetched and unrealistic, but he wouldn’t give it up. Not until he’d exhausted every opportunity. He’d nurtured the idea like a wounded beast for too long. It was his one chance to make something of himself, and he’d promised his father he would put matters straight. Besides, he had to have the papers if he was going to stand Jefferson at stud or enter the horse in any worthwhile race.

  Then there was India. When he’d first arrived at Helligen his intention had been to make the most of the situation, take what he wanted and leave. He owed the Kilhamptons nothing. They’d sent his father to an early grave, but India … India had possessed him like some enchanting sprite. Not only was she the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, she tugged at his heartstrings. She had guts and determination, and such vision, and most of all they shared a common goal that reached across their families’ history.

  India trailed up the stairs. Yesterday, for the first time in her life, she’d missed her afternoon visit with Mama, her mind too full of Jim. She’d tried to kid herself into believing it was because of the horses and paperwork and getting the property back on its feet. It wasn’t. Everything she did centred on Jim and being with him. When she wasn’t with him all she did was think about him, or if there was anyone to listen, talk about him. He’d slipped into every corner of her mind.

  ‘Good afternoon, Anya. I’ve come to see Mama and tell her about my day.’

  The door opened fully. ‘And about yesterday as well, I hope.’

  India grimaced, accepting the rebuke, then entered the room and halted. Instead of the usual semi-darkness the open curtains allowed a ray of afternoon sunlight into the room. As always her mother sat in her chair gazing out the window, one hand resting on the empty cradle.

  ‘Hello, Mama.’ She bent down and dropped a kiss on her mother’s cheek. To her surprise she turned her face and the glimmer of a smile traced her pale lips. India glanced up at Anya and raised her shoulders in question. ‘You’re looking well today, Mama.’

  ‘We’ve been watching the animals in the yard,’ Anya said.

  ‘Oh.’ If only she could ask her mother for advice. She knew more about horses than Papa did and for years had managed the stud with Thomas Cobb before her accident. All that knowledge locked up and forgotten. Such a waste.

  ‘He’s like his father.’

  India started. ‘I beg your pardon, Mama?’

  ‘He’s like his father,’ her mother repeated, turning her face back to the window.

  Frowning at Anya, her heart rate kicked up a notch at the thought of Oliver. How could a five-week-old child resemble a grown man? This was the second time her mother had engaged her in conversation and at first she’d thought it heralded a change for the better. Dwelling on Oliver was not an improvement; it was a backward step. ‘His father?’ She covered her mouth wishing she hadn’t spoken.

  Receiving no reply India retreated to her usual routine. ‘We’ve started the breeding. Soon we will have foals in the paddocks again. Won’t that be lovely?’

  ‘Just like old times,’ Anya said with a smile, smoothing the hair back from Mama’s forehead.

  ‘I have a problem. I can’t mate four of the mares because they are too closely related to the sires we have. I’ll have to get an outside service.’

  ‘Goodfellow’s offspring.’ Her mother nodded her head knowingly.

  ‘That’s right.’ Her heart leapt—this was almost a conversation. Certainly the closest she could remember.

  ‘He’s like his father. So like his father.’ Her mother’s eyes fluttered closed.

  She turned to Anya and raised her eyebrow again. What had happened?

  ‘She’s sleeping now.’

  India studied the rhythmic rise and fall of her mother’s chest; as always Anya was right. Mama had fallen asleep. ‘She seems different. A little better?’ she whispered.

  Anya shrugged her shoulders. ‘It is difficult to tell. She watches from the window. The new activity, the new man …’

  ‘Do you think it’s confusing her? Perhaps we should make sure we’re out of sight.’

  ‘I think it is good for her. Brings her mind to the present.’

  ‘But she’s talking about Oliver so much.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Saying he’s like his father.’

  ‘She is not talking about Oliver, she is talking about the new man and his horse. Remember, she said she saw Goodfellow.’

  India rubbed her temples; the pounding in her head made it difficult to concentrate.

  ‘Go now, India, and let her sleep.’ Anya held open the door.

  She crept from the room and sank down on the top step of the staircase, cradling her head in her hands. If only Jim had agreed to use Jefferson everything would be so much simpler. With a huge effort she pulled herself upright and drifted down the stairs and into the library.

  Perched on the corner of the desk she ran her fingers over the worn leather of the studbook. Another day wasted! She’d made no progress and was back where she’d started earlier this morning. Goodfellow stared down at her from the painting, the supercilious expression on his arrogant face mocking her.

  She opened the book, flicked through it in a desultory fashion watching the years float by. One of the last entries was in May 1850: Goodfellow covered Storm. Just before he died. It was correct because Storm’s foal was on her breeding list. Running her finger over the spider-like writing she searched for a solution. Somewhere in this book lay the answer. What had Mr Cobb done? Had he imported sires? She turned back through a few more pages. The notes solved nothing. Over the years she’d tried so hard not to blame anyone but there was no doubt Cobb was the wretched man who’d caused all the heartache they’d suffered. If only he hadn’t allowed her mother to ride out that fateful night, life would be so very different.

  ‘Tosh!’ She closed the book with a snap. Wallowing in self-pity would solve nothing. Maybe Violet was right, perhaps they should return to Sydney. The thought of handing over responsibility for this mess to someone else grew more inviting with every hurdle. Had she taken on more than she could manage?

  ‘What are you doing?’ Violet appeared in the doorway. She drifted into the room and sat in Papa’s leather chair, rocking to and fro like a little girl on a seesaw.

  India swallowed the scream building in her throat. She couldn’t explain the confusion to Violet. She didn’t understand it herself. ‘I’m looking.’

  ‘Looking at what?’

  ‘I’m looking at the old studbook trying to decide what to do with the horses.’

  ‘Leave them here for Jim and come back to Sydney. That’s what you should do. He can manage the property, he’s quite capable.’

  ‘I can’t do that! I made a deal with Papa. A year. I’ve already gone agains
t his wishes by employing Jim without his consent. You know how he feels about outsiders on the property.’

  ‘Oh, what? Because Mama had an accident and he blames the stud master for it and Oliver’s death. Look, it wasn’t a very nice thing to happen, I’ll grant you that. I’d love to have a brother. Let’s face it, you wouldn’t be wearing that laughable attire and trying to pretend you can do a man’s job if we had a brother to help. But hundreds of people lose a baby and there’s no rhyme or reason. One minute they’re asleep in the cot and the next minute, poof—’ she snapped her fingers and India’s skin went cold, ‘—they’re dead.’

  It took a long moment for India to regain her composure. The mention of her little brother lying tucked in the cot, with his bright eyes and the beginning of a smile on his cherubic face, would always bring tears to her eyes. ‘Try and show some compassion. There’s much more to it as you very well know.’ So very much more but nothing Violet would remember or understand.

  ‘Anyway, Peggy sent me in here to get you. She says you’re not eating properly and she’s worried about you. We’re in the kitchen. Come along.’

  India clambered to her feet and put her arm around Violet’s shoulders. ‘Thank you. It’s good to have a sister.’ She gave her a hug. Constantly blaming Violet for her own woes would solve nothing.

  ‘You’ve changed your tune.’

  ‘You’re behaving like a grown-up instead of a spoilt child. It makes it easier.’

  Violet let out a yelp of fury and chased India through the walkway to the kitchen, narrowly missing Jilly carting a basket of washing out to the garden. They barrelled inside and came to a skidding halt.

  ‘Peggy! Peggy! Where are you?’ Violet peered into the pantry then the scullery. There was no sign of the promised meal although the table was set. The silence was broken only by the loud tick of the clock in the usually busy room.

  ‘She’s not here. Where’s she gone?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll go and check outside. You go and ask Jilly.’