Raff had a compartment to himself and hoped it would stay that way right through to Echuca. It was a long while since he’d been on a train, and he couldn’t recall if Bluey had travelled by rail at all. He was in the cabin nearest the back exit, the freight car with Bluey in it was behind. He’d arrived early at Bendigo station, on advice, to make sure he could settle the horse before the noisy bustle of other passengers wanting to board. The porter told him the horse would be fine and if Raff mucked out his stall in the carriage, all would be well. Poor Bluey would most likely have to get on a paddle-steamer, too. The horse’s comfort was important, but not enough of a distraction to keep Raff’s mind off what he’d read in the newspaper at the Bartletts’ guest house.
Last night, he’d secured Bluey in one of the stalls out the back of the place and paid for a room and a bath. Lugging hot water inside for himself, he’d only half-filled the small tub in the bathroom and then locked the door. A clean towel and a long-handled brush sat alongside a used cake of soap. On a chair nearby was a stack of the Bendigo Advertiser, and a sign on the wall read, ‘No Smoking Cigars’.
Stripping out of his clothes, he’d kneeled then dipped his head into the water, sudsing his hair, then he’d folded his body into the shallow warm water and scrubbed. The bath had cooled fast. Stepping out, he’d towelled off, dressed in the same clothes, snatched a newspaper from the top of the stack and headed for his room.
Eyeing the bed, he’d known his feet would hang off the end of it. At home, he’d built himself a decent-sized bed in the loft above the shop, and sorely missed it if ever he was away for any reason. Even his swag was on the short side. Didn’t matter, he’d rest well enough tonight.
He’d lit the tiny lamp, stretched out on the bed and propped on an elbow. Flicking through the newspaper, he’d skipped the advertisements, and turned the pages until he’d found the main news. Some poor bugger had been killed in a cart accident. A woman had suffered fatal burns when her dress had caught alight at the cooking hearth. A little kid had had his leg severely lacerated climbing a fence (fleeing someone else’s yard). The council was upset about the number of signs on a public road obstructing safe travel. The police had arrested a drunk harassing customers in a barber’s shop. And—
… Miss Evie Emerson …
He’d squinted.
The engagement of Miss Evie Emerson, eldest daughter of the late Mr and Mrs Dallas Emerson, to Mr Edwin Cooper Esq., son of Mrs Beryl Cooper and the late Mr Arthur Cooper.
He’d squeezed his eyes shut, blinked hard. Pulled the paper closer and read it again. Peered at the date on the paper. Only a week or so ago. He’d sunk back on the bed, the paper falling on his chest.
His Miss Evie Emerson? Sweet Jesus. Evie was engaged to that stupid bastard.
He’d tried to shove away the dense disappointment. What were the chances? He didn’t want to believe it, but here it was—she was engaged to some idiot who looked like he wasn’t worth spit. That meant she and Fitz were well and truly over, and must have been for a while. Fitz never said. Why? And why the hell hadn’t Raff bothered to ask him?
He’d groaned aloud, held his head in his hands. No, no, no.
After that, sleep had been elusive for long hours.
The train chugged along. He stared out the window not seeing the open country, the scrubby plains that stretched under the wide cloudless sky. Part of the newspaper page was in his pocket now. He’d torn it out and read it more than once in the crisp early light this morning. He’d then folded it and shoved it in his waistcoat pocket. Don’t know why, each time I read the blasted thing, it’s still the same words.
The pace slowed, a whistle blasted; Elmore station must be close by. He’d alight, check the horse, and maybe he’d have time to buy a bite for himself before they got underway again.
When he was done finding Fitz and done learning what the hell had happened between him and Evie, when he was on his way home—whenever that would be—he’d dodge Bendigo as if it had a plague. If sighting Evie yesterday hadn’t been so fresh in his mind, would he have the thud in his chest? Would his pulse be pounding? Would the ache in his head feel as if a tight band was squeezing his temples?
Best to forget her. Best to forget.
But Fitz. He hadn’t said a word. Not a bloody word. Why hadn’t he told his best mate that he was no longer on Evie’s dance card? And Evie had asked Raff if she could write to him. What the hell was that all about? No point writing—even if it was to ask about Fitz—when she was engaged to someone else. He couldn’t work it out.
So, best to leave it alone. Best to forget her.
The speed dropped back even further; the carriage lurched. Glimpsing the squat red-brick building of the Elmore station he knew they weren’t far from stopping. His stomach growled and that was good sign.
Enough of Evie Emerson.
He left his hat on the seat so folk would know there’d be someone returning; the rest of his stuff was still with Bluey. It was safe enough to open the back carriage door, and he stood on the steps as the train slowed and jumped onto the platform. He jogged until he reached the freight car and when the train stopped, he pulled open the personnel door.
His eyes adjusted to the dim light. Bluey was fine; there was mucking out to do, and it might as well be now. He peeled open one of the sliding doors opposite the platform side, grabbed a shovel, scooped up Bluey’s calling cards and hurled them out onto the dirt. That’d do until the next stop, anyway. He dragged the door closed, checked the nose bag and the water bucket. His horse was comfortable.
Right, now food and water—or something stronger—for me.
He swung onto the steps outside the car, ready to leap to the ground between the rail lines when at the far end of the platform, two men on horses caught his eye. They were watching passengers disembarking the train, each person scrutinised and the companions who met them studied. No one escaped their inspection.
Raff didn’t like it. A flurry of prickles stung his hands. He pulled back up the steps out of their sight. He’d seen one of those fellas before, recognised that posture leaning over the horse’s neck, the gloved hands wrapped in the reins, crossed at the wrists, hat pushed low and a kerchief high on his throat.
Bah, could be anyone from this distance, he reasoned. But it wasn’t just anyone, he knew it. Bill McCosker. Bloody hell.
Flattening himself against the door of the freight carriage, Raff thought fast. Were they were looking for him? They’d expect him to board here just like Fitz had done the last time he and Raff had got out of Bendigo in a hurry. So he might be all right; McCosker wouldn’t expect him to already be on the train.
Slipping back inside the personnel door, he felt for a latch on the inside. There wasn’t one. Of course not. Horses don’t need to lock themselves in, nor do cages of poultry or boxes of cabbages.
The sliding doors. He secured the bolt to the floor of the one he’d opened earlier and then sidled into Bluey’s stall. Wouldn’t do much good; if they did come to the freight car, he was a sitting duck.