Dark Horse (7 page)

‘I didn’t know Sid was a pirate as well as a bushranger?’

‘Yeah, dunno why I was channelling Jack Sparrow then.’

‘I hope you’re not down there pinching food?’

Sarah emptied the shovel of sloppy earth and squinted into the mist. Not a breath of wind to shift the fog, which was becoming increasingly suffocating as the morning stretched on. Tansy snorted. Unconvincing chirps and twitters came from the bush, tentative birdsong, none of the bigger birds – the kookaburras, the currawongs, the magpies and the ravens – had yet returned.

Sarah heard the caravan suspension creak. She felt her pockets. The magazine of bullets was safe with her, but her phone was in the van. She’d put it on the bench last night when she gave him her shorts to wear, and she’d left it there this morning. Sarah went to move but stopped herself. It would be clear she was checking up on him if she went to the van. She waited for him to answer her.

He didn’t.

‘You are stealing food, aren’t you . . .’ Her expression nowhere near as light-hearted as her tone.

‘Changing socks.’

The socks had been drying by the fire, not in the van. Sarah pushed the spade into the soft ground and left it upright by the hole. She entered the shed nearest to where they were working and glanced at the internal fence he was building. He’d made four thick pillars, evenly spaced, out of firewood and had left gaps for the ends of beams and planks to be slotted in, held in place by the firewood, without the need for nails. He’d done a lot in a short space of time. Near the shed wall was an area he’d left for a gateway into the stable and yard. Sarah continued down to the potbelly stove – no sign of any of the socks being moved or swapped. She approached the van door.

Heath stepped into the doorway. In his hand was a large roll of cling film. ‘Remembered seeing it,’ he said, holding up the roll. ‘Gonna strap my knee with it.’

It was a catering-size roll, thicker and more heavy-duty than what you’d find at a supermarket.

‘That’s a good idea. I meant to tell you I’ve got some painkillers too, if your knee is giving you trouble.’

‘This’ll help I reckon. Save your tablets.’

He was blocking the van entrance.

‘I want to check my phone. To see if it’s working yet.’

He moved to the side and she stepped in past him. Her phone was where she’d left it on the bench, as dead as ever. There were a few specks of dirt and thin strands of bark on the bench. Heath’s muddy boot prints were concentrated on the floor nearby. It was to be expected, she guessed, that he would check also to see if her phone was working . . . But did the device feel lighter in her hand? Unbalanced slightly?

Heath was perched on the end of the caravan bench seat, his sore leg across the narrow walkway. He was feeling for the edge of the cling film on the roll.

‘You’ve got fingernails. Can you find the end of this for me?’

She took the roll from him.

‘No luck with your phone?’

Sarah found the edge of the film and peeled it back. ‘No.’

After he’d strapped his knee, Heath did what he said he’d do – he built a yard. It was remarkable to watch him do it. He didn’t waste time making it too big or elaborate: its purpose was to hold Tansy safely. The main effort went into making it strong. He certainly did that. He worked fast and without any more breaks.

Mushy ground posed the biggest problem. Holes Sarah had dug filled with water. Sloppy earth didn’t tamp down well around the corner posts. To compensate, Heath added a bottom rung to the fence. He laid the poles of scaffolding across the grass and fixed them to the base of the corner posts. The fence had a top rail, and now this ground-level rail to brace the structure.

As a final touch in strengthening the yard, Heath ran short poles across each far corner and attached them, using scaffolding connectors and elbows. The poles he picked for the job were smooth, without joins or protruding screws, so there was no chance of Tansy hurting herself. Once done digging holes, Sarah held things for him. She was his apprentice, standing beside him, waiting for instruction, passing things, getting things, keeping out of his way. It was hard to find fault in him while he was toiling away so resourcefully for her horse. Although the whisper in the back of her mind wondered if his kind act was one of counterbalance –
look what I did for you, now all you have to do is not question me
.

He got dirty, mud caked his knees, his clothes were wet. Droplets of mist beaded along strands of his hair, and his face was greasy with sweat. He jammed his fingers, bumped them, pinched the skin on his arm, nicked his elbow. The fog was maddening in that it didn’t dissipate at all, Sarah’s chest felt tight, and his did too – he sucked in a breath, shaking his head as though to clear it. ‘It’s like smog not fog.’

For all their earlier talk of saving food, they began discussing what they’d eat next.

‘Should we have our Christmas?’ Sarah put forward. ‘Because we missed out.’

‘I’m pretty bloody hungry.’

‘Me too.’

‘Did you bring all that Christmas food though? It’s yours.’

‘As if I’m not gonna share it.’

‘It’s the most perishable, I suppose.’

‘The cheese and ham we really have to eat today.’

‘Yeah, we should.’

Last joint tightened, all rails in place, their hunger won out and it was decided – they deserved something good after their hard work. It was well into the afternoon. Sarah’s stomach was rumbling. Heath held out his hand and showed her how it was shaking.

‘The workmen’s food will be our serious supplies,’ Sarah said.

Knowing they were going to eat well was enough to stave off the hunger pains for a while. They finished up and cleared away. Heath put the poles he hadn’t used against the back wall of the shed. Sarah made benches out of blocks of wood and the leftover planks to house her saddle and to keep other important items up off the floor. Heath walked out front and looked at his handiwork from different angles, critically eyeing the lines of the yard. He pushed the railing with both hands, his weight behind it. It didn’t move.

‘Heath, it’s excellent.’

‘. . . I dunno . . .’

‘Are you kidding me? Look at it.’

Half of the permanent yards Sarah had seen in her day weren’t as well built. She liked how clean and unfussy it was. The timber and firewood fence inside the shed was messy, but that at least had the benefit of making the undercover part seem rustic and homely.

He pinched his nose and rubbed it. ‘It’s only as good as its weakest point. The gate and the fence inside the shed aren’t right . . .’

‘At least that section is out of the weather, we can fix it up and work on it anytime. This outside part was the most important to get done, in case it rains again . . . So, are we ready for her?’

‘I think we are.’

Tansy had matured over the last twenty-four hours. Sarah could see it and feel it in her horse. Whereas the old Tansy would have spent all day pulling on the tether, pawing with disgust at the waterlogged lengths of grass, the new Tansy had grazed as best she could and now stood patiently in the fog. The mare sensed the need for a different mode. She was conserving energy. And perhaps, too, blinkered by the mist, subdued.

Heath’s scent was on Sarah and in her clothes. Tansy nudged Sarah’s shoulder and snuffed at the sleeve of her coat. ‘It’s okay,’ Sarah said softly to her mare. ‘We’ve built you a nice open stable.’ She stroked and patted the side of Tansy’s face. ‘No head tossing, okay?’

Heath was standing beside the stable entrance. He had slid the makeshift door – a single rail – open. His back was turned and his hands were busy picking dry mud off his palms.

This casual stance revealed that he’d told the truth about one thing: he’d been around horses before. Compared to the way he’d acted when first encountering Tansy, this showed some nous. He remained facing away. He kept looking down at his hands as he rubbed and brushed at the dry mud. Tansy’s ears craned forward, and Sarah could feel a change occur in her mare. The horse went from indignant to interested in a heartbeat. She stopped and held her head high to look at Heath. With his attention focused inward, it drew her to him, and the mare leaned his way. He bent forward to check the bandage on his knee, fiddled with it, and Tansy leaned in further. When he didn’t glance at her, she got impatient and whinnied.

Sarah led her towards the entranceway. ‘Come on. He’s ignoring you on purpose – it’s the oldest trick in the book.’

When he still didn’t turn, Tansy did what any well-mannered horse
wouldn’t
do – she reared up, landed light-footed on her front legs, and kicked out her hindquarters, not frightened, flaunting her agility.

Face turned away, Heath smiled. Sarah heard him breathe out softly, amused. ‘She’s beautiful.’

‘I was thinking she might have matured. Now I’m not so sure.’

Heath rested against the wooden railing and looked into the empty stable. He propped his elbows on the top rail as though he had all day to ponder the vacant yard. Over his shoulder he said, ‘Did you name her?’

‘She had a proper name, a long name.’ Sarah ran her hand down Tansy’s nose. ‘I renamed her. Tansy means forever.’

Tansy didn’t like that they were talking about her and yet not paying her enough attention. She barged forward, about to go up and sniff Heath, or push him brazenly, but Sarah tugged the horse’s head around and led her through the gateway and into the stable. Once in the enclosure Tansy was more concerned with the look and feel of the place she was to be confined to. Her body stiffened and she turned her head to take in her new borders. Sarah unbuckled and slid off the bridle to let Tansy explore the space on her own.

‘It’s okay, baby.’

Even if her horse wasn’t any more at home with her tether off and in a yard, Sarah felt more at ease. The mare walked into the outside area and lowered her head to smell the ground and the grass. She went to the far end of the fence and shied at her first touch and sniff of the metal railing. She whinnied, pranced around the small space.

Heath ran a slow gaze over her. ‘She’s completely black.’

‘Yeah.’

‘She’s really beautiful.’

‘Shh, she’ll hear you and get an ever bigger head.’

He watched her some more. ‘She’s got something about her, hasn’t she? Something special.’

‘Black mare lore, maybe that’s what you see.’

‘Am I not a horse aficionado if I don’t know what that means?’

‘Black mares live forever.’

‘Jeez, she’s good for her age,’ he laughed.

‘They say black mares’ spirits are earthbound. When they die it passes to the next black mare born, and so on . . .’

‘You don’t believe it?’

‘No, but then it’s just reincarnation I guess; that’s all the lore is saying really. Lots of people believe in reincarnation. Maybe it’s a curse? I don’t know if I’d want to be a black mare forever.’

‘What about black stallions?’

‘The lore says stallions are too one-track-minded to remember the past anyway. Sex obsessed. I’d believe that.’

‘How is she with other people riding her?’

‘Why?’

‘Those poppies don’t harvest themselves,’ he replied grinning.

‘Well then I better warn you,’ Sarah said without a smile, ‘she won’t let anyone but me on her back. She
will
throw you, and in the process injure that other leg of yours, and then you’ll be stuck on the mountain with two stuffed knees.’

‘Glad we cleared that up.’

G
rey colours seeped into the fog. Sunset was hours away though. Sarah took the workman’s toothbrush (the only one, red-handled, a generic brand) and immersed the bristles in hot water from the kettle. In her other hand she held a tube of toothpaste and her thermals. Heath was in the toilet block, washing and getting changed, doing without a toothbrush. He’d taken the bar of soap with him. The sound of the shower running drifted through the mist.

Sarah’s dilemma was that she wanted to shower, but not at the same time as him, and yet she was uncomfortable about leaving him alone with Tansy. If he was anything like Sarah he’d utilise his time alone and turn overtly stealthy – like she just had. Already Sarah had scrutinised her phone (she couldn’t see any sign that it had been tampered with, and couldn’t work out how to open it to check inside for its battery), she’d searched for his phone and his wallet (not found them), she’d stashed Tansy’s bridle in behind the container of drinking water, and, after unbuckling the girth strap from the saddle, folded the girth strap up and put it in her coat pocket. Try getting far on Tansy without a bit, reins, bridle or a saddle,
mate
. Sarah was about to leave the toothbrush soaking and go to check on her gun, when the sound of the shower stopped.

She walked briskly through the grass to the toilet block.

‘Coming in,’ she said and edged sideways through the gap in the door and into the gloom of the windowless timber building.

‘Whoa . . .’

‘Not looking, don’t worry.’ She turned her head away and held up her hand. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his naked form dart backwards into the shower cubical, glimpsed his tattoo again and caught sight of more ink work on the top of his thigh, same side of his body.

‘Um . . . I won’t be long, if you wanna wait?’

‘I’m good.’

There were two showers, side by side. Sarah figured if she was quick, she could finish showering in the time it took him to dress, and then dry herself as he left, that way he’d feel under pressure, no time to snoop or steal her horse or do whatever sneaky thing it seemed he was destined to do.

A thin sheet of corrugated iron between them, Sarah was pleased the light in the block was poor. She felt more exposed now than she had when half-naked in bed beside him. She undressed, put her clothes on the basin taps so that they wouldn’t get wet; it meant she had to step a little way out of the cubicle. He was breathing loudly, puffing, recovering from his cold shower. She could hear him briskly rubbing his body dry.

‘Are you ready for me to pass the soap?’

Naked, Sarah suddenly questioned her sanity. Was she truly nude in a dingy shower block while isolated on a mountain with a total stranger? And a young male at that. Why, again, had she thought it wise to shower with him, undress beside him, curl up in a bed with him last night? Time was bunny hopping, like it had on the bridge. Her head was spinning because it felt like only a second ago that she’d been having a warm shower in her own bathroom, alone.

His hand appeared from around the tin wall with the soap resting in his open palm. ‘I’d slide it under, but figured I shouldn’t make you bend over.’

She’d seen his bare wrist before now, but it looked very bare when emerging from behind a shower stall. Sarah was acutely aware that his hand and lower arm were attached to his unclothed body. His nakedness might have been the reason she’d thought this was a good idea – wet, cold and shivering, difficult conditions in which to get aggressive. It wasn’t enough to quell her fear now though. Sarah’s mind and body joined forces in agreement with each other – this was a bad situation. All she could think, all that her body knew, was that this man was unknown to her, stronger than her, even with his injured leg, and she didn’t have a stitch of clothing covering her. That, and the age-old adage – there was no one to hear her scream.

‘Sarah?’

She looked over at her clothes and hugged her arms tightly to her breasts. She squeezed her legs together. Her body didn’t feel womanly or sexy, not in the least. She felt small, useless, her body a detriment to her. She willed him to leave, leave her alone, leave her horse alone, disappear into the fog.

He guessed the problem.

‘Hey,’ he said softly. His hand retreated behind the dividing wall. A short silence followed, as he gathered his thoughts and pieced together what he’d say. ‘Sarah, I swear you don’t have to be worried. You came in here because you sensed it was okay, and you were right.’ He tried to joke, ‘If I could come around there and show you it’s all good, I would. And by all good I do mean – bloody impressive. Kidding. Don’t worry; I’m not going to come around there. Sarah? I’m not going to.’

A wave of exhaustion swept over Sarah. She clamped her hand over her mouth and closed her eyes. Tears spilled down her cheeks. She forced her palm into her lips and dug her fingers into her face, pushing the emotion back inside her, setting her teeth. If she had to be trapped, if her bad luck had not yet run its course, and God, or whoever, had decided that she needed a few more hard lessons yet, why couldn’t she be alone for it? Or with a woman? That would have been pleasant, female company.

Heath could tell that she was crying. He inhaled. ‘It’s my fault. You didn’t trust me to be alone with Tansy. But you don’t have to worry. I’m not going to take your horse. I can tell you with one hundred per cent honesty that I don’t want to hurt you in any way, not at all. Actually, after getting to know you, I want the opposite of that. You seem like a really top bird, Sarah. You really do. If I say to you . . . if I say I know I haven’t made things totally clear, but that I’m trying to be as honest as I can. If I say that, does it help?’

Sarah didn’t respond.

‘I don’t suppose it does. You don’t have to say anything,’ he said when she didn’t. ‘I’m going to leave you to wash. The soap is here on this side. Take as long as you like. Although, the water is absolutely bloody frigging freezing; don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

A couple of times Sarah looked up from the meal to catch Heath staring out into the mist with his head tilted, listening. She was clean, warm and dry, with her thermals beneath her jeans and shirt. Tansy was grazing in her yard. Already Heath had his favourite chair and Sarah had hers; they had their preferred sides of the table, Sarah with her view of Tansy, Heath with his view of the van beside them and down to the hut. To eat their meal, they pulled the table close to the fire. Sarah’s face was flushed from the heat. Her eyes and cheeks in particular were warm, the skin puffy and tearstained from her breakdown in the shower: her
female
moment. She could kick herself for being so weak.

It was four p.m. On their plates the slices of ham were fatty, the divvied up cheeses were calorie rich and decadent in such large quantities, half a wheel of brie each, pie-sized wedges of smoked Gouda. Dessert was in a small pile between them. They were eating their way across their plates, edging towards the plum pudding, custard and mince pies in the middle of the table.

‘Can I ask what sort of work you do?’ she said.

‘In between jobs at the moment. I do a bit of farm work.’

‘Is your parents’ property a farm? Do you come from a farming background?’

‘Yeah, I do.’

For a moment it seemed he was going to elaborate. He didn’t.

‘We’re going to need conversation cards. I could write them out and you could go through and veto the topics.’

‘You’re very patient, Sarah.’

‘I’m not usually.’

She put aside her empty plate. Sarah brought out the whiskey. She needed a drink. She poured a generous amount into each mug.

‘Cattle farm,’ he divulged suddenly. ‘Beef cattle. The farm will come to me. Until it does I try and do a bit away from the place, get some experience outside of the property. In the nicest possible way, Mum and Dad kicked me out. So I won’t burn out later on the place. So I can appreciate it when I do go back.’ This freeing up of Heath’s tongue was spontaneous. He hadn’t had any alcohol yet. Now he took a sip.

‘No brothers and sisters?’

‘I have a brother. He doesn’t want the farm though.’

‘Not the farming type?’

‘He’s got some problems.’ One side of Heath’s mouth was greasy from the ham. He wiped at it with his knuckles. He glanced at Sarah through his lashes. ‘He suffers from depression.’

‘Oh.’

‘He’s married,’ Heath said unprompted. ‘He’s got a daughter. You wouldn’t guess he’s not well, looking at him. He runs a gym with his wife, they have this sixty-square, awesome house.’ Heath reached out to rest his hand beside his plate. He rubbed his thumb back and forth on the enamel edge. ‘When he’s in an off period he ends up out at the farm. Everything gets on top of him. He just struggles to keep it all together.’

‘Are you close to him?’

‘It’s hard to get close to him. It’s funny because he loves me, he really does, but I . . .’ Heath stopped and a shamed look entered his eyes. Sarah realised he’d been about to say that he doesn’t love his brother the same way in return. ‘I don’t know why he loves me so much. I could count on one hand the times me and him have done something together.’

‘He’s older than you?’

‘Four years.’

‘He might feel guilty for not being the big brother he wanted to be.’

‘In his good periods, he tries his hardest to be a son and a husband and a dad, but he never, he never is a brother. He . . .’ Heath held up his hands and pushed an invisible wall, ‘. . . keeps his distance.’

‘He might not want to burden you with how sad he feels?’

‘Maybe.’ Heath sipped his whiskey. She could see he was thinking back over what he’d said, regretting his candour maybe.

Sarah dished up dessert. There was even more on their plates now than there had been for mains. She poured a dash of cold water in with her whiskey, to stretch it out, sipped it to taste. ‘When there’s someone sick like that in a family, it must be hard to be the healthy one.’

‘Harder to be the sick one, I reckon.’

‘Does he look like you?’

‘You can tell we’re related. People say we sound exactly the same. He’s really good-looking though.’

Sarah scoffed. ‘And you’re not? Shit, he must be bloody gorgeous.’ The words were out before she could stop them. She pursed her lips – too late. How could she say that, think that, having only a short while ago frozen with fear beside him in the shower? What was wrong with her? Here was the opportunity to outline the platonic nature of things, and Sarah had to go and muddy it with comments like that. It was as though she wanted an element of
maybe, maybe not
between them. If he’d levelled one of his glinting green gazes at her then God knows the shade of deep red she would have gone.

He picked up his bowl and surveyed the contents. He seemed to be letting her off the hook by ignoring the compliment. ‘I’ve got butterflies in my stomach. This looks amazing. And I don’t even like plum pudding.’

Now her pulse was racing – it was ridiculous. Heat prickled beneath the merino wool of her thermals. Her palms were sweaty. For the first time in many years Sarah felt single. Not married, not partnered, not chewed-up, spat out, deceived, used and hurt. Just single. And what a time to feel it. This was the problem with noticeably attractive people: you noticed them. Until you got to know them, their external beauty was all you saw. Familiarity would moderate Heath’s looks, but the type of information he was drip-feeding her wasn’t doing it, if anything it was enhancing his appeal. Sarah pulled herself together. She told herself it wasn’t that she found Heath attractive; it was that he
was
attractive, two very different things.

He eased his chair around and propped his feet on a block of wood, rested his bowl high on his chest. ‘Wonder how the Boxing Day Test is going? Kill for a score.’

His five o’clock shadow had filled in. His cheeks were ruddy from the heat. She watched him repositioning himself. If not for his limp she would have noticed much earlier that Heath moved his body like a cat. He stretched single muscle groups with a slow roll of his shoulder, a gentle twist of his head. He was unabashed about his shape and length and often lifted his arms and arched his body to extend it. Over in the stable was the sound of Tansy shaking her body. She was settling further in to her home too, easing off high alert and getting comfortable.

‘Mmm,’ Heath sunk low in his seat and took a mouthful of dessert, ‘. . . my tastes are changing as I chew.’

Sarah put aside her dessert. She drank her whiskey. ‘Plum pudding is one of my favourite things. I’m saving mine for later.’

‘You must be a grownup. Mum tells me only grownups like plum pudding. At Christmas lunch she makes me sit at the kids’ table to eat my chocolate ice cream. Looks like after this I’ll have a seat at the adult table.’

‘It’ll be funny if I do know your parents. Is the farm a fair way out? Did you go to a small rural school?’

‘I boarded.’

‘Ah, a city-educated snob. Lucky we didn’t know one another, you would have looked down your nose at me.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘My place in Lauriston has been on the market,’ she told him. ‘It sold a week ago. Not really sure where I’ll be after this.’

‘I like the mountains.’

‘You say that now, you might feel differently if we’re still here in a couple of days.’

‘Nah. Touching wood and all that . . .’ He tapped the toe of his boot against the block of timber. ‘But this isn’t bad. Got my whole life to be lying on the couch watching cricket. These are the moments that stay with you forever.’

‘That’s one way to look at it.’

‘I know it’s different for you. Being a woman and all, and vulnerable.’

‘That’s sexist.’

‘It didn’t come out like I meant.’

‘Before you started whistling Dixie from your log, I wasn’t too far away from thinking it was kind of an all right moment for me too.’

‘Then I came along and blew your Zen.’ He grinned with the spoon turned upside down in his mouth.

Sarah’s moment of muddled attraction toward him had passed. But he brought it all back with his teasing smile. ‘I wouldn’t say I was in a state of Zen.’ She reached for the bottle. She splashed another glug of the whiskey into her cup. ‘I’m just saying I’m not sure I’m going to be overjoyed to see the rescuers either.’