The Good Woman of Renmark Read online

  About Darry Fraser

  Darry Fraser’s first novel, Daughter of the Murray, is set on her beloved River Murray where she spent part of her childhood. Where The Murray River Runs, her second novel, is set in Bendigo in the 1890s, and her third novel, The Widow of Ballarat, takes place on the Ballarat goldfields in the 1850s. Darry currently lives, works and writes on Kangaroo Island, an awe-inspiring place off the coast of South Australia.

  Also by Darry Fraser

  Daughter of the Murray

  Where The Murray River Runs

  The Widow of Ballarat

  The Good Woman of Renmark

  Darry Fraser

  www.harlequinbooks.com.au

  To my mum, Gilda, and to my grandmothers, Lena, always in my heart, and Doris, never forgotten.

  Contents

  About the Author

  Also by Darry Fraser

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  Forty-six

  Forty-seven

  Forty-eight

  Forty-nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-one

  Fifty-two

  Fifty-three

  Fifty-four

  Acknowledgements

  One

  Renmark 1895

  Maggie O’Rourke’s heart pounded. Standing over the body, the iron rod still clutched in her shaking hands, she was ready to swing it again if she had to.

  The rutting had ceased abruptly when the thwack copped the side of his head. A last grunt had escaped him, and a soundless Robert Boyd collapsed over Nara, the woman he’d snatched. His breeches were taut over thick thighs but in his frenzy, the back seam had given way and his buttocks gleamed white.

  Nara kicked and wrested her way out from under him, shoving his head off her. Her dress had hoicked up to her waist, and her heels skidded as she rolled to get away. The cheeks of her backside scraped on the gravelly dirt.

  ‘Get up and run. Did he—did he get you?’ Maggie waved the iron rod, her gaze never leaving the big body.

  Nara scrambled to her feet, pushing at her dress as she tried to dust off. She pressed her hand between her legs. ‘He nearly stuck it in, but you got ’im before—’

  ‘Oh God, oh God. I’m so sorry. Are you hurt?’

  Rubbing herself, Nara squeezed her eyes shut a moment. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Oh God. Bad, Nara? Are you hurt bad?’ Maggie felt sick for her friend, sick for herself. But she wasn’t the one that monster had defiled.

  Nara rubbed again, considering. ‘He didn’t get me. Just fell down on me.’

  Maggie, blinking hard, peered at the body. ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘I reckon.’ Nara straightened her dark dress under the dirtied pinafore. ‘You got ’im good.’

  Pointing the rod at Boyd, ready in case he leapt to his feet, Maggie seethed. ‘He is an evil man.’

  ‘Just a dead one now.’

  She stared at Nara ‘Why did you do it? Why did you get in his way?’

  Nara and her husband, known only as Wadgie, had been friends with Maggie almost from the day she’d arrived to work at Olivewood a few years ago. The Wadges had been in trouble before, defending themselves. They were rabbit trappers, poor people making a meagre living from what they could scrounge off the land. They were often vulnerable to unscrupulous rogues, some said even more so than the blacks.

  ‘He bashed Wadgie. Accused him of stealin’, and that was a lie. This time he were after you. But the troopers will kill me if I kill him, so better he chases me, and you bash him.’

  Maggie squeezed her eyes shut a moment. ‘I know, I know. But he got you. I’m sorry he got you.’

  Nara waited a beat. ‘Me. You. He don’t care.’

  Maggie could hang for this, especially if no one believed they’d both been in danger. Robert Boyd had begun pestering Maggie a month ago and, despite her rejection, had kept it up. Earlier today when he’d arrived unannounced at Olivewood, he’d become more than a nuisance. He’d tried to touch her, had made a grab for her arm.

  Maggie had snatched herself away. Hands on hips, she’d faced him at the foot of the verandah steps. ‘Mr Boyd, I have said before today, and very politely, that I am not interested in your attention or your company.’ She squared her shoulders. ‘Even if you were not married. Yet still, you have persisted, unwelcome, uninvited, and now you dare lay your hand on my person. Go away.’

  He had mimicked her hand on hips. ‘Ain’t you the feisty one? Nice and built well, too, takin’ a man’s eye.’ His gaze settled on her chest a moment before he grinned at her. ‘All that mussy black hair tied up tight, and them big blue, invitin’ eyes. Can always tell the ones what’ve already lifted their skirt. Got a certain look about ’em.’

  Maggie’s mouth had dropped open. How could he possibly know any such a thing, and how dare he say so, anyway? No one knew what had happened between her and Sam, her old beau from back home, no one.

  Sam. Lately, he’d popped into her head at the most inopportune moments, and she’d just wanted to reach over and ruffle his thatch of blond hair and see the mischievous grin once more.

  Boyd hadn’t known about anything to do with Sam, of course not—he was just being his vile self.

  ‘See? I was right. That look on yer face gives you away.’ He gave a derisive snort. ‘A tart, all right. I’ll get what I’ve come for. All your fancy blatherin’ about rights an’ such mean nothin’ to me.’ He looked around with an exaggerated swivel of his head. ‘And looks like there’s no one here to stop me.’

  ‘I’ll stop you,’ she cried, the blaze of anger streaking her cheeks. Maggie was strong, but she knew she’d be no match for him. Her heart thumped hard. It’s broad daylight for God’s sake, how could he even think he’d get—

  ‘I don’t think you’ll be able to stop me.’ He’d taken a step towards her. ‘Now, I’ve been nice, and you shouldn’t keep knocking me back, playing me. So, I’m just gonna take what I want.’

  ‘Get away from me,’ she ordered at the top of her voice, and backed up the steps, scuttling to the front door.

  ‘You’re a neat little piece, ain’t ye? Little thing like you won’t be too much trouble.’ He was on the verandah in two strides.

  ‘I’m no little thing,’ she shouted. ‘I’ll defend myself.’ Behind her back, her hand had found the door latch. She well knew there was no one around to help. The Chaffeys had gone to visit another family across the river.

  Boyd barked out a laugh. ‘Defend yourself, will ya? Now that is funny. Might be nice inside this big house. What do you say?’

  Nara, one of the housemaids, had appeared in a rush from the side of the house, he
r feet thudding loudly. She’d stopped, her eyes wide, a forge tool—an iron pick-up rod—in her hand.

  Boyd flicked his hand at her. ‘And there’s another little thing. Get, before I bash you like I did your bloody kin,’ he snarled.

  Ignoring that, Nara crept forwards, her glare fixed on him.

  ‘Nara, get away,’ Maggie rasped. ‘Run!’

  But Nara came closer still, risking capture, daring capture. She got within his easy reach then sent the rod slithering across the boards to Maggie, before she turned to run off the verandah. Boyd grabbed Nara, threw her over his shoulder, and loped across the dusty concourse towards the rows of older trees near the stable. Nara yelled and kicked and writhed, and then he’d tossed her to the dirt.

  Maggie had snatched up the heavy rod and darted from the verandah.

  Boyd had already dropped his weight on Nara and she pounded him with her fists, then gouged at his eyes. He brushed her off with one hand, fumbled with his flies and shoved his pants open. As he pushed Nara’s dress up and thrusted, Maggie let out an enraged cry and, still running, had taken a wide swing.

  Thwack! And he’d dropped like a stone.

  Now, she shook the rod at the body. Her heart thudded, her pulse pounded. ‘But he hurt you, Nara. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘He’s sorry,’ Nara said and lifted her chin at the inert body. ‘Good for you and that iron.’ She pointed at the pick-up then. Taking a deep breath, she winced but stood tall.

  ‘But he—’

  ‘We’re not gonna stand here and talk like ladies,’ Nara flashed. ‘We’re gonna run away. No one will believe that he attacked me.’

  Maggie still wielded the rod. A dog barked somewhere off in the distance. It would be Bucky. Bucky, Bucky, Bucky, don’t come, my friend, don’t come. ‘Yes, get going, Nara. Get far away from here.’

  Nara waved her hand between the two of them. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘I can’t. I need my money. I need my job.’

  Nara rolled her eyes. ‘You made a funny, Maggie. The job with Missus Ella is finished for us.’

  Maggie knew it as soon as she’d said it. Of course it was ridiculous. There’d be no job with Mrs Chaffey after this—she’d just killed a man. She’d go to prison and then be hanged. Dear God, having no job was the least of her worries. She felt her mouth dry. Is he really dead?

  ‘We ’ave to go, now,’ Nara insisted. She backed away, brushing at her clothes.

  Maggie tossed the rod aside as if it was aflame. She’d just killed this self-proclaimed pillar of society—this family man. He lay dead at her feet. Not liked by many, if at all, but she’d killed him. A blow to the back of the head. Who would believe that it was in defence of another? She would run. She’d have to.

  A chill cooled the sweat on her back. She spun about and eyed the young olive trees at the front of the house. Too open, no hiding places. She swung around to stare into the scrub at the back of the house, past the olive crushing plant and beyond the packing sheds.

  That way was down to the creek. She’d have nowhere to go once she got there, no way to escape. The river. She’d go the other way and get to the river. It was a bit of a run, but if she got a move on … If she could just pull herself together.

  Nara had run some paces when they both heard a bellow, ‘Oi, you two!’

  Maggie sucked in hard breaths, rooted to the spot. Robert Boyd’s brother Angus, that strange postal clerk, was pedalling fast on his bicycle towards them, waving an arm in fury.

  Nara turned. ‘Hurry, this way.’ She beckoned urgently.

  Maggie shook her head, stuck fast.

  Angus Boyd bore down on her. ‘No, no, no,’ he yelled.

  ‘Maggie.’ Nara began to go back for her when a tall sun-browned man appeared from the scrub, his hair a black frothy mess and a smoke clamped between his lips. Wadgie, Nara’s husband. She squawked as one of his sinewy arms hooked around her chest. He lifted her off the ground and charged behind the shed, out of sight.

  Snapping out of her stupor, Maggie hitched her skirt and bolted in the other direction. She charged through the young olive orchard, her booted feet thudding the earth.

  Angus howled behind her. ‘What have you done?’

  She heard the pushbike slide on the gravel and, with a quick look over her shoulder, she saw Angus fall to his knees at his brother’s body, his hat flying off and his stringy blond hair falling over his face. Now, her eyes glued on the track ahead, she ran fast, not even daring to look sideways.

  Is he dead? Is he really dead?

  Where to go … Where to go? Police? No, the constable is twenty miles away. Mrs Chaffey? No.

  Pounding feet. Breath hitching. A stitch in her side. Dirt on her face, in her eyes …

  Dog barking, far away.

  Ma. Pa. I need help. I need help.

  Sam. Sam, I’m not so brave. I need help.

  Two

  Angus grabbed his brother’s arm and tugged. ‘Get up, Robert.’

  On the floor of the shed, Robert Boyd tried to focus on his brother hovering over him. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Packing shed. We grabbed you up from out there thinking you were dead.’ Angus dropped his voice and goaded, ‘Bein’ dead would be no good, would it?’

  ‘You followin’ me?’

  ‘I told you. I’ll always follow you, see what you get up to. I know there’s no cure for your type of madness, I just try and keep you out of trouble. Not very well, by all accounts.’

  ‘You wouldn’t know madness if it poked you in the bloody eye.’

  Gruff though he sounded, Robert felt fear in his guts, and not because of his brother. He could easily have been killed by what she’d clobbered him with. It must only have glanced off him but laid him out just the same.

  ‘Who else helped grab me up?’ He struggled to sit.

  ‘Watson from the farm over the way. He came to get some olive oil for his missus. He didn’t see nothin’, just them two running away.’

  Robert grunted. ‘Jesus. What did she hit me with?’

  ‘This smithy’s rod.’ Angus pointed to a single-bit, long-handled pick-up at his feet. He leaned back on a bench and folded his arms, a smirk on his face. ‘Good thing you weren’t finished off.’

  Sarcasm wasn’t lost on Robert, but he ignored it. Grunting, he rolled over to his other side, sat up and began to button his trousers.

  Angus pointed at his brother’s flies. ‘Your missus won’t want to know you been at it again. You know what she’s like about all that.’ He shook his head. ‘What in God’s name were you thinking, trying that on, trying to roll her out there?’

  ‘Didn’t do no such bloody thing.’

  ‘Well, that’s what I mean about your madness, Robert. It bloody looked like you were trying to roll one of ’em to me until that high-and-mighty Miss O’Rourke drubbed you,’ Angus said, his face thrust close to his older brother.

  ‘So you saw it?’

  ‘You were out in the open, bare arse in the air.’

  ‘Not that. Her beltin’ me.’ Robert grabbed Angus’s shirt. ‘It don’t look like anything to you, not now, not ever, except that uppity piece bashing me.’

  ‘You never learn, do you? There’s summat wrong with you, summat deep in your mind.’ Angus pried off his brother’s large hands.

  Robert felt his blood boil up. ‘Don’t start that shite again. And what do you care, anyway?’

  ‘I don’t care except I can’t have that Miss O’Rourke beat me to it and take your guts for garters.’

  Robert stood up. ‘Jesus Christ.’ He braced his head between his hands, stumbling as his balance skewed. ‘She won’t have my guts for garters any more than you. Where’d the other woman end up, anyways?’

  Angus swiped a forearm under his nose and let his glare slide away. ‘Her husband came out of the scrub yonder, carried her off.’

  Robert grunted. He shoulda bashed her old man harder when he’d had the chance. And that bitch, Maggie O’Rourke, she was the one whacked
him with that iron rod. He’d heard her yell a moment before the clang landed. The pain had exploded between his ears and down he went. It’s all he remembered. He glanced over at the discarded tool. Christ, his head hurt. His teeth hurt in his gums. He ran his tongue over them, sucking. No blood. No loose bits. Bitch. He sniffed, hawked and spat. She’d done it now. She was dead meat. She was going to pay for this, and a hefty price.

  Fire flamed in his belly and prickles of heat stung the backs of his hands. He clenched his jaw. No one showed him up. No one. And if he ever caught that other woman, she was going to pay, just like he’d made her husband pay. He stopped himself then. He’d got away with it only because he knew they hadn’t gone to the troopers. Well, they didn’t frighten him with their long stares. ’Cept they did. A bit. He should go to the troopers himself, have them moved along, especially if he made sure it was known the woman had helped try to kill him. Dirt-poor nuisances.

  He snorted, and a clot of blood shot out of his nose. He wiped the remaining dribble on the back of his hand.

  But Maggie O’Rourke, you upstart Irisher baggage, I’m going to hunt you down.

  ‘What you going to do now?’ Angus asked. He pulled his bicycle from where it leaned on the shed wall and straddled it.

  Robert roughly swept dirt and debris off his clothes and straightened up. ‘I’m going to go about my business. There’s wool and timber waiting to get loaded at the wharf, and maybe my stock to off-load.’ His ears rang. His head pounded. Suddenly he bent double, vomited, and sagged to his knees.

  Angus didn’t move to help. ‘Hurry up, then. I can see old Harold’s just got to the crusher and is staring over this way. Must be wonderin’ what we’re doin’ here. And the bloke with that new camera thing was skulking about the place, too. I passed him when I was coming in.’

  ‘What bloke? Who’re you talkin’ about?’ Robert got to his feet, leaning an arm on the wall to steady himself. He took a couple of deep breaths, and his head stopped spinning.

  ‘He takes photographs.’

  ‘So?’

  Angus shook his head, slowly. ‘What if he took one of you at it?’ He looked over his shoulder, across to the olive trees, and then over to the house and the shed beyond. ‘Could be anyone saw you this time.’