Matilda's Last Waltz Part 11

He dug his hands in his pockets and eyed Ma coldly. 'She's probably reading those d.a.m.n' diaries,' he hissed.

She shrugged. 'What does it matter? The past can't hurt her, and she's a right to know what went on around here.'

'You haven't read them,' he said bluntly. He thought of Matilda, and the early years of Churinga, and shuddered. 'If anything makes her want to leave, it'll be those blasted diaries.'

Ma's gaze was steady as she regarded him. 'I think you might be surprised. Jenny doesn't strike me as the sort to run away from anything. Look how she left Sydney and came out here on her own and so soon after her loss.' She shook her head. 'Reckon she's tough and bright, and will make up her own mind.'

Brett sat in thoughtful silence as Ma took his bowl and waddled back to the kitchen. Jenny Sanders was an enigma. Yet he admired her spirit and her sense of humour. Perhaps he should stop worrying about what the men thought, and get to know her a little better. For if she was reading the diaries, she would need to be shown that things had changed since Matilda's time that the old ghosts had long since gone and there was nothing to fear.

But not tonight, he thought, looking at his watch. By the time I've fixed Ma's table it'll be too late to call.

Jenny momentarily drew back from the faded writing. Matilda's courage shone through the pencilled scrawl, making her feel ashamed. How modern life had softened her.

She closed her eyes and tried to picture the girl whose powerful story was unfolding. The girl who'd had enough spirit to buy a sea green dress and waltz to beautiful music. Her presence was almost real as if Matilda had come back to Churinga and was watching as she turned the pages.

Forgetting the time and her surroundings, Jenny returned to the diary. Stepping once more into the past where life was hard. Where only a woman of steel, such as Matilda, could survive.

Mervyn's mare returned two weeks later, on a day when the rains let up for a few hours and a watery sun turned the sky gun-metal grey. The sound of her hooves brought Matilda into the yard, and with a gasp of surprise and pleasure she caught the dangling reins and led her to the barn.

Lady was thin, her coat matted and dirty, and she'd cast a shoe but she seemed happy to be home. Matilda gave her a good feed and a bucket of fresh water, then, when she'd had her fill, set to with a curry comb to restore her gloss. She stroked the matted mane and ran her fingers down the long neck, relis.h.i.+ng the feel of her strong heartbeat. With her face pressed hard to the bony ribs, Matilda breathed in the musty, dusty smell of her. 'Clever Lady. Good girl,' she crooned. 'Welcome home.'

The wet petered out, and finally the sky was blue again. The pastures had come alive with strong green gra.s.s and colourful wild flowers, and a mob of 'roos had taken up residence amongst the ghost gums. Birds with bright plumage darted back and forth, and the air was clean and fresh after the rains. It was time to round up the surviving mob, take stock and see how much she could salvage from the devastation.

She was dressing to ride out when the drum of hoof beats came from the yard. Reaching for the rifle, Matilda checked it was loaded and went out on to the verandah.

Ethan Squires sat astride his black gelding, a vicious brute that stamped and snorted, kicking up the mud in the yard, its eyes rolling as he reined it in. Squires' waterproof coat reached his booted ankles and a brown slouch hat shadowed his face. But she could see his determined chin and the steel of his eyes. This wasn't a social call.

Matilda c.o.c.ked the rifle and held it steady, barrel pointing straight at him. 'What do you want?'

He swept off his hat. 'I'm here to offer my condolences, Matilda. Would have come sooner but the weather was inclement.'

She eyed the fine clothes and expensive horse. Was he mocking her? She couldn't be sure. But Ethan wouldn't have come all this way just to pay his respects for a man he'd detested. 'Perhaps you'd better say what's on your mind, Squires. I've got things to do.'

His lips curved into a smile but Matilda noticed how it failed to reach his eyes. 'You remind me of your mother. All fire and bristle. There's no need for the rifle.'

She held it more firmly. 'That's for me to decide.'

He gave an elegant shrug. 'Very well, Matilda. If that's how you want it.' He paused for a moment, eyes moving from the rifle to her face. 'I've come to ask you to reconsider selling Churinga.' He held up his gloved hand as she was about to interrupt. 'I'll give you a fair price, you have my word on that.'

'Churinga's not for sale.' The rifle was steady, directed at his chest.

Squires' laughter roared into the quiet morning, making his horse skitter and toss its head. 'My dear girl, just what do you hope to achieve here?' He waved towards the surrounding waterlogged paddocks and crumbling barns. 'The place is falling down around you, and now the wet's over, Mervyn's creditors will be demanding to be paid. The pigs, the machinery, the horses, and probably the rest of the sheep will all have to be sold.'

Matilda heard him out in cold silence. He was a powerful man and she was only fifteen. If she let him get away with thinking she was easy meat, then she could lose everything. Yet she knew he spoke the truth, and spent sleepless nights worrying about the debts and how she could pay them. 'Why should any of that concern you?' she retorted. Her pulse raced as she had a sudden, nasty thought. 'He didn't owe you anything, did he?'

His expression softened as he shook his head. 'I promised your mother I'd look out for you and lend Mervyn nothing.' He leaned forward in the saddle. 'Despite your misgivings, Molly, I'm an honourable man. I admired your mother, and it's because of her I'm here today. If Churinga is to be mine, then I'll have it through fair means.'

She eyed him steadily as her heart hammered. 'Even if it involves marrying me off to your son?'

His silence was eloquent.

'I'm not stupid, Squires. I know Andrew's only doing what you tell him that's why I'll have nothing to do with him. You can tell him to stop sending me invitations to his parties, I'm not interested, and Churinga's not for sale or barter.'

His expression hardened, his eyes bright with lost patience. 'You silly little girl,' he hissed. 'Where else will you get a better offer? My step-son's willing to give you a lifestyle you could only dream of, and you'll still have Churinga.'

'But it would be swallowed up by Kurrajong,' she said flatly. 'No deal, Squires.'

'How the h.e.l.l do you think you can run this place on your own, and without stock?'

'I'll manage.' Her thoughts were racing. There had to be a way to avoid Mervyn's creditors. Churinga's survival depended upon it.

Ethan shook his head. 'Be reasonable, Matilda. I'm offering you a chance to begin again, without debts. Let me come in to discuss my terms. You'll be surprised at how much this place is worth, despite the state it's in.' He stood in the stirrups to swing his leg over the saddle.

Matilda lifted the rifle. 'Miss Thomas, to you, Squires. And I'm not a silly little girl,' she said fiercely. 'Now get back on your horse and clear off.'

Ethan's mouth was a thin line, his eyes hard as he settled back into the saddle. He jerked the reins, startling the gelding, making it dance in the mud. 'Just how long do you reckon you'll survive out here on your own? You might think you're as tough as your mother but you're just a kid.'

Matilda looked along the barrel of the rifle, her finger hovering over the trigger. 'I'm older than you think. And I'll thank you not to patronise me. Now clear off before I put a bullet through that fancy hat.'

He steadied the prancing gelding, his eyes never leaving her face. 'You'll be sorry, Miss Thomas.' His sarcasm was as heavy as the hand on the reins. 'I'll wager you won't last more than a month. Then you'll be begging me to take it off your hands. But the price will be much lower.'

Matilda watched him wheel the horse away from the verandah and gallop towards Kurrajong. There were over a hundred miles between the two stations, but Matilda had no doubt she would see him again. Squires was a wily opponent. He wouldn't give up easily.

She lowered the rifle and wiped the sweat from her palms as she watched the diminis.h.i.+ng figure. She was trembling but elated despite the threats. Squires would have to be watched but the opening salvo in the first battle for Churinga had been hers and she'd come out the victor.

Bluey came running at her whistle, ragged ears p.r.i.c.ked, eyes bright at the promise of work. Trotting at her heels, he followed her to the barn where he sat impatiently waiting while she saddled Lady.

As she rode out to the pastures with Gabriel to begin the spring round-up, Matilda knew the mob would be sadly depleted. But they were hers and she meant to succeed where her father had failed.

Jenny closed the diary. Her back ached and her eyelids felt heavy. As she glanced at the clock she realised she had been living in Matilda's world for more than twelve hours. Night had fallen and Churinga slept, but despite her weariness Jenny felt the first tingle of excited hope. Matilda was about to embark on an adventure into the unknown. Where there had once been despair, there was spirit and determination.

She climbed out of bed and padded into the kitchen to the trunk. Opening it, she drew out the sea green dress and held it to her face before splipping into the silken folds.

As she closed her eyes and danced to the distant music, she wondered if her ghostly partner would join her. Yet it didn't really matter if she danced alone tonight, for she knew Matilda was teaching her a lesson in survival she would never have learned anywhere else.

Chapter Seven.

Jenny woke to the sound of galahs gossiping in the pepper trees outside her window, and the soft chortle of a kookaburra defending his territory in the ghost gums. She felt rested and relaxed, despite the lack of sleep over the past couple of days, and stretched luxuriously before clambering out of bed.

Today, she decided, she would learn more about Churinga, and take time to watch and listen to the men as they went about their work. It was Sat.u.r.day, half day according to Ma, so there would be plenty of opportunities to talk to the shearers and drovers, perhaps even the Aborigines. She was determined to learn about the way of things out here, the problems and pitfalls of the everyday struggles Matilda must have come across.

Having dressed and made a cup of tea, she decided that one of the first things she must do was get back on a horse. It had been years since she'd ridden, and she'd loved it, but a nasty fall as a fifteen year old at Waluna had shaken her confidence, and now she was wary of rolling eyes and prancing hooves. Yet the only way of understanding Matilda's world was to get right into the heart of it not hide in the house while everything went on around her.

With her hair twisted up into a knot, Jenny pulled down an old felt hat from a hook in the kitchen. She eyed it for a moment, wondering if perhaps Matilda had left it behind, but decided it was probably just an old hat of Brett's and rammed it low over her brow. He would have taken it with him if he'd needed it.

It was pleasant outside, the sun not fully risen, the sky a cool blue. The yard was already busy, despite the early hour. Dogs barked and men and horses prepared for the day's work. Like Waluna, the place was alive with excitement for a new day of shearing. A day that would bring them closer to the wool-cheque and pay day.

She took a deep breath, appreciating the fresh air that was scented with wattle, and laughing at the galahs that were hanging upside down so the dew could wash their feathers. Daft beggars, she thought. But the impromptu shower was a good idea. With her s.h.i.+rt tucked firmly into her jeans, she rolled up the sleeves before crossing the yard to the cookhouse. Several men tipped their hats and hurried past, and Jenny acknowledged their greeting with what she hoped was a confident smile.

As she neared the shearers' quarters, she realised it was Brett who'd stripped to the waist by the water pump and was shaving. Her footsteps slowed. Perhaps it would be better to avoid him until they'd both had their breakfast. For although they'd come to a sort of stand-off, the episode in the yard yesterday was still fresh in her mind and she had no way of knowing if his mood was still conciliatory.

She was about to take another route to the cookhouse when their eyes met in the mirror he'd balanced on the pump handle. Caught, Jenny had no alternative but to speak to him. But she was d.a.m.ned if he was going to upset her again. 'G'day, Mr Wilson. Nice morning,' she said brightly.

'Morning,' he said gruffly as he hurried into his s.h.i.+rt and fumbled with the b.u.t.tons.

'Don't bother to dress on my account,' she said pleasantly. She was rather pleased to have caught him at a disadvantage, and the view wasn't bad either.

His hands stilled. His eyes were steady on her face as he slowly stripped off his s.h.i.+rt again and resumed his shave. Each stroke of the cutthroat was sure and efficient as he looked at his reflection in the mirror.

'I want to go riding,' said Jenny, dragging her thoughts back to her intentions rather than the tanned perfection of his back. 'Is there a horse I could borrow after breakfast?'

Brett arced the blade carefully around the dip in his chin before replying. 'They're not hacks, Mrs Sanders. Some of them are barely broken.' He fell silent again, his attention on his shaving.

Jenny recognised that gleam in his eyes as he glanced at her through the mirror. Saw the uptilt at the corners of his mouth as he washed the blade in the water. He was making fun of her. She took a deep breath and remained calm. She would not rise to the bait.

The blade was clean, gleaming in the sun as he looked at her thoughtfully. 'I'm sure we can find you something suitable. There's a couple of steady mares around the place that would probably do. I'll get one of the boys to escort you.'

She smiled at him. 'There's no need, Mr Wilson. I'm sure I can find my way round.'

He was mopping up the last of the shaving cream with a sc.r.a.p of towel, eyes bright in the morning sun as he turned to face her. 'You're not to go on your own, Mrs Sanders. It can be dangerous out there.'

She tilted her head and eyed him thoughtfully. 'Then you'd better be the one to come with me, Mr Wilson,' she said firmly. 'No doubt I'll benefit from your wisdom, and you look strong enough to protect me from any dangers I might come across.'

'In case you hadn't noticed, Mrs Sanders, we're in the middle of shearing. I can't be spared.' His hands were on his hips. There was a dab of shaving cream still beneath one ear.

'How wonderful to be indispensable,' she murmured, eyeing the sparkle in his eye and knowing it was reflected in her own. 'However, as it's Sat.u.r.day and half day, I'm sure you'll find a way of delegating responsibility for just a while.'

Laughter tugged at his mouth and danced in his eyes. 'Then it'll be my pleasure, Mrs Sanders.' He sketched a bow before returning to the water pump and dowsing his head.

'Thanks,' she muttered, watching the water glisten down his back. Then she turned away, knowing he was watching her knowing he understood the effect he'd had on her.

d.a.m.n man, she thought crossly. He really was infuriating. Yet, as she approached the cookhouse, her sense of humour got the better of her and she grinned. It might be interesting to spend the day with him.

Brett stood in the morning sun, his hair dripping into his eyes, the nick on his chin stinging like the blazes. It had been years since he'd cut himself shaving, but it was almost impossible to keep a steady hand when you were trying not to laugh.

Riding, he thought scornfully. What the h.e.l.l does she think this is a dude ranch? If madam wants to go riding then I'll find her a horse, but I bet a dollar to a cent she won't be prancing about giving orders tomorrow. Nothing like a long stint in the saddle to bring her down to earth.

He watched her disappear into the cookhouse, admiring the neat curve of her bottom in those tight jeans. Then he s.n.a.t.c.hed up the towel and roughly dried himself. That one was trouble, and the sooner he knew what she was up to the better.

As he put on his s.h.i.+rt, he ran through the things he wanted to say to her. The questions he needed answering. But none of them sounded right. She didn't appear to be the sort of woman who would understand a man's love for the land. She was a spoilt city woman who thought of Churinga as an adventure, and would soon tire of the place once the excitement had worn off.

He looked across at the cookhouse. Mrs Sanders held his future in her hot little hands. New owners probably wouldn't want the expense of a manager, and even if she did decide to stay, there was no guarantee she would keep him on. The thought of leaving Churinga left a physical ache deep inside him, and he realised Ma was right. The only way to give himself half a chance was to be nice to her which under different circ.u.mstances wouldn't have been difficult but she seemed intent on winding him up, and as he had little experience of city women, he didn't quite know how to handle it. He jammed his hat on to his head.

'b.u.g.g.e.r it,' he muttered, and went in to breakfast.

Jenny was the first person he saw. Hard to miss her, with her hair up like that, showing off her slender neck and the shadows of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s where the s.h.i.+rt dipped low. He looked quickly away as her violet eyes sought him out, and found a s.p.a.ce at the furthest end of the table. He poured a cup of tea from the enormous metal pot and stirred in four spoons of sugar. He would need all the energy he could get if he had to spend the day with her.

'Morning, Brett.' Ma placed a plate of steak, eggs and fried potato in front of him. 'That should set you up for your ride with Mrs Sanders. And I've done you a packed lunch.'

Conversation came to an abrupt halt as a dozen pair of interested eyes turned towards him.

'Probably be back for lunch,' he mumbled, attacking his steak.

Ma chose to ignore his embarra.s.sment as if intent on making things worse. She winked at her audience, hands on hips. 'If you say so. But it seems a shame to hurry back when there's no need.'

Cheerful ribbing buzzed around him, and Stan Baker nudged his elbow. 'Looks like trouble, mate. Take it from me, son. When women start making plans without asking a bloke, it's time to shoot through.'

A rumble of agreement greeted this piece of wisdom.

'Put a sock in it, Stan,' mumbled Brett through the steak. 'Let a bloke eat his tucker in peace.'

'The trick is not to let 'em catch yer,' Stan cackled as he lit his smelly old pipe and turned to the others to share his joke.

Brett glanced down the table to Jenny. He could see no compa.s.sion in her eyes for the way his morning was turning out, and as she picked up her plate and left the room, she even had the audacity to wink at him.

His appet.i.te vanished and he pushed the half-eaten breakfast away and lit a smoke. She and Ma had made him look daft, and although he was used to being teased, having been brought up as the youngest of four brothers, he knew it could only get worse, no matter how well-meant. Ma had a lot to answer for, and when he had a moment, he would take her to one side and tell her to stop match-making. She did it every year. That was how he'd been cornered by Lorraine.

He smoked his cigarette and poured another cup of tea. At least Lorraine was at a safe distance, and as long as he kept it that way, she couldn't get her claws in. And he wouldn't throw fuel on the fire of the other men's amus.e.m.e.nt by hurrying after his lady boss, but would take his time and finish his tea first.

Stan puffed away at his pipe, his scrawny chest still rumbling with the cough his laughter had brought on. Brett eyed him thoughtfully and wondered how many more seasons he had in him. He had to be at least sixty, yet he was still one of the fastest shearers in New South Wales. Strange how that skinny frame and hunched back never seemed to tire.

'Time to go to work,' said Stan, ramming his smouldering pipe into his jacket pocket as he stood up. 'Ma chased me all over Queensland before she caught me, but it was only 'cos I let her.' He smiled. 'Just remember, son, never let a woman know you want to be caught it gives 'em ideas.'

Brett eyed the smoking pocket. 'One of these days you'll go up in flames with that b.l.o.o.d.y pipe.'

The old shearer pulled out the offending object and tapped the dottle into a saucer. 'No worries, mate. I intend to die in me bed with me missus next to me.' He looked thoughtful for a moment, sucking at his gums. 'About time you let one of the ladies catch yer, though. A man gets crook out here without a bit of female company.'

'Don't do me any favours, Stan. I like things the way they are,' Brett retorted. He stood up, towering over Stan, and pulled on his hat. The conversation was taking him places he had no wish to visit.

Stan laughed as they pushed through the screen door, then set about relighting his pipe. Once alight and pulling satisfactorily, he stamped out the match and headed for the shearing shed.

Brett watched him go. No one stamped out a match or cigarette more thoroughly than a bushman. They had all witnessed the power of fire and the devastation it brought. He moved away from the cookhouse, his thoughts on what the old man had said and although he was reluctant to admit it, Stan was right. He was lonely. The nights weren't the same since Marlene had left, and the house felt too empty with no one to talk to about things unrelated to sheep. And since moving back into the bunkhouse, he missed the privacy of listening to music or reading in the silence of the long evenings. Men were great company, but now and again he yearned for the smell of perfume and the touches that only a woman could bring to a home.

He glowered into the fast-rising sun. His thoughts were getting him nowhere fast, and impatient with himself and everything around him, he stomped off to saddle up the roan mare for Mrs Sanders.