by Darry Fraser
‘Very funny. She’s a fine woman, and we can be friends. I shouldn’t meddle with that.’ Jude shot him a glance, then stared at his hands. ‘Besides,’ Jude said. ‘You’ve seen her when she gets mad. A bloke wouldn’t stand a chance.’
‘A bloke might become a happy man again.’
Judah moved in his chair, as if easing a sore spot. The stitches in his side would be nipping at him. ‘Happy,’ Jude said, shaking his head. ‘Happy is just ripped away from ye. I have to wonder how and why I ever got there in the first place. Now they’re all dead.’ He glanced at Zeke. ‘Not sure I want happy to happen again. It marks ye for doom.’ He tapped a fist on the table and looked away.
Zeke saw the shake in Jude’s conviction. ‘Is that so? I reckon you do want happy again, I reckon you know what you’re missing. And there’s no better woman than that Mrs Hartman. She’s set on you in any case, just you’re too thick to see it.’
‘I do see it, but I just got nothin’. Not even all of my own mind with this grief over my girls.’ He rubbed his face. ‘It never leaves ye.’
‘It takes its place, Jude.’
Jude shifted and looked uncomfortable. Maybe after a challenge his thoughts didn’t sit easy. ‘I’m a broken-down fella who runs from his ghosts.’
‘Maybe time to stop running.’
‘Maybe. I’ve thought about it.’ Jude tossed back his rum. ‘And maybe for you, too. You listenin’ to yourself?’ He pointed a finger at Zeke. ‘I know you got grief. But I’ve seen a light in your eye now that I haven’t seen for a while. Reckon that Miss Goody has fired you up.’ Zeke said nothing and Jude went on. ‘If she takes your eye, Zeke, well, a man should grab the good while he can. You know how quick things can turn bad.’ He threw his hands in the air. ‘I can hear myself think. We’re talkin’ the same thing.’
Zeke let his thoughts run again. Elsa Goody. The way her face lit up when she talked to his kids. Or when she’d glanced his way, not realising he’d been looking at her. When that glance softened, before she remembered she was mad at him. Too soon for her. Too soon to be with her.
Jude pounced. ‘Hah—I see it. Not to mention the flamin’ red face she gets when you look at her. Lucky you two weren’t sittin’ together before, the place woulda combusted.’
‘Bollocks,’ Zeke sputtered, and cleared his throat. ‘She wanted to kill me. I ticked her because she had Gracie out there on the verandah when those troopers were carrying on.’
Jude gave a laugh. ‘Little brother, your daughter just marched on out there after Miss Goody directly told her not to.’
Shit. Should have known, Gracie could be pig-headed. Shit. Zeke coughed again. ‘We were talking about you, just now. You have a think about Mrs Hartman some more. You know she tends your girls’ resting places. It means something to her.’
Jude nodded. ‘Figured it was her. Looks a right special place now, all those flowers growin’.’
‘Don’t pass her up.’ Jude cupped his pannikin. ‘Might be right.’
‘I reckon you’ve been thinking about her anyway, haven’t you?’
‘Might have.’ Jude went quiet.
Zeke stared out into the darkened night. His mind wandered. The moon would be a full one, and its glow on the horizon bright. He swatted at insects. Wouldn’t be long before they’d have to head inside or risk being eaten alive. At least all the lamps were out inside—they needn’t attract any moths or other flying midges. Mosquitoes were another issue. The season was changing though: there might be some mercy in that.
Jude let out a long breath. ‘What do you reckon about this Curtis Goody fella?’
‘Whoever he is, he’s gonna murder and maim until he finds something. You know he thinks the dead lad left something of value.’
Jude shook his head. ‘But he didn’t. We found nothin’ at home. Nebo brought you the only things the boy had, didn’t he?’
Zeke hesitated, nodded. ‘But who knows how Nebo thinks, these days.’
‘Yeah, Zeke, but Nebo, he’s not a killer.’
‘He’s a thief.’
‘Bah. He’s just a nuisance. He’s always been lost. He didn’t shoot the boy, you know it and I know it.’
‘Miss Elsa wants to visit the gravesite tomorrow.’
Jude downed the last of his rum. ‘And a good thing you’ll accompany her there, too.’
Thirty-Five
By the time Elsa had made it to the cookhouse, a new dawn was streaking golden shafts of light over the horizon. She hoped she hadn’t wakened the whole household as she’d swung herself along on the crutches down the short hallway. Outside, she got to the privy then headed in to stir up the coals for some tea. All very awkward, but at least she was mobile.
She wondered about trying to saddle up Salty and get on her way alone, but it was only a fleeting thought. Attempting that with her foot out of action would just be silly—it was struggle enough getting through her ablutions. After a hot and restless night, sleep had eventually come, although her thoughts, insistent and repetitive, vexed her. She didn’t want an attraction to any man, not now, and especially not to a man who thought her reckless with his children. She’d kept going over and over the situation with the trooper, and the shock of finding Gracie behind her on the verandah.
She checked the water level in the kettle and then sat back to try and get her hair into some sort of order. Gracie hadn’t appeared yet, and Elsa didn’t want to have to wait if the girl was going to take her time. No sooner had she untangled the first ribbon of hair than the kitchen door was opened.
‘Good morning.’
Ezekiel Jones stood in the doorway, shirt open a little and haphazardly tucked in at the waist, trousers buttoned, socks on his feet. His cheeks and chin had the darkened shadows of day-old bristles. His dark hair framed a serious face, and his eyebrows had a quizzical twist. But his eyes … His gaze made her heart race. Just like it had before sleep finally came last night. Thanks to him, a breathlessness was with her again. ‘Morning,’ she croaked, or thought she did, her voice whisked away.
Gracie darted inside, pushed around her father and ran behind Elsa’s chair. ‘I’ll do it,’ she cried, and plunged her hands into Elsa’s hair. ‘I brought the brush. It’s in my pinny pocket. Good morning, Miss Goody,’ she said and ducked her face around to give Elsa a toothy grin.
‘Morning, Gracie,’ Elsa managed. ‘I have the kettle on for tea.’ Then she said to Ezekiel, ‘Then I’d like to be on my way.’
‘Hmm.’ He stepped inside the kitchen and headed for the stove, reaching up for the tea caddy on the mantel.
‘Oh,’ Gracie said, standing behind her and sounding annoyed, her hands tangling in Elsa’s hair. ‘It’s fallen out of what I did yesterday. I’ll have to start all over again.’ She didn’t sound that disappointed.
After a moment, Elsa felt the brush and Gracie began long downward strokes, tugging through the thick waves. ‘Gracie, perhaps I could do it myself. I’m sure you’d have chores to do.’
‘Not yet, Miss Goody. Have to have our tea first,’ she answered, working steadily.
Elsa winced a little at Gracie’s fervor. She glanced at Ezekiel. ‘I’m ready to leave as soon as Gracie is done. Jonty told me that George is buried a little way up the hill so I should be able to find it. I’d only need help to pack the horse, and to mount.’ She had to stop her voice shaking. She took a breath. ‘I also need whatever else you found of my brother’s.’
‘Hmm.’ He’d murmured again. He drew down three tin cups.
‘Oh, Miss Goody, this is a mess,’ Gracie said, matter-of-fact, still pulling through Elsa’s hair with the big brush.
Looking up, Elsa caught Ezekiel’s eye. He seemed amused by his daughter’s claim, but content to have her continue. Elsa felt heat rise in her chest again.
Her restless sleep had done nothing for what was left of Gracie’s previous attempt at a plait. Elsa should have re-wound her own hair for the night, but it was the last thing on her mind. Time and time aga
in thoughts of Ezekiel Jones had hovered over all rational thought. Despite his growling about Gracie being with her on the verandah under the trooper’s threat, the thrum of his presence glowed inside her, and those wicked thrills that made her squirm in secret delight had descended on her and hadn’t let up.
She had rarely been taken by a good-looking face, or a knowing smile, but she recognised the feelings clearly enough—the same type when Henry Benson looked at her. Not that he had caused her this much pleasant discomfort—her response to Ezekiel Jones was more the look of the man, not being looked at by the man. This was anticipation of seeing him, of waiting for the hum and throb in her belly as she heard his voice, or for the sweet warmth to tingle between her legs as she watched him move. And how her heart had gladdened when he’d crushed his little girl to him yesterday, at how he kissed his boys before their bed. How, at one point, she swore his gaze had glinted when she’d spoken to him.
How she’d fled to bed before she started to stammer in conversation and began to flutter. How girlish. How ridiculous. I am sensible Elsa. I am capable farm-girl Elsa. I am suffragist Elsa. I am not a debutante, not a schoolgirl.
She had a job to do and that was to get whatever belongings of George’s were here and get back to Rosie who was still with that other Jones brother in his poor camp. To find a solicitor. To take ownership of—or run from—the farm. She would think about a livelihood and her survival after she’d made it back to Robe, or elsewhere in South Australia, to vote. What would come after that, she didn’t know, but she would not stay here a moment longer and be subject to her … fancy whims about a man with a devilish, dark gleam in his eye.
She felt her face bloom now at the thought, and even though she was staring at his broad and straight back as he made tea, surely when he turned, he’d be able to read it for what it was. The sooner she was out of his way, the better, and that made her heart pound harder. She let a breath go. She hadn’t realised she’d been holding it.
‘Your tea, Miss Goody,’ he said and slid a pannikin in front of her.
‘Thank you.’ Elsa, not able to look at him, just took up the cup and blew in it to cool down the brew.
Gracie was still resolutely tugging the brush.
He leaned back on the bench under the window. Elsa could only see his long solid legs, crossed at the ankles, the flap of his partly untucked shirt hanging over his trousers. The belt at his waist.
‘I have tinned milk somewhere,’ he said.
‘Up by the candles, Pa,’ Gracie said, dragging doggedly.
‘I take it black, all the same,’ Elsa said. ‘We haven’t had a cow for milking for some years. I’m quite used to taking my tea without milk.’ She glanced at him.
‘Hmm.’ His gaze was on her, steady, unmoving.
Her heart thumped and she looked away, trying to concentrate on the fine-looking mantel over the squat iron cooker.
‘Did you do the milking, Miss Goody?’ Gracie rested a moment, letting the long drape of hair fall down Elsa’s back.
‘And the butter churning, and the shepherding—when we had sheep—and the skinning of the rabbits. Then I had to set the traps, too, when—’ She stopped. She was running away with herself, her speech rapid and breathless. Ridiculous.
‘So, a true farmer’s daughter,’ Ezekiel said.
‘For the most part, I was the farmer,’ she said, noticing he’d folded his arms and was studying her. She looked at her hands, the palms stained with the land, the backs of them weathered, her nails short, discoloured. She dropped them to her lap, out of sight. For heaven’s sake, why be conscious of that now?
‘Although you don’t sound like a farmer, I believe you,’ he said, his tone light.
‘I was,’ she said, annoyed that perhaps he was making fun of her. ‘My father had been ill for some time, and George was really not that interested in the farm. He was always off exploring, he’d say. I’d always worked the land. Someone had to.’ It would be too easy to rattle on, to have a lovely conversation when really, she needed to get going. She needed to drink some tea. She blew some more and ventured a couple of sips. Nearly cool enough.
‘I believe it. I can see you are strong and natural in your disposition, as if used to hard physical work.’
Oh. Am I not ladylike in my appearance? Hackles rose. He was nothing if not forthright. She looked down at her dress, spot-cleaned, old and faded. Seeing it anew, she felt an unfamiliar dismay creep into her.
Gracie resumed a while, then sighed, pocketed the brush and tried to begin the plait. ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘I’ve brushed and brushed so much, now it’s too slippery for my hands,’ she said. ‘Pa, you’ll have to do it like you do it for me.’
Startled, Elsa shook her head. ‘Oh, that’s not—’
‘Gracie, why don’t you go see if everyone else is up. I need to talk to Miss Goody for a while.’
‘Pa does hair real good, Miss Goody,’ Gracie said, smiling broadly. ‘Here’s the brush and the tie.’ She put them on the table and took off for the house.
Elsa put her hands to her hair. ‘Really, there’s no need for you to do it, I can manage. Gracie just seemed to want to help so much, that I—’
‘No trouble.’ He pushed off the bench, his gaze on her. ‘First, I now know that Gracie took it upon herself to stand by you on the verandah. I must offer you an apology.’
Under the intense scrutiny, Elsa felt the rush of colour again. No point hanging on to it. ‘Accepted.’
‘Good. I can get on with the plait.’
She protested again. ‘It would be, um, unseemly for you—’ She stopped short. Good God, Elsa. What is this ladylike rubbish—unseemly? This whole jaunt since leaving the farm was unseemly. More tea, more tea. She sipped again, swallowed, but it was too hot.
‘Not in my household. I’m both father and mother to my children, so I’ve learned to do a few things that a woman would do, like my daughter’s hair. Besides, there’s no one to see me making a plait, so it’s no bother to me,’ he said. ‘My brothers would think it a great lark.’
‘Perhaps Mrs Hartman would do it for me?’
‘The children are not to wake her. She’s been through enough in the last couple of days.’ He paused. ‘As have we all.’ She felt him take up the weight of her hair in his hands as he stood behind her. Shivers fled across her chest. ‘Gracie and I learned to do hers, together,’ he said. ‘I’m sure I could be of some use here, as long as you don’t mind simple and tidy.’
Elsa was transfixed. No man had touched her hair, ever. Those hands of his, the ones she’d stared at and wondered about, were in her hair. Strangely captivated by that, it made her a little light-headed. It was foreign. Exciting. Good. Too good. The warm tingle on her scalp, the glowing rush of sensation down both of her arms … Her belly tightened.
As he separated three thick strands to make the plait, his fingers brushed her neck. Innocuous, a nothing touch, but her nipples squeezed and her secret place tightened. Every so often he tugged a little harder as he braided—how good that felt—and his fingers worked more magic. Never, never, never. Never had she believed there were sensations like this. The things he aroused in her …
He stopped, and so did her breathing. She felt the plait being examined. ‘Hmm. Now,’ he said and resumed his handiwork, ‘I’ll be accompanying you to Nebo’s camp.’
Her heart gave a jolt of a different sort. What? ‘That’s not necessary, either.’ She half turned towards him.
‘I think it is.’ He took her head and gently turned her back. ‘I’ll either convince Nebo to come here and wait for this crook to be caught or convince Nebo to stay where he is until I let him know it’s safe. Either way, I’ll have to warn him, and even then, sometimes my brother doesn’t know what’s good for him.’
‘I can warn him without—’
‘And besides, it’s not safe for you to be travelling by yourself with that fella out there.’
‘Surely, in broad daylight there’ll be no issue.�
�� She took a good swallow of tea, pushed aside the memory of bushrangers bailing up a stagecoach in broad daylight.
Minor point.
He tugged a little. Turned the plait again. When he continued, his fingers grazed between her shoulder blades, warm and light. She felt it even through the fabric of her dress. He worked steadily, his knuckles skimming her back lightly as the plait grew. Acutely aware of him, she felt every minute scrape, every tiny stroke. Even imagined a linger of a touch when perhaps there was none. She squeezed her eyes shut. How was she going to sit still, or breathe, until he’d finished? When had this sensible farm girl, the woman she was, become such a dithery, twittery wreck?
‘I’ll be coming with you,’ he said quietly. The fingers continued, plaiting and tugging. ‘We’ll ride for the camp after you’ve visited the gravesite. Your sister would be worried for you.’
The dithers and twitters continued. ‘But—what about the safety of your children?’
‘Jude is here, and Mrs Hartman.’ Then he barked a laugh. ‘Though I suspect she’d defend the place all on her own.’ His fingers worked deftly. A touch of his hand tingled the hollow down her spine.
Why did it feel like it was just for her? Another shiver scooted along her arms and into her chest. Oh, don’t be so silly, Elsa. Every twist of his hands working the plait was only confident ownership of a simple task, nothing more. But—even sure he would be feeling nothing like she was feeling—it was much more than simple. It was as if he’d stroked her, as if she was taking illicit pleasure in something she couldn’t name. She hummed inside and held the secret of his touch close.
‘And if your directions are as clear as you say,’ he went on, ‘I’ll be back here by dark, and you’ll be with your sister, preparing for home.’
Sharply brought out of her dreamy haze, she knew there was nothing to say to that. Anyway, his hands were nearing her lower back and showing no signs of stopping, and nor did she want him to. Thank God he is oblivious to my nonsense. This can’t be proper. Her face burned all over again at that. First of all, a man fixing her hair, a man she barely knows. And—touching her, accidentally, of course, not by design, not the way Pete Southie had pawed her. But touching her, the feather-light scrapes and brushes of his fingertips and knuckles teasing their path down her back—