Where the Murray River Runs Read online

  ‘I’m right here, my sweet.’ He reached across and doused the lamp, settled back on the floor. ‘I’ve thought of this night for many long hours, but didn’t quite have these sleeping arrangements in mind.’

  ‘Goodnight, my love.’ CeeCee’s good eye drooped as fatigue set in. She listened to James’ breathing, his own deep sleep not far off.

  One of her last thoughts before she dozed was how she loved James. How she should come to terms with that, set aside some of her more stringent objections to marriage and take up his offer.

  And the other thought was of how, despite his promise, James would go to great lengths to kill Gareth Wilkin unless she could stop him.

  Linley stretched out under the thick covers on her mattress, thrown onto the kitchen floor.

  Earlier, James had taken it outside to shake off any broken glass and dust, and once satisfied he carried it to the kitchen room, along with clean linen for her and the cot. He’d stoked the fire and ordered her not to move closer to it. The last thing he wanted was an out-of-control fire in the middle of the night.

  Toby had settled once again and was sleeping soundly. His little snuffles and gurgles kept Linley smiling despite the shaking up they’d all had.

  She plumped her pillow a couple of times, hoped there’d be no roaches crawling on her in the night, then conceded there’d been worse things occur only hours before. She closed her eyes and the warmth of the fire, the covers and fatigue crept over her.

  Yet Ard O’Rourke kept her from her sleep.

  Ard O’Rourke, I am so angry at you …

  Her belly twirled a little dance, and further down contracted sweetly. Feelings and emotions she could not name coursed through her. That day at the picnic, she’d longed to reach out and stroke his face, run her finger along the line of his jaw and press soft kisses over his mouth. Their fingers had touched and the surge of heat in her cheeks at the time still flamed through her now. She had a … a longing; yes, that was it—a longing for Ard. A need, deep in her, she could barely explain.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and hugged herself as she tried to imagine Ard’s arm’s around her, his hands on her. Those depthless blue eyes and his black wavy hair … a Celt from long ago, perhaps. A fiery warrior for his tribe. And that was odd, for she had the dark auburn hair and the pale skin tone of the Irish, and he had the black hair and olive skin of the Mediterranean people.

  Intriguing. Romantic … Intense.

  She shivered.

  A glimpse of black chest hair, the unmistakeable power of his thighs, the lean hips and flat belly. A strong broad chest. She’d seen him heft bales of hay and sacks of flour, the muscles in his arms and back flexing with supine grace, the sheen of sweat healthy and primal.

  Then the last time she saw him, that bewildering afternoon when he declared himself leaving and going off to God knew where …

  Of course, now she knew why he decided to leave.

  With a huff, she dragged the covers over her head but it did no good. The deep pull between her legs throbbed and she knew if she put her fingers there, under the thin fabric of her skirt, she would shatter into splinters and wildly call his name. She turned on her side and smartly turned back again. Her private place was insistent.

  She was still angry with him. Angry that he should betray her feelings and father a child with Mary … She bunched the covers over her eyes and stifled a cry.

  And she was angry at Mary. Angry and baffled. She’d never given Mary any reason to spite her. So why?

  Why, when you could see I wanted Ard? When you knew I loved him so?

  But her last thought before sleep was not of Mary, or of Ard, but of the second letter from Mary she had yet to open.

  She would do that soon. Yes, she would. Perhaps then she would learn why.

  She wasn’t sure she wanted to.

  Twelve

  Bendigo, next morning

  Ard lifted his head and stars of pain burst into his eye sockets the moment dawn pierced his eyelids. ‘Jesus.’

  ‘No Jesus here.’ A voice drifted across the floor. ‘Even the devil wouldn’t want to be here.’

  ‘You’re alive then, Sam?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Not surprised.’ Ard massaged his temples. ‘There’s got to be a cure for this.’

  Sam shuffled into a sitting position on the floor. ‘It’s called abstaining from my da’s poison.’ He tried to sit up. ‘Or having more of it to do the job properly.’ He pushed himself up with one hand, crossed his legs and held his head. ‘I don’t think I want to be alive. I need to take a piss but I reckon my dick has dried up.’

  Ard rubbed at the sleep grit in his eyes. His tongue felt swollen and his throat was parched. ‘I didn’t have that much. Is your father trying to kill us?’

  ‘Probably before I get to drink it all.’

  ‘Bloody rotten stuff.’ Ard pressed his head with both hands.

  ‘You didn’t test as much as I did.’

  ‘Thank Christ.’ Ard swallowed a belch, waited a beat to see if his gut would rebel. It settled. He let out a breath. He honestly did not think he’d had that much.

  Sam, on the other hand, had drunk enough to down a draught horse. On cue, he let out a groan. ‘More sleep.’ He fell back to the earthen floor and sprawled with his arm over his face.

  ‘No more sleep.’ Ard reached out and pushed Sam’s shoulder. ‘I got things to do.’

  ‘I haven’t.’ Sam didn’t move.

  Ard rolled his eyes and lifted a forearm to wipe the sweat breaking on his brow. His nose crinkled at the armpit odour. ‘I’m going down to the channel to wash. Come on. You too.’

  ‘You go. I’m all right.’

  Ard shook his head. ‘You stink.’

  ‘You stink. You go.’

  Ard swung his legs off the cot, and waited to see if his guts held together. He waited another beat. ‘I’ve got to go back into town. I’ve got to find Linley.’

  Sam cranked an eye open. ‘Why?’

  ‘And I’ve got to telegram my uncle, post a letter to my father. Mr Ling is about the last thing I remember.’

  ‘Old Ling? Was he here?’

  ‘So, I’m busy.’ Ard stood up. No roiling guts. That was good. ‘Come on, Sam. Get sobered up.’

  ‘You go to the wash-up first and I’ll come directly.’

  Ard stepped over to a niche in the rock wall. He felt around for the split bar of greyed soap, slipped it in his pocket and headed for the door.

  He pushed it open and stepped outside. ‘Mornin’, Pie.’

  The horse nodded, blurted, tossed his head.

  ‘I’ll just take a piss, have a wash and I’ll get you some breakfast.’ Ard checked the water pail on his way past before unbuttoning his pants. He stood a little way off to empty his bladder, then started out across the orchard and down to the channel.

  His head throbbed, his mouth tasted like poorly tanned leather stank, and he needed to do more than just empty his bladder. He headed for the privy.

  God’s sake, no more of the rotgut.

  Done with ablutions, he headed for the channel, stripped naked and stepped into the slow-flowing water. He sank with his back against one wall and let the flow cool him off.

  Remembering the soap, he stretched back to his clothes, groping around until he found the hard cake. And then he set to, trying to make a decent lather. Some long minutes later and after a frustrated scrubbing, he climbed out of the water, shook the drops off and slicked down his limbs to shuck the excess. He eyed the pile of dirty clothes. Climbing back into those filthy garments didn’t sit right with him.

  He bent, rolled them into a ball and threw them into the channel. Back in he went and lathered them like he’d seen his mother wash clothes. He used the concrete channel walls as a washboard and when satisfied, climbed out again, wiped down his wet body and with the clean, wet clothes slung over his shoulder, headed back to the hut, naked.

  Pie accused him with one look.
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br />   ‘Sorry, horse. You want food.’ Ard strung his clothes over the rail that served as a clothes line. Then he lifted the lid on a barrel and dunked an empty tin can into it, drawing up enough oats to give Pie a meal. He dumped the contents on the ground at the horse’s hooves.

  ‘Good lad.’ Ard patted Pie’s neck then stepped back inside.

  Sam sat on the floor holding his head. He looked up, then in mock horror, slapped his hands over his face. ‘Jesus, Ard. You’re bare-arsed naked. If I was a lassie you’d be arrested.’

  ‘If you were a lassie, you’d be arrested.’

  ‘My reputation would be ruined.’

  Ard fell silent on the joke. Mary.

  Sam looked up. ‘What?’

  Ard shook his head, headed for the corner of the hut and a small wooden trunk. He opened it, and a faint, fragrant waft escaped, some sort of herbs his mother had put in the chest to ward off the mites. Lavender, he knew, but couldn’t identify any others. Out came a pair of pants, and a shirt. Then he rummaged some more and shook out a waistcoat.

  ‘You’ll smell like a lassie, too, Ard. Good thing you don’t look like one, all that black hair. It’s everywhere, boyo, swear to God.’

  ‘Only where it should be.’ Ard squatted, heard Sam mutter, ‘Jesus, get some pants on’, reefed an arm under the cot and dragged out his old boots. If he was going to walk back to town, he didn’t want to do it in the new boots and risk raw blisters weeping their misery into his thin socks.

  He stood, grabbed the pants and pulled them on, threw the shirt over his head and shrugged into the waistcoat. He thrust his feet into socks, then the boots, stood up straight and headed for the mantelpiece. The letters went into his shirt pocket. ‘I’m going back into town. Come on.’

  ‘Me head’s not right yet.’

  ‘That’s not new. Come on.’ He waved an arm. ‘And I want to talk to your father about Pie. I want to buy him.’

  ‘You can borrow him, Ard. But I’m riding him into town while you walk.’

  Ard left Sam to go home on Pie while he plodded on to the telegraph office.

  He wrote a telegram to Liam in Swan Hill. Ling offered seventy pounds for orchard. Please send note downriver to Pa care Olivewood Renmark. Advise. Your nephew, Ard.

  The telegraph operator popped his brows and glanced at Ard, but never said a word. Not that it made any difference. What should have been confidential never was.

  He wondered suddenly if his dalliance with Mary had been confidential and a groan beset him. Stalking from the counter to the bench, he reached for a blank sheet of paper and used the dull quill lying over the ink pot.

  Pa, trust you and Ma are well. I am. Mr Ling has offered seventy pounds for the orchard. I have telegraphed Liam. What are your thoughts? Loving son, Ard O’Rourke.

  He addressed it to his parents, care of Olivewood, Renmark. It would get to them via that address, but it would take weeks longer than if Liam sent a note downriver. Right now, he wasn’t in a hurry. Plenty of work on the plot. If he stayed.

  Things looked in reasonable condition at the orchard so Liam couldn’t have left all that long ago to go to Swan Hill. Now was the time to cart water again, and to keep the weeds down. He needed to tend carefully for the summer. If he stayed.

  Linley.

  He stepped outside the office and checked up and down the street. Busy this morning. Carriages sped past. Pedestrians took brisk walks to the stores and the post office. Occasional riders on horseback cantered by. It was a thriving place, Bendigo, despite a depression looming again and a drought already in the north of the colony.

  No matter—he had lodgings, and food he produced himself. He’d barter for mutton and beef, build a coop for chickens. Maybe. He fancied poultry once in a while. Would be good to have eggs every day too. If he stayed.

  Ard looked at his boots.

  Linley.

  Looking up and down the street again, he knew which direction to take. A mile at most to her place. The sun hovered in the midmorning sky. The cool evening had made way for a balmy day and he felt the air warm around him as he began his walk.

  What will I say to her? What to ask of her?

  How could he say anything, ask anything?

  A childhood friend was dead, and he’d been the cause of that.

  Thirteen

  Echuca

  The train rattled and clanged and shook. Linley held the baby close and tried to shield him from the banging and clanging as best she could. But Toby slept the sleep of the oblivious. She needn’t have worried about him. It wasn’t the baby she was most concerned about.

  She glanced across at CeeCee, who rested her head against the cushioned upholstery of the cabin. It was a wonderful thing that James had secured a private space for them. It was also wonderful that the bruise on CeeCee’s face was covered with a light dusting of laundry starch that could be readily reapplied when needed.

  CeeCee appeared to be sleeping, but Linley was unsure of that. The night had been taxing for all of them. Linley’s nerves were strung. CeeCee said that James’s presence last night had calmed her a little, but for Linley, every puff of wind, every creak of a door hinge put her on edge.

  Toby had squawked and whimpered before he settled and Linley fretted about having to feed him. Thankfully, he hadn’t woken in the night. She’d fetched the tinned milk as early as she could and prepared a little for Toby before they left for the train. He’d sucked it down greedily without issue and seemed content.

  Linley looked down at him, wondered what colour his eyes would be, eventually. Right now, they were sort of a bluey colour, almost eerie. Would Toby have Ard’s blue eyes or the brown eyes of his mother? Baby’s eyes changed colour, she knew that, but couldn’t remember if she’d been told just when.

  His hair was the silky jet black thatch of his father’s, but not yet curly. The button nose didn’t look too much like Ard’s, but his dark eyebrows, now in a little frown, and the tiny dimple in his left cheek were indelibly O’Rourke.

  Her belly fluttered and rushed a little heat to her cheeks. Ard O’Rourke. How could he still make her long for him and yet want to belt him on the head at the same time?

  It was useless to think of him any more, she was going so far away. Well, only to Echuca, but no one could know. Stupid to close her eyes and see his flashing smile, or the lock of hair that fell over his forehead as he talked … the way his large, callused hands reached up to grip hers as she stepped from CeeCee’s carriage on Sundays. Or the intense blue of his stare as her gaze stealthily met his.

  Stupid to imagine he thought of her at all, especially now she knew he had … um, lain with Mary.

  Linley glanced at CeeCee, her face hot as thoughts of Ard’s quick smile—all for her and not Mary—crammed her thoughts. She squeezed her eyes shut for long moments, and when she opened them her aunt was looking at her.

  ‘Something you ate?’ CeeCee raised her eyebrows.

  Linley muffled a snort of laughter. She floundered for an answer a moment. ‘I was wondering what Wilkin’s face looked like when he realised that pot was coming for him.’

  CeeCee gave a short laugh too, then groaned. ‘I wonder. And I wonder what he looks like now.’ She closed her eyes again.

  Linley knew she was just resting, not asleep. ‘Aunty?’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘James?’ He was the only father figure Linley had known. Always kind, always strong.

  ‘No need to worry. He will be on the next train.’

  Linley rocked the baby some more, and glanced down at the glossy little head, his cherry-red lips set in a moue. Blissfully unaware of the life roiling around him, he just lay there, tranquil, in her arms, safe from the death and destruction around him.

  This baby had a father. Ard O’Rourke.

  Linley looked back at CeeCee again, her aunt’s eyes still closed, her face composed, calm. Nothing about her current demeanour told of the horrible moments of last night.

  ‘We are lucky to have James,
aren’t we, Aunty?’

  CeeCee took a deep breath, frowned a little, smiled a little, her eyes still closed. ‘Yes, we are.’

  Fourteen

  Bendigo

  Ard swung open CeeCee’s little garden gate. The morning sun beat down on him as he stood, feet planted.

  He wiped his hands on his pants, breathed against the hammer of his heart on his ribcage, and hoped he hadn’t sweated up a stink to crinkle delicate noses. Head down, he marched up the path.

  A rough voice stopped him short. ‘Who’re you?’

  On the stoop stood a small man, his face battered, recently it seemed: split lips still bleeding, angry lumps on his forehead, an eye swollen shut. The man held an arm over his chest.

  ‘Ard O’Rourke. Who might you be?’ He straightened up.

  The man hesitated, halting puffs of breath pushed through thickened lips. His eyes narrowed in a squint and his mouth curled in a snarl. ‘O’Rourke. Whaddya want here?’

  ‘Naught to do with you.’ Ard advanced. ‘I’ll see for myself that my friends are—’

  ‘Friends, is it? Get back off the step or I’ll yell for the coppers.’

  ‘Ballocks to that.’ A curl of heat crawled up Ard’s neck.

  ‘I’m warning yer, don’t come up them steps—’

  Ard leapt to the top step and bumped the little man aside. He shoved his way into the house and stopped, stunned at the damage inside CeeCee’s hallway. At first not comprehending, he stared at the destruction, the wilful damage of CeeCee’s furniture. Pictures had been flung off the wall, frames awry and photographs torn. A vase shattered, the flowers lay wilted on the floorboards, the dark pool of spilled water seeping around them. Ard had only called on the ladies here once, but he knew how … He spun around.

  The man lunged. ‘You mongrel—’

  Ard thrust out an arm. The man barrelled into it, bounced to the floor, his breath knocked out in a grunt as if he’d been dropped from a great height.