The Cedar Cutter

TEA COOPER

www.escapepublishing.com.au

Tea Cooper is an established Australian author of contemporary and historical fiction. In a past life she was a teacher, a journalist and a farmer. These days she haunts museums and indulges her passion for storytelling. She is the bestselling author of
The Horse Thief
, published by Harlequin in 2015.

www.teacooperauthor.com

The Horse Thief

Available in ebook

Matilda's Freedom

Lily's Leap

Jazz Baby

Forgotten Fragrance

Jo, Ann, Kew and Sarah
this one's for you!

Even if time heals all wounds,
you still bear the scars…
Wollombi, 1855

Also by Tea Cooper

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Epilogue

Historical Note

Acknowledgements

The road widened from a track to a well-worn thoroughfare and the chill afternoon air blended with the rank odour of civilisation, signalling the end of their long journey. The dray swayed past carts laden with goods and vendors hawking their wares. Women dressed in their Sunday best picked and pored over ribbons and gewgaws, everything from sweet baked delights to rabbit-skin hats, and layered beneath it all was the pungent scent of freshly cut timber.

Drawn by the spectacle, the driver eased to a halt and stood, shading his eyes from the sun. A mighty roar rose up, drowning out the catcalls and cheers, and the crowd stopped and turned, their fevered excitement palpable as they elbowed and jostled their way to a front-row spot.

Curiosity and her son's wriggling body won out and Roisin dragged herself to her feet. Beyond the walls of the inn a seething crowd blanketed the bright stretch of grass, heads craning to catch a glimpse. Silence fell and the sea of bodies parted.

Balanced on the shoulders of two enormous giants, a man sat brandishing an axe above his head, acknowledging the roar of adulation with a cocky grin before brushing aside the shock of damp black curls clinging around his lean, raw-boned face.

‘As if I couldn't guess. Carrick's done it again.' The dray driver raised his clenched fist in a salute. ‘Good on him.'

‘What is it? What has he done?' Roisin deposited the squirming body of her son back onto the seat with a thump.

‘Won. Won again. Champion.'

‘What's he won?' Something very noteworthy and highly prized, judging by the reaction of the crowd and the look akin to worship on the dray driver's face.

‘Won the Woodchop. Best cedar cutter in the district, probably the country.'

‘Cedar cutter?' Roisin turned away from the dirty champion clad in a stained, sleeveless vest and thigh-hugging moleskins.

‘Good God, woman! Don't you know nuffink? Where you been all your life?'

‘Sydney.' She straightened her shoulders and lifted her nose. Sydney was hardly beyond the black stump. It was the largest and most advanced city in the country.

‘Right.' The driver gave a dismissive snort. ‘City girl born and bred. I'd forgotten.' He hawked his displeasure into the dirt before edging the dray through the press of people. ‘Town's on the up and up now the convict gangs have moved on. You won't find the likes of Sydney here. Much as the new settlers pretend otherwise.' He eased alongside another wagon. ‘Get your belongings off here and I'll move on. Can't block the road. The show's as good as over.'

The procession of men bore the cedar cutter closer, the slanting sunlight dancing on his sweat-soaked skin, and when he turned his muscles rippled like water over sand. The resounding cheers rent the air, then all sound receded as he fixed her with an intense stare and the strangest shiver tiptoed down her spine.

‘Oi! I'm talking to you.'

Roisin blinked as the raucous parade swarmed on its way and the cedar cutter disappeared in a sea of jubilation.

‘I said stay there while I get your bags down.' The driver climbed out into the hurrying throng that wavered this way and that, a tide swelling, rising and falling. ‘There you are.' He reached out his hand and she balanced on the wheel before scrambling down and landing with a thud on the dusty road.

Stretching up, he grabbed Ruan then deposited him and their bags beside her amidst the swirling chaos. With a wave of his hand he drew away, leaving her perched on the side of the road, Ruan's hand clasped firmly and two carpetbags languishing at her feet.

Her stomach turned three neat summersaults then righted itself. In the safety of Sydney Aunt Lil's plan had seemed like such a good idea. Put the past behind her, make an end of the fear, the constant over-the-shoulder glances, and strike out on her own. A new life—all she thought she wanted and all she knew Ruan needed.

The enormity of her decision sat as heavy as her carpetbags. Snatching a breath of the sticky, fetid air, she pulled Ruan closer, more for her own comfort than his. Now the whole prospect seemed the most foolish idea. If only she'd taken time to think it through instead of packing her bags and fleeing. It was too late for recriminations. She must find a room for the night then tomorrow … tomorrow she'd take the next step.

Ruan squirmed from her grip, jiggling with pent-up energy, and dodged into the road.

‘Stop!' One of the bags crashed against her shin as she grabbed at his arm and searched the crowd. No one offered any assistance; they were far too busy going about their business, making their way home. Perhaps if she took Ruan inside the inn she could leave him there and come back for the bags, maybe find someone to help.

‘You're hurting me,' Ruan moaned, as she made an instant decision, left the bags and dragged him across the road.

‘Hurry up.' Holding her chin high, she marched the poor child towards the sign proudly proclaiming the Harp of Erin. It might be unseemly, a woman alone entering a place like this, but she had no option. She shouldered open the door and stepped over the threshold into the dim interior. Dust motes hung in the thin shafts of light illuminating the sultry gazes and appreciative stares of the gang of sweaty, half-dressed men lounging around the fire.

The woman behind the bar wiped her hands on a filthy apron and looked her up and down. ‘What can I do you for you, love?' Her wrinkled face creased into the semblance of something that could have been a smile.

‘A room for the night, if you please. For myself and my son.'

Her son, Ruan, dangled from her hand, twirling around, his eyes as round as buttons as he took in the packed room.

‘Ruan, stay right beside me, here.' She stamped on the floor to emphasise the spot.

‘Just for the one night will it be, love?'

‘Yes, that's all.' It wouldn't even be one night except for the fact they'd been travelling for longer than she could remember and they needed food and sleep.

‘Come on Davy's dray, did you? From St Albans?'

The stares and the woman's questions set Roisin's teeth on edge. ‘Ruan, stay still.' She sucked in a deep breath of rum-drenched air and willed herself to relax.

After hours of bumping along the rutted road, the boy had ants in his pants. Roisin could understand his impatience, every one of her bones seemed dislocated by the buffeting they'd received. The dray had rattled and banged all the way from St Albans, falling into every single one of the potholes lining the road. What she wouldn't give for a cup of tea.

‘Only got one left, it's round the back. Got a few people in town. The Woodchop, you know.'

‘I'll take it.' She didn't care how small the room was or where as long as it was dry and they could find something to eat. If the wretched driver hadn't taken so long gawking at the crowds she'd have been inside ages ago and with her bags. Who knew how many light-fingered, dubious characters lurked in the shadows. There were enough in the cramped room of the inn to populate Hyde Park Barracks.

She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Ruan?'

‘The man's got our bags.'

Roisin whipped around. The man in question, the woodcutter with the broad grin, had both her bags balanced on his shoulders, as though they weighed no more than a flimsy bolt of silk.

‘Where do you think you're going with those?' She took a couple of measured steps towards him, schooling the scowl on her face, hoping it would be enough to stall him in his tracks.

‘Depends where you'd be liking them.' His intense blue eyes twinkled at her from under black-winged brows as he tossed the mess of curls off his forehead.

A man had no right to hair that beautiful. A man had no right to her bags, either. ‘Just put them down here, thank you.'

One eyebrow quirked and the corner of his mouth twisted into a slow mocking grin that would have done the devil proud.

‘The lady'd probably like them in her room—out the back.' The woman tipped her head in the direction of a closed door behind the bar.

‘Right you are.'

‘Just a moment I …'

Unable to do anything but gape, she stood stock-still as his broad shoulders edged through the doorway into the dark recesses of the inn and disappeared. Scrambling to follow, she nudged Ruan in front of her, intent on keeping their possessions in sight.

‘Woah! Not so fast, Missus. That'll be a shilling each for the bed and same again for a bowl of my very best Irish stew. And as much tea and damper as you can handle.'

‘Oh yes, of course.' She rummaged in the small drawstring reticule hung around her wrist while Ruan vanished through the door after the man. ‘Ruan, wait for me. You'll get lost.' She slid the coins across the bar.

‘He'll be right. Carrick knows his way around the place.'

‘Carrick? The woodcutter?'

‘Carrick, the 'andsome bloke you couldn't take your eyes off, carrying those bags of yours.'

‘Oh, Carrick,' she stammered, batting down the flush scalding her cheeks. Something about the man, even in his sweat-stained clothes stirred a heated confusion in her. ‘Ruan, come back here.' Her brain seethed. How could she find a man like that even remotely attractive? Most likely he was some ticket of leaver employed at the inn when he wasn't showing off with an axe.

‘Off you go, and don't worry. Your little boy won't come to any harm unless Carrick sits him down and starts recounting his far-fetched yarns. He's got the gift of the gab, that scoundrel.'