CHAPTER 56
The newly shorn sheep pranced upon the dry land, faster and lighter and scrawnier without the heavy fleece. Their pink skin showed under the fuzz of wool left, the ripples of the shears still patterned in stripes across their sides. The last of the wool left in the morning. The shearers had broken their record for speed, finishing twenty thousand sheep in three weeks. The bales had been solid and heavy, the numbers exceeded. Alex kept good on his promise of bonuses and the men were robust with money, sore muscles, pride and whiskey. They surrounded the pit of fire, ate off of tin plates weighted with steak and mutton. Gravy dripped and spotted the dirt. They passed around the dark liquor until the bottles were clear and empty.
James and Tom sat along their outer ring. Tom yacked it up with the men; James lay on his back, his head resting on clasped hands, and stared at the sky. He couldn’t look at Alex. The man curled his stomach.
Since the riots, Alex had stayed home. His lackeys, the managers, came and stayed at the big house, their faces sly with thinking, plotting reprisals and ways to get the workers back on track. The news spread across the Outback as fast as the fire had licked the timber of the old Coolgardie buildings. Two Italians had died in the fighting, one Australian. An Italian boardinghouse, two pubs and countless homes were burned completely to the ground. The Imperial Hotel lost its top tiers, but the main floor still stood in a good, be it hatless, structure. The mine and its buildings weren’t touched.
James had not seen Leonora since the fire and he did not look for her. He kept his eyes away from the big house, kept his mind and body strangled with work. But she was in his dreams with soft, waiting lips and skin that slid under his fingertips. And he would wake from the dream and stretch in his bed, flop his arm over his forehead and push the images away. Then he would work—work away the sinking longing.
Alex rose from the ring of men, swaying from side to side. “A toast! To the best bloody shearers in Australia!” Alex raised his bottle into the air, slurring like an arrogant clown. The drunk men cheered and raised their drinks.
“Wait . . . Wait . . . Not yet!” Alex stopped them in mid-sip. “I’ve thanked them personally but want to do it publicly. James and Tom.” He found them with bobbing eyes over the crowd and raised his bottle. “You saved my wife, men.” His voice turned somber and firm. “And for that, I will be forever grateful. Cheers!” He thrust the bottle forward and brought it back to his lips. The men drank and hollered and had the sparkle of life in their eyes.
“Well, gentlemen, speaking of my wife”—Alex grinned and winked at the men—“it’s time I retire to the bedroom and give her a proper celebration!” He reached for a new bottle and swaggered.
The men broke out in loud hoots and applause. James bolted upright, his mind blank. “Don’t you lay a hand on—”
In an instant, Tom had him by the arm, his grip tight against his wrist. The men grew quiet. The flames crackled over dry sticks. Alex turned slowly and put his hand to his ear. “What’s that?”
Tom put a gruff arm around James’s neck in restraint and shouted out playfully, “You heard him, Alex! Don’t lay a hand on that drink or your wife be tryin’ to please a limp willy!”
With that, the men hooted even louder. Alex glared at James for an instant, then tilted his head and chuckled. “Duly noted!” Alex dropped the bottle to the ground and held up his empty hands. “Duly noted!” He laughed and swayed toward the house.
James wrenched his body from Tom, thought he might lay a fist into his jaw. But Tom was fierce and grabbed him by the arm again. “She ain’t your wife,” he whispered hotly. Then Tom released the limb and repeated, “She ain’t your wife, mate.”
Leonora lay in the darkness of the bedroom listening to the ebb and flow of laughter drifting in from the field. The men’s comradery made the loneliness of the house that much stronger. She tried to pick out the differentiating voices, but they all blended into one crude baritone. She listened for James’s voice, tuned her ears to his easy, soft speech, but could hear nothing among the hoots and hollers of drunk men. Her insides shrank and weakened from missing him.
The front door slammed, its loud, swift crack making her body jump in the bed and her heart speed. Alex was back and she knew by the hammering footsteps he was quite drunk. She waited to hear the squeak of his office door and the muffled click of the double mahogany doors. Instead, she heard the dull thudding of his shoes as they walked up the stairs to the bedroom. “Wake up, darling!”
Leonora rolled out of bed and threw herself at the door, locked the bolt tight just as the doorknob rattled. She climbed back into bed and sat with her knees at her chest, scrunched the covers under her chin.
The knob rattled impatiently. “Open the door, Leonora.” Alex’s voice was even. She didn’t make a sound. The door vibrated with a thrust against the knob. His fist pounded on the door. “Wake up and open this door, goddammit!”
Leonora reached for a long knitting needle and tucked it under the covers. The cool metal slid against her leg as her hands shook.
Alex banged his shoulder into the door. Thud. She heard him step back and then ram hard against the door, rattling the frame. “Fuck!” he screamed in pain. His back slid down the door amid spluttered curses and then it was quiet. Leonora waited, listened as her heartbeat filled the room. She loosened her grip on the needle and brought it with her as she approached the door. There was a sliding sound and then a dull thud as Alex’s head hit the floor. She put her ear against the wood. Alex’s drawn snoring began and filled the hall. Leonora pressed her cold forehead to the door and closed her eyes.