A Changing Land (29 page)

‘Two cents extra a kilo.' The skin around Edward's mouth puckered. ‘Tops.'

Sarah shook his hand. ‘Done.' She offered him hot tea and homemade biscuits that she didn't have, knowing he wouldn't stay. He hadn't stayed since her grandfather had passed.

Edward hesitated. ‘Next time. I'll be having some of those scones your grandmother used to make.'

After Edward had off with an escort of barking dogs, Matt shook Sarah's shoulder. ‘Sharp as your grandfather. But you've started something now. You'll be feeding him for the rest of his life.'

‘Maybe not. He hasn't tasted my scones.' Sarah laughed.

Luke made camp down on a bend in the creek. The day's gradual unravelling had been similar to the course of the sun across the sky. Having started softly with a promise of clarity, it had turned poker hot, eventually becoming unbearable. He gathered long strips of bark, prising them free of their sturdy trunks with a small axe. The action helped to calm him. He rested the bark lengthways against a three-piece frame, the centre branch of which was wedged into a gouge on the trunk of a large tree. Each movement helped to dislodge the anger inside him. He pictured it fragmenting, wished it would disappear, knowing how unlikely it was that he'd ever be free of it.

Tying the bark at the top, Luke surveyed his rough dwelling. It was open at both ends and high enough to crawl into, but it was a shelter of sorts. Satisfied, he unstrapped his bedroll from Joseph's rump and tossed it into the lean-to, unsaddling Joseph so he could feed. His two pack horses were not so trustworthy. Ned and Ellie were known wanderers, so having unpacked their
respective loads of cooking utensils and stores, he walked them to a grassy verge where the tree-edged creek bank bordered patches of sweet herbage. Here he hobbled them and let them be.

He was just beginning to start the makings of a fire when Mungo appeared like a wraith out of the timber.

‘Live here now, Luke?' He pointed at the rough shelter and shook his head disbelievingly.

‘It'll do.' He only needed a bit of protection from rain for he was more inclined to sleep under the stars. From around the corner of the creek five women approached, their melodic voices carried by the breath of air hovering above the water. They were bare-breasted, their loins covered in short skirts. At the creek's edge they squatted and began scraping up mud. This they placed in lengths of bark that was then carried to the lean-to. They set about slapping the mud onto the bark, effectively sealing the gaps and cracks with the sludge from the creek. Luke gave his thanks amid a women's gaggle of laughter as they squatted at the creek to wash themselves free of the caking mud, flicking their hands dry before straggling back to prepare evening meals.

Mungo sat cross-legged by the unlit fire after removing his riding boots.

Luke stretched out beside him. ‘Thanks.'

Mungo gave a series of slow nods. ‘The fox is cunning. He plays with his cubs, teaches them to fight and hunt. But this fox, mebbe he doesn't want to let you go. Mebbe he wants this cub to fight for him.'

The light was dwindling as they crunched twigs and grasses, a flame springing up immediately once a match was held to the dry tinder. Although the sky remained bright, the sun's rays couldn't penetrate the timber bordering the creek and the shadows grew long, the sky a berry-red haze. Luke poked at the fire with a stick, concentrating on the glowing flames, on the coolness of the sand against his palm. ‘This will be my last drive, Mungo.' Luke had
little choice. He must do the drive one more time to get money in his pocket and then he would look for work elsewhere.

Mungo flexed his toes and then busied himself pulling on his boots, not bothering to brush the sand from his feet. ‘And then?'

‘Best water the horses.' Luke walked through the timber, found his pack horses by their gritty chewing and led them back to the creek's edge. As the animals mouthed up the brown liquid, Joseph meandered down to join them. Luke scratched his old mate between his ears, rubbed his muzzle, ran a kindly hand along his faithful flanks.

The two men stood together on the creek's edge, looked up at the rapidly darkening sky. When the day grew to the point of ending, Mungo gave Luke a wry grin. ‘You'll come back. Boxer says everyone comes back.'

‘We will leave when the moon's full next month.' He felt his friend's eyes regarding him.

‘Mebbe.' Mungo looked back up at the sky. ‘Mebbe I go walkabout. The old people call me.' Luke understood that, like him, Mungo had a need to be free. Both chose to leave their fathers behind and in their own unique ways forge something of a life for themselves beyond the constrictions of Wangallon. This was the true basis of their friendship, a mutual understanding of their respective needs regardless of their father's wishes.

‘What about your people?' The air between them drew taught. Luke sensed a constriction of words grown unspoken by disappointment.

Mungo spat on the ground. ‘She wants us to leave, to make a life for ourselves beyond the tribe. I fear we will be outcasts. Mebbe it would be all right for me, but not her, not a woman. It's safer here. But to have her I must leave.' He wiped spittle from his chin.

‘So you do love her?'

Mungo squished moist sand beneath his leather boots. ‘Mebbe,' he grinned, ‘I want her.'

‘Have you told her yet?'

Mungo gave one sideways nod of his head. ‘She goes to the old one tomorrow on the fullest night of the moon. I'll tell her before then. Mebbe we leave then. Mebbe I catch up with you and she come with us on the drive?' His voice faltered at the suggestion.

‘Maybe,' Luke agreed. They both knew Luke was against women on drives. ‘You're a good friend.'

‘And you.' Mungo shook his hand. ‘Like brother.'

At the campfire Luke made damper. He mixed flour and water, added a pinch of salt and kneaded the mixture roughly on a tin plate. When he'd formed it into a rough loaf he dropped the dough into a cast iron pot, placed the lid on it and sat it squarely in the embers. He filled his billy from the hessian waterbag hanging from a branch in the tree and sat down by the fire for a smoke. Hunger was a state of mind he was used to controlling. However, experience taught him that an empty belly at bed often led to a ruinous morning. So he would eat the bit of damper when it was cooked, swallow his tea and hope that sleep would come.

Overhead a flock of bats winged their way across the silent depth of water and took up residence in a nearby tree. Their squeaks heightened the solitude of the camp. Luke thought of Joseph contented in a comfy, quiet hollow. He threw a handful of tea leaves into the billy of boiling water, waited a couple of seconds and then, removing his neckerchief, wadded it against the red hot handle, pouring the brew into his pannikin. The damper proved a little more eventful; he dropped the pot and spent some time brushing coals and dirt from his dinner. Finally he sat, chewing his way through his meal, moistening each bite with a swallow of scalding tea. It would have been good to have a brother closer to his own age, Luke decided as he settled himself for another quiet
evening; or a sister perhaps. Someone to visit, someone else out in the world living and breathing who was of his blood; it was a small thing to want but it would have filled such a void.

Luke relieved himself a few feet from his camp, dragged a night log onto the fire and splashed creek water on his face before lying down on the sand, his hands cupping his head, the tree-edged sky as a blanket. This self-imposed ostracism would last until they were ready to go droving. Luke knew it was useless confronting his father about his inheritance. What could you say to a man who was obsessed with the land he owned and the protection of it, who was block-brained to the idea of a person wanting something of his own, even his own son? He would leave with the next drive south, not expecting to return. How could he? Not only did he feel totally alienated from his own father, he had broken something that should not be broken. He'd shared one single intimate moment with the woman he loved, his father's wife, his stepmother, and broken the law of what was permissible within one's family. Yet all this meant little when he thought of the unravelling within his heart. He had shattered his life's ideal.

‘Luke?'

Someone spoke his name. It was a soft low voice. A voice he barely recognised. The figure appeared across the campfire. Luke's fingers felt the cold metal of the carbine's barrel as he grew instantly wary. Whomever it was squatted before the campfire, the outline thrown into relief by the glowing embers. It took a moment or two before he recognised Margaret. He wanted to turn her away, would have turned her away, but she was crawling towards him, past him and into the darkness of the lean-to. He shuffled up into a sitting position, half-expecting the girl to reappear. The comforts of a woman were something Luke only ever received upon payment and he wondered what was expected of him, and then thought of what she could offer. He ducked his head and crawled in beside her.

She lay naked on his bedroll. Her long limbs stretched out as if in supplication, her hair spread about her like a halo. The campfire showered filaments of light across her body as her right hand fluttered like a small bird on her stomach. Luke studied the slight mound of her breasts, ran a finger down her chest to her hollow belly, encircled the angular hips with a fascinated sweep. Slowly he removed his shirt and trousers. All he could think of was lying atop this warm brown body, feeling the press of his skin against hers, tasting the sweetness of youth and trust. He moved slowly, so worried of crushing the fragile creature beneath him that his thighs and calves grew tight with control. As if aware of his reluctance, Margaret lifted her head, clasped her hands to the side of his face and brought their lips together. When the lengths of their skin met, a sheen of moisture sealed their limbs together.

Later that night, when stillness descended to engulf the creek's inhabitants, Margaret crept from the lean-to, dragging her maid's uniform behind her. Luke watched her silhouette from within the lean-to. She lifted a hand, delicately brushed back her hair and slipped the tortoiseshell hair comb in place, before dragging her dress over her head, wriggling her hips as the shapeless form obscured her. Although Luke couldn't see her eyes he knew Margaret was seeking him within the dark of his bark shelter; then she was moving, skirting the campfire and running into the night. He tried to listen to her leaving, strained his ears for the soft
shush shush
of her slim brown feet in the sand of the creek bank, but a void crept in and around him. He coughed, the noise sounding recklessly loud in the night's shadows. For all the wistful moments he'd spent dreaming of Claire Gordon, there had been an equal amount spent in silence in her company while she had spoken. Margaret had wanted him, not asked for anything and had barely uttered a word.

At the stables Sarah unsaddled Tess. Picking up the curry comb she removed her gloves and blew on her fingers before brushing down the mare; long rhythmic strokes that ran the length of the animal from neck to rump. Tess whinnied and shook her head from side to side. Bullet barked from his position on the cement step leading into the tack room. There was only a grudging respect between dog and horse; Sarah knew that friendship did not enter their respective animal vocabularies. Bullet wasn't one for sharing and Tess's comradeship only extended as far as letting Bullet benefit from a ride home after a busy day.

‘Sshh, the two of you.' Filling the feed bucket, Sarah walked into the stables. Tess followed her, snuffling in anticipation, her nostrils breathing in the hair of Sarah's ponytail. Once Tess was inside and eating, Sarah slid the bolt on the half-gate. Immediately Bullet was by her side, wagging his tail and giving his best impersonation of a dog grin. Sarah patted him. ‘Cheeky bugger,' she commented. Tess stuck her head over the stable door and
whinnied once. Bullet barked. Next door four other stalls were full. Toby Williams and Pancake had their horses stabled in readiness for the big muster tomorrow. A mob of five hundred cows was in the road paddock and they would be joined by the Boxer's Plains' cattle tomorrow before being walked out to the stock route. As Sarah roughly calculated the cost of keeping Wangallon's cattle alive, a Landcruiser pulled up. In the half-light of approaching darkness she recognised the owner by the sheer number of dogs on the tray.

Toby Williams flicked off the headlights and shrugged on his fleecy-lined jacket. ‘Damn cold out here.' He slammed the car door, setting the dogs off barking and Bullet growling. ‘Friendly, that mutt of yours.'

‘Protective,' Sarah answered. ‘You should have called. I would have fed them for you.'

Toby pulled a hessian bag off the vehicle's tray and lugged it to the stables over his shoulder. ‘Ahh, but they'd pine. My girls never did take to being apart from me for long periods of time.'

‘Yeah, right.' Sarah stood back as Toby began pouring feed into a bucket. One by one he fed each of his charges, Sarah listening to his man–horse conversation. Soft murmurings to one, a reprimand to another, an acknowledgement of a good day's work to the third and then a noise that sounded strangely like a kiss. Sarah rolled her eyes. She knew drovers liked their horses and dogs, but …

‘So now that the girls are settled, it's time for us.' Toby sat down on the cement step and patted the cold stone beside him. ‘I'm quite friendly you know. Of average intelligence, but I am house-trained.'

‘Comforting to know.' Sarah sat beside him.

He looked in the direction of the homestead. ‘Must be lonely living all the way out here in that mausoleum.'

‘I'm not alone.'

‘Ah, the jackeroo. That's right, I forgot about Anthony.'

Somehow Sarah doubted that.

‘But it means there is hope for the rest of us busted-arse cowboys.' He pulled out a packet of cigarettes, offered her one.

‘No thanks.'

‘Yeah, thought you looked too dewy to be a smoker.' He lit the cigarette and took a few deep puffs. ‘So I hear you've got a few probs with a half-brother roaming the streets?'

Sarah wanted to tell Toby to mind his own business. ‘Something like that.'

‘Well we've all got our crosses.'

‘What's yours?'

He stood, ruffling her hair. ‘Women that don't have a head on them like a packet of half-chewed minties.' He stretched out his back, making a show of leaning from one side to the other. ‘Something else you should know. 'Bout Boxer's Plains.'

God, Sarah thought, don't tell me the development is still going.

‘Not my bees wax, I know, but,' Toby took a drag of his cigarette, looked at the glowing end of it and then stubbed it out on the bottom of his Cuban heeled riding boot. ‘Long ways ago there were problems out on that block.' He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jacket. ‘There's an old wreck of a house out there in the middle of the ridge: Fenced off. Your grandfather wanted it left that way, but if those dozers get in there … Well, just thought you should know. Most people have either forgotten about what happened back then or they don't believe it. The thing is nothing was ever proved. I'd reckon it's better if things stayed in the dark.'

‘Know what?'

‘Look, it's no big deal. I just reckon people like to keep their family stuff private. Anyway, kiddo, I'll be seeing you.'

‘Hang on, Toby, you can't start telling stuff like that and then leave. What else do you know and who told you?'

Toby gave a crooked smile. ‘I had a great uncle who worked out here on Wangallon. Not a real family favourite from what I hear although I never met him myself. Seems there were a few
shenanigans going on and there was a fight with a neighbour. From what I hear it was pretty messy, but your family would know more.' He tipped his hat.

‘Wait.'

He walked up to her, close enough to go beyond the boundaries of her personal space. ‘You're a good woman, Sarah. You need someone by your side that's going to support you; who understands the old ways.'

‘And you'd be that person I suppose.'

‘Well, I don't spend my time at the local pub playing up, girl.' Toby put his hand on the back of her head and kissed her flatly on the lips. She had the distinct impression a branding iron had just been seared into her skin.

‘I'll do your droving job and then I'll be back. Not for the bloody land either.'

‘Look Toby, I –'

‘One day you'll need me and I'll come,' he said confidently. ‘You can rely on that.'

Bullet took Toby's position on the top step, as Sarah sat heavily beside him, both of them watching as he drove away. ‘Strange.' Her voice sounded inordinately loud. Bullet turned towards her, for once silent. She touched her lips as the tail-lights of Toby's truck vanished through the trees. She retied her hair, played with the zip on her jacket and wondered at the uniqueness of having only the third man in her life kiss her. Jeremy had loved her and comforted her after Cameron's death; Anthony was the man who'd been in her soul for years, and Toby? Toby was a man's man. He was tough, in his forties and … Bullet nudged her in the arm and huddled closer. Well, Sarah decided, I won't think about this now. Bullet snapped at something unknown in the air, the sound of Toby's truck dwindling in the distance.

‘Did you see that swagger? That man gives skinny-hipped cowboy a whole new meaning.' If Shelley were here Sarah knew she
would be salivating and she would be inclined to agree. ‘Come on, Bullet.' She was not looking forward to returning to the homestead and she resented the fact that Anthony had made her feel unwelcome in her family home. She rubbed her shins briskly. She would be pleased when spring arrived and the days began to lengthen. The winter was nasty this year, with biting winds and plant decimating frosts and the country seemed stagnant with cold. It was a cold that seeped through her bones and into her blood. It was as if the girl of her youth was now frozen and she doubted if upon thawing she would even recognise her own reflection.

With a shake of her head she walked towards the homestead, wondering what drama had unfolded at Boxer's Plains years ago. How would she ever discover if what Toby talked about was true? It was always a bit difficult to wring reality from a good bush story. And the problem was that there was really no one left to ask. Except that Toby's concern shadowed the adamant stance of both her father and Frank Michaels. Neither of them thought a development on Boxer's Plains was a good idea. She was beginning to think that their opinions had very little to do with farming. Then she recalled the station ledgers that Angus had packed away years ago. There was a tin trunk somewhere. With a choice of freezing to death or facing Anthony, Sarah walked briskly towards the homestead. The lights were on. The winter sun, having dipped below the horizon, left a mass of cold dark earth on the moonless night and the chill penetrated Sarah's boots. She thought briefly of the deal struck with Edward Truss that afternoon, of her horse ride down to the winter stillness of the creek and the soothing quiet of a land unburdened with problems.

After her next trip to Sydney, when she had more time, she'd go out to Boxer's Plains and see if there really was an old house in the middle of the ridge.

Sarah opened the back door and took the stale mutton bone from the fridge. There was still a large portion of meat on it and Bullet hopped on his back legs in anticipation as she took the bone to the
meat house. The screen door squeaked noisily on its hinges as she sat the mutton leg directly in the middle of the massive wooden chopping block and, meat cleaver in hand, struck the joint directly down the middle. The cooked bone broke apart easily. ‘Presto! Dinner, Bullet.' She threw one bone on the cement path and set about washing down the chopping block with icy water from the garden hose. Bullet was waiting patiently for her to finish. ‘Ferret?' Matt's dog walked stiffly along the path, the cold weather making his steps painfully slow. Ferret sniffed at the bone and then clamped his teeth around it. Bullet picked up his own and together the two dogs walked back to the sandy protection of the tank stand. In the darkness she heard them growl, crunch and whine with delight.

‘Are you coming in or what?'

Sarah imagined Bullet lifting his dog brow at the tone of Anthony's voice. Stepping out of the garden shadows, she turned off the hose and dropped it on the cement near the meat house.

Anthony sat at the end of the kitchen table, a half drunk can of beer in his hand and four empty soldiers lined up to his left. Sarah opened her mouth to speak.

Anthony shook his head and lifted his hand in silence.

‘That's not very democratic, Anthony,' Sarah replied, pulling her arms and head free of the thick navy cable jumper. It was damn hot in the kitchen. The old Aga was going and she was a fierce old woman who puffed smoke through cracks when she got over-heated. Sarah sniffed at the fumes gathering in the room. She'd only arrived back from the coast this morning and Anthony had ensured they'd barely talked, by making himself absent.

‘Here's my summation of events.'

‘Great.' Sarah sat at the table, rubbing her hands to warm them. Anthony never had been very good at holding his alcohol.

‘I waited for you to come back after Cameron died, waited for you after your engagement to Jeremy fell through. Hell, I'm still waiting for you to marry me.' He took a sip of his beer and then sat the can on the table as if it had become distasteful. ‘Your father and I waited for you to get over Angus's death and then –' Anthony clicked his fingers – ‘ta da, suddenly you decide you aren't involved enough in Wangallon's management, suddenly you decide
you
want to be in charge.' Anthony collected the beer cans and deposited them with a tinny crash on the sink. ‘But it gets better. Knowing there's a recalcitrant half-brother floating around in the ether, poor old Anthony decides to rescue the situation. He devises a sure-fire way of making Wangallon more productive, so that
when
, and I emphasise
when
, a portion of the place has to be sold to pay out said half-brother, Wangallon will survive. But does Sarah listen to him? No. In fact Sarah pulls rank and has a chat to the bank. I bet that was an interesting conversation. Did you tell them it was me putting Wangallon's affairs at risk? Did you tell them it was my fault, that I'd been overspending and now an increase was needed on our overdraft? I'm wondering, does Sarah know how offensive that is to me? Does Sarah even care how offensive it is to me?'

‘Of course I care. But what did you expect me to do? You're sitting there accusing me of wanting control and your actions don't exactly scream teamwork. And for heaven's sake, Anthony, no costings? No projections for the bank? What, are you stupid?'

‘Clearly I am.' From the kitchen bench Anthony pulls a sheaf of papers. ‘There are the projections.' His finger stabs at each piece of paper as he sits them on the kitchen table. ‘And there is the documentation. And yes I was stupid because I did it for you and for Wangallon.'

Sarah looked at the paperwork. ‘My god, you used your own money? The money from your share of your family's property? You never said anything.'

Anthony stared at her. ‘You never gave me the chance.'

‘That's because –'

‘That's because you just kept saying no, like a bloody tape recorder. God forbid if anyone, anyone should try to take the Gordon mantle away from you.' He picked up his wallet. ‘You forget, Sarah, that I was only trying to help.'

‘Where are you going?' She touched him on the shoulder. ‘Anthony?'

He turned to face her. ‘I'm having dinner at the pub. I can't do this anymore.'

‘You can't do it anymore? I'm the one who's been seeing solicitors and fighting my half-brother.'