CHAPTER 45
Almost overnight, Wanjarri Downs erupted from a quiet homestead into a full, bustling station. Livestock—chickens, pigs, goats—clucked, squealed, and baaed in distress as they were handled from crates. Three new stallions descended the transporter, their eyes panicked and blind in unleashed sunlight. Workmen pounded on roofs, on new fence posts, dug wells out in distant paddocks. The smell of sawdust and disturbed dirt rose with the grunts of sawing men, digging men and moving men.
Leonora unpacked the china from the cedar box, wiped the wood shavings off with a cloth and stacked the china on lace-lined shelves, each plate a promise of permanency, of home. She closed the glass-paneled doors to the cabinet, rubbed the smooth wood.
“You’ve been smiling this whole time.” Alex leaned against the doorjamb, his arms crossed. “I didn’t realize unpacking brought you such pleasure.”
She reached back and untied her apron. “I like it here.”
“I’ll never understand you, my dear.” He smoothed out his hair. “This place is the size of one of your servants’ quarters and your face shines like it’s a palace.”
“But it’s ours.” She reached for his hand, pulled him to a chair. “Let me make you some tea. Are you hungry?”
Alex followed her movements as she inspected the pantry. He bent his leg, put his ankle atop his other knee, picked at the fabric of his riding pants. “I’ve hired a cook and housekeeper. They start next week.”
“There’s no need to hire anyone, Alex.” Leonora brought out a crock of jelly and a tin of tea biscuits. “I don’t mind cooking. Or cleaning for that matter.”
“Nonsense.” He moved his fingers to the table, etched circles over the polished wood. “You have no idea the amount of cooking that needs to be done on a station, love.”
She turned away from the familiar condescending tone. “I suppose you’re right.”
“Besides, this far out, guests stay for several days, sometimes weeks. Then you have the workers, shearing just around the corner. There’ll be a lot of mouths to feed.”
She brought the biscuits to the table, poured the tea. “What are the men like?”
“Managers are good men.” He nodded with approval. “Typical cowboys, but young and smart. They’ll take over the details of this place. I’ve got enough to worry about with the mine.” Alex slung an elbow to the back of the chair, added a lump of sugar to his tea, stirred it delicately. “Should see their eyes pop at this place, Leonora.” Alex snickered. “The way the men look at the horses, at the land. Property’s half the size of Belgium, did you know that? Doubt they’ve ever seen anything like it.” Alex’s eyes slid over his wife. “Wait until they get a look at you.”
Alex rose from the chair, the biscuits left untouched, the tea hardly sipped. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pressed into the small of her back. She closed her eyes to the familiar precursor to lovemaking and tried to resist the urge to stiffen. He had never been rough with her again, never forced himself upon her like that first time, but she also never gave him reason, for she did not fight against his urges, let him find his pleasure and was glad when it was over.
Alex kissed the back of her neck and she fumbled for an excuse, used the only one that ever had an effect. “It’s not a good time, Alex. I could get pregnant.” And with that, he dropped his hands. Alex didn’t want children until his fortune was self-made and secure.
With an air of finality, Alex gulped down the rest of his tea, then clapped his hands. “You’ve been stuck in here long enough. Come out and meet the men.” He took her by the elbow. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”
Tom plopped the saddle near the open barn door. “Looks like the boss is givin’ the lady a tour. Wants everybody out by the ring.”
“Be out in a minute.” James hammered the thick nail with two quick pounds and hung the last harness to the wood. He wiped his hands on his trousers and went out to join Tom.
Alex centered the group of men, his arm around a woman’s waist, her eyes downcast. “Everyone, meet my lovely wife, Mrs. Harrington,” he addressed the men, made sure each man held a touch of envy at his good fortune. “Darling, these are the men who built our home, the men who will make Wanjarri Downs the best station in Western Australia.” There was an awkward silence as men bobbed and weaved, unclear if they should clap, shout or remain quiet.
James ignored the speech, wanted to get back to work. He met the glances of the other men, legs crossed or arms folded: men with hard faces, tan and full of lines, stubbly chins.
“O’Reilly!” Alex shouted. “Bring out Midnight.”
James went to the barn and brought out the black stallion, calmed after weeks of training. He handed the reins to Alex.
Alex led the horse to his wife. She rubbed the black silken nose. “He’s magnificent, Alex!” she gasped. The men all nodded. The stallion was a fine horse.
“Saddle him up,” Alex directed James. “I’m going to take him on a run.”
James pushed his hat above his eyes. “He’s not ready.”
“What are you talking about? You’ve been riding him for weeks now.”
“He’s used to me. Hasn’t let anyone else on him.”
Alex slit his eyes and looked around the group, chuckled. “I’ve been riding all my life; I think I can handle it. Saddle him up.”
James twisted his mouth, looked at the horse for a long while. He glanced at Tom, who shrugged his shoulders and mouthed, His funeral.
James strapped on the saddle and stepped back several feet, kept his body alert, readied for the moment he would need to step in.
With full confidence, Alex mounted and smiled. “Told you—”
The horse’s ears perked at the voice and in a wave of panic he beat his dark head, raised his front hooves up and down, reared higher with each flail. Sweat formed on Alex’s face as he worked to control the horse, his flawless hair now slipping unmanaged strands on either side of his forehead. The horse whined in fury and with one quick kick from his back legs bucked, sending Alex flying onto his belly, landing in dust in the middle of the men. A few snorts of laughter leaked from the crowd while the rest stayed quiet and watchful.
His wife inched forward. “Alex, are you all right?”
He lifted his head. The woman recoiled. Slowly, Alex stood, ran his hands over his clothes, the dust sticking like glue to his front. He cleared his throat. Stifled laughter grouped from the right. Feet shuffled from the left. Alex snickered for a moment, his eyes black. With a sudden slide of his hand, he pulled a pistol from his coat. Sun on silver blinded as Alex raised his arm stiffly and pointed the gun at the stallion’s head.
James braced to grab the horse, but the woman was there first, grabbing Midnight’s reins and planting herself under the horse’s chin. “No, Alex!”
Alex spit through his teeth, “Get out of the way!”
“No!” She cradled the horse’s head. “Put the gun down, Alex!”
“Get away, Leonora!” Alex pulled back the trigger, his hand twitching. “Move or I swear I’ll shoot you with it!”
Leonora. The name echoed in James’s ears, shuddered down his arms and legs, and for a moment he could not see past the solitary word. Leonora. He snapped the name away, inched his way to the horse, brushed his hand across the coat and subtly positioned himself in front of the woman, his frame eclipsing her tiny one. The horse reared again and James pulled the reins. “Whoa!” he shouted to the horse; shouted to Alex, “Can’t believe you mounted!” James forced a grin through his pounding heart. “Kicked Tom in the pants this morning just for standing close.”
Tom took the cue and grabbed his crotch, his expression pained. “Poor Mum won’t be gettin’ any grandbabies outta me!” The men all laughed and James used the distraction to pull the horse away, relieving the woman from the bullet’s aim.
Alex’s arm slacked, his eyes blinked through sweat.
“Stallion’s a beauty, though,” James continued. “No doubt about it. Maybe win you the Melbourne Cup.” Alex swallowed hard, lowered his hand, the gun still cocked.
James released the reins and walked toward Alex, gave him a manly wink. “After all”—his stomach turned sour with the words he needed to say—“horses are a lot like women: The spirited ones eventually give the most reward.”
The men laughed, nodded in agreement, and Alex relaxed. He put a hand on James’s shoulder. “True, my friend.” Alex strode to his wife and gave her a hard smack on the bottom. “True indeed!”
Leonora slammed the door, her face still red, the humiliation fresh, the anger burning. She heard Alex come through the front door and she turned on him. “How dare you—”
Alex grabbed her arm and twisted, the sudden pain shooting up her shoulder. “What did I tell you? ”
“What?” she cried. “Tell me what?”
“Don’t ever speak to me in front of the men like that again! Do you hear me?”
“You were going to shoot that horse!” He jerked her arm, twisted it farther, the force choking her. “Stop, Alex! You’re hurting me!”
“Never raise a voice to me again!” he screamed. “Never!”
“Please let go,” she pleaded, her whole arm unhinging from the shoulder. “I’m sorry!”
Alex shoved her away. He walked to the mirror, straightened his hair, opened the liquor cabinet and took out two brown bottles. The front door banged in his wake, leaving Leonora alone and stunned, clutching her bruises.
“What the hell was that?” Tom asked.
James ground his teeth, his brows low as he stared at the still house.
“Crazy bastard.” Tom tucked in his shirt. “Think he would have shot that horse? A thoroughbred, no less? Sure looked mad enough t’do it. Christ! I think he would have done it. Even with his wife stand-in’ there,” he rambled. “Remind me not to piss that bloke off.”
Tom’s lips turned slowly upward. He clicked his tongue against his cheek. “Wife’s a looker, though, eh? Guess that’s the kind of woman money buys.”
James turned on him, his eyes hot. “Take it back, Tom.”
“Whoa!” Tom stepped back. “What’s your problem, mate?”
“Just shut up.”
Tom laughed, raised an eyebrow. “So, red blood flows through your Irish veins after all.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Tom’s grin reached out broadly. “You fancy her.”
“I don’t fancy her!” James huffed.
“Known you a long time, mate, an’ I know that look. You’re smitten!” Tom smacked him on the back. “The boss’s wife, no less. You horny bastard.”
James’s face grew grave. “I think I know her.”
“What?” Tom was still smiling. “What the hell does that mean?”
“I think I know her.” James faced him, his eyes weighted. “From the orphanage.”
Tom’s smile froze, his mind trying to wrap around the words. “You’re jokin’.” He laughed without humor, stared at the big house. “Impossible, mate. She’s not even Australian.”
“She is . . . was. As much as we are.” James’s voice dropped away uncertainly. “She was adopted by an American family. I think it’s her.”
“Jesus! Does she remember you?”
“Doubt she saw me.” James squinted, questioned himself. “Maybe I’m wrong. I don’t know. It’s been a long time.” He grew quiet for a moment. “I don’t know.”
The front door of the house opened. Alex walked down the verandah waving two full bottles. “Looks like somebody’s in the mood to celebrate!” Tom scoffed.
“Not a word, all right?”
“That you got a thing for his wife?” Tom teased. “Never.”
James glared at him.
“Well, she’s pretty. No arguin’ that.” Tom stepped forward and hollered out to Alex, “Those drinks for us or the horses?”
James lay awake, rested his hands behind his head and stared at the new boards that latticed the ceiling. Leonora. He thought about the woman’s face, thought about the face of his friend long ago and compared them until they merged and left him nervous. He remembered her fierce protection of the horse, remembered the blush that shot to her face when Alex smacked her—remembered it was his insult that had spurred it. But he hadn’t a choice, for he knew Alexander Harrington now—a man who fed on applause and raged in its absence.
Footsteps thundered from the steps. Tom stumbled into the house, grabbed the door frame as if it were a boat rocking on high seas.
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?”
James nodded and she knew he understood, probably couldn’t explain it any better. The quiet crowded again, self-conscious with a familiarity that had too much time to fade and widen.
James shoved one hand in his pocket and pointed to the house with his chin. “Looks like life has treated you well.”
“So it appears.” Her agreement came too heavy and his face softened, the lines above his forehead gone. “And you?” she asked. “Has life treated you well?”
The lines came back and the brows dropped. “Well enough.” And the space between them grew wider and the rags of conversation tattered.
Leonora squeezed the glass, pulled the tray to her chest, held it like an armored breastplate. “I need to ask you a favor.” The words twisted in apology. “I need to ask that you don’t mention our past . . . my past. Alex doesn’t know.” Her voice faltered. “It could make my life very complicated.”
James looked at his boots. “Of course.”
“He wouldn’t understand,” she tried to explain. “It’ll be better for everyone.”
He nodded and crouched down to his heels, picked up his tools, began rewiring the broken coils. She had hurt him again. It didn’t matter the slap was delivered gently. The mark still showed.
The men rode from Wanjarri Downs in the pearly dawn. Fourteen horses, tied with packs and saddles, left in pyramid formation: James and Tom in the front, their coats buttoned high against the morning chill, the Aborigine stockmen behind them. The bodies, of man and beast, synchronized as one form, glided over the land like pulled silk.
Leonora watched them through the closed window of her bedroom, the glass muting the sound of hooves, so the horses and men moved as silent phantoms until they disappeared into the fog. They would be gone for months. Leonora touched the cool glass with her fingertips. Alex’s snoring hummed from the bed. A deep emptiness filtered over the land, breathed into the house and filled the corners. And the shadows thickened and stayed. And she missed him.