Daughter of Australia (36 page)

She snatched her hand, tucked it into the folds of her arms. Her body rocked.

“I didn't mean to upset you, Leo.” James tried to read her face. “It's hardly noticeable. Really. I just never saw it before.”

Slowly, she untucked her hand and stared at the scar, traced the outline of it with her nail. Then her fingers floated to her throat, fumbled with the collar, found the first button, played with it for a minute and then unclasped it. Nimbly, her fingers slid to the next button and plucked it open. She stared ahead as she moved down the line.

James swallowed. He watched the skin appear between the open fabric: the pale, pink skin of her neck; the crevice at the base of her throat that glistened lightly; the beginning of a crease that would lead to her breasts. He knew he should turn away, but his attention stuck as he watched her fingers, her skin, helplessly.

Leonora reached inside her dress and pulled out a necklace. She caressed the chain and inched down to the small pendent. Then she pulled it forward and held it out.

He tore his eyes from her skin and picked up the pendent. The gold chain was as thin as thread and led down to a white oval stone. James clicked his teeth. “Hate to disappoint you, but I think your jeweler sold you a bum gem.”

Leonora watched his face intently, almost urgently. “Don't you recognize it?”

He turned his focus to the simple rock again and then everything shifted and his whole body softened. “You kept it?” he asked.

She nodded happily, her eyes sparkling. “I never forgot you, James.” Then she corrected herself, “How
good
you are.”

James returned the chain to her dress. His finger touched the skin below her throat and slid down the warm flesh as he let the chain drop from his hand. Her breathing quickened with the touch and her eyes flitted away.

Leonora picked up the stone and looked at it once more. “After I was adopted,” she began, “the Fairfields burned everything I had—my suitcase, my clothes, even my shoes. I didn't have much. But this . . .” She dangled the stone and her face fell with emotion. “This stone meant more to me than anything in the world.”

She tucked the necklace into the dress. “As soon as I got the chance, I dug through the hot ashes. The nest and feathers burned up, but I found the stone. That's how I got the scar.” Her face was timid. “The jeweler thought I was crazy when I wanted to set it in gold.”

They sat quietly together, looking out over the water, their faces comfortable with memories. James stood up. “Wait here. I want to show you something.”

He went to the saddlebag of his horse, pulled out a book. He looked at the cover for a moment and then handed it to her.

She tilted her head skeptically. “You're trying to convert me now?”

“Open it.”

She opened the worn, dented Bible and stared at the handwriting, cocked her head.

“It's my mother's,” he said cautiously. “Her diary.”

Leonora's mouth fell open. “That's why you carried it with you all the time. And here I thought you were planning to join the priesthood.”

James laughed. Then he stilled and looked at the book sitting easily and naturally in her hands, felt good that she held it. “You're the first person I ever showed it to.”

Leonora closed the book, rubbed her hand over the cover tenderly, noticed the charred edges, decided to not ask about the source. She handed it back to him. “Thanks for trusting me.”

The sun, now bright pink, waved from the treetops as its descent began. The strong late-afternoon rays reflected off the ghost gums, turning the white bark to a canvas splashed with orange and pink. The water only held light; the leaves and limbs and sky submerged within the painted lines. As the height of the sky turned from orange to pink to lilac, Leonora knew the last moments of her time with James ticked away, the sun pulling her mood back down. Slowly, she turned to James and watched his profile—his brown hair trimmed short and neat around his ear and edged straight at his neck; the long, strong throat and the wide shoulders that curved down to his muscular arms. He turned to meet her gaze.

“I should be getting back,” she said quietly.

“You don't have to, Leo,” he said just above a whisper, his eyes steady and serious. “Not if you don't want to.”

She nodded and stood from the ground, his eyes tracking her movements. “Yes, I do.”

James rose and followed her to the horse. Leonora leaned her back against the soft leather of the saddle and placed her head against the mare's neck, enjoying the warmth. James moved closer and patted the horse's nose. The mare nestled affectionately against his palm.

James adjusted the horse's bridle. The space between Leonora's body and his vibrated, throbbed. She gazed at his face while he worked, the lines and features, the way his eyes held everything in them until they were full and deep. He looked at her then and let his hands fall idle by his sides. A silent urgency grew to his face and made her heart leap in her chest. His eyes were taking her in, absorbing every ounce of her, and she couldn't turn away. He looked past her for a moment, gave a measured exhale and slowly leaned toward her.

Leonora's breath caught—pure feeling wiped away any thoughts. In an instant, she leaned in and met his body, raised her face to his. But the thought came too slow, the realization that he was only returning the book to the saddlebag, was too far tucked in the peripheral to compete and it was too late to stop. Leonora placed her lips softly and hungrily against his just as the thought caught up with icy clarity—he wasn't going to kiss her. And his lips were straight and unmoving below hers, stiff and unresponsive.

Her body chilled, mortified, the embarrassment wild and sharp. Leonora's lips opened, fell back from his in horror. Her eyes clamped shut as she pulled back, prayed she'd disappear. “Oh, my God,” she choked. She covered her face with her hands. Her stomach and legs weak from shame. “I'm so sorry!” she gasped. “I'm such a fool. I thought . . .”

“Look at me, Leo,” he ordered.

“No. No. Oh, God.” She shook her head frantically. “You must hate me!”

He grabbed her wrists and pried them from her face. “Look at me, Leo!”

In humble defeat, she unglued her eyelids, hoping to disappear before she saw his face twisted in disgust. But his face held no disgust, only longing. And then he was kissing her. His lips full and alive, warm and pressing.

James released the grip on her wrist and brought his hands to her face, holding her skin with his fingertips and cradling her jaw in his palms. Her skin faded into his skin, her lips absorbed into his lips and the world fell into another place far away from where they stood. She reached her arms around the broad back and slid her hands down the length of his spine. And the breathing grew and the movement of their lips quickened. Falling.
Falling
. She drifted into his body and flowed into the warmth of his curve and her body grew limp, but his strong arm was unyielding around her waist and held her to him, kept her from falling.

Panting replaced breathing. His lips were in her hair, at her neck, in the collar of her dress. And she kissed his eyes and his temples and his cheeks, clutched his hips with clawed fingers. His strong thighs pressed against her and the horse shifted behind her back and moved forward. Leonora stumbled and the kiss broke in two. Through the haze, the outer world sorted its particles, solidified and settled. The land, the sun, the air, rushed in too quickly.

“I should g-g-go,” she stammered, disoriented.

James blinked, then nodded. She turned to the only horse, then turned back to James with silent questioning. “Take her,” he whispered.

“It's a long walk,” she breathed.

“Just take her.” James awoke from his stupor, placed his hand on the saddle. “Leo . . .”

Leonora would not look at him but pleaded hoarsely, “I've got to go.” His gaze heated her back as she kicked the horse to a gallop.

As the wind whipped across Leonora's skin her mind held on to the look of his face, her fingers could still feel the tight knit fabric of his shirt, her back still burned with the pressure of his arms laced around her body. Nerves mixed with heat and anxiety swirled and burned her stomach. And then the horse ring rose into view and the metal roof of the homestead peeked over the horizon as if only a minute had passed in riding. The windows of the big house were now lit and bright against the twilight.

Leonora rushed to put the horse in the barn, then held the dress above her knees as she bounded up the steps to the verandah and entered the house quietly. Alex's office door was closed, a stream of light leaked from the bottom and she sighed with relief. As she reached the bottom of the staircase she winced at the sound of the door opened from the hall.

“There you are!” Alex leaned against the door, his arms folded at his chest. “I was getting worried. Thought I'd have to send out a search party.”

“Why?” she asked coldly. “You know I'm not going anywhere.”

“True.” He turned back to his office. “Very true. Good night, darling. Sleep well.”

 

Leonora leaned over the steps of the verandah and clipped roses into her basket, cringed at the sound of the horses returning from the hunt. Alex rode up first, a dead kangaroo dragging behind the horse, a trail of blood drying in the matching red dust. Behind him rode Russell, who held the reins of the third horse, its saddle empty. Alex dismounted, looking refreshed and full of spirit. “Ah, nothing like a good hunt to get the blood pumping.” He untied the kangaroo legs from the ropes and dropped it to the ground, its lifeless body landing with a dusty thud. “See the size of this boomer! Kicking to the very end.”

Leonora turned away in disgust.

“There's something about being out in nature, man against beast.” Alex spoke and sniffed at the air, puffed out his chest. “Seeing the bewilderment, the fear, in the animal's eye before,” and he mimicked holding a rifle, focusing on the target, then pulling the trigger, “Bang!” He watched her carefully, each flinch of her jaw bringing a great enjoyment to his face.

Leonora turned back to the roses. Alex put one boot on the step below her. He reached into her basket and took a rose, smelled it deeply.

“Where is the black fellow that went with you?” she asked flatly.

Alex looked at the rose in puzzlement, spun it between his fingers. “Black fellow?” He squinted his eyes for the memory. “Black fellow?”

Russell shuffled his feet and laughed, pulled the empty horse closer.

“Oh yes! Allambee. That was his name, wasn't it?”

The roustabout snickered again and shrugged his shoulders.

“Allambee, yes. I remember now. Said his name meant ‘quiet resting place.' Odd meaning, isn't it?” Alex asked to the sky. “Anyway, we were out a few miles from here when he just got up and left. Said something about going on a walkabout.” He inspected the folds of the rose. “Strange people, those natives. One minute a guide, the next minute walking into the sunset.”

Despite the warmth of the afternoon, icy fingers tickled down her neck. “He didn't take his horse,” she said.

Alex looked at her as if she were a child. “It's called a walkabout, not a ride-about, my dear.” Then he smiled, dropped the rose and crushed it under his heel like a smoldering butt. He turned to Russell. “How many shots did you fire off this morning?”

“Hard t'say,” Russell cackled. “Couple at the roo. Few others out t'the bush.”

“Should be more careful, Russell,” Alex said in mock reprimand. “Never know what could be in the path of a stray bullet. Those Aborigines blend in right with the shadows, especially the children.” He gave a slow wink to his wife.

“Clean up the horses, Russell. Wipe up the blood!” Alex ordered. “Abo won't be needing his for a while.” The men laughed.

Leonora's stomach fell sickly and her head heated as if it readied for fever.

“Whot yeh want me t'do wiv the roo?” Russell asked.

“Leave it for the dingoes or the buzzards. I don't care.”

With effort, Russell dragged the kangaroo to a cart, leaving tiny dots of rust-colored blood against the dirt.

Leonora held her stomach, turned to the house, but Alex grabbed her elbow. His fingers slid down her forearm and squeezed her hand. He stared at her wedding ring, rubbed the surface of it with his thumb, held the diamond up to the light, his expression distant and odd. “My mother's ring,” he said softly. “My stepfather tried to sell it after she died, but I stole it. Did you know that?” Leonora didn't move, stilled as the pressure on her fingers increased.

“She would never have left me if it weren't for that man. Wouldn't have sent me away, drowned herself in drink.” His eyes shot up to hers, his face taut with warning. “Don't ever leave me, Leonora.”

He dropped her hand, the ring tugging at her finger like a boulder. Alex pushed his shoulders back, smoothed out the hair above his ears. “I take it yesterday's conversation has been forgotten?”

She nodded clumsily, just wanted to be away from him, make the icy fingers stop scratching her back. “You were right; I didn't know what I was saying.”

“That a girl.” He smiled widely and patted her cheek. “Let's hope we never hear that awful word again. Otherwise”—Alex spun on his heel and slung his rifle across his shoulder—“I'll have no choice but to plan another hunting trip.”

 

The shearers arrived with the last of the morning dew. They came carried upon a caravan of haggard-looking utes, three men crammed in the front seat, the rest lounging on the flatbed squatting or hanging legs over the sides, their boots hidden in the pillows of dirt. They came sunburned and strong, the veins raised above the defined muscles of their forearms, their tough voices rich with laughter and the creases around their eyes deep with comradery.