Four

For a moment Tim stopped dead. There had been no serious trouble with the aborigines in the area for a long time. But there was always the chance. . . .

He’d thought Jackie had been going to some tribal ceremony, one of their dances, an initiation, perhaps something as simple as a ceremonial hunting party. But an aborigine raised by white people and eager for acceptance by his own people might agree to anything to achieve that. And if it were some special gathering of the tribes that Jackie was on his way to, there would be other aborigines from near and far to impress.

“Get those filthy spears away from me.” Andy’s roar carried clearly to both Tim and Patricia. “Give me back my guns you. . .you limbs of Satan!”

Tim tried to hurry toward the source of the ruckus. Patricia had caught up with him, and he heard her gasp of horror as a strange procession came into sight. Two aborigines were herding Andy before them. To Tim’s dismay, neither was Jackie. As Andy tried to turn around, one of them prodded him with a long spear. Andy roared again.

Another aborigine appeared. He was riding Blackie.

Tim breathed a sigh of relief as he recognized Jackie. Using his native tongue, the aborigine yelled out to Tim. Although the words came too fast for Tim to understand clearly, he knew Jackie was concerned that Andy was trying to steal Tim’s horse.

“Jackie,” Tim yelled back, “let him go! He isn’t a horse thief. He was just getting Blackie for me because I’ve injured my leg.”

Both natives with Andy stilled. They looked at each other and then at their captive. Tim breathed easier. Obviously they also understood what he had said. They lowered their spears, and Andy stumbled away from them toward Tim.

He stuttered in his fury. “You. . .you. . .these are friends of yours?”

Tim nodded helplessly and continued to limp slowly forward.

Andy roared again and advanced on him. “I should have shot you myself. You—” Speechless in his fury, he shook his fist at Tim as the distance between them narrowed.

One of Jackie’s companions, who Tim now recognized as Mirrang, raised the spear in his hand menacingly.

Patricia cried out.

Tim stopped dead. Not taking his eyes from the raised spear, he said sharply, “Andy, don’t move.” Then he yelled out, “Mirrang, marrambang!”

Mirrang didn’t move.

Andy stopped and swung toward the aborigine. When he saw the spear posed to throw, he froze. A breath of relief hissed through Tim’s teeth.

Still Mirrang did not move.

Had he used the right word for “friend”? Tim’s concern deepened. He didn’t know the older aborigine very well, although Mirrang had worked on Waverley some years ago for Elizabeth Waverley, the woman who was married to John Martin and had sold the station to Adam and Kate.

“Jackie, please tell Mirrang that Andy’s a friend.”

Tim saw Jackie’s lips move. Mirrang ignored him. Jackie spoke more sharply, and to Tim’s immense relief, Mirrang slowly lowered the threatening spear.

No one moved.

“Jackie, give the white fella back his guns and let him have my horse.”

Jackie stared at Tim and then took his time studying first Andy and then Patricia.

Tim waited. He had learned a long time ago to wait for Jackie.

“Reckon you one crazy bossman,” Jackie said at last in heavily accented English, a sign of how angry and disgusted he was.

Jackie dropped Blackie’s reins, turned, and strode away. Realizing that Jackie had not given him his familiar salute with the spears, Tim did not look forward to the next time they met.

Mirrang stared from one white person to the next. He angrily shook his handful of spears and followed Jackie and the other aborigine into the bush.

Blackie tossed his head and turned to follow Jackie. Tim let out a piercing whistle and the horse swung round, tossing his head up and down. At Tim’s second whistle, the horse started ambling toward him. Andy moved swiftly and grabbed Blackie’s bridle. Tim was relieved to see the gun belt slung across the saddle.

A slight figure flew past Tim. Patricia flung herself into Andy’s arms. “Andy, Andy, are you all right? I was so frightened.”

The horse snorted and pulled back on its reins. Andy held them tightly but wrapped an arm around the shaking girl. “Easy there, Girl, of course I am. They crept up on me, jabbed me with their spears when I was busy trying to get the horse, but I doubt there’s more than a scratch or so.”

Tim reached them and started soothing Blackie. He felt absolutely wretched. If he had not started that nonsense with Jackie, Patricia would not be so shaken and pale, so different from the courageous young woman who had not hesitated to pull a gun on him.

“Oh, Andy, if anything had happened to you, how would I find Danny all by myself in this dreadful country?”

Andy glanced sharply at Tim. He murmured something to his niece. She let him go and looked at Tim. He kept rubbing Blackie’s neck, pretending he had not noticed. Whatever their business with this Danny, it was not his concern. Shame swept through him. He wanted nothing more than to get up on Blackie and leave, but the pain in his leg was considerably worse. He suspected the wound had started to bleed more since he had put weight on it.

Reluctantly Tim called out, “Mr. O’Donnell, I’m afraid I’m going to need your help getting up in the saddle. The sooner I can get this leg tended to, the better.”

Andy took his time strapping his gun belt to his waist before marching up to Tim. “And I’m thinking that once you’re on that horse, you’d best be on your way and about your own business, Mister. We’ve had enough trouble for one day.”

Before Tim could reply, Patricia cried out, “But he’s injured. We have to—”

“We don’t have to do anything, Pat,” her uncle replied sternly, “and we don’t owe him anything. If he hadn’t jumped you, his leg wouldn’t have stopped that bullet.”

“But I pulled a gun on him first,” she pleaded. “You’ve already said we were both at fault. It will be dark soon, and his men will be too far away for him to reach. Besides,” she added swiftly, “he did rescue you from those aborigines. What if they come back?”

Tim stared at Patricia in astonishment. He had frightened her so badly that she had pulled a gun on him. He’d jumped on her, hurt her hand, and allowed her to be scared to death. And after all that, she was pleading for him? What sort of woman was this?

A woman just like Mother.

The thought slammed into him. His father had once laughingly told Tim to make sure he found a wife “just like your mother.” Mollie Hardy had blushed and scolded her husband, but Tim had never forgotten. He had adored his mother. She had been a woman with a great sense of humor, an immense capacity to love, and an even greater faith in God. His mother had loved her husband and children fiercely, joyfully caring for them in the very best way she could.

It had taken great courage and love for her to forgive her husband for letting himself become embroiled in political unrest the way he had. When he had been arrested with other rioters, she had fought for him. When that had failed to stop his transportation to Australia, without hesitation she had packed Tim’s and her own bags and followed her husband across those fifteen thousand miles of ocean from England. It had been Elizabeth Waverley, a passenger who had befriended Timothy on board ship, who had paid their fare.

And now Patricia—this courageous, compassionate young woman who shared his own sense of the ridiculous—reminded Tim of that mother.

Andy O’Donnell was still hesitating as Patricia pleaded, “I’m sure he’d be able to tell us the best and easiest way to get to Wellington, or Orange even, from here. At least let us attend to his wound properly first.”

Andy just stared at her. Patricia wasn’t quite sure just why she was so anxious to help Tim Hardy. Certainly she had an obligation to make sure the wound she had inflicted was cared for, but something else had happened to her when they had laughed together. She had felt that she’d found a friend. And friends had been very scarce in recent years.

Their ranch had been primitive and isolated. Danny and her mother had always been her best friends. After Patricia’s mother had been killed, her father had changed radically, becoming harsh and unreasonable. Her brother had finally given up trying to work with him, packed his bags, and gone to join the army and fight the war with Mexico. The day the news had reached them that he had been reported missing and was believed killed, her father had changed even more, blaming himself bitterly for the deaths of both his wife and his only son.

And then last year. . . Patricia shuddered and tried to push aside the memories. The joy. The pain. The California gold rush had been the last straw. It had turned her world upside down.

Patricia pushed away those memories and watched Tim calm his horse. Here was someone who shared her sense of humor, someone like herself who had not thought twice about tackling a person holding a gun on him. This last year she had met so many men with bold glances who had made her cringe and be very wary of her femininity. His embarrassment and confusion when he had realized she wasn’t a young man had touched something deep inside her. But what really intrigued her about Tim Hardy were the flashes of sadness that occasionally darkened his strong face, making him look so vulnerable.

Tim looked at her uncle. “If you give me a leg up, I’ll be on my way.” His chin was set at a stubborn angle that matched his brisk words.

Patricia looked pleadingly at Andy.

He stared at her with his hands on his hips, gave a snort, and stepped forward. “Hold the horse, Pat, while I heave this bloke up.”

When she did not move, he sighed and said, “All right. We’ll let him camp with us tonight, and we’ll see what happens tomorrow.”

She smiled at Andy affectionately before moving to help. Her uncle presented a tough image to the world, but she knew what a compassionate man he could be to those he cared about.

Tim was gray and perspiration beaded his forehead by the time he swung up onto the saddle. As they started off, Patricia saw him grit his teeth when Blackie scrambled up the low bank. She watched him carefully, but he kept his head down as they followed the river upstream.

When they passed the place Tim had seemed disturbed by, Patricia looked around, searching the area for some clue as to why it affected him. Then, near the slope of stones and dirt that looked as though it must have slid down the hillside some time ago, she saw something on a large old gum tree that made her catch her breath.

She glanced at the two men. Tim still had his head down. Andy was as close to him and the horse as the narrow track would permit. As she opened her mouth to draw their attention to the roughly constructed cross, Tim swayed in the saddle, and Andy reached up to steady him.

She quickened her own pace. Time enough to mention what she had seen when Tim had been attended to. No doubt he already knew what was there in any event, and that’s why he kept his head down. Her heart went out to him in understanding. Some dreadful tragedy had happened in this place, and Tim still carried its mark.

When they stopped at their camp, Tim swayed forward onto the horse’s neck. The black horse moved restlessly. Patricia called out and rushed forward. Andy was already reaching for him.

Tim gasped, “Sorry. . .feel sick.”

Although Tim was not a particularly tall man, his size was such that both Patricia and Andy were panting by the time they had eased him from the saddle and half-carried him to their tent.

Dazed eyes gazed briefly up at them from his pale face. “Sorry,” he gasped before his head fell back and he passed out.

Patricia gave a little distressed cry, but Andy murmured compassionately, “Ah, the poor lad. Just as well he’s out of it while we get this boot off and. . .” He paused and added a little more urgently, “No wonder he’s fainted. This is full of blood. Silly young fool—brave but foolish.”

He glanced up at his niece and frowned at her. “Now, now, no more tears, Pat, me dear. From what you’ve both said, the gun went off accidentally. Get some fresh water while I get this boot off. We’ll hopefully have this cleaned up properly by the time he comes to.”

They almost succeeded in doing just that. Tim stirred as Patricia finished wrapping his freshly dressed leg in the piece of clean linen ripped from the only petticoat she had in her kit. She had been shocked at just how bad the wound was.

As Tim groaned and tried to sit up, Andy said softly, “Quiet, Boy, we are almost finished. I’m afraid you’ve lost quite a bit of blood. You can have some water in a moment. We’ll have a fire going in no time and get some food into you too. Hopefully you’ll be feeling much better soon.”

Although Tim managed to drink some tea made in the blackened can, he ate very little. At first Tim refused, but eventually Andy managed to persuade him to drink some rum. “We brought it for medicinal purposes,” the older man insisted. “Afraid it’s all we’ve got to take the edge off your pain and help you get some sleep, Son. We used some to wash out the wound, but it will probably do more good inside you.”

Tim stared from Andy to Patricia and muttered something that sounded like, “Hope you aren’t watching, Mother.” Then he spluttered and choked as he downed the fiery spirits. Whether it was from the rum or from sheer exhaustion, he finally fell asleep, much to Patricia’s relief.

Andy chuckled. “Not often you meet a young man who is not at all used to alcohol,” he mused.

“Danny wasn’t before. . .” She bit her lip.

Andy finished her thought gently. “A lot of things didn’t happen before your dear mother, my sister, died.” He sighed and added bracingly, “We had better get something to eat ourselves. If I’m not mistaken, we may be in for a restless night with this lad.”

Unfortunately he was right. Tim tossed and turned most of the night, giving them little rest. Although the bleeding seemed to have stopped, by morning his cheeks were a little flushed.

“We’ve got to get you to your home for proper medical care,” Patricia said firmly after very carefully bathing and redressing the red-looking wound.

“Home,” he muttered. A strange look filled his eyes. Pain. A great loneliness. Then he scowled and closed his eyes once more.

When Tim didn’t move for several minutes, Patricia reluctantly left him to find Andy. He shook his head over the idea of leaving. “I suppose we could try him lying down in the dray, but you know how rough it was getting here through the scrub. It’s probably a long way to his place, and he has lost too much blood to risk starting up the bleeding all over again from the jolting he’d get.”

“But he needs a doctor!”

Andy grimaced. “Wouldn’t be the first bullet wound I’ve doctored, me darlin’.”

With that, she had to be content.

As the morning wore on, Tim became pale, losing the flush in his cheeks. Although Patricia and Andy knew he was still in pain, Tim point-blank refused to drink anymore rum, and they were both immensely relieved when at last he dozed off.

Andy stared down at Tim’s still body for a long moment before moving away. He tilted his wide-brimmed hat onto the back of his head. “Might as well not waste time here. It’s almost midday, but think I’ll head downstream and see if there’s any trace of that shepherd or his hut. Might be a track leading from the creek.”

He looked at Patricia’s doubtful face and added abruptly, “That man in Bathurst seemed quite definite that someone answering Danny’s description went to this region with the old shepherd. I’ll take the black horse. Ours was limping a little yesterday and should be rested.”

Patricia hesitated, glancing uncertainly toward Tim.

“Reckon he owes us that much,” Andy drawled.

The young man’s horse was certainly younger and fitter than the saddle horse they had purchased in Sydney. Andy’s chin was set at the angle Patricia recognized from of old. She shrugged, knowing he had hated riding their sluggish old horse and would never listen to her protests about needing to ask permission.

When Andy tried to mount Blackie, the horse objected strongly, but Andy was a skilled horseman and swiftly brought the snorting horse under control before riding off.

“What’s he doing with Blackie?”

Patricia spun around. Tim was at the entrance of the tent. Even as she rushed to prevent him from taking another step, he sat down in the dirt with a groan.

“You mustn’t move! You might start the bleeding—Oh dear. You have already.”

Tim resisted her efforts to make him go back to his makeshift bed, so she fussed over him, dragging the folded blankets under his leg to keep it elevated as Andy had shown her. To her dismay, Tim’s cheeks were flushed once more. She touched his forehead with the back of her hand. “Now you have the beginnings of a fever. Please do lie still. Andy’s only gone to try and find someone we were told was around here someplace. You don’t need to worry about your horse. My uncle is good with horses.”

“It’s not the horse I’m worried about. It’s your uncle. Blackie doesn’t like some people riding him and can be very difficult.”

Uneasily, Patricia looked down at Tim. “But that native. . . your friend was riding him.”

Tim made a sound between a laugh and a groan. “Jackie knows Blackie better than I do. He was a foal from my old horse, and Jackie’s helped me care for him since he was born.”

Patricia gnawed on her lip uncertainly. “My uncle should be able to manage him. He is very experienced with horses.” She saw the question in Tim’s eyes and added swiftly to change the subject, “Are you sure not even a shepherd lives near here at times?”

“Land around here does belong to a Mr. Richards, and farther still there’s a Mr. Suttor who runs cattle,” Tim answered. “I’m not sure just where their boundaries are. But no one lives here. I’ve never heard of so much as a shepherd’s hut in this immediate area. This part of the country is very isolated.”

“We were told in Bathurst there was a shepherd living somewhere along the Turon River,” Patricia explained, gratified to have steered the conversation away from any personal questions about her and Andy.

Tim stared at her doubtfully and then murmured gently, “This is certainly the Turon, but it runs through quite a large area before it flows into the Macquarie. It’s also very difficult country to be searching for anyone.”

Patricia could see the questions forming in his eyes again, so she added hurriedly, “Don’t talk now. You must rest. I’ll get you another drink.”

When she returned, Tim was lying with his eyes closed. The feverish spots of color on each cheek had returned. She knew his leg must be paining him, but he again refused any rum.

“My mother and father never allowed alcohol in our home,” he murmured.

“Sounds like mine,” Patricia blurted out with a wistful smile. “We did keep a bottle strictly for medicine, but Ma always claimed alcohol was too often the devil’s tool to take men’s willpower from doing what God wanted them to do.”

Tim’s eyes widened. “That sounds like something my father would have said.”

His eyes clouded with pain, and Patricia sensed that this reaction was from a far deeper wound than the one her bullet had caused. Hoping to take his mind off such sad memories, she asked, “How come you have an aborigine you claim as a friend?”

“Jackie?” Tim was silent for a long moment and then said slowly, “I’ve known him ever since I was a boy living on Stevens Downs. He was working then for the Gordons, neighbors to the Waverleys.”

He was silent once more, and she prompted him by inquiring, “Stevens Downs?”

Tim was so still that she thought he must have dozed off. Then he murmured, “It’s a beautiful place—flat fertile plains as far as the eye can see. Stevens Downs is a large sheep station out past Wellington, and my family’s first home in Australia. My father worked there from the time he was transported until he—”

“Transported!”

The eyes he turned on her horrified face were fierce with pride. “Yes, transported. My father was shipped off to a penal colony to serve a ten-year sentence for participating in rioting and destruction of property. He had been foolish enough to want to make a better life for his wife and son, but he trusted the wrong people. They merely used him for their own political agenda. Timothy Hardy was a convict, but he was the most courageous, honest, and humble man you could ever meet. He was also the most loving and faithful Christian anyone could be. He was also. . .also the most wonderful father. . . .” His voice choked and he flung an arm up across his eyes.

Was. That said it all. She recognized Tim’s pain as the mirror of her sorrow whenever she thought of her beautiful Irish mother with the fiery hair and temper and love enough for the whole wide world.

“My mother was also loving and faithful. She tried to teach us about. . .about being a good Christian,” she murmured sadly. Distressed to see Tim so upset, Patricia instinctively reached out and touched him, stroking his head, his hand, trying to find the right word to offer him comfort. He tensed and flung her hand off.

At Patricia’s little gasp of dismay, Tim looked regretful. “Sorry,” he murmured huskily. “It’s this place. My father died not far from here. It has thrown me off balance, I’m afraid. It. . .it’s the first time I’ve mentioned Father to anyone since Adam, Kate, and their two children departed for England, leaving me in charge of Waverley.”

His voice faded away. Tim stared into space, and Patricia thought she had never seen such pain or emptiness on anyone’s face before.

The cross. It must have been there that his father had died.

Patricia swallowed and said quickly, “Then let’s talk about something else. Tell me about this Adam and Kate or perhaps this Waverley.”

He looked at her, and she added a little desperately, “No, no. Blackie. Tell me about your horse.”

He studied her face and then to her relief smiled slightly. “All right, let’s talk about Blackie. He was born on Waverley while I was studying in Sydney. He is the foal from one of my father’s horses.”

Her eyes widened. “You went to school in Sydney?”

He scowled. “Yes, and I hated it, but Kate and Adam insisted that it was what my father had wanted and been planning for me, a decent education.”

Kate and Adam again. She would dearly love to know more about them but said instead, “My mother taught us as best she could, but I would have loved to have gone to a school with other children. After. . .after the Indian raid, Pa moved us to another ranch in a safer area, but there was no more chance for formal schooling.”

Patricia’s face was wistful, and Tim judged her more beautiful than ever. He thought of his own mother, the indomitable Molly Hardy.

“My mother taught me to read and write too,” he murmured softly, “but after she died, Father insisted I go to Kate’s school for the station hands’ children at Waverley.” He saw Patricia glance at him a little apprehensively and added swiftly, “She and my little sister, Jane, died from a fever a few years before Father. I’ve lived with Kate and Adam ever since.”

Her eyes widened in dismay and then filled with compassion.

Tim studied her carefully. What was it about this woman’s soft, expressive face that made him want to talk about his family for the first time in such a long, long time? “Tell me about your family, Patricia,” he asked softly.

She glanced at Tim and then away, staring toward the campfire. “We lived in Ireland when I was little,” she said at long last. “Andy is my mother’s brother. He went to America before I was born but from time to time sent glowing letters home to my mother and father about the opportunities there. In the end, they decided life was far too hard in Ireland and sailed to New York.”

Patricia gave a short laugh. “If anything, life was harder in the big city for most Irish immigrants than the troubles they had left behind in beautiful Ireland. By then Andy was a cowboy. Eventually we managed to track him down and moved west to join him. The plan was to grab some land and set up a ranch together. We eventually ended up in California.”

Tim watched the play of emotions on her face as she fell silent. He had heard stories of the hardships the pioneers in America had encountered as they had pushed the frontier farther west. Obviously some of her memories were far from pleasant.

“Were you there when the gold was discovered?” he prompted softly.

She turned her head swiftly and stared at him. He frowned. For a moment he thought he saw something like fear in her eyes, but why would she be afraid?

Glancing away, she said briefly, “Yes, but we lived some distance away. Our ranch was pretty well established before then. Andy and Pa had been very successful raising horses as well as cattle. The horses sold well to the army.”

Her voice caught on a little gasp. She looked up at him, studying his face for a long moment. At last she added quietly, “Times were very difficult after Ma died. Some of the men we employed joined the army, and then just after the war with Mexico finished, others headed off to try their luck on the gold fields.”

She paused, staring into the distance. Her shoulders were hunched, her voice strained and low when she added harshly, “I’ve seen only too well how the thought of discovering gold and riches—more than an ordinary man could make in a lifetime—can turn the most sane of men crazy.”

The old chestnut horse gave a long whinny. They turned and saw the horse staring in the direction Andy had disappeared earlier, her ears pricked forward. Then they both heard the answering call of a horse and the clatter of hooves.

“Sounds like your uncle’s back,” Tim said abruptly. He moved restlessly, trying to peer into the bush.

Patricia scrambled to her feet. She was frowning. “But it’s not that long since he left. Andy said—oh, no!” She ran toward the black horse that had come into sight.

Tim heaved himself painfully forward until he could see. Blackie was walking slowly along the creek toward them. He shied away from Patricia as she approached, tossed his head, and started trotting away. She stopped. Tim let out a piercing whistle and saw Blackie pause and swing around, searching for him. He whistled again, and Blackie took a few steps forward, tossing his head up and down. Tim frowned. Blackie was very nervous.

He heard Patricia’s soft, crooning voice as she started edging toward the horse. After several attempts, she managed to grab Blackie’s reins, and following a brief tussle, she led the horse back to the camp. As she neared, Tim could see Patricia was pale, battling to keep her voice calm in order to reassure the horse.

“Blackie probably just got away from Andy,” he said swiftly.

“No,” she croaked. “Andy’s too experienced a horseman to let one toss him off or to fail to secure one properly.”

“Blackie can be pretty unpredictable, but something has certainly frightened him. He’s trembling,” Tim said slowly, wondering if the hot-tempered Irishman could have harmed the horse. He dismissed the thought immediately. Andy had shown his affection and care for animals, even the big old cart horse.

“Would. . .would the aborigines. . . ?”

“No, they will be long gone,” Tim reassured the white-faced woman, hoping fervently he was right.

Patricia stared at him. Then she turned, swiftly unsaddling Blackie before tying him up near the other horses. She strode into the tent. When she reappeared, her revolver was once more strapped to her waist and a rifle rested in her hand. The resolve on her grim face increased Tim’s alarm. Before he could speak, she hurried off in the direction from which Blackie had come.

Tim bit off words of caution. Admiration for Patricia’s courage and determination warred with his concern for her. Perhaps it had been their shared memories of godly, praying mothers, perhaps his horrible feeling of helplessness. What-ever the reason, as she disappeared from sight, he did something he had not done for far too long.

“Oh, God,” Tim pleaded, “keep her safe. Help her find her uncle and bring them back. And please. . .” He paused as his wretched shivering started to subside and the fever once more began heating up his body. “Please,” he whispered, “this is no time for me to be sick and leave her to cope alone. Please heal me! Don’t let me get any worse.”

There was nothing left to do but crawl back inside the tent to his rough bed and wait.