Dream Time (historical): Book I (26 page)

“I’m tired of waiting, too,” she complained, hurting too much to be excited. Her hands crumpled the sheet as another shattering thrust extended her pelvis.

“One more push. There you go! Why, look what we have here, me luv.”

She heard a sputtering little cry, like a kitten’s mew, but couldn’t muster the curiosity or strength to raise her head and look.

“A fine boy, it is.”

At the weight on her chest, her eyes snapped open. A reddened, wizened, wet little human flailed tiny arms and kicked and cried.

Sin proceeded to cleanse the infant with a soft cotton cloth, then he edged up her chemise and cupped her breast. “Give the mite what he wants, and maybe he’ll hush that infernal shrieking.”

Her gaze shifted from the baby suckling at her nipple to Sin's face. Tears spilled down his beard-shadowed cheeks.

§ CHAPTER NINETEEN §

Dream Time station had become a village of sorts, a fact which never failed to amaze Amaris. How had so many years passed since she and Francis set up housekeeping in what amounted to little more than a shed?

Gathering spring’s wild flowers, she stood on the slope of the ridge and gazed down upon the station: the house, the ba
rns and dairy and all the outbuildings, the men’s quarters and the row of married-worker’s cottages, their dining room, the kitchens, the store, and now a chapel and a graveyard. More than forty people were on the Dream Time payroll.

No wonder just keeping the books had become a full-time job for her. But she missed the adventure that came with working outdoors.

Picking her way down a footpath, she headed for the graveyard. Her parents had been the first to be interned within the picket-fenced enclosure, located beneath a leafy canopy of gum boughs. The aborigines’ mutilation of their bodies three years before had made Francis’s return from the burned out village a horrendous affair.

Entering the gate, she stopped between the two graves, each marked with a large, white wooden cross. One day she planned to erect something more substantial with fitting epitaphs. The day her parents left the world, Robert had entered.

One door closes, another opens.

Sighing, she rose to return to the house. Her gaze fell on Francis, who plowed behind the plodding bullocks in the west pasture. Astride his shoulders perched Robert. She had to acknowledge the boy made a better man of the father. For Robert’s sake, Francis worked harder. The nobleman had become a common man, a man of the soil.

He was trying harder to be a good husband, also. Two days after Robert’s birth, Ryku had returned to the station. Baluway told Amaris that while she was still abed, Francis had ordered Ryku off the premises. Apparently, the station hands believed the punishment was the result of Ryku’s desertion when the mistress was in need of aid.

For Robert’s sake, Francis was also involving himself in the community. He had volunteered to accompany Sin on a wagon train headed to Sydney with the wool baled from the various stations. The local station owners had requested Sin to negotiate with a Sydney agent to send the wool to the London sales.

Since wool could be sold only once a year, this presented a cash-flow problem. A broking company in Sydney paid the sheep rancher an advance on the wool’s value and arranged the shipping and sale—the benefit to the station owners and squatters being that they received their money much sooner, almost a year in most cases, than if they sent it to London themselves.

Francis spotted her and stopped his plowing. Grinning, he beckoned her to join him. As she drew nearer, Robert called out, “Mama!” and wiggled this way and that atop his father’s shoulders in an attempt to get down.

“Whoa, son,” Francis said. Sweat was dripping off of his brow and beard, bleached almost white by the fierce sun.

“Why not take a break?” she suggested. She slipped her hands underneath Robert’s arms to transfer him from his father’s shoulder to her hip. “One of the workers could be doing this.”

Francis wiped the back of his arm across his perspiring forehead. “I like working with my hands. It’s something my father would have frowned upon.” Strange, she thought, that the salon-raised Francis enjoyed more working with the earth, and Sin, who had so toiled most of his life, found greater pleasure in people and ideas.

Francis shaded his eyes, fanned with wrinkles, against the harsh sunlight. “Going to be the best crop yet, Amaris.”

“If the rains ever come.” Robert was getting restless and heavy, and she shifted him to her other hip. “Don’t forget Robert’s birthday party. The Tremaynes will be here this evening.”

She looked forward to seeing Celeste and Sin, who would stay the weekend. Celeste adored Robert. When Amaris watched her hug and talk to the three-year-old, her heart went out in sympathy to her friend. Celeste yearned so for a child
but apparently had resigned herself to remaining childless.

How was Sin dealing with a wife who risked her life each time she made love? Amaris’s imagination was fertile. She visualized Sin and Celeste in bed, their limbs entangled in the throes of lovemaking.

Did he withdraw before spilling his essence into her? Or perhaps he didn’t even take that risk. Perhaps he sought out the arms of another woman for release, taking to bed one of the aborigine women as Francis had done.

Or, worse, maybe he found solace in the arms of a white woman in Sydney on those journeys on behalf of the syndication of local stations.

Jealousy, hot, explosive, and blinding, roared through her. She pivoted away from Francis before she could betray her volatile fury and stalked back to the house. Her anticipation of the Tremaynes’ visit was dampened.

As she prepared the birthday dinner, Francis sat playing with Robert. A small replica of Francis, the toddler was blessed with a riot of blond curls and large beautiful brown eyes.

At the moment, Rogue was tugging on one of his stockings, and the toddler was laughing. His chubby cheeks were a cherubic pink. He was so precious to her. She missed that first year and a half that she had nursed him. Sin had been the first to put her son to her breast.

Sensing her deflated mood, Francis tried to engage her in light conversation. She had to admit he had been penitent and sensitive to her needs ever since the incident with Ryku. “There is talk that the major is pushing Sin to run for a territorial seat.”

“I doubt Sin wants to get involved in politics. His law student days cured him of battling for the masses.”

“A smart Irishman.”

She ignored the remark and concentrated on applying a butter glaze to the cake.

“Countryside is beginning to look seared. Do you think the rains are just late this year?”

“Are you asking if this is more than just a dry spell, if we’re facing a drought? No one can determine the start of a drought until afterwards.”

She felt her words had been testy. Taking a swish of the glaze on one forefinger, she presented the swirl for his taste. “Your approval, sire,” she said, smiling.

He wrapped an arm around her waist and, taking her finger between his lips, sucked the sticky substance. “Hmmm, you get sweeter by the year.”

“And you get more randy.” She grinned and pulled away to glance down at Robert, who had fallen asleep at his father’s feet. A protective Rogue rested his grizzled muzzle in the boy’s lap.

She bent to collect her son and cradle him in her arms. “Robert’s been so excited about seeing his Uncle Sin, he didn’t sleep well last night.” She pushed back the sweat-damp forelock that had fallen across his forehead.

“I’m not too keen on Sin’s teaching him to ride at such an early age.”

Her defensive instincts surged to the forefront. “Sin is always very careful.”

She wondered if Francis could be jealous of the affection between their son and Sin. Robert loved his father, but he absolutely worshiped his Uncle Sin. With Robert’s delivery, a bond had been forged between her son and Sin.

In every way she was tied to Sin, except in the one that was most important to a woman in love.

“Robby!” A flamingo-thin Celeste whispered and bent to kiss the napping boy.

Robert stirred. His lids fluttered and he awoke with a grin.

Celeste picked the toddler up from his bed and planted loving kisses on his baby-fat cheeks. “Oh, Robby, you have a new tooth since I’ve last seen you. Aren’t you growing into a handsome lad? Keep this up and I’ll be able to marry you. I’m waiting for you, you know.”

Behind her, Sin said, “You’ll have to wrestle me for her, Robert.”

At the sight of his uncle, Robert’s face radiated. Another smile erupted. “Uncle Shin!” he gurgled.

“Alas,” Celeste said, passing Robert to Sin, “I must yield to someone held in greater favor by my prince.”

Sin grasped Robert around his chubby waist and held him aloft so that his baby face was close to Sin’s own. Rubbing noses with Robert, he laughed and so did the toddler.

Amaris loved the sound of their laughter. This was what life was all about.

“A prince are you?” Sin teased. “I’d much prefer to be a toad. They have more fun. They get to play in water. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Or better yet, how about fishing, me lad? Shall we do that?”

His glance strayed over the toddler’s head to meet her gaze. His smile altered. It was still a smile but there was a subtle, fine thread of something more.

At her side, Francis said, “Come along, cobber. Amaris has burned the supper, I fear, and ’tis up to us to provide it."

“Oh, you cad!” Amaris responded in mock indignity. “Don’t believe him, Celeste.”

Over a dinner of roast mutton, snow peas, cooked greens, and steamed rice, the conversation skipped from dress patterns to the deepening draught. Sipping from their vineyard wine, Sin told of a new hand he had hired, a British migrant who had come to Australia and the outback to make his fortune. Well-connected, he had letters of introduction but had no idea what it took to adapt to station life.

Sin leaned back in his chair, glass stem in his hand. “Mr. Crane was a Yorkshire man who insisted on taking the cattle out to look for water two months ago. He didn’t return, and I rode out to follow his tracks but they disappeared from a water hole on a stretch of flat water-worn pebbles. This morning I found his skeleton only forty meters away from the water hole, hidden by brush.”

Francis tossed down the remainder of his glass. “Our native-born jackeroos might be as inexperienced as these damned British migrants but at least they know and understand the land.”

Amaris chuckled. “It wasn’t so long ago, Francis, you were one of those damned British migrants.”

He laughed with the others. “I guess I’ve become a dyed-in-the-wool Australian.”

“Wool,” Robert chirped. “Wool.” He had learned early the most important word to most station owners.

Sin lifted him from his chair. “Now listen, me lad, you need to learn to say horse, too.”

“Horshey?” Robert repeated, and they all laughed again.

“So, you’re ready to ride, huh?” With Robert tucked into his arm, he strode from the dining room. “We horsemen are going riding before it gets dark.”

“He’s a sheep man,” Francis corrected in a good-natured tone.

Everyone trooped outdoors to watch the two in the riding arena. With a delighted Robert perched in front, Sin trotted Wave Runner, his gift to Robert at his birth. Applause erupted from the spectators, which included not only Francis, Celeste, and herself, but also several station hands. No more than a half dozen were married, and those women also turned out to watch. Tough women, jilleroos who would endure the rigors of outback life, they looked as if they had been ridden hard.

Robert took his turn at the reins and beamed proudly when Amaris applauded a well-executed circle. Her son never suspected that Sin’s knees completely controlled the magnificent animal.

Although many stations hired contract horse breakers, Sin broke his own. Her gaze claimed by the play of his thigh muscles beneath the well-worn denim trousers, she could well remember watching one day as he mastered one of his rogue horses.

It had been obvious after only a few minutes that this was to be a contest of wills between man and beast. When both were speckled by blood, she feared that neither would give until one died. Celeste had not watched. “I cannot hide my worry for Sin. If he were to be hurt . . .”

Despite desperately loving Sin, Amaris had known no fear for him. Rather, watching him tame the animal into submission, she felt an excitement that had been almost sexual.

This was a man whose will would never be mastered. Neither convict punishment nor the hostile environment of the Never-Never had broken his will.

This was a man whose will matched hers.

This was her man . . . a man she could never have.

Of course, after a long and bloody battle, the rogue horse had eventually yielded, its head bowed, its nostrils blowing foam, its chest laboring hard.

When darkness put her son’s riding performance at an end, she returned to the veranda with the others to sit and talk and cherish those rare moments when they could relax among friends.

Later, after everyone went to bed, Amaris lay wide awake. Robert slept contentedly between her and Francis. Her urge to shift to another position was repressed simply because there was no room to turn. Despite the open window, heat lay over the room.

Trying not to awaken the other two, she slid from the bed and felt her way through the darkened house to the front door. The coolness of the night breeze wafted along the veranda. Her sigh joined the breeze. It played with the hem of her muslin nightgown, rustled the ends of her loose hair mantling her shoulders, and lured her to the steps where it collected the scents of honeysuckle with which to wreath her.

Above her, the night sky was studded with stars. Arms wrapped around her knees, she sat in contentment. How wealthy she was. Not all of Nan Livingston’s riches could equal the blessings she enjoyed: a precious son, good husband, good friends like Sin and Celeste, and her own place that carried her own stamp as valid as any waxed seal.

Over the years, although she had managed to acquiesce to Francis, to let him lead even when she knew his decisions were sometimes in error, the local people nevertheless referred to Dream Time as Amaris’s run.

Yielding to Francis was probably one of the hardest things she had ever had to do—to be less of a person, to sublimate herself because she was a woman.

A movement in the shadows caught her peripheral vision. Even as she tensed to spring from the steps, a hand clasped her forearm, detaining her.

“Tis only me, Amaris.”

“Oh, God!” she whispered. “You gave me a fright, Sin.”

He lowered his large frame to the step just above hers. She could feel his body heat, smell his scent that she associated only with him. She knew that his hands, dangling between his knees, were dusted with hair. She knew how his hair swirled in one direction at his nape. She knew that his temples were beginning to gray.

She knew so much about him, except how it felt to lie beneath his weight, how his hands felt stroking her inner thigh, how it felt to have him fill her with himself.

“Robert is no longer a baby. He’s becoming a little boy you can be proud of, Amaris.”

Not “you and Francis” can be proud of but only “you.” “Robert adores you, you know.”

“He’s a special little boy.” His voice was husky with his yearning for the child he would never have.

“I know.” Her heart went out to Celeste, unfulfilled as a mother. Yet, if Amaris had to forego her love for Sin, she could at least take comfort in the fact that Robert was a bond between them.

“It appears that each time you and I watch the night sky together,” he said in a low, very quiet voice, “the Southern Cross is brighter than normal.”

“I used to think you didn’t like me.”

His hands clasped into a single knot. He was silent for a long time. She thought that he wasn’t going to answer. Then, at last, he spoke. “That was the problem. I always liked you. I liked your courage, your determination, your spirit. You never gave in and wept and said, ‘Poor me.”’

Still staring up at the crystal-speckled heaven, she asked, “Then why did you either ignore or mock me?”

“I didn’t approve of your social climbing. But then, who am I to judge? I love not only my wife but another woman I can never have.”

Incomprehensible that they could sit never glancing at each other and talk quietly about such intimate feelings. They could just as well have been discussing the drought.

“Could it be the age-old plight of wanting what you can’t have?”

She heard the dry, self-mocking humor in his voice. “That’s what I tell meself.”

“Amaris? .
. . Sin?” Celeste chided softly from the doorway. “Are you two children sneaking out at night to play?”

So guileless was she that she was totally unaware of the import of her words. She stepped out onto the veranda. Despite the long nightgown sheathing her from wrist to neck to ankle, she had appropriately wrapped a hand-knitted shawl about her shoulders. Amaris realized she should have put a robe over her long gown.

“My, isn’t it beautiful out tonight?” Celeste said. “I can’t blame you two for escaping the confines of the house.” She settled next to Sin on the step, her shoulder touching his, her knees brushing Amaris’s spine. “This is like the old days, isn’t it? We three?”

Sin put his arm around her waist. She was so thin, Amaris thought, she was almost a wraith. “You couldn’t sleep either?” he asked of Celeste.

She rested her hand on his knee and her head on his shoulder. “I’m not accustomed to having the entire bed to myself.”

“As much as you grumble about me sprawling, giving you no room?” he teased.

Whatever guilt Amaris felt was chased away by the sudden question that nudged her mind: Did Celeste know after all of the love between Sin and her and— sinless soul that Celeste was—choose to ignore it? Amaris shivered at the possibility of such a thing.

“
You can’t be cold.” Celeste said.

“Not really. The late hour is just catching up with me. I think I’ll try again to get to sleep. Good night, Celeste, Sin.”

But, of course, she didn’t sleep the rest of the night.