by Darry Fraser
Elsa couldn’t make out the words. Instantly worried, she cried, ‘What? What?’ and pulled away.
‘I said, thank Christ for that. We have mutual terms.’
They slow-shuffled to the big bed, her hands splayed over strong, densely muscled forearms. The bed base pressed behind her knees. He dropped his hands low on her hips, and the sweet pressure of his thighs against her was driving her mad. This was pleasure—to be endured, yes, yes, happily and greedily—
Hands on her backside, he pulled her closer. The hard line of him sat rigid between her legs, through the light fabric of the dress, and a wave of longing irresistibly bloomed inside, left her without breath.
He touched the buttons at the back of her neck and stopped. ‘May I help you?’
She nodded. Though I’ll hardly need it.
He sucked in a breath, gripped her dress at her hips. As she swung her arms high over her head, the dress came off and he dropped it on the floor. Brushing her fallen hair from her face, he stood a moment, staring at her. He rested a finger between her breasts then lazily traced each nipple. Oh my. How to endure a heaven such as this? He took the weight of each breast in his hands and bent to suck, and nip, and lick.
Mad swirls of delightful torment streaked their way to her centre, little pulses which sent her ragged. ‘I cannot stand up any longer,’ she breathed, hands on his shoulders, fingers digging in.
He tugged off his shirt, undid his belt, dropped his pants, and stepped out of them.
She gazed from the broad patch of dark hair across his chest—she just had to put a hand on the solid expanse and down, down to the surprise spring of his penis, warm and smooth as her hand closed around it.
Arms scooped her up and laid her down and he slid alongside her on the bed. He kissed her, his mouth long and slow over hers, languid, inviting, teasing. His hand flattened on her belly, near her secret place that tingled with want and warmth. Fingers swirled in the hair there, played with it, brushing softly, rhythmically, lower until he found her cleft. He stroked long and sleek until she writhed, lifting her hips for him. His fingers slipped inside, his thumb, wet and warm, glided silkily over the tiny nub until her low breathless cry of wonder escaped and exquisite rolling waves of pleasure rocked over and over her. Pressed against his hand, at each peak she cried into his chest, and when she could stand it no longer, she stopped him.
‘No more,’ she breathed. ‘You. I need you.’
He lifted her over him and drove deep. She moved with his rhythm, under his control, then he tensed, and the muscles in his arms bunched as he held her. She clung on. His gaze fierce, he let himself go, spent hard with a thrust and a lingering shudder as her hips met his. Then, with gradually measured breaths, he gathered her down to him.
Wrapped in his big arms, she thought that it was all a wonder, a superb, heady wonder. ‘Is it always like this?’ she asked into his neck, pressing her mouth here and there.
‘Oh, that’d be a beautiful thing,’ he answered, his voice a murmur. ‘But if so, I might not survive to old age.’
Forty-Three
Elsa woke long before him and rested her head on his warm chest. She listened for sounds of the outside world above the strong, steady beat of his heart.
Daylight was only a hint above the curtain over the window. She should rouse herself and dress; she could hear that others had risen from their beds and were going about their business at the start of the day. Although eager to get going, she couldn’t fight the urge to slide her hand down the trail of hair that would lead to—
‘As much as I wish it, my love, we shouldn’t linger. We must make tracks.’ He held her hand fast before it reached him. ‘I fear I have created a monster.’
‘You have,’ she said. ‘But a monster who’s also keen to get going.’ The night’s many delights had tantalised into the small hours. She should have been satisfied … Resisting another touch, and sighing, she sat up and stretched.
At that, he groaned and rolled over, swung his feet to the floor. ‘I’ll bring the horses and cart to the front,’ he said, and dressed swiftly. He pulled on his boots and donned his hat, bent and planted a hard kiss on her mouth, then gently tugged her thick plait that had survived the night. He’d fashioned it late, and after bathing, they’d slept. ‘No more than ten minutes,’ he said. And he was gone, rifle in his grip.
She used the chamber pot, washed again in cold water, shrugged into the dress, and pulled on her one boot. She strapped her sore foot, quickly, inexpertly, but better than no strapping at all. With the satchel slung over her shoulder, she picked up the crutches and followed him.
Clumping down the hall, she was glad she’d become used to Giff’s sturdy sticks but hoped that soon she wouldn’t need them. As she neared the bar door, she realised her chin felt a little tender, and wondered if it had been pinked-up by the bristles of his beard. Head down, sure her face was aglow, she smiled a secret smile and made her way outside.
Forty-Four
‘That’s her,’ Pete Southie told the other two, his voice a rough whisper as he peered over the rump of his horse. Elsa Goody had emerged from the Albion Hotel. He was glad to find her. He wanted to go right there—she was on crutches, for God’s sake—but he’d been told to keep out of sight. For her own benefit, the man with the gold teeth had added.
Jesus, lucky he’d befriended the surly stranger in the bar the night before. Seemed he’d heard about Elsa and Miz Putney, and that they’d been taken by bushrangers.
Watson, who stood beside him now, had told him that they were dangerous blokes, a band of brothers who roamed the place, causing trouble. The fat redhead stank of last night’s grog; musta had a skinful. He looked as if he’d been dragged backwards over a bullock track.
‘Yeah, that’s her, Mr Curtis.’ Watson turned to the man, who nodded.
That’s what started the ball rollin’ last night—the name of the fella with the gold teeth. After a rum or two, Pete had mentioned that he had to find the Goody sisters from Robe. Heard they’d come this way lookin’ for their brother’s grave. The man had looked real interested and introduced himself. Dropped the grumpy attitude quick smart. Funny that Elsa’s pa was named Curtis, too, Pete had remarked. Mr Curtis had laughed a bit at that, and said he’d be happy to help find the women.
Pete watched the cart pull round the corner, a spare horse tied at the back, and park at the hotel’s front door. The fella driving didn’t look familiar, but when he jumped down and helped Miss Elsa onto the coach, Pete felt a punch slam into his guts. The man had swooped her up, and laughing, had sat her on the seat of the cart, the crutches she’d used dropping to the ground. She’d put her hand on his cheek.
Jesus, Miss Elsa. What’s that all about?
The crutches were thrown in the back, a bag removed from around Miss Elsa’s shoulders and shoved under the seat, and then the man climbed aboard and gee-upped the horse. He musta been in a hurry, they’d taken off quick enough.
Mr Curtis grunted. ‘Where they goin’?’ he asked as the cart headed out.
‘Need to follow them a ways,’ Watson said, his stink-breath flying over Pete’s shoulder. ‘They could head south, goin’ to Mt Gambier, or they could take the turn-off going west to Penola. Nebo’s camp is off the Mount road. There’s a track goes in at about the five-mile mark. Tracks all over the place in there but I reckon I can find which one.’
Curtis nodded. ‘Stay here, Mr Southie. We’ll bring our horses and then follow at a reasonable distance.’
‘You done this before, Mr Curtis?’ Pete asked him. ‘You a law man?’
‘Can’t say too much, Mr Southie. I just know how to find what I’m lookin’ for.’
Forty-Five
Wally and Sal were leaving. Wally lifted a hand to wave before heading for the scrub. As they trudged on, a sack each on their backs, their figures morphed into the landscape and were soon out of sight.
Glen was standing beside Nebo. ‘Sad business.’
‘Aye.’
Nebo was standing with Rosie, watching them leave. He didn’t know what he felt. Sad, maybe. Strange. Too many things were changing quickly.
Glen and Tillie would wait for Salty to come back, and then they’d be the last to leave besides him and Rosie. Fred and Alice had said their goodbyes just as the sun had risen.
Nebo had no clue where to go, or even if they needed to leave. They couldn’t yet, anyway, Rosie had told him. Not until Elsa returned. She’d got a bit shrill about that when he tried to put another case forward. He’d managed to calm her down, especially when he said they’d wait, no matter what.
He couldn’t get near her after that, she’d been all agitated. But she’d be right later on. They had a good thing between them, and tonight he’d make her feel even better again.
The rain had held off last night, hadn’t dumped a drop on the camp although they’d all been worried about it. They’d packed their horses then, their tools and implements tied tight to each saddle, ready for an early morning start. They all just looked like plenty of others who were trooping around the countryside, seeking work, shelter, their next meal. Rabbits were aplenty, but a good mutton stew or a beef roast was always welcome.
At least Fred and Alice would always find work. They could turn their hands to anything.
Glen and Tillie. Well, Tillie wasn’t good for much, or not that Nebo had seen. Musta been good at something, for Glen was happy enough to keep her. He said she was a good stick, nothin’ surer. Nebo shrugged. Who the bloody hell was he to say?
He’d miss them all. They were his mates, and they’d been through a lot over the years. Some bad things, some not so bad, but there’d been plenty of mischief. Back in the day they were the boys who didn’t care about anything much, except for having fun. As he’d watched Wal trudge away, and Fred ride off with his horses packed, Nebo saw them in a different light. Still mates, but with the sharp edges worn off. Or worn down. They were gettin’ on in age. And who was he foolin’? He was no boy anymore, either. He set the thought aside.
Tillie called over, hands on her hips. ‘Reckon your sister will be back with my Salty sometime soon, missy?’
Rosie sighed aloud. ‘I hope so.’
She glanced at Nebo and looked away, not as happy as the other night, but she’d have been worried about her sister. His chest expanded. He had himself a good woman, finally. Now he had to keep her.
Forty-Six
A flat, dull grey mass of cloud sat overhead covering the whole sky as far as Elsa could see. She stared up, but the sun was well hidden. It didn’t feel like there’d be more rain, and thankfully so. The track leading out of town was heavy and Milo was doing his best.
She was relying on her memory to retrace Tillie’s directions and Ezekiel seemed to know exactly where they were. Over a crossroad, and when the track dropped to barely a path, she wondered how on earth she’d managed that night to stay in the right direction. She was lost in daylight.
When the rough track eased here and there, Ezekiel would reach across and take her hand. He’d squeezed it while he talked, and she’d squeeze back.
She learned he’d planned to buy dairy cows, maybe cattle, because the market had dropped out of wheat. ‘If I can use Jude’s place as well, we’ll both be better off.’
It was the same where she came from, but her father had no one, and no money, to expand. ‘Bigger holding,’ she agreed. She was used to cows around but knew nothing of a dairy. She thought of her father’s farm. It would belong to Frank now, or near enough belong to Frank. There was nothing left there for her in South Australia, except the right to vote—while her address was still officially in that colony, she would do that.
If moving—that’s what marrying Ezekiel meant—then she had to hope that the vote for women would soon be passed here in Victoria. Surely after Federation in a few years, every civilised colony would adopt a suffrage for women. It made sense that if laws were passed governing all, then all were to have a say in the governing.
Ezekiel had commented on the matter when she raised it. ‘It would seem an obvious choice to make. But there are some hard and stoic heads out there wrangling the reins on our laws.’
‘I read that some parliamentarian argued that men would have their home comforts destroyed if we get the vote and want to be a part of governing the country.’
Ezekiel looked at her. ‘Who would wear the pants at home if you entered parliament?’ he asked, teasing her.
‘The one who best fits them,’ she retorted, then blurted a laugh with him.
Not long after, he said, ‘I think this is the track. I vaguely remember coming somewhere close by as kids. Nebo would know this area well.’ Salty, tied alongside, stepped up his pace. ‘Seems I’m not the only one who thinks so.’
A lazy drift of wood smoke on the breeze seemed to confirm it. Elsa felt her stomach swirl, as much for anticipating seeing her sister again, as worried for Rosie’s situation. Then, chiding herself, Elsa realised that she was in the same situation. Still, her nerves were on edge.
Milo had slowed, picking his way carefully along the narrow track. Ezekiel let him lead. Once or twice the horse threw his head, the whites of his eyes showing as he looked around. Salty answered him, a confident nicker, but Milo wasn’t placated.
Ezekiel turned to look behind them and saw nothing to worry him. But the horse had always been trustworthy, so he pulled the rifle from its holster and sat it across his lap. ‘Mrs Hartman’s bullet box is under the seat. If she’s packed rounds, load this up for me.’
Startled, Elsa groped under her feet and pulled a box forward. Cradling the rifle, she cracked it and checked the bullet casing to see that it was dry, then loaded a bullet into the chamber. Once done, she looked over her shoulder, but couldn’t find fault in the disappearing track and the scrub behind her.
Now her stomach was indeed fluttery. The wood smoke was stronger, and she fancied she heard voices on the wind. Salty was impatient, Milo was not happy, but still Ezekiel drove on, calm and quiet. The cart bobbed and jumped, and Elsa banged against his shoulder from time to time, not minding at all. She cared not to look a moment further into the future than where she was, and at least for the time being, she was happy with that.
They heard a gleeful female voice first: ‘Salty.’ The horse replied with a little dance as a woman appeared from nowhere out of the bushes, her reddy-gold hair piled haphazardly on her head.
‘That’s Tillie,’ Elsa said quietly. ‘Mr Barton’s wife.’
‘Hmm,’ was all she got from Ezekiel.
‘Glad to see you back, missy, and just in time,’ Tillie said to Elsa, and flashed Ezekiel a big grin. ‘And you have to be Nebo’s kin, no mistakin’ that,’ she said to him and went straight to untie her horse. Leaping into the saddle, she drew alongside Elsa. ‘You missed Wal and Sal, they’ve gone. They buried the little ’un over yonder.’ She lifted her chin in the direction beyond the campfire. ‘They left just after Fred and Alice. And now that Salty’s back, me and Glen will be off. New South Wales, doncha know.’ She nudged Salty and he trotted ahead of the cart.
‘A lot of information,’ Ezekiel commented, his brow raised at Elsa.
‘I helped Sal when we first got here, but her baby was stillborn.’
He nodded, silent, a frown deepening.
Milo, still not happy, surged forward, following the other horse. Ezekiel steered him but let him have his head. Elsa’s nerves still fluttered. ‘Why do you think he’s so worried?’ she asked.
Then Rosie was running, holding her skirt as her feet dodged hollows in the soft earth. ‘Elsa,’ she cried as she reached the cart. She darted a look at Ezekiel.
‘Rosie, this is Mr Ezekiel Jones, the gentleman who wrote the letter about George,’ Elsa said. ‘Ezekiel, my sister, Rosie Putney.’
‘Mr Jones,’ Rosie said, breathless as she jogged alongside the cart, her eyes on her sister. ‘Thank you for your letter.’ Rosie skittered along holding Elsa’s hand until Ezekiel pulled up at the campfir
e. Then she clambered aboard and took her sister into a tight hug.
Tillie had immediately begun to load Salty with the remainder of their possessions. Her bags were tight, tidy and she slid a small, slim rifle into a holster on the saddle. Glen’s horse was already packed, so he stood to greet Ezekiel as he climbed off the cart.
Nebo called from the campfire but didn’t stand. ‘Welcome to my kingdom, little brother.’
‘I see it’s a fine place,’ Ezekiel replied. He reached into the back of the cart to grab Elsa’s crutches. He nodded over to Glen, who was packing his rifle. ‘Mate,’ he said, without warmth.
Ezekiel came to Elsa’s side of the cart and reached to lift her down. Rosie stared as he fitted Elsa with the crutches. Satisfied with her safety, he brushed his fingers along her cheek and turned for his brother at the fire. Rosie was wide-eyed at her.
Nebo gave Ezekiel a light punch on the shoulder. ‘Ezie,’ he said, with affection. ‘Come sit a while. Got somethin’ to tell you.’
There was no mistaking the other horse Elsa heard. Peppin, tied up next to his cart, which had a new draught pole and brace on it, had been whinnying. She clambered across and stroked his face. ‘I’ve missed you, too, beautiful boy.’ She looked over her shoulder at Rosie. ‘I see they took good care of him.’
Rosie was beside her. ‘Was only a few days, at most. But did I see what I thought I saw between you and that man?’
‘What did you see?’ Elsa continued to stroke Peppin.
Glen yelled out as he mounted his horse. ‘We’ll be off, good friend,’ he said to Nebo. ‘No girly kisses and hugs for me, and I’ll knock you dead if you touch me missus.’ Tillie had ridden up alongside as Nebo stood beside Glen’s horse. He held out a hand and Glen gripped it hard. ‘Off on another adventure, old mate,’ Glen said and wheeled his horse and headed for the scrub.
Tillie waved and followed him, a gleeful smile as Salty leapt to catch up.