Daughter of Australia (29 page)

James chuckled. “You all right?”

“I'll be fine,” Tom said drowsily. “Soon as this bloody room stops spinnin'.” He leaned his forehead against the wood. “I'm wiring the money to Ashley tomorrow.”

“Good.”

“You saved my arse, mate.” Tom's eyes wrinkled with drunken sentiment.

“Just keep it in your pants from now on.”

“Told you, I'm celibate.” Tom let go of the wall and raised his hand in oath, his whole body swaying. “Swear it!”

“Celibate as a jackrabbit.”

“By the way”—Tom stepped back from the room, his voice fading as he fumbled to stay upright down the hall—“the wife, the looker? Maiden name is Fairfield.”

The name resonated, echoed from the past, vibrated in the back of James's throat. A breeze, the gentle zephyr of the sea, clung to the rafters, wafted across his eyelashes. Her face, the verity of it, entered torpidly like a body steps into an icy pool. A glow waved down his limbs, finally settling in his chest with confirmation.
Leo.

 

The setting sun poked his face. James pulled the hat over his eyes, leaving just enough space to see the horse as he rode back to the homestead. Tom, his body caked red, swept up the last remnants of the dust storm that flew in overnight. “How'd the sheep fare?” Tom asked.

“Dirty and thirsty. Didn't lose a head, though.”

Tom scratched his ear. “Thinking we should head out in a day or two. Move it up.”

“Had the same thought,” James agreed. “Weather's going to test us.” He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped down his face. “I'll go tell Alex.”

James rapped on the large wooden door of the house, his knuckles stained orange from the ride. He faced the drive as he waited. A fine layer of dust covered the Model T, the rosebush along the porch. Stuff stuck like chalk to fingers, he thought. Be at least a week before it cleared.

“Hello.” Leonora Harrington stood at the open door.

His boots melted into a puddle, glued to the wood slats. He forgot where he was. He scrounged for his hat, took it off too quickly. “Sorry to bother you . . . Mrs. Harrington.” James cleared his throat, patted down his matted hair. “Is . . . ah . . . your husband in?”

“No. He went out this morning,” she said softly. “Should be back later tonight if you need to speak with him.”

James thought about leaving. He should go.
Go
. His legs forgot how to walk. He tapped his foot, made sure there was feeling in it, then suddenly stuck out his hand. “James. We didn't meet officially.”

“Leonora.” She smiled and shook his hand, then looked at the red dust stuck to her palm.

“Aw, sorry.” James rubbed his hand on his leg. “Just got in from the back paddock. Haven't had a chance to wash up.” He wrinkled his forehead. He was a mess, inside and out.

“Been half-covered myself.” She laughed, opened the door wider, leaned her hip against the edge. “Still trying to clean the dust from the floors. Do the storms always come in so fast?”

“Not usually.” His mouth moved normally, spoke automatic words while his pulse raced like a runaway train. “Only seen one like that before, but moved out quick. Without the wind, they can linger.” And there she was again. Standing there. James forgot the storm. He forgot his name. He forgot to speak and just stared.

Her eyes flitted with the long pause. She touched her collar. “You're one of the new managers, right? I remember you from the other day.”

“About that, Mrs. Harrington,” he started, and took a step closer.

“Please, call me Leonora.”

He couldn't say the name. “About the other day”—he swallowed—“I owe you an apology.”

“No.” She lowered her eyes, pulled her body closer to the door. “It's all right.”

“No, it's not. That comment I made . . .” He paused and put the hat back on his head. “I saw the gun and . . . thought he'd shoot the horse,” he tried to explain. “Didn't want anybody getting hurt. Certainly didn't mean to insult you. I like women.” His ears burned with the last fumbled words. “I mean, I respect women.”

She laughed then, the rise and fall soft as a feather's stroke.

“I'm screwing this all up.” James smirked helplessly, cocked his head. “Just wanted to say ‘sorry,' that's all.”

“Apology accepted.” Leonora smiled, the discomfort gone. “You probably saved that horse's life. I should be thanking you.”

James looked over her features—the skin, the shape of her face, the hair. A steady warmth, thick with memories, flowed into his chest. He turned away, stared back to the drive to give his senses a break, line up his thoughts in some sort of order.

“Was there anything else?” she asked.

He turned back slowly, kept his gaze glued to his boot as he tapped the heel against the wood. “I knew a Leonora once.” The words came out soft and gentle as an old, lazy wind.

“Really?” She tilted her head pleasantly. “It's not a very common name.”

“You look like her.” He raised his face up. “We lived at an orphanage on the coast . . . near Geraldton.” James watched her intently now, his nerves gone. “Perhaps you know it.”

Her lips opened. The blood drained straight away from her face and neck. She tried to speak and floundered, then shook her head as one shakes a soiled rug. “Are you suggesting I was an orphan?” Her eyes panicked.

Just then, the sun slid past his shoulder and lit the side of her hair, glowing a line of gold around her face. His heart kicked. The light rose to her eyes and picked up the fear and the pain in the hazel irises and he knew her. Doubt, if there had been any, was gone. James stuffed his hands in his pockets and straightened his posture. “I didn't mean to offend you.”

“An orphanage?” She cringed with the words, her voice high and shaking. The sun reflected off her wet, wide eyes. “What do I look like to you?”

Her disgust cut straight and quick. “My mistake,” he said grimly, tipped his hat.

“Yes, it is!”

The door slammed at his nose, his insides smacked flat.

 

Leonora rolled her body against the wood door and covered her face. Sobs burst from her throat, bent her spine with the force. Tears, hot and bloated, ran down her face and slicked her cheeks and wet her lips. She slid down the door to the floor and buried her face into her knees, her shoulders shaking.

Fear stung the surface—real panic, conditioned terror at the mention of the orphanage, of that life. She clawed the collar of her dress, snapping open the buttons that strangled her throat. She shook with raspy cries, quick spasms against the flood of tears. Her fingers clenched the gold chain around her neck, slid down to the small stone clasped at the base and blindly rubbed the smooth pebble, and the disbelief grew; the shock and the fear grew.

But below the fear, it was the longing that brought the ripping sobs, the missing of what had been buried and nearly lost, the knowing and the bone-breaking relief that the dream was not a dream.
James.
Leonora pulled the necklace into her palm, then slowly released her grip and stared with wavy, wet vision at the white stone. She smiled through the tears now, her lips stretching between joy and grief and fear. A short laugh, tinged with crying, spluttered from her mouth. She shook her head, jostled the disbelief to belief.

Leonora pulled her head up and the tears stopped with dread. She saw his face—saw how she had spit on him. Grabbing her knees, she rocked and tried to remember the man's features before they were hurt. He had shaken her hand, touched her. She brought her palm up, turned her hand, felt the strong grip of his long fingers, the sturdiness of them. His features blurred then and she squeezed her eyes to see the lines of his face, but she only saw the way he looked away as if his face had been slapped. She looked at her hand again. The yellowed bruise from Alex's grip ringed her wrist and she tucked her hand away.

Leonora plopped her head back against the door, drained. The curtains fluttered gently with the breeze, the light smell of roses riding on its tail.
James.
She smiled softly with the name.
Here.
The air flowed cool to her wet collar, dried her cheeks and eyes until the skin felt tight. The room grew soft with mellowed light. She whispered the name out loud: “James.”

 

Tom sat on a hay bale examining a ledger, his hat high on his head revealing freckled forehead and red hair slick with sweat. He scribbled with his pen, chewed on the cap, then turned with the sound of clinking glasses. “Mrs. Harrington, I do believe you're an angel!”

With chin up, Leonora tried to steady her arms so the glasses of lemonade stopped spilling. Despite her nerves, she couldn't help laughing, the man's expression so easy and happy. “Thought you might be thirsty.”

He left the ledger and pen on top of the bale, took the drink offered and with no more than two gulps swallowed every drop. “Heaven couldn't taste any sweeter!” He stuck out a hand. “Thomas Shelby.”

Struggling to balance the tray in one arm, she stuck out her hand. “Leonora.”

He pumped her arm. “Good to meet you.”

“Would you like another glass?”

“Naw, that was perfect. Thanks.”

She couldn't help smiling at him. He was simple and genuine, with clear blue eyes that sparkled with humor. More cute than handsome, he seemed a man who would wrestle and tickle a girl as much as he would kiss her.

Tom wiped his forehead with his sleeve. The sun beat upon their shoulders. “I don't know how you can bear this heat,” she said.

“Haven't seen nothin' yet. This is winter, love. But don't worry; you'll get used to it.” He looked past her, past the house. “Got a beautiful place here, Leonora. My dad would have killed for an acre of this land.”

“He's a farmer?”

“Was. Died a long while ago.”

“I'm sorry.”

“No worries. He always wanted to raise sheep, have a station. Had a few head, but not many.” Tom's lips twitched with amusement. “Dad treated 'em lambs more like pets than stock. Had 'em all named, too. Called half of 'em Fluffy.”

She laughed, liked him instantly, liked him more than almost anyone she had ever met.

“Well, guess I should get back to the books. Thanks again for the drink.”

“Is the other manager around?” she asked, trying to sound natural.

“James? Yeah.” He craned his neck. “Back behind the barn fixin' a hole in the fence. Just warnin' you, though, he's been a royal grump.” He gave her a quick wink. “Maybe the drink will sweeten him up, eh?”

Leonora carried the tray away from the barn, stepped over a few rocks toward the endless fence, the lemonade sloshing over the rim from her unstable grip. And there he was, James, sitting on his heels, a piece of wire in his mouth and a wrench in his hand as he wrestled the torn fence. She swallowed hard and walked toward him, her heart galloping.

James did not look up at the sound of footsteps or turn his head when her shadow inched across him. “I . . . I thought you might like some lemonade,” she offered.

“I'm not thirsty.” James kept his eyes focused on the wire as he wound it up and over the hole. His brows were knit and the tanned muscles of his forearms twitched and tightened with each pull.

“Please.” Her voice cracked. “You don't even have any shade.”

He put the wire down and stretched up, her eyes watching his body unfold. James took the glass from the tray and nodded, averting his eyes to a spot far into the distance. “Thanks.”

She stood there dumbly holding the tray in her hands while he drank. He didn't seem to notice she was still there. She fumbled to fill in the space. “What happened to the fence?”

“Not sure,” he said tersely. “Maybe a dingo.”

She stared at the side of his face, the long throat, the chestnut hair trimmed neatly around his ears and at the neck, the smooth, straight nose and the distant, ignoring eyes that stung her very skin. Leonora looked down, closed her eyes and with a deep, last breath asked softly, “Do you remember what you used to call Sister McCrackenas?”

James stood there quiet. He took a long drink of lemonade. His face did not move.

She got the signal. Her face flooded red and she turned away, tried to slink away without losing her last smudge of dignity. But then a voice sounded from behind in a spot-on Scottish drawl, “Ah, ye mean thee lov'ly Mis' Crack 'n the ass?”

The laughter erupted before she knew it was coming, came so fast that she started hiccuping. She dropped the tray, the empty glass, and they bounced in the dirt. James looked at her now, a mischievous smirk on his face. He bent down and picked up the fallen items, handed them back, grinning widely as she tried to quiet her giggles.

Leonora wiped her eyes, fanned the air as if it were the heat, not the bold relief, that brought the unbridled mirth. She calmed, steadied her smile, her breathing. James watched her now, the dark eyes studying, the space between them quiet.

“Is it really you?” she whispered, her mouth unable to close. “After all this time?”

He nodded, his features still and waiting.

She remembered her slight from the day before. “I was very rude to you!” she gasped. “I'm so, so sorry.”

“No worries.”

“No, I was awful. I just couldn't believe it.” She hurried to find the right words. “It was so long ago, almost like a dream. And then to be here—for you to be here.” She put her hand on her head. “Do you know what I mean? Am I making any sense?”