Daughter of Australia (27 page)

They rode in silence a few miles more to a granite range, a large pool of freshwater reflecting the jagged walls. The men dismounted, let the horses drink. Alex leaned against a tree and lit another cigarette, offered two, then tucked them back in his pocket when declined.

Prickly moss lined the water, the yellow flowers round like pompoms. A salmon gum bloomed with parakeets, their chatter bouncing off the stone, magnifying. Tom reclined atop a boulder, finally at ease. “Got a beautiful piece of land here, Mr. Harrington.”

“Alex,” he corrected. “She is indeed.” He looked over the land with ownership.

James skipped a flat stone across the water. “You're taking over the Coolgardie mine?”

“That's right.”

“Long commute.”

“Have a place in Coolgardie, too. I'll divide my time,” Alex noted. “Besides, this place is more for my wife. I don't want her anywhere near those mining towns.” Alex tapped the cigarette in the air. “That reminds me. In a few days I leave for Perth to pick her up.” He looked at them carefully. “I'm trusting you to keep the place running and watched while I'm gone. I kept the managers' quarters close for that reason. You'll find it half a mile toward the creek. There's running water, electricity.”

The American flicked his burning smoke to the pond, pulled out a black flask from his pocket and took a long drink. He pointed it to Tom, who took it gratefully, dropped his head back and gulped. Alex took the flask back and handed it out to James. “You're next, my friend.”

“I don't drink.”

“No?” Alex sucked in his cheeks, then dismissed it. “To each his own.” He wiped his mouth with a fist and put the flask back into his pocket. “You boys married?” he asked.

“Naw,” Tom answered. “Don't need the distraction.”

Alex laughed hard. “Smart. Very smart.” He pulled his horse from the water's edge.

“Your wife American?” Tom asked.

“She is.”

“Bush can be hard on a woman.” Tom glanced at the sun trickling through the branches. “Especially if she's not used to it.”

“And trust me, she's not.” Alex stroked the horse's nose, inspected the hair along the mane. “My wife's as spoiled as a child. This place will do her a world of good, toughen her up a bit.” Alex winked at the men. “A good woman's like a good horse, just needs some breaking in.” He settled upon the saddle and jerked the reins. “Australia'll work her better than a whip.”

S
he was Australia.

Leonora pressed her forehead to the hot window of the train car, her eyes racing with the speeding land. Endless miles of red earth blurred along the tracks, stretched off to the edge of the world, and her gaze fell into its rusted hue and the white heat that shimmered above it—the land of her birth.

She was Australia. Its air was her air, its cells her own.

Leonora sat on the train as a woman. She returned to this flowing land, both a dead and living land, a named woman—branded a Fairfield, then a Harrington: names of wealth that trailed and spoke of her and said she was not a daughter of Australia but of a pedigree. But she knew.

A month ago, America waved from the deck of the steamer and sent kisses from her shores, wished her well toward the other land, just as an aunt says good-bye and gently pushes a child to her mother. After weeks and weeks upon that ship, where the wind shifted and called to her, Australia grew from the very sea, rose to greet her with sheer cliff walls and ocean pinnacles that had not changed a stone but waited patiently for her return. And secretively, she unfolded the creases, smoothed out the edges of her wrinkled Australia, but she did not breathe—not yet.

Southern Cross. Kalgoorlie. Menzies. Kookynie. The towns swung past. The train stopped at each, the firebox exhaling in rest before eating coal and chugging forward again. And then they stopped. Alex took her elbow and led her through a hard, smoking town with hard, smoking men and led her to the car. Australia slowed now and drifted and heated the car on an unshaded journey upon a lone road.

The land cut in two with a wiry fence, a fissure that extended as far as the eye's gaze could follow. Every mile, a gate stopped them. Alex let the car idle as he undid the lock, drove ahead, shut the gate and moved on through the entrances shielding one empty acre from the next.

And there it was. Wanjarri Downs. The house rose from the dirt, its yellow brick mellow and baking against the sun. Alex opened her door and put his arm around her waist, gazed at the house. “What do you think?”

But there were no words. This land was her home, her
home!
Here she could begin anew, breathe life into this house, raise a family, create new memories that would wipe away the nightmares. Life was new again and she was grateful. She reached for Alex, hugged him and felt his smile in her hair. She would forget about the past, erase any history before this moment. She would try to love him. He had brought her back to Australia and she could forgive him for the scars. She would be a good wife. Her soul bloomed. The breath was coming, filled her lungs and wanted to erupt as tears, but it was still not time.

Alex shuttled her through the house, showed her the rooms, opened up the French doors so the curtains billowed upon the hot breeze. He chatted about the land, about the mine, but her ears were dull to the words and only heard the sounds—the sound of his voice, the swish of drapes as they embraced the window frames, the echo of her and Alex's footsteps on new hardwood and the cackle of nearly a million birds from outside.

She was Australia.

The day's light waned. Alex took leave to his office. Leonora stepped to the verandah where the setting sun met with a fiery orange eye. Her body moved now without her will, her thoughts just a passenger. She watched her feet, told them to walk when they wanted to run. The dirt below her soles was red and knew her feet, dusted and coated her high heels. The birds laughed, asked in shouts and shrieks where she had been.

Leonora headed to the trees, buried herself in a cluster of ghost gums, so closely knit that their bony boughs intertwined and latticed. And she pulled herself up into their limbs, gathered her silk dress around her legs and touched the smooth peeling bark with her fingertips, sank her cheek to the white skin. She hung to the boughs, peered with the wide eyes of a chuditch into the growing dark. Kangaroos grew from the shadows, seemed to pop up from the very spot they stood and dotted the plain with raised paws and twitching ears. Her body shook then. Her chest opened. She clung to the tree limbs and cried into its creases like an infant to a mother's breast.

And she grew from Australia again and she was made of Australia again. And she was here under the deep sky, stained by its earth and greeted by bloated flies. And Australia broke her heart with its grace, that it had not forgotten her just as she had never forgotten it. Her lungs broke with sobs and the air broke in and she breathed.

She was home.

T
om paced the floorboards that lined the managers' quarters, the crevices between the new wood still filled with sawdust. He stopped at the window for the hundredth time. “Think he knows?”

“Hard to say.” James held an empty boot between his thighs, rubbed the leather with wax.

“Been back for hours,” Tom continued. “Would have come down by now if he knew, right?” He didn't wait for an answer. “What d'you think he'll do if he knows we ain't the guys?”

“Throw us out,” James said calmly as he squared a soft cloth and spread the grease over the boot's creased tongue.

“Christ.” Tom scratched his head. “He'll be pissed. Looks the type.” He turned to James. “What should we do? Tell him first?”

“Out of our hands.” James buffed the lines near the sole and around the eyelets. “If he knows, he knows. We'll find out soon enough.”

“But Christ, James! Six thousand dollars! Be sick till my grave if we lose this job.” Tom paced back and forth, his mouth twitching.

James picked up his other boot and threw it at Tom's back.

“Ouch!”

“You're putting a hole in the floor. Clean up your boots,” James directed. “Least we can try and look halfway decent when he fires us.”

“Aren't you worried at all?”

James stopped buffing. “We can run this place, Tom. I'm hoping this guy knows it.” He handed Tom the tin of lanolin. “Either way, we'll have our answer soon.” He glanced at their bags slouched near the door. “Wouldn't go unpacking, though.”

Tom picked up a boot, set it on the table, raised and lowered the heel without paying attention to the movement. “Did you catch a glimpse of his wife?” Tom grinned.

“No,” James said, disinterested.

“Only saw the back of her.” Tom's face softened with a wide smile. “Bet she's a looker.”

James chuckled. “What happened to your vow of celibacy?”

“Just lookin'.” Tom raised his hands innocently. “Man goes crazy staring at nothin' but a sheep's arse.” He sweated under his Akubra hat, stood and nearly knocked the chair over. “Can't take the waitin' no more. Let's go take our lumps.”

Outside the quarters, the homestead was quiet. The sun warmed the right sides of their faces while the left sides stayed cool with morning air.

“Here he comes.” Tom pushed up his sleeves, stared past James to the house, his jaw set. “G'day, Alex!” he called out, shuffling like he needed to use the loo. “How was the trip?”

Alex sauntered up the wide drive, his hands resting easily in his trouser pockets. He wore a light tan suit, white shirt and blue tie knotted thickly at the stiff collar. “Fine.” The man looked around, smiled under the sun. “Gorgeous day, eh?”

Tom relaxed, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

“How were things here?” Alex asked.

“We made a map of the property, assessed the best feeding areas for the stock,” James told him. “Wrote down the numbers, list of supplies you'll want to stock, shearing schedule, number of men needed. Should cover it.”

Alex nodded with pleasure. “Good. I'm impressed.” Then he leaned back, loosened his tie. “Not bad for a couple of farm boys.”

Tom lowered his head and closed his eyes. James did not flinch, stared out to the distance as if he hadn't heard a sound.

“Didn't take more than a few calls to figure it out.” Alex winked. “Nice try, though.”

James turned to him, met his eyes square. “Never lied to you. Not once.”

“True.” Alex furrowed his brow and thought about this for a second. “Of course, you didn't try and set it straight, either.”

James remembered his promise to Mrs. Shelby. “We can run this place.”

“I'm not arguing with you,” Alex said. “But there are men much more qualified begging for work.” He narrowed his eyes in challenge. “Give me a reason why I should keep you.”

James gazed intently around the land, at the house, at the barn, and settled his eyes on the horse ring. “Said you needed to bring someone in to train the horses.”

Alex studied James's deep look with amusement. “That's right.”

“I can do it.”

“Is that so?” Alex laughed then. “You know horses?”

“Yes.”

Alex rubbed his chin, enjoying himself greatly. “You a bettin' man, James?”

“No.”

“Hmmm. Don't drink, don't smoke, don't gamble.” His face opened in mock wonderment. “You're a man without a vice!” Alex clapped his hands then, rubbed them exultantly. “All right, since you're not a betting man, how about a challenge?”

James watched him narrowly, straddled his legs. “What do you have in mind?”

“You get on top of that stallion”—Alex pointed at the black body in the ring—“and stay on him for one minute, you got the job.”

Tom gave up, slouched his shoulders. “We'll grab our stuff an' get going.” But James was already bent under the top fence beam, easing into the arena.

Along the rough-hewn wood, Alex leaned his elbows and pulled out his cigarette case. He opened the tin, pounded the tobacco and lit the match, then sucked in deeply through a smile. “Hope you know how to fix a broken rib.”

In the ring, the black stallion stood alone, raised and lowered his front hooves as James approached. The horse flared his nostrils and snorted, but James paid him no mind, walked past him to the more sedate mare, rubbed her shoulder and nose.

Alex folded his arms, covered his grin with one hand, cleared his throat. “Ummm, Mr. O'Reilly?” His eyebrows pointed arrogantly. “The stallion's the black one—behind you.”

James ignored Alex and pulled the brown mare closer, stepped back until the stallion was right behind his head, the breath hot and angry in his hair. James reached into a feedbag and fed the mare from his hand. The stallion pushed James in the back with his nose. James talked to the mare with soothing words and shoulder scratches.

The stallion, rearing like an obstinate child, stepped forward and pushed James's elbow, spilling feed along the ground. James brought up another handful and, with his back turned, held up his palm. The stallion smelled the oats, huffed, stepped back and then forward, took a nibble.

Slow and easy as a spring breeze, James brought his hand around to the onyx mane. The horse balked. James turned away. The stallion came up again, then recoiled. And they played this game for several rounds until gradually and nearly imperceptibly James's hand moved across the thick muscled neck and rested on the mighty shoulders.

James did not give a hint of threat or impatience as he flowed around the horse. The stallion quieted but stretched eyes to watch him, showing the whites at the corners. Then, with one hand to the horse's neck and another to the twitching back, James closed his eyes, held his breath and in one hard jump swung himself onto the long spine. The stallion reared and James squeezed his thighs and knees hard against the ribs, held to the neck with every muscle in his hands. The horse sprinted furiously to the other end of the ring, jumped over the high fence.

A cloud of dust erupted under the horse's hooves. James buried his face in the thrashing mane, his hands white with his grip and his ears deaf with the angry pounding. Pulling every ounce of strength into his thighs until they locked hard and tight as steel, he held on—held on for the job, for the Shelbys, for Tom. And the gallop went on, blasted through trees, the limbs ripping his shirt and lashing his arms. The horse veered, splashed over creeks, splattering his face and body with mud, his inner thighs burning as they slipped over the wet hair.

Finally, after miles of terrain, the horse's breathing labored and the slick, bulging muscles twitched, began to slow. Guardedly, James raised his head off the stallion's mane and adjusted his numb jaw, his neck cracking with the turn. He released the pressure from his knees and his thighs trembled with the slack; his joints throbbed with the rush of restricted blood.

The horse trotted now and James stroked the subdued head, patted the great neck. Deep red gorges surrounded them, the sun hitting directly on the walls, blazing the stones blood orange. Stately tuart trees and red box gums stretched high, their trunks majestic and solid, the limbs flowering only at the peaks.

With a tired knee, James steered the horse to the creek and let him drink. James's own mouth was dirty and parched, but he didn't dare get off; he wouldn't have the strength to remount. When the horse was sated, they left the gorge behind and traced the hoofprints back to the lost station.

The homestead emerged as a pale dot in the landscape, grew with each tempered step. A crowd had formed at the arena. Workmen put down hammers, stood to watch the sweaty, lathered horse and the mound of dust that rode him. Tom took off his hat and waved, worked hard to calm his lips.

Alex offered James a hand as he dismounted, held him up as his legs buckled. James gripped his knees, coughed the dust from his mouth. “So”—he raised one eye—“we got the job?”

Alex slapped him heartily on the back. “You got the job.”