Vaughan’s soft snores filled the room and Dee withdrew her face, pulling the door closed behind her. His uncle’s old furniture still graced the bedroom and if she closed her eyes, she saw Horse lumbering along the hallway and admonishing them for making a den behind the curtains. “Bloody kids!” he’d grunt with a smirk and fish them out by the ears, doling out punishments which always involved turning the dung heap. Dee stroked the peeling wallpaper as she walked back towards the front of the house, feeling the pain of regret. “I didn’t have a choice,” she whispered to the old villa. “I had to go.”
Hinga grazed in the pen, sucking up the grass through lips which tugged and tore the sweet blades, feeding her starving belly and making it round and painful looking. Dee winced and hoped she didn’t get colic in her haste, saddling Vaughan with an even more expensive problem. In a tack shed outside she found an aged tub of wound salve and fetched hot salty water from the house. She paused at the gate, squinting in the sunshine at the wounds on Hinga’s tortured body.
“Hey! Don’t go in there!”
The shout made Dee jump and she spilled hot saline over her hands, cursing at the burn. The ball of cotton wool scrounged from her make up bag bounced on the hard ground. “Great! Thanks for that!” She met the young man’s onslaught with anger of her own.
“What’re you doing?” he demanded, his lips pulled back in a snarl. “Who the hell are you?”
Dee put the bowl and salve on the ground and blew at her hand, watching as the skin pinked. “Just the mug who drove the ute and that horse up here from Feilding!” She glared at the man who postured like a peacock, head held high and his thumbs stuck in the sides of his belt.
“Who are you?” He moderated his tone and his dark eyes held doubt. Perhaps he’d overreacted and she was there legitimately.
“My name is...” Dee swallowed. She’d been Dee Hanover until the moment Vaughan revived her childhood name. She’d slipped back into it so easily it was as though she never abandoned it on the boundary of the town and drove away.
“Who are you?” The young man shifted his feet, looking edgy and Dee tossed her blonde hair, attempting to play the female card.
“Who are you first,” she demanded, seeking a distraction while she decided her own identity. “And why did you burn me?”
“Thought you were a bailiff,” the man said, his eyes widening as he glanced back at the house. “I thought you were taking horses, not putting them back.”
“I drove up with Vaughan.” Dee held back her exasperation. “He got rushed to hospital and couldn’t drive home.”
The young man swore and ran work-roughened hands through his dark hair. “Poor bugger. He wasn’t looking forward to seeing that tosser, Gilroy. Must’ve stressed him out.”
“Harvey punched him.” Dee shivered at the memory of the glee in the spiteful man’s face and the excitement as he waited for Vaughan to arrive. Something told her it was always his intention to try something nasty. Vaughan’s arrival, already in pain must have felt like Christmas to someone like Harvey Gilroy. “I was already there and Vaughan kinda helped me escape.” Dee bit her lip and soothed the fear inside her.
“Sounds bad. I’m Corey.” The young man stuck out a hand and Dee looked down before clasping it. She’d learned her lesson about trusting strangers. “So, who are you?” he asked again, with more politeness this time.
Dee made a decision and crossed back over the town line in her head. The easy smile put beauty into her face. “My name’s Deleilah Dereham,” she said with pride. “I’m Hector Dereham’s daughter.”