Authors: Margaret Tanner
“We're home.”
She took Fiona’s limp hand and helped her down before lifting Lucy out. Wide-awake now, the child toddled along behind them. The fire had burned right down in the stove, so she poked the coals up and fed in a couple of logs.
“We'll have some tea soon.” She watched Fiona who sat motionless on the chair with tears pouring down her cheeks.
“Oh, my dear.” Jo squatted down on her haunches and rubbed Fiona's cold hands. She had no words of comfort to give, and her own eyes blurred with tears.
“You won't leave us will, you?” Fiona's nails bit so deeply into her hands Jo wanted to cry out in pain.
“Of course not, both you and Lucy will be taken care of, no matter what I have to do,” she promised.
“You're so strong. It isn't fair, really.”
“We're family, aren't we? You and Ian gave me a home when I needed it, so I'm paying you back now.”
Except for the fact they needed to cook for Lucy, they would have lived on cups of tea. Fiona took to her bed, leaving Jo to cope with the household and farm chores. She dared not mention anything about the bank mortgage as her sister-in-law hovered on the brink of sanity. That would be the catalyst to push her over the edge.
A visit from Reverend Donaldson did little to help. He tried to be kind, read a few texts from the bible, then offered them a memorial service as suggested by Mrs. Kilvain because there was no body.
“It's kind of you, but I don't think Fiona could cope with it at present.”
She offered him another piece of cake and he ate it slowly. What small hands he had, like those of a girl. In fact, he appeared rather feminine with light fluffy hair, and he had the whitest skin she had ever seen on a man. He obviously spent little time out of doors. His wide brimmed hat would protect him, so would the canopy-covered gig he always drove.
“Another cup of tea?” she invited. Fiona sat there without speaking.
“No, thank you, I must be going.” Jo saw him to the door.
“Thank you for coming, Reverend.”
“If you need any spiritual help, don't hesitate to call on me.”
“I won't, thank you. Spiritual help,” she muttered when he left. No offer of material assistance, though.
***
Luke sat watching Jo stack the logs she had cut. She was obviously unaware of his arrival and he could study her. Wild, beautiful and willful, she excited him like no other woman. He wanted to be the one to tame her, to ignite the passion he instinctively knew she was capable of. Desire built up in his loins. He tried to quell it by remembering the lesson his father had mercilessly thrashed into him. Women were necessary to satisfy a man's carnal needs or give him heirs.
“How are you, Jo?”
She jerked her head up. “How do you think? I'm doing the work of a farm laborer. We're on the verge of starvation, thanks to you.”
“It doesn't have to be like this. You've got courage.” His voice dropped until it became a lingering caress. “Come over and stay with me. I’ll make sure you don’t want for anything.”
“You're rich enough to buy any number of whores, so why bother with me?”
“I like a horse with spirit; the same goes for a woman.”
“Women who work in brothels, are they spirited?”
His teeth snapped together. “You're trying my patience too far,” he snarled.
“Get off our land.” She waved a log of wood at him.
Without a word, he wheeled his horse and galloped away.
***
Two days after their trip into town, Jo woke up to the smell of smoke. Rushing outside, she watched in horror as flames leapt up into the sky. Their wheat was on fire. In her nightgown, she raced towards the field. The spiky grass speared into her bare feet but she ignored the pain.
She stood there, helpless, useless, watching as the hungry flames devoured their livelihood for next year. Had the hawker carried out his threat to burn them out? Or was it a freak of nature? Oh God, why are you doing this to us?
Like a ghost, she stole back into the homestead, where Fiona, under the influence of special herbs from Granny Kirkman, slept without stirring. The pigs were their last chance now. She had planned to use their wheat crop to pay some of the bank mortgage. Now it had become a worthless, blackened ruin. She slumped in a chair, holding her head between her trembling hands. What was to become of them?
She rode into town next morning, pale and drawn, with shadows under her eyes. Everyone expressed sorrow when she told them about their misfortune, but no one offered to buy their pigs. No credit in the store either. Hatred began building up in her, begotten by desperation.
Luke Campton's grip on the townspeople kept tightening, and not one person dared defy him.
“Could you let me have some tea, sugar and flour,” she asked Mr. Kilvain. “I'll pay you back when I can.”
He hesitated, cracking his knuckles nervously.
Mrs. Kilvain minced up and he cowered back. “I'm sorry, Miss Saunders.” His words came out in a rush.
“Please, we've got a baby in the house, are we to let her starve?”
“Give her what she wants.”
Jo turned to see a plump, painted woman standing a couple of feet away from her.
“I run an establishment on the edge of town. Everyone calls me Glory. I don't like to think of little ones going hungry.”
“I'll pay you back, not in money, perhaps I could work it off.”
Jo heard a shocked gasp from Mrs. Kilvain.
“No, I don’t think you’d be suitable,” the woman said, chuckling.
She ordered the bare necessities, and after Glory--what a silly name--left, she asked Mrs. Kilvain what kind of establishment the woman ran.
“A brothel.”
The two words spoken with the utmost distaste, made her snatch up her purchases and rush towards the wagon. The Madame of a…., she couldn't bring herself to utter the word, had paid for their groceries. She felt like dropping them in the street, but could not afford the luxury.
***
For a few weeks, Jo struggled along, getting more and more desperate. It was only a matter of time before the three of them would be thrown starving into the street unless she did what Luke wanted.
All kinds of ideas came and went without a solution presenting itself. For the first time in her life, there was no bread on the table. Lucy had to have porridge to fill her up because their few vegetables were nearly gone. Jo knew she had no choice but to tell Fiona about their precarious position.
She listened without comment as Jo told her what Luke had said. Silence hung over them, deep and ominous, broken only by the ticking of the mantel clock.
“What are we going to do?” Fiona's eyes filled with tears. “If it wasn't for Lucy and me…” She bit her lip. “I think I'm having another baby too, but I can't let you sacrifice yourself. It isn't right. You know what Campton wants, don't you? Ian would never allow it.”
“Ian's gone. If we left here, where would we go with two little children?” Jo shuddered at the thought. Not being used to hardship she could survive somehow, but the others couldn’t. Luke said he could be generous to those who pleased him. He had offered clothes and jewels, but she would insist he let Fiona have the farm free and clear. The thought of becoming his mistress filled her with excited terror, but what other choice did she have?
They talked into the small hours of the morning, picking up ideas and discarding them until they finally went to bed. Jo knew she would never be able to sleep. “God, help me find a solution,” she prayed desperately. What decent man would ever want her after she had lived as Luke Campton's mistress? In fact, what decent person would ever want to associate with her again after she became a rich man's whore?
“I can't do it, I can't,” she whispered. No person had the right to expect another to make such a sacrifice. Tasting Luke’s fiery passion wouldn’t be a problem if he was offering marriage, but he only wanted her to have a temporary sojourn in his bed, and then he would cast her out. Even if no-one ever found out about the affair, she instinctively knew that her life would be ruined; no other man would be able to measure up to him. She hated herself for thinking like this, hated him even more for making such an obscene proposal.
As soon as day broke, Jo dragged herself out of bed and forced herself to dress as usual. A glance in the mirror revealed a frightful sight. Her eyes, glazed with fatigue and worry, stood out against the deathly pallor of her face.
She breathed in the crisp clean air outside on her way out to milk. As she started to pour the still warm liquid into a jug, she suddenly wondered what they would eat.
They had no bread and their flour supply was all but exhausted. She should not have let stubborn pride make her take a small bag when the painted woman would have paid for a large one. Porridge for breakfast, she grimaced with distaste. She would go shooting later on--a rabbit or bird, anything would do.
Only a few bullets remained for the gun, so after that? She could always fish. She could ride up into the mountains and find a stream. In another few weeks, if the weather remained hot, there would be some fruit. Already the early apricot tree down the back groaned under the weight of green fruit.
Fish, rabbits, fruit, with any luck, maybe some wild honey supplemented with bacon while the pigs remained, and eggs from their hens. Could they live like this? They had been constantly using Fiona's preserves and the supply was badly depleted. Yes, they could hold out for another few weeks, until Christmas even, but the bank. How could they pay the mortgage?
They’d used the last of their stale bread last night. Fiona had cut it into strips and dipped them in milk before baking them in the oven. Spread with paste made from left over seasoned minced meat mixed with butter, it proved to be quite palatable.
She spooned the unsweetened porridge into her mouth. Nothing had been said about sugar, but they automatically left it for Lucy.
“Everything will turn out for us.” Fiona sounded completely unconvincing. She had obviously been crying half the night.
“Play, Jo, play.”
“Yes, darling, later.” Jo kissed Lucy's cheek. “I'll get a job.” Anxiety must have caused her brain to mal-function.
“Who would employ you?”
“I'm going over to some of the bigger properties to find out who’s still shearing. One of them might need a cook or an extra shed hand.”
“They wouldn't put a woman on,” Fiona said.
“I won't be going as a woman. I can pass for a youth easily. Though my hair could be a problem,” she mused. “I'll cut it off.”
“You can't, please,” Fiona pleaded. “Not your beautiful hair. You mightn't get a job. I mean you could cut it off for nothing.”
Jo agonized over this; her hair was one of her few vanities. “All right, I'll stick it up under my hat. If I get a job I can hardly cook with a hat on. Then again, maybe I could.”
With a pair of Ian's work pants tucked into knee length boots and a loose work shirt, she could easily pass for a youth. If she pretended to be thirteen or so, it would explain her lack of facial hair and high-pitched feminine voice.
Riding along, she whistled cheerfully. It was pointless going to any properties where she might be recognized, but there were two or three large holdings on the other side of the mountain. Pity the place where Jim Talbot worked ran only cattle.
The name Calvert was burned into a swinging board above a wooden archway. She followed the winding track up to the homestead, a long sprawling building of white washed stone. Her heart plummeted at the sight of newly shorn sheep grazing in a side paddock.
A maid met her at the back door. She dared not use the front entrance in her masculine attire.
“All the sheds in this area have finished,” the maid said. “They're shearing back across the mountains now.”
“I need a job,” Jo said.
“My brother's been working for Luke Campton, only saw him yesterday. The mustering camp cook got sick, so they might need someone else.”
“Mustering?”
“Yes, wild horses up in the ranges, about two weeks work.”
When the girl explained where the camp was situated, Jo's hopes soared, unlikely for the big boss to be out amongst the men so far from the comforts of his homestead. She felt desperate enough to try anything.
Stopping at a creek for a short rest after her long hot ride, she nibbled at a piece of stale cake, before setting off again.
The terrain became steeper, the scrub thicker, making riding difficult. How anyone could find horses in this country was a mystery.
The camp came up suddenly, situated in a clearing. A fire burned in a roughly built stone fireplace and a blackened billycan hung on a forked stick. Several horses tethered near by whinnied as she rode in.
Dismounting, she glanced around. A bark lean-to held bags of flour, salt and tea. The temptation to steal some proved almost irresistible, but she squashed this dishonest thought, they had not become that desperate. Nothing for it but to wait until someone came back. She found a comfortable, shady spot, tethered her mount and waited. It would be smoko time soon.