The Good Woman of Renmark Read online

  Thank God that Ard and Sam had been with him. Then Sam had ridden hard into Echuca for Dr Eakins just as Lorc had come around, roaring in pain before he fainted again.

  How ironic that only three days back when Lorc had fallen, Eleanor had thought of Maggie then, wanting her close, wanting to wrap her arms around her. She’d thought to send a telegram to Olivewood, but hadn’t—no point worrying her daughter. Maggie was living her own life, being the independent woman she wanted to be. Eleanor had decided to wait. She knew that if Lorc got worse, she wouldn’t hesitate sending that telegram and Maggie would drop everything to come.

  The lines on her face had deepened today. She could almost feel the drag on her sun-baked skin, the days working in the hot sun on the river property taking their toll. But it was more the thought that Lorcan could have died out there, and still could die because of the break. It was clean, they’d said, hadn’t broken the skin, but the threat was always there.

  Eleanor stared at her husband’s face, grey now as he fought not only the likelihood of some infection, but a nasty concussion about which the doctor had warned her. Three days of waiting, and this letter arrives. Her neck felt hot as the worry swirled in her gut.

  Clearly, Lorcan couldn’t rise and take off for Renmark to go and find his daughter. Ard couldn’t go either. He was waiting for a baby to come, and any time now.

  Eleanor would run onto a paddle-steamer and fire the damn thing downriver herself if she thought she could leave Lorcan. Boats often tied up here at their landing on the Murray. Established for the last couple of years, O’Rourke’s Run was a popular stop for captains and passengers visiting the family. There was always traffic between Lorc’s property here, and his nephew’s property just out of Swan Hill. No mistake—Eleanor was capable enough of charging downriver with passage on a steamer to search for her daughter but who would care for her husband? She’d not leave that to just anybody, and tough as he was, it would worry her more to leave him. It would not do, either, to leave Ard with that added burden right now.

  As if to encourage her, she heard the faint draughty whistle of a paddle-steamer as it chugged past the landing. She briefly wondered which boat it was, then wondered why she was dallying. The letter in her hand had told her that Maggie had fled Renmark over a week ago, under dire circumstances, and here she was, as if paralysed.

  Someone would have to go look for Maggie and find her. Someone would have to bring her daughter home, safe. Heat fired over her neck again and she put a hand to it. Worry always brought on these surges of heat and the sweats.

  Lorcan stirred. ‘Ah, my girl,’ he croaked, a twitch of his mouth the only smile he seemed to be able to muster.

  ‘Lorcan O’Rourke. You made me an old girl overnight.’ She leaned over and pressed her lips to his forehead.

  ‘Me leg’s right sore.’

  Patting his hand, she smiled. ‘So it should be, it’s broken clean, but not through the skin. The lads had to straighten it out before they strapped it tight.’

  ‘I’ll not lose it?’

  Eleanor felt the cold slide of fear burrow deep inside her. ‘Dr Eakins doesn’t think so,’ she said, cheerily. ‘Your head should be sore, too, but there’s no straightening that out.’

  He gave a nod, but his eyes had closed. He’d drifted off again. Eleanor knew she was to wake him every couple of hours for another day or two, to satisfy the doctor. She leaned over him again and let her cheek brush his whiskery one. ‘And when you wake up, my handsome, I’ll have some of your favourite apricot jam on hot damper for you.’

  There wasn’t a smile from him. She knew he hadn’t heard her, but it made her feel better to say it.

  Pushing off the chair, and with Mrs Chaffey’s letter still clutched in her hand, Eleanor took a lingering look at her husband, who appeared as comfortable as he could be, and left their bedroom. In the short hallway, she closed the door and leaned against the timbered wall, blinking back tears, and with her pinafore hem wiped away the ones that had already spilled. When Ard returned, she would talk over a strategy with him. Though to what end, she didn’t know. All she knew was that Maggie had run from something, something which must have frightened her deeply.

  Her daughter was not a timid young woman. Lorcan would tease her, call her his ‘little tempest’. There was nothing Maggie shied away from: no challenge, no dare, and she met all with a sensible head on her shoulders. But to run off so sudden-like, with no word to anyone. And to cause someone harm. That wasn’t her Maggie. Something had gone badly wrong.

  Eleanor’s heart thudded, a dull pound as if it echoed her thoughts of dread. She rubbed her hands over and over …

  Wait. She did know someone who would search for her missing daughter as soon as it was asked of him. And she knew in her heart, that loving Maggie as he’d done all these years, he’d be exactly the right man to find her.

  Eleven

  Sam was in his hut, a temporary dwelling while he finished building his own place on O’Rourke’s Run. He sat on the edge of his bed, a narrow cot, the base woven with rawhide strips and a thin mattress atop. It served well enough. The day’s work was done, and sundown was changing day into night. His heavy boots lay where he’d kicked them off outside the door. He stared at his holey socks that would have to be washed; they’d been a week on his feet already. Maybe he’d have to wait for laundry being done this week, what with Lorcan on his sickbed and his missus having to tend him.

  It didn’t matter. Mrs O’Rourke usually made sure he had two clean pairs of socks at the ready. Mrs Eleanor, that is. Mrs Linley was a bit otherwise preoccupied, a baby due out real soon, and all. Ard, proud as punch, was gonna be a pa again.

  No such luck for him. A twist sharpened in his gut. He snaked a glance at the rough timber table he’d built to serve for his letter-writing, and to the small bundle of envelopes, unopened, and returned to him by a scratchy pen boldly stating Return to Sender. Why he hadn’t already burned them, he didn’t know.

  Write a letter, Ard had said. Tell her how you feel, he’d said.

  What did Ard know about his own bloody sister? Write a letter is all well and good, if she’d only accept them, read them and reply. But oh no, Maggie O’Rourke, stubborn as hell—still—had to return them unopened.

  Well, what was a fella to do?

  He peeled off one sock and threw it into the basket Mrs O had supplied for his dirty laundry. There’d be no new letter going to Maggie, and hadn’t been for a while. No sir. He’d written his last over three months ago. He tugged off the other sock, dangled it from his hand and eyed the hole in it. What else was a bloke supposed to do? He’d already said he’d marry her. And that had not gone so well.

  He couldn’t talk it over with Ard. Maggie was his sister, and Ard had said time and again that he was keeping out of it. And Sam couldn’t bawl on Mrs O’s shoulder—she’d only just thawed out towards him, especially since helping poor Lorc after he fell out of the tree. She believed that something bad had happened between him and Maggie, and after that, her daughter had gone to live in Renmark with them. Old man O’Rourke had taken a job working for the Chaffey brothers on the new irrigation scheme.

  The scheme had failed so Maggie stayed in her job there, and the older O’Rourkes had come back to Bendigo. They’d sold their plot of land after their orchard had been torched, and bought a block on the Murray here, at Echuca. Ard had followed his parents, and Sam had followed Ard. Why not? His own family was fine in Bendigo. His pa ran a successful shop blacksmithing and doing building work. Even in a depression, he’d done all right. Work was thin on the ground in Bendigo—so Sam told himself—and here on O’Rourke’s Run he had a chance to start a fine business working with Ard’s family.

  At first, the stumbling block had been the old man, Lorcan O’Rourke. He didn’t like that Sam might have made his little girl unhappy—what did he call her? His little tempest. Sam had won the old man over. He’d worked hard on the new plot, helping Ard rebuild the two old and abandon
ed original houses back to a decent living standard. He’d helped construct fences and the landing at the river for the paddle-steamers—even that new-found cousin of Ard’s, Dane MacHenry from Swan Hill, stopped by in his fine boat from time to time.

  The extra positive benefit on O’Rourke’s Run was that he’d have been close to Maggie if she ever cooled off from wanting to bash him on the head. He wondered what she’d think of the new house he’d nearly finished building, the third one on the property. Ard and his parents had offered him a square of dirt for just such a purpose. Quarters for the homestead’s manager, they’d said. Manager. He’d come up in the world. He laughed at himself. Having a title didn’t mean much, but it was good of the family to offer. It would surely have impressed Maggie, had she known about it. The closer he got to finishing the house—a two-room dwelling with a verandah, a cookhouse and laundry room out the back, and its own privy—the more he wondered if he’d ever live there at all; it didn’t appear as if it would ever be with Maggie. Maybe it wouldn’t matter if he took up Dane MacHenry’s offer of a job.

  Dane was paring back his riverboat trade, he’d said. The railways had been operating a while now and it was killing the river merchants, beating them on freight. Dane had come up with a new business idea while he’d tried to keep his crops and sheep alive through the drought. He’d had been thinking of breeding horses, starting up a stud. His own horse, MacNamara, was a fine sleek and strong stallion, and clearly had good bloodlines.

  Dane had approached Sam about Pie, running his hand down the horse’s flank. ‘If you ever want to make some money, Sam, I’ll make you a good offer to buy your horse. These Walers are sturdy stock. Much in demand back in New South Wales so they will be here, too,’ he’d said.

  Sam recalled his answer. ‘If I ever leave O’Rourke’s Run, I might take you up on it. Thing is, wherever Pie’s goin’, that’s where I’ll be goin’, too. I’m sturdy enough, but not sure I’d be much good at stud.’

  MacHenry had barked a laugh. ‘If that’s the way I get Pie—you and your horse coming as a team—then there’s room at my place for you, too.’

  Maybe Sam would take up that offer. He dropped the sock, ignoring an odorous waft that reached his nostrils. He rubbed both hands over his head, messing up the already thatched mop that fell into his eyes. He pushed it back. A thought drifted through that maybe it was time for a bath, to wash the dirt off him, and out of his hair that used to be the colour of straw but was now the colour of riverbank dirt. He studied his hands, gritty with the dust that had come off his head.

  The reason for staying here—mostly—was to be close to Maggie. Sam loved her, loved everything about her. He loved the glossy black hair with that wavy kink in it when she had it out of the bun-thing. He loved her wide blue eyes, the firm breasts she’d let him hold, heavy in his hands as his thumbs brushed taut nipples. He loved the creamy skin of her thighs close to her …

  Dammit, dammit, dammit. He took a deep breath to stem the tightening in his groin, but he couldn’t hold back his memories. He loved the flashes of her gleeful laughter, and her banter, quick and clever. He loved that she loved being on the land, and literally in the dirt, working hard, looking after her animals, her garden. Her family.

  He loved that she wasn’t afraid. She’d explore and take what she wanted. She had a strong curiosity and he hadn’t resisted for long before taking her to the place she was most curious about. For her first time, she revelled in it, encouraged him, had been delighted by it. She’d matched him for fervour. She’d even taken his hand and placed his fingers between her legs to show him where she found most pleasure. She hadn’t been furtive nor looked guilty like other girls when they’d gone too far. Instead, she’d wanted all the mystery of it, all the wonder. He loved that she trusted him enough to share herself with him.

  He would look after her, he’d said, if anything happened. Boy, somehow that was the wrong thing to say. But why?

  He didn’t love that she hadn’t want to marry or have kids, not at all. He wanted her to love him and marry him and be the mother of his kids. He wanted her. And just when he thought he’d won her over, just when they’d gotten close again late one afternoon, and had gone beyond temptation—breathless and hungry, and with their blood humming—into that wondrous place of mystery, Maggie had called it, just when he swore his undying love afterwards, she’d looked astounded at him, and had backed off.

  What? He’d yelled, bewildered.

  Grow up, Sam Taylor, why would I want to marry you? she’d hurled at him. I don’t want those chains on me. Nothing will happen to make us have to marry, she’d said. Then she’d run a million miles and more, all the way to Renmark with her parents and stayed there.

  Nothing must have happened from their wondrous thing, because he hadn’t heard. He would have heard if Maggie had been in the family way—either Ard would have knocked his block off, or old man Lorc would have flung Sam’s guts all over the paddock before holding a rifle to his head and marching him up to the altar.

  He wouldn’t be gutless—he wasn’t—because he’d wanted to marry her anyhow, family way or not.

  He hissed out a loud breath, forcing it through taut lips. He picked up the sock and hurled it into the basket, a faint nasty aroma of sweat and bad boots following it.

  A man should wash his own stinking socks and not expect a woman to suffer it. He laughed to himself then. He’d heard his mother’s voice as clear as if she was sitting here with him. It was the sort of thing Maggie might say, too. In his life he had strong women with strong opinions and he had no bloody clue how to get around ’em. Hah! Maybe you didn’t get around ’em, maybe you just gave in and let them go their own way.

  It was the sobering thought he’d had more than once these last few months. He glanced at the last returned letter again. Time to get on with it. God knows, there were plenty of girls here in Echuca coming up from Melbourne all the time, looking for a husband.

  The thought made his lip curl. Yeah, well, a man was no hermit.

  He had let Maggie go. Not that she wasn’t going her own way. Not that he’d had any say in it, in any case, but in his mind, he had moved on. He turned thoughts of her aside. Buried them. He was too old to pine over a sweetheart who didn’t want him.

  Grow up, Sam Taylor, she’d said.

  He picked up the bundle of letters. Well, he’d done just that, Miss Maggie O’Rourke. He was going to burn—

  The door crashed open and bounced on the wall. Ard’s muscly arm slammed against the door, keeping it still. His frown looked painful-deep, those blue O’Rourke eyes flashing.

  ‘Sam, quick, come to the house. Ma’s worried.’

  Oh Christ, no. His old man—he must be more poorly after all.

  ‘She’s had a letter from Maggie’s boss down Renmark way. Says Maggie’s in bad trouble, gone off and nowhere to be found.’ Out of breath, Ard wiped a hand over his nose. ‘Someone’s gotta go look for her. Christ knows, it can’t be me—I can’t leave the place while Pa is lying on his sick bed. Come on.’

  Maggie. Sam sat stock still. ‘Right,’ he croaked. Then he shot to his feet, dumped the letters back on the table. He stared blankly after Ard who’d run out of the hut, not waiting.

  Sam tugged boots on his bare feet, and crossed the yard to the main house. Though the sun hadn’t yet lost all its light, he could see that candles twinkled in Mrs O’Rourke’s front room. She’d be poring over that letter, nothing surer. He stopped at the verandah. They’d want him to search for her.

  He loved Maggie O’Rourke, no question. And no question, he’d look for her till his dying day, and right to the ends of the earth, or whichever came first. But sure as hell, when he found her, and when he brought her back safe and sound to her family, he would let her go.

  Twelve

  Sam had followed Ard into Mrs Eleanor’s house and she’d read him Mrs Chaffey’s letter. He’d been right assuming he’d been summoned to go find her. ‘I will,’ he’d said, not hesitating.


  Eleanor had frowned. ‘We are grateful, but you should feel no obligation, Sam.’

  ‘Mrs O’Rourke, there is no obligation. I’ve no expectation that all will be well between Maggie and me. But I will find her.’

  Mrs Eleanor seemed glad of it and had held Sam’s hands tight in her own.

  Now, only just daylight and inside the stable, Sam tightened the girth on Pie, then he patted his glossy flank. ‘Good boy. We’re going on an adventure, young Pie. We’re going to find Miss Maggie.’ He checked the saddlebags and his new swag strapped behind before stroking the horse’s muzzle. ‘Now, you gotta keep up, Pie. We’re heading into unknown territory in that South Australia colony, so no skiving off looking for tasty green shoots or fair maidens when there’s work to be done.’

  ‘Same could be said for you, Sam.’ Ard leaned on the stable door. ‘I wish I was going with you.’

  ‘This adventure is all mine, laddie. You got a new baby coming, your pa to worry about, and your ma, as well as this place. We’ll be fine, Pie and me. We’ll find that sister of yours.’

  Ard wiped his hands down his trousers. He blew a low whistle. ‘I know you and my sister, well, I know there’s been … I mean to say, she’s tetchy, she’s not an easy one to—’

  ‘It’s all right, mate. Maggie and me are over and done in that way, have been for a long while.’ Sam swung into the saddle, the leather creaking, his boots scraping as they slipped into the stirrups. ‘But your ma knows I’d do anything for Maggie.’ He stared down at his lifelong friend. ‘I have to go. The boat’s at the landing already.’

  ‘I know.’ Ard looked at his feet. ‘Got the jerky Ma packed up?’

  ‘Yeah. Don’t forget to post my letter to Ma and Pa.’

  ‘I won’t. Look after Pie.’ Ard patted the horse’s neck, and he responded with a nod.