by Dorothy Cork
‘Go ahead, then,’ he said, frowning. ‘You have as much right as I have to ask questions.’
‘Exactly. That’s just what I mean. You don’t have any right.’
‘Oh, quit making an argument of it! We’re not playing some game where all the rules are laid out and have to be adhered to ... What did you want to ask me? Come on, let’s have it. What’s the question?’
Farrell bit her lip. What was the question? She swallowed nervously. She wanted to know about Helen Adams, of course—if she was a possible contender for the role of his wife, particularly now that Farrell Fitzgerald had been found to have feet of clay.
She reached down and picked up the silky robe from where it lay in a crumpled heap on the ground, then let it fall again. ‘This was in the wardrobe in my room,’ she began, and stopped, her cheeks bright with sudden colour.
‘So what? It belongs to my housekeeper’s daughter-in-law, Helen.’
He sounded so convincingly casual that Farrell was almost fooled, and might have been completely so if she hadn’t found that rather—possessive card in the pocket.
‘Where is she now?’ she challenged.
‘In Perth. She works for my company.’
‘She’s—she’s a widow, isn’t she?’
‘Yes,’ he said shortly, unhelpfully.
‘You—like her a lot, don’t you?’ she persisted after a second.
‘Now how on earth did you deduce that?’ he asked, his eyes guarded.
Farrell bit her lip. So he didn’t deny it!’Various things I picked up,’ she said evasively, deciding he could take that to mean whatever he liked. ‘She’s very lovely, I suppose,’ she added, thinking of the birthday card.
‘Very lovely,’ he agreed. ‘But not nearly so lovely as you. And not so damned devious, either.’
Farrell felt a pulse beat in her temple. ‘Then perhaps you’d be—’ She stopped on the point of suggesting he’d be better off with Helen than with her, because after all, he was making no claim to her, these days, even if he was keeping her captive at Quindalup.
‘I’d be what?’ he said. ‘Finish what you were going to say.’
She improvised swiftly. ‘More inclined to trust her than you are to trust me. Or—or was she another ideal your cynicism knocked down from her pedestal?’
‘As a matter of fact, no,’ he said evenly. He got up from the li-lo and stood looking down at her, his hands on his naked hips. He was too close for comfort, and she averted her eyes quickly. ‘Why the interest, anyhow?’
Why? Farrell hadn’t really questioned her interest herself up till now, but in a flash, she knew the answer. Because she was eaten up with jealousy! She’d thought she hated Larry Sandfort not so long ago, and now, quite unfairly, she found she was hating Helen Adams.
‘Well?’ said Larry, and she tried to pull herself together. ‘Because—oh, because I believe she’s coming to the North-West for a holiday,’ she said weakly. ‘Mrs. Adams said something about it.’
‘I don’t quite follow your reasoning, but yes, she’ll be coming to Mullamulla Downs shortly. She doesn’t have a close relationship with her mother-in-law. She’ll spend most of her time with her parents.’
Farrell frowned. ‘Her—parents?’ she repeated.
‘Sure. Bob and Muriel Nelson. Muriel in particular appreciates her company these days, since Mark walked out on them.’
Farrell stared at him, feeling confused. So Helen was Larry’s manager’s daughter, and Mark—‘Mark?’ she echoed faintly, feeling an odd stirring of unease.
‘Their son,’ Larry explained patiently. ‘One of these wild kids who can’t settle down. He was working for his father, but decided he didn’t like being told what to do. Now he doesn’t even find it necessary to keep in touch.’
Farrell’s heart seemed to skip a beat. It sounded exactly like Mark Smith. His father owned a sheep station, and Mark couldn’t settle down either. Nor did he keep in touch with his parents, she remembered. But this was Mark
Nelson, she reminded herself sharply, not Mark Smith. Yet was Mark’s name really Smith, or did he call himself that so as not to be traced? She felt slightly dizzy, and she moved nervously, aware that Larry was watching her intently. She had completely lost track of what she had been asking him, and she started when he asked out of the blue, ‘Why did your boy-friend leave you, Farrell? That’s something I can’t understand.’
Farrell pulled her thoughts back from their mad peregrinations. She had a horribly clear picture of what had happened that night at the roadhouse—Mark’s kisses, his fingers fumbling with her pyjama jacket. She could hear her own scream that had been stifled instantly, and her heart was thudding now as it had then.
‘We—we disagreed,’ she said, her voice low.
‘About what?’
She should have said, ‘He wanted to make love to me and I didn’t want him to,’ but she couldn’t say it. She felt too ashamed. Instead, she answered with a shrug, ‘Oh—I wanted to go back to Port Hedland and he wanted to go on to Meekatharra. Something like that.’
It was an evasion and it sounded like one. Larry muttered something under his breath, then stooped to pick up Helen Adams’ robe. He tossed it over her scarcely covered body and went back to the house.
Farrell stared after him helplessly. It seemed a pretty fair indication of his contempt for her and her—deviousness. So she had better rid herself of this idea that she was becoming at all attached to him.
If she could...
CHAPTER NINE
In the morning when she came out to breakfast, Mrs. Adams greeted her with the news that Larry had gone out for the day. She didn’t volunteer any information as to where he had gone, and Farrell couldn’t help wondering if it was to meet Helen. Reason told her it was unlikely, for he had said merely that Helen would be coming shortly, and she didn’t see how he could have suddenly discovered it was today, but all the same, she felt nervous and unsettled.
‘What about me?’ she wondered forlornly when, her breakfast completed without appetite, her room tidied, she wandered down to the sun shelter and flung herself full length on one of the li-los, to stare broodingly out at the glittering water and the tree shadows that fell sombrely across the red of the earth. It was not so oppressively hot as yesterday, but she hadn’t the energy to swim, and besides, her mind was possessed by thoughts of Larry and her own dilemma. He was finished with her, that much was becoming very plain. As for herself, she wondered now whether, ever since he had come to her rescue in the saloon bar at Ansell, she hadn’t in her heart been longing for him to repeat his proposal of a few weeks ago. From the very start—she admitted it now—she found him intriguing, and who knows—if Cecile hadn’t made those rather terrifying remarks about his passionate nature, she just might have hung on at home until he had come back.
Oh God, there were so many things to regret now. She suspected that she was here only because Larry had, for some reason, made himself responsible for her, and written to her father to that effect. If only—if only she could convince him that at least as far as her behaviour with Mark was concerned, she didn’t have feet of clay! If she could have just one more chance...
All morning she gave no more than a passing thought to Mark Smith who was very possibly Mark Nelson. It didn’t seem to have a great deal of relevance one way or the other, and it wasn’t until the afternoon, when for want of some better way to pass the time she took a walk into the gorge, that her thoughts returned to the subject.
It would be a very odd coincidence if he were Mark Nelson, she thought, as she sat down on a large red rock in the shade of the cadjeputs. Momentarily diverted, she watched a trail of ants hastening purposefully across a patch of bare earth, and reflected that they could unknowingly be heading for disaster in the form of a waiting mountain devil. People were like that too, she mused, the way they rushed heedless into danger. When she had hurried away from her father’s home, for instance, she had built up more trouble for herself than she would ever
have imagined. She had seen nothing dangerous about Mark, she had been as foolish and trusting as some naive schoolgirl until the night he had tried to claim what he had thought she offered when she went away with him.
Oh yes, she thought, gazing thoughtfully into space. Larry’s ‘wild kid’ and Mark Smith could quite easily be one and the same person. Farrell frowned a little as she tried to call up all she knew about Mark. He’d said he had a sister who lived in Perth and came home for holidays, and she was almost certain he had said her name was Helen. He hadn’t said she was a widow, though, or mentioned that her husband had been killed in a plane accident.
With that thought, something else fell into place. Those scars on Mark’s body. Larry had said his manager’s son had gone up with Brian Adams—that he had been hurt. It must be the same person! No wonder he hadn’t wanted to talk about how he had got those scars. It must have been a terrible experience, especially as it was his brother-in-law who was killed. Poor Helen!
Yes, but poor Helen had evidently recovered sufficiently to be comforted by Larry Sandfort’s admiration for her. The fact she kept his card surely meant something, and anyhow, what girl wouldn’t be flattered by the attentions of such a man? Farrell had been flattered herself—she had been stunned, in fact. Stunned and disbelieving. Well, in her case, the admiration hadn’t lasted long. She had blotted her copybook—so he thought. Helen had not.
How confused and muddled her life was becoming! But no doubt it would all end very simply. Farrell had only to tell Larry she had decided to go back to her aunt in Perth and he would let her leave without a regret. And that, she supposed with a sigh, was what she would do. It was no use prolonging the agony.
It was mainly to divert herself from her depressing thoughts that presently, as she wandered past the mullamullas, she took it into her head to climb the steep path up the gorge wall. It would be fun to find some Tiger Eye. She had seen rings and pendants made of the beautiful stone that glittered golden like the eye of a tiger, and if she found some it would be a souvenir—something to remind her of the days she had spent at Quindalup.
The path, she soon discovered, was treacherous. After the first slope, it was against the sheer rock face, and she tried not to look down, and grasped gratefully at a branch of one of the small wiry trees that grew there, whenever she could. Now and again, small bits of rock gave way under her feet, and soon she began to wish she hadn’t been so reckless as to start the climb. She wasn’t at all sure if she was following the right path, and she tried not to think of what it would be like to go down. She paused to rest after negotiating a very narrow nerve-racking stretch, and looked up to see how far she had yet to go to reach the snappy gum that Larry had pointed out to her. The movement made her suddenly dizzy, she swayed slightly, staggered and the next instant a great chunk of rock went hurtling down into the gorge. Exactly how it happened she never knew, but she lost her footing completely and with a sense of intense shock she felt herself falling, falling—
She grasped futilely at the rock face, her mind emptied of all thought by sheer fright. A bit of stone hurtled past her, another followed, something struck her on the head and just before she blacked out she felt her body slump into something springy and prickly. It was a native bush, and it probably saved her life, but she didn’t know that until much later.
It seemed she was wandering lost in a sort of half dark for a long, long time, and she didn’t know what was real and what was dream—or nightmare. She was looking for Larry. She wanted to beg him to believe her, not to leave her alone. She thought she saw him looking at her from the other side of a sheet of water, but the light on it dazzled her eyes so much that she couldn’t see. She called his name. ‘Larry?’ ‘What’s the trouble?’ His voice had a strange unreal echo to it as if it came from a long way off.
‘Please—please help me!’
‘When you’ve lied to me?’
She began to weep. ‘It’s true—it’s true. I wouldn’t let him touch me—’
‘Mark? Mark Nelson?’ Larry asked mockingly, and then the man across the water was Mark after all. Farrell knew it, because she could see the scars on his chest, and she gasped out, ‘You are Mark Nelson, aren’t you?’
Suddenly he was right beside her and had put his hand over her mouth. ‘Don’t tell them,’ he said threateningly. He seized one of her wrists with fingers that were icy cold, and she struggled against him, trying in vain to push him away.
‘Keep still, Farrell.’
It wasn’t Mark’s voice now, and Farrell opened her eyes.
The man who was bending over her and holding her wrist was a stranger, and she was in her room at Quindalup.
‘Who—are you?’ she asked weakly, and then she saw Larry.
‘It’s all right, Farrell. This is Dr. Carter from Quindalup—’
‘Take it easy,’ the doctor soothed. ‘You’ve been fighting me off a bit—must have been dreaming. I’ve just been making sure you’re all in one piece. You’ve got a few scratches we’ll have to clean up, but no bones broken ... Any headache?’
‘A—a little,’ Farrell said huskily, aware now that her head was throbbing. It was all coming back to her—the fall in the gorge, that blow on her head—She put her hand to her temple and discovered a lump that hurt. ‘How did I get here? What time is it?’ she asked confusedly.
‘It’s nine o’clock at night, and Larry here found you, pet. Now how about having a sip or two of this nice warm drink Mrs. Adams has made for you and swallowing this tablet for me?’
Farrell did as she was told. Larry was looking at her so kindly and concernedly that she wanted to cry, so she closed her eyes. Though her head ached, she didn’t feel muddled, only weak and rather vague. She heard the murmur of voices—‘No need for hospital—very lucky—a few scratches and bruises—quiet—sleep—a slight concussion—Lesley keep an eye on her—a few days—’ The words were blurring, becoming senseless as she lapsed into a more comfortable unconsciousness again...
That night and the following day passed with a kind of timelessness. She knew Mrs. Adams was looking after her, and she saw Larry smiling at her once or twice, but it was all very unreal. It was a relief to wake the next morning to full consciousness, without the dizzying feeling that she had dragged herself only half way out of some other ephemeral world. Her head no longer ached, and she felt faint but definite pangs of hunger.
Doctor Carter arrived to see her soon after she had finished her breakfast, and pronounced himself very satisfied with her progress. After warning her she would have to take it easy for several days yet, he took his leave, and Mrs. Adams, having seen him off, came back into the room.
‘I’d like to get up, please,’ said Farrell. She hadn’t seen Larry so far and she wondered where he was, and thought she might have a better chance of finding out—and of thanking him for coming to her rescue—if she were up and about. But she soon found she needed Mrs. Adams’ help in bathing and dressing, for her bruised body was stiff and sore. She looked ruefully in the mirror when she was dressed, and discovered herself pale and shadowy-eyed, the dressings on her temple and one hand, that had been cut by sharp rocks during her fall, giving her a slightly battered appearance. She certainly didn’t look very attractive, and what a nuisance she was making of herself! At this rate, Larry would be more than glad to see her go—yet she couldn’t forget the way he had seemed to look at her so kindly while she was lying in bed.
In any case, whether it made sense or not, she was aching to see him again as she tottered out to the verandah. There, Mrs. Adams had arranged a long cushioned lounger for her, and beside it, on a low table, were a few magazines, a glass, and a jug of fruit juice.
‘Where’s Larry?’ Farrell asked, as she thankfully sank down on the lounger, very much aware that she was far from capable of being normally active as yet, and acknowledging that she would have to stay at Quindalup a few days more at the least.
‘Mr. Sandfort’s gone to take a swim. He’ll come and spend som
e time with you when he comes back to the house, Miss Fitzgerald. He didn’t want to disturb you earlier. Doctor Carter said you must rest up and be quiet for a while yet, you know.’
Farrell made a slight grimace. ‘I feel a fraud. After all, I haven’t broken any bones—not a single one. And I’m giving you such a lot of extra work, Mrs. Adams. I’ve messed up your arrangements completely, haven’t I? ... Oh, and wasn’t it Sunday yesterday?’ she added, remembering. ‘Your husband was home and you had to spend all your time on me.’
Mrs. Adams smiled pleasantly. ‘Don’t worry, Miss Fitzgerald. As a matter of fact, Jim didn’t come home this weekend, and even if he had, you’ve been so undemanding it would have been no bother at all.’
When she had gone, Farrell stayed where she was, though she longed to go into the garden and wander in the direction of the sun shelter, just so that she could see Larry. It was almost unbearable to know he was so close and yet she couldn’t even see him. Resignedly, she reached for a magazine...
She didn’t know how it happened, but the lounger was so comfortable that she must have fallen asleep. She opened her eyes at a slight sound to find Larry leaning against the verandah rail and watching her, an unreadable expression on his face.
He moved and came towards her, smiling.
‘How’s the patient today?’
‘Oh, I’m not a patient,’ she protested. Her heart was beating fast as she met his eyes, and she realised to the full what a deep and extraordinary pleasure it gave her simply to look at him. His hair was wet, and he looked healthy and handsome in an open-weave cream tussore short and light-coloured cotton trousers. ‘I’m—I’m just about better now. I’m sorry for all the bother I’ve been, and I haven’t even thanked you yet for rescuing me,’ she raced on. ‘I know I shouldn’t have climbed up there—you warned me not to. I—I don’t quite know why I did it, except I wanted to have a piece of Tiger Eye to keep as a souvenir when—’ She broke off, biting her lip. ‘Where did you go? To—to Ansell?’