The Flyer (16 page)

Just because she liked to drink on occasion, she liked to dance, she liked jazz music and sometimes smoked a cigarette, that didn’t make her easy! She wasn’t a trollop, no matter what her mother had said. Repeatedly.

“You had no right,” she finally managed.

“Precisely why I’m apologizing for it.” He rolled his eyes, folded his arms, and tossed that horrid little curl off his forehead.

“You shouldn’t have … done what you did.”

“What did he do?” Annie turned the corner into the parlor, her eyes dancing with mischief. If Helen had wondered who the town gossip was before, she didn’t anymore.

Terrific.

“Nothing, Annie. I’ll be with you in a moment.” To Paul, she continued, “I have work to do. Will you please see to your own affairs?”

“Who’s having an affair?” Doc’s head snapped up, his attention suddenly riveted on Helen. “What’s going on?”

“No one is having an affair,” Paul replied, brushing the hair off his forehead with both hands. “And not from a lack of trying, I’ll tell you that.”

“Oh!” Helen stomped her foot. “You … you fiend. You kept me on that mountain against my will, and then you … you … disparage my character!”

“Back off, lady. If you were there against your will the whole time, I’m my Aunt Mary’s uncle.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I’ve seen the way you look at me,” Paul replied, moving his hands to rest low on his narrow hips. “Like you could eat me with a spoon. I don’t know how the men in America take such an invitation, but I go where I’m invited.”

“I never!”

“Never?” His eyes accused her.

“Never what?” Doc rubbed a hand over his forehead, punctuating his confusion.

“Never been kissed, most likely,” one of Annie’s brood replied, her eyes fastened on Helen with a vice.

“Oh, she’s been kissed, I reckon. In fact, I know she has. And I know something else, as well.” Paul closed the distance between himself and Helen in two long, determined strides. “She needs to be kissed a hell of a lot more often.”

Rough hands took her shoulders. A second later, strong arms wrapped around her torso in less time than it took to blink. Instantly, she was crushed against Paul’s chest. His bare chest. The scent of hickory and man enveloped her, wooed her. Her stomach rolled over with moist heat causing her temperature to rise several degrees.

His mouth landed on hers with brute strength. Power assailed her, assaulted her, seduced her. Had he not been holding her, she might very well have fallen into a puddle at his feet. Her knees turned to jelly and her brain…

Mush.

She couldn’t think. She couldn’t resist. She could only feel the pressure of his soft lips as they punished her. No,
punish
wasn’t right. Pleasure. Pure, mindless, erotic pleasure came from the play of his lips on hers. She bit back a soft moan, allowing herself to feel, but not admitting it to herself. Or to him.

He broke the kiss as suddenly as it had begun. Pushing her away, he ran both hands through his hair and scanned the room as though he’d forgotten anyone else was there. Finally, he turned his attention back to her. “You’re not getting an apology for that one.”

7

H
elen couldn’t believe her eyes. The lean-tos could hardly be considered dwellings, the decrepit wood that made up the shacks obviously having been scavenged from building sites or trash bins. The Aborigines who lived in the shanties wore clothing that bore equal measures of holes and filth. The streets, if they could be called such, separating one row from another, were made of mud, refuse, and human waste.

“How can they live like this?” she asked, more to herself than anyone else in her party. “Why would they come here if this is how they are expected to survive?”

“They have little choice,” Paul commented, his face twisted against the stench. He withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. “Put this over your face. It doesn’t help much, but it’s worth a try.” He shrugged.

She took his offer. “What do you mean, they don’t have a choice?” she mumbled through the thin cloth. He’d been correct. It didn’t help much at all.

“We came here, took their land, and forever changed their way of life. They can’t hunt anymore because their hunting grounds are now cattle and sheep stations. They don’t have access to enough water. Many of the people living here have never lived in the old way. Originally, the missions created reservations for the few blackfellas left. I suppose their hearts were in the right place, but those settlements have turned into this, haven’t they? These people don’t care about houses. They don’t care about the whitefellas’ education, or clothes. Their blood runs with the need to be free, a part of the world in which they live instead of merely existing on the planet like the rest of us. And they’ve come to this,” he concluded, shaking his head slowly. “It’s sickening, isn’t it?”

“What about Blue and his clan? They live the old way.”

“There are a few stragglers, obviously. Those folks who attend the gathering are some of them. But many have been persuaded that the whitefellas know best.” He scoffed.

“You don’t believe that, do you? How is this … cesspool better than the fresh air and natural living they had on their own?”

“Of course, I don’t believe it. But what’s left for them? Disease and sometimes outright murder have brought their race to the edge of extinction.”

“Murder?” Could that be possible? She shouldn’t be surprised. Hadn’t the same thing happened in America? The Indians had been treated horribly, and many still were.

“Massacres. Or, bloody hell, there have been reports of people shooting Aborigines for nothing more than sport.”

The pain this brought to Paul was tangible. He glanced around the reservation with eyes on the verge of tears. She followed his gaze to an old man sitting on a broken wooden barrel not far from where they spoke. The black man squinted into the sun. His lips curled in what might have been a smile, revealing broken, discolored teeth. The lines etched into his dust-lightened face were deep and spoke of horrible mistreatment. Long strands of gray, wiry hair fell to his shoulders, and his beard had more than one patch of missing whiskers where infection had destroyed the skin beneath.

“Did you know they aren’t even allowed to raise their own children most of the time?”

It was then that Helen noticed what was missing in the rundown, slovenly village. There were no children. No newborns, no little ones running about laughing or crying. There weren’t even any teenaged young people. The inhabitants of the shantytown were all elderly or infirm, or seemed to be even if they might have been younger—testament to their hard life. “Where are the children?”

“In orphanages. Whether they’re orphans or not, mind you. The only blessing to be had from that particular practice is that the children aren’t forced to live like this.” He stepped over a piece of rotted wood floating in a shallow trench.

Reaching for her hand, he waited for her to take it.

She almost didn’t. She hadn’t even wanted his company on the expedition to the Aboriginal colony, but Doc had insisted he come with her. For her protection, he’d said. Touching him seemed too much. Falling into the rancid liquid at her feet, however, would be a worse fate. She gripped his outstretched hand, ignoring the sudden bolt of lightning that raced to her heart.

As soon as she reached the other side, she dropped his hand. He immediately reached for the next member of their party and assisted her across the ditch, as well.

Once they’d all crossed, they formed a circle to discuss the issues at hand. Reverend Taylor, also holding a scarf to his mouth, began. “I think we can all agree that the people here can’t continue to live this way.”

An elderly woman in their party sighed. “But what can we do, Reverend? Do you expect us to provide shelter, to invite them into our homes?”

“If it comes to that, yes. Our Savior has been clear on the subject of charity. Our predecessors, the missionaries who established this reservation more than fifty years ago, knew that. Unfortunately, the charity has been sorely lacking for far too long.”

“I agree. I’m more than willing to provide free medical care,” Helen immediately offered. What were a few hours of her time each week when compared with the suffering all around her? Wasn’t this part of the reason she’d come? Of course, she hadn’t realized how horrible the conditions were, so close to the reasonably comfortable living conditions in town.

“Thank you, Dr. Stanwood. You see, if we all work together, we can provide better shelter, more food. We can’t change the world, but we can certainly take care of our own community.”

Mrs. McIntyre cleared her throat, pushing her shoulders back while she raised her nose in obvious distaste. “I’m glad I decided to attend this tour, Reverend. Somebody has to be the voice of reason. If Dr. Stanwood would like to volunteer her time, that’s fine. But these people are thieves and beggars, aren’t they? They deserve nothing more than what they have, and I, for one, can’t see wasting the united efforts of our church on such a worthless project.”

A balding man with a large red nose poking from his bushy, unkempt beard spoke next. Apparently infuriated by Mrs. McIntyre’s words, he growled, “They aren’t all thieves, Mrs. McIntyre. And those what are thieves can’t be held responsible. What choices have they but to steal? They have nothing because we’ve taken it all from them, haven’t we? They are like children. They can’t take care of themselves, so as decent Christian men and women, it is our place to take care of them.”

“Ridiculous nonsense,” Mrs. McIntyre countered.

“It isn’t nonsense,” Helen rebuffed. “And they aren’t children. They are a noble people. Now, I understand we can’t give them back what they’ve lost. It’s too late for that. But we can help them to live with some measure of dignity.”

Mrs. McIntyre bristled, turning the full furor of her cold eyes on Helen. “What would you know about anything? You’re not even Australian.”

“But I live here, and I am ashamed that human beings are forced to live in such conditions within walking distance of my own home. You should be, as well.”

Paul raised his hands between Helen and Mrs. McIntyre, whistling sharply. “Arguing isn’t going to solve anything. Mrs. McIntyre is entitled to her opinion, just like everyone else. If you don’t intend to help, feel free to withhold your tithing. I, for one, will be happy to make up your share.”

“As will I,” added Mr. Stephens. “Reverend, you can expect a draft to be delivered by the end of the week in the amount of two hundred quid. That should be enough for Paul to fly to Perth and arrange for the transport of adequate building supplies.”

“And food,” added Helen. “Decent, nourishing meals are of utmost importance. The Aboriginal peoples have no expectancy of housing, though we’ll build some, of course, but they do need something to eat on a regular basis.”

They spent another few minutes outlining an emergency plan to create a more livable environment for the poor souls forced to exist in such squalor. Helen arranged to meet with the reverend within the next few days to begin physical examinations. When they finished, the group disbursed in groups of two or three, the men making a point of escorting the women out of the camp.

Helen found herself quite alone with Paul for the first time since he’d apologized. Immediately, the memory of his kiss made her shiver visibly.

“Are you well?” he asked, his voice low and soft. “Was the camp too much for you?”

“The camp should have been too much for anyone. I had no idea people actually lived like this. It is certainly a far cry from what I’ve been used to.”

“Me, as well.”

Sudden curiosity about what he was used to invaded her mind. What influences had made him into the man he was? His offer to increase his donations to the church fund hadn’t surprised her, she realized, other than the fact he didn’t live like a man who had funds to spare. His home was modest, at best. She would be astounded if he owned more than the two pairs of britches she’d seen him wear. His worn slouch hat had seen more than a few years of use.

All of these questions were dangerous, she knew. She shouldn’t want to get to know him better. Not when every part of her screamed for his touch, and her heart couldn’t bear any more ache. Still, she couldn’t resist the temptation. “What are you used to?”