by Darry Fraser
She stared. She took a deep breath and let it out. ‘You’ve called me by my name before.’ Still, her feathers were ruffled from yesterday. ‘However, I’ve a mind to sell up and go to Melbourne, Mr Jones.’ Oh, and sounding petulant, now. What on earth made her blurt that? She had thought of it, true, but really, so very fleetingly—
‘Damn me,’ he said softly. ‘Not go, surely?’ He shook his head a little, frowned as if worried all of a sudden. ‘Why would you think of doin’ that? Your farm, your friends are here. You know the place well.’
He looked surprised. Did the man really have no idea? Oh, probably not. ‘My time would be better spent elsewhere, meeting new people. My children are all there, not likely to return. And you yourself know how hard it is to keep a farm.’ She stopped short of saying what she most wanted to say: especially as I’m a woman, and on my own. That was most certainly not appropriate to say here and now, but it was true.
Still bemused, he looked at her. ‘But people look out for you here.’
Do they? She supposed they did. And to date all except the one person she hoped would look out for her. And yet, now, here he is, hoping to court her. Oh, my heart. Could she dare think—
‘Don’t go, don’t sell,’ he said, and pressed her wrist again. ‘We could work your place, too. With Giff, as well as us old boys, and maybe even Nebo, if he stops being the fool.’ He looked as if something grand had just dawned on him.
Must be sensible. ‘I need to get this in the cooker.’ She reached past him, grabbed the dough and slapped it into the pan.
He turned and opened the oven with the tamp iron. He took the pan and shoved it inside. ‘And you see? I’m good in the kitchen.’
‘A very attractive attribute.’
‘Thought that would impress.’ He took one of her hands, rubbed off the excess dough. He brought it to his lips.
So very forward, Mr Jones. But the scratch of his beard stubble awoke her. She uncurled her fingers and let her hand rest on his cheek. Oh yes, those bristles were wonderful against her palm and the giddy tickle raced straight to her belly. She never thought she’d feel that again, that—wanting. That anticipation. However— ‘I am not a woman with whom to trifle, Judah Jones.’
‘I know it, and I would not.’ His gaze never wavered. He waited.
A deep breath or two and then her other hand came up—all by itself—and cupped his face. A light sparked in his eyes and it so gladdened her heart. ‘Because I’ve waited for you,’ she said.
A strong arm slid around her, and despite her being acutely aware of her extra padding built up over the years—no longer the lithe girl—his easy warmth, his confidence was heartening.
He looked earnest, open. ‘So don’t be leavin’ now that I’m here,’ he said, and his eyes glinted. ‘You’d never get to see the rest of my attributes.’ He pressed his forehead on hers. ‘I’m too old not to speak my mind about what I want, what I need, Lily, and it’s you.’
Noises of the children playing in the yard—perhaps not doing their chores, the kettle puffing on the stove, the open pot of jam and the empty dough bowl on a hard-working family kitchen table … these were the sounds and signs of a life she missed, echoes of a life filled with company, and love. Her own children were distant now, disdainful—still, how she loved them. But here, a man was holding her close. She would be wanted again and useful. Productive, and with a life worth living to the full, surrounded by the thing she most treasured. Family.
But she’d waited too long not to guard her heart. She stared into those eyes, crinkled and bleary with years of life and love and loss. They were dear to her. She wanted her life again, not just the desperate filling of each day with simple routine to keep her alive. She wanted a new life, with him, but would he know what she needed to hear?
His hands pressed over hers again, large and warm, eyes searching hers. ‘Grab the good while we can.’ He took a breath. ‘I’m letting my ghosts rest.’
Her breath caught. He had known. She touched her lips to his cheek, softly. So very forward, yourself, Lily Hartman. ‘I think your ghosts would be happy to rest, Judah.’
‘Aye, I think they would.’
Thirty-Eight
Overhead, the sky had darkened. Roiling clouds, heavy and threatening, blocked out the sun. Every so often great fat drops had fallen, but a deluge hadn’t come. Elsa tightened the tie on her hat as Ezekiel clicked the reins again, urging Milo faster.
‘I have no brolly,’ he said. ‘And it looks like that could dump on us before we get much further. If it’s a torrent, we’ll have to go to the town. Going to Nebo’s camp will be out of the question.’
‘Why?’
‘The ground doesn’t drain well here. There’s talk of digging great gutters by the roads, along the fields, but it hasn’t happened yet. If it’s rained hard over his way, chances are it’s boggy. I won’t risk Milo getting stuck.’
Many animals perished if carts and coaches got bogged and couldn’t be pulled out. She’d certainly not endanger any animal, but she didn’t want to go to the town. ‘Could we turn around?’
‘We could, but we’re much closer to Casterton than the farm. We’ll head there.’
She tried again. ‘Surely we’d be fine on the track to the camp. It seemed quite sturdy.’
He glanced at her. ‘It might be, but if it pours, and that’s looking likely,’ he said nodding towards the south-east and the wall of cloud, thick and grey, obscuring the horizon, ‘we won’t even get that far. Town it is.’ He flicked the reins over Milo again and the horse stepped up once more, Salty picking up his pace too.
Ezekiel veered along to the right, onto a wider track, which Elsa assumed headed towards the township. She’d only seen faint twinkling lights when she’d ridden by it in the night not long ago, and now she had no real clue where she was.
She’d wanted to get to Rosie as quickly as possible, but she’d have to wait. The thing to do now was to secure the satchel so nothing inside it got wet, most importantly her father’s will. She tucked it back further under the seat and checked that it would be well sheltered if it did rain. She hoped so.
A thought struck her. If they had to go to the township … ‘Would there be a solicitor there, by chance?’
‘A visiting one at best.’ Thunder cracked close by and Milo’s ears twitched and flattened, and the cart lurched forward. ‘Hang on tight,’ Ezekiel said, and he let the horse have his head. ‘Only a mile or so to go.’
The skies opened and the deluge hit them full force. Rain stung as it pelted and soaked their clothes through in only minutes. Milo tugged harder as the road began to puddle and muddy under him, but the sludge was slowing him down, sucking at the wheels. As the buildings of the town came into view, Elsa believed that they might just make it in one piece. She let her breath go and prayed for the satchel to remain dry—she didn’t dare retrieve it now.
In front of them, pedestrians charged from the footpath across the slush and mire of the road to the opposite side, looking for shelter under verandahs. Not a lot around, Elsa discovered when she chanced a look through the sheeting rain. It was pouring in rivulets off a hill that rose like a great sentry at the eastern end of the street.
Ezekiel hauled Milo up at the Albion Hotel, a single-storey solid brick building that Elsa hoped had rooms. She also hoped that Ezekiel Jones could pay for rooms, for she had no money—Rosie had it.
‘Wait while I check inside,’ he shouted at her, the rain dripping down his face and running under his sodden shirt. He was off before she could answer.
Good God. Stuck on the cart for how long? She should grab the satchel out from its hiding place, but as her own clothes were wet through, weighty with water, that would not be a good idea. And she wouldn’t be able to protect the contents from the bucketing rain.
He bolted back outside. ‘Come on,’ he shouted and held out his arms for her. He swept her off the cart, a confident, powerful swing that made her feel that she was as light as air.
/>
‘But—’ She could only hold on, no time to grab anything. Rain cascaded over her head and she closed her mouth to stop sputtering water.
Then he clambered inside the hotel with her.
Shelter from the bombardment was swift relief. It was warm and dry, and close with the unmistakable ripe smell of hops. Loud male laughter roared through a doorway off to the side. So that would be the bar. Tobacco and firewood smoke mingled with the pungent sour aroma of sweaty bodies and floated in around her.
He set her down in the small foyer, checked that she rested easily against a wall and slapped his sodden clothes. ‘Now for the things we need.’ He turned for the door, dripping from his hat to his boots, and small puddles trailed him.
‘Mr Jones, please, get my satchel,’ she called after him.
He pulled open the door, and the roar of the downpour was staggering. Long moments later, utterly soaked, he returned with a rifle, the crutches and the satchel.
A sigh of relief when she saw it tucked under his arm. She sagged back against the wall and smiled at him. ‘Thank you.’ She put it under the seat nearby, which stood by a raggedy-looking aspidistra. Sopping, she wasn’t game to sit on the nicely upholstered chair for fear she’d ruin it.
Ezekiel snatched off his hat, wrung it over the plant, and dropped it on the floor. ‘They have rooms and have given me a credit note.’ He looked grim. ‘This weather looks set in. There’s no guarantee the roads will be safe for the cart even in a day or so, even if it stops raining.’
‘Should we have turned back for the farm after all?’
He snorted. ‘We wouldn’t have made it. We’d be stuck out in this, in the open somewhere.’ He pushed wet hair off his face and swiped water from his arms and chest. Great plops settled on the timber floor. ‘I’ll try to find cover for the cart and horses.’ He leaned down and grabbed his hat. ‘We’ll be right.’
Elsa wasn’t so sure. She’d been days away from her sister, no idea when she’d see her next. Her only clothes were saturated. She had a broken bone in her foot, had no money … and she was in a hotel with Ezekiel Jones.
Bursting from the bar room in a tumble, a big redheaded man with a sizeable middle that hung out of his shirt was clutching another man around his neck. They chortled, drunk as lords. Cackling about some joke, the redhead straightened up and wobbled his pink and ginger-furred belly in both hands. Then he caught sight of Ezekiel.
Elsa caught her breath and shrank. She knew exactly who these men were. She tugged her hat rim around her ears.
‘Hey, Jones,’ Redhead said, and shoved into the other man, who staggered back against the wall.
Ezekiel was still swiping rainwater from his clothes. He looked up. ‘Billy Watson, they let you back in here again?’
Elsa smoothed her own clothes and tried not to attract attention. But she was on one foot, and crutches rested nearby. Surely that awful man would recognise her, or his friend might—the one who’d dragged her out from behind Peppin’s hind legs. She lowered her head.
Redhead wobbled closer. ‘Funny bugger, Zekey. Nobody keeps me out of a pub,’ he said. He threw a smirk at his mate and stared back at Ezekiel. ‘Hey, heard your brother bailed up a coach like some flamin’ bushranger.’
‘Did you now?’
‘Yeah, had some wild women with him. Decoys, they was. Their cart was across the road an’ all. Coach had to stop for ’em, is how they got held up. Clever, that Nebo, gettin’ women to do his work for him.’
Elsa squeezed her eyes shut and kept her hands on her dress. She hardly dared breathe. Glancing, she saw Ezekiel had stilled a moment. He’d cocked his head, as if considering what Watson had said.
‘That so? Never heard of either of my brothers bailing up any coaches.’ He flicked a narrow glance in Elsa’s direction.
‘C’mon, Nebo done one years ago.’
Ezekiel shook his head. ‘Don’t think so.’ His mouth flattened. His hands flexed.
‘Yeah, well.’ Then Watson thumbed towards the bar. ‘I was just talkin’ to a bloke about Nebo in there. Told ’im where he might be, hidin’ out in that camp of his at five-mile. Got me good coin for it, too. He’s real interested in you Jones boys. I might just go right back to ’im and earn me some more, now I seen you here.’ He nodded, smirked again, his guts wobbling as he tried to stand upright.
Ezekiel’s face looked set as if carved in stone.
Watson didn’t notice. He nodded again, imparting more news. ‘He’s the fella been huntin’ Jude for killin’ his son. He reckons Nebo might have somethin’ what don’t belong to ’im. As usual.’
Elsa sucked in a breath and froze. Could Nebo have had something of George’s after all? Oh God. Rosie.
Ezekiel’s gaze nailed the drunk. Then he snaked out an arm and grabbed Watson by the collar. ‘It isn’t my brothers he has to worry about,’ he said between his teeth.
‘Jesus, Zeke, yer killin’ me.’ Bug-eyed, Watson gurgled. ‘Boffa, get that bloke—’
A man exploded out of the bar. Stocky, with a grimace glinting gold, he head-butted Boffa in the doorway, sending him out cold and sliding down the wall. The man spun hard, barrelled full-bodied into Watson, knocking Ezekiel flat on his back. The man flew out the door, into the driving rain.
‘That was ’im, that was the fella,’ Watson shouted from the floor.
Ezekiel shoved Watson off and scrambled to his feet. He bolted outside into the deluge.
Watson fumbled around trying to stand up, and once back on his feet, spotted Elsa. He squinted at her. ‘Hey,’ he said, and staggered towards her. ‘You, girlie. I know you.’
She shied away, she could smell his breath, and the rest of him. Worse than a fly-blown sheep.
Boffa, awake, was holding his head. His nose was bleeding into his mouth as he crawled towards the door. ‘Let’s go, Billy,’ he said, his teeth red.
‘Look who it is, Boffa.’
‘Billy, come on, Zeke’s on his way back.’ Boffa spit blood as he dragged himself up the door jamb.
‘It’s one of Nebo’s doxies.’ Watson leered at her as if he’d won a prize. He glanced at the crutches and then down at her feet. ‘It was you at the cart.’
In spite of good sense, she screwed up her face and shouted, ‘You’d only know that if you were there.’ And Watson understood her, she could see it on his face, even drunk as he was.
He lurched and knocked her hat off. ‘Well, maybe my mate the coach driver can tell the troopers that I caught me his lady bushranger, all by accident—’
Ezekiel crashed inside, lunged at Watson and grabbed him by the waistcoat, swinging the bulky redhead towards the door. Watson stumbled and dropped to the floor with a grunt. Ezekiel put a foot to his backside and rolled him outside and into the mud as if he was a sack of beans. He wheeled around to the man holding his own head, trying to stand. ‘You next, Boffa,’ he growled, dripping with muddy water and breathing hard.
Holding his nose as blood slid over his fingers, Boffa mumbled, ‘Not me, Zeke, I’m goin’. No trouble outta me.’ On bowed legs he wobbled past Ezekiel and staggered outside.
Elsa propped herself against the wall with both hands to keep from falling. What a relief—
‘Tell me you didn’t help Nebo bail up a coach.’ Ezekiel’s eyes were fiery-red. He stormed towards her. ‘Tell me you haven’t bloody lied the whole time.’
She stormed right back, just under his chin. ‘I haven’t lied about a damned thing.’ She swatted at drips running from her hair to her chin. ‘Don’t you yell at me,’ she cried. ‘I just heard that your brother might have something of George’s after all, and my sister is out there with him,’ she finished, a finger in the air, done with polite, done with waiting.
A man stuck his head out the bar door and shouted, ‘Hey, Zeke, I just got rid of two drunks making a noise. You got rooms, take it up there.’
Raucous laughter followed from the bar, and a sudden hot bloom burst in Elsa’s cheeks. She glared at Ezekiel and watche
d as the fight flickered to nothing in his eyes before he turned away.
He bent, picked up her crutches, and thrust them at her. He snatched the satchel from under the chair, then cradled the rifle. ‘This way,’ he said, and didn’t wait for her as he stalked past the bar door.
The laughter had drowned under the pounding rain on the roof. Behind Ezekiel, Elsa swung carefully along a short corridor, mindful of puddles forming on the floor as rain found its way inside in steady streams from above.
When she caught up, Ezekiel was jiggling a key in a door and it swung open. He looked inside, then stood by so she could get past him.
She’d expected only one single bed, but there was one big bed and a smaller one beside it. She flared. ‘I’m not—’
‘I’ll take that room, there,’ he said, gruffly cutting her off. He swung open the door opposite, and three single beds were close together in the middle of the room. ‘I’ll bring a bowl and a pitcher of water. There’s a chamber pot under the first bed.’ He pointed at it, then nodded down the hallway. ‘A privy is out that way.’ He tossed the satchel onto one of the beds in her room. ‘I’ll see if I can get us some food.’ He stopped and looked at her. ‘Maybe some dry clothes from somewhere, and shelter for the horses and cart.’ He turned to go.
‘Wait.’ Elsa’s face still flamed and her heart had begun to pound, but not because of their spat. The real enormity had dawned on her as she recalled Lily’s description. ‘They’re capped in gold …’ As he turned back, she said, ‘That man with the gold teeth—’
‘He’s the one I took to your brother’s grave, the one who says he’s Curtis Goody, the man we reckon killed George. The one who stabbed Jude.’ He looked at his hands and back at her again. ‘And now Watson has told him where Nebo is likely to be. He’d disappeared by the time I got outside.’
She took in the slump of his shoulders, the resigned look on his face. ‘If he’s gone to where Nebo is, Rosie is there. My sister—’
‘What the hell is he after?’ Ezekiel cut in. ‘What the hell does he think George had that was worth killing him for, that was worth trying to kill Jude? George had something, he must have.’ His eyes were bleak, searching hers. Water dripped from his hair and slid down the bristly dark cheeks, dropping to his neck and shirt. Beads trickled onto the expanse of his chest, mingled with the hair there, and disappeared.