The next day was fine. It was a crisp autumn morning. Sarah had asked Cate to sort books at the school library, so she dressed in her town clothes, which were jeans and a T-shirt, with the addition of a jaunty scarf to brighten things up. She made coffee and sat on the verandah, looking at the mudbrick house and wondering what Henry was up to. Mac found her in her sun spot and joined her there, leaning against her and warming his bones. There was the sound of motorbikes on the road that ran past her house, and she turned to watch them pass by. They didn’t; instead they drove up the driveway.
That was seriously weird and slightly disturbing. Where was Henry? She thought he was feeding sheep out the back. She glanced about. Maybe they wanted to buy fuel. Would she be stupid to sell them some, or would she make them angry if she sent them back to town? Where was Henry?
‘Morning,’ the first one said as he approached her. He was a tall guy with an almost-shaved head, wearing dark leathers and dark glasses. It made him hard to read. Mac disappeared around the side of the house.
‘Morning,’ she returned, looking confident.
‘I’m Kruger. Me and the boys are looking for Patrick Townsend.’
Oh. This wasn’t going to be good. Wherever Henry was, she hoped he stayed away. Patrick, eh? Focus. ‘Oh, okay,’ she said. Of course he’s your friend. That’s why he’s here with a fake name and a big beard, and he didn’t tell you where he was.
‘I’m sorry to say that I don’t have any idea about a – Patrick Townsend? Have you tried one of the larger centres, like Narrogin? If he’s visiting the area, he’s far more likely to be staying there.’
Kruger shrugged off the information impatiently. ‘We had a tip-off he might be in the district, from a friend.’
She gestured helplessly around. ‘Well, I think I’d notice if a – Patrick? – was hanging about the place. Is there a number I can contact you on if I bump into him?’
The leather-clad visitors considered her for a few long moments, then Kruger shook his head.
‘No, I guess we got the wrong information. We’ll be on our way.’
A wave of relief flooded through her. ‘I’m so sorry I couldn’t help more.’ One of Kruger’s friends stamped his feet in frustration and looked around the bikes, as if he might find a clue. And he might. She moved towards their bikes. ‘Where do you think you might go next?’ she asked.
Kruger was climbing on his bike. She tried to note what it looked like in case the police asked her later. She thought maybe it was a Triumph with blue bits on it. That should help.
‘Dunno,’ he answered. ‘We’ll probably head up to Corrigin and ask around there.’
‘I hear they have a good bakery there.’
Kruger kicked his bike to life and his friends followed. ‘Thanks for your time,’ he said.
‘Wait!’
He turned.
‘Do you want to leave a number? Just in case?’
He scrawled a number down on a scrap of paper and she stuck it in her back pocket. He nodded at her, and they carefully took their bikes back down the corrugations on the drive to the main road.
She watched them turn left and stood perfectly still for a long time, listening to make sure they were still leaving, the sound of their bikes carrying over the dry paddocks.
Crap. What was going on? Who was he hiding from? She slapped her thigh, and Mac fell in beside her. They walked together to the old mud hut. It was probably a good chance to snoop. The walls of the hut were coarse and red. She ran her fingers gently along them, thinking about her great-grandfather digging the mud, mixing in the grass and straw she could still see, and leaving the bricks to bake in the Australian sun. What had it been like to live here? She looked through the thick window and could glimpse the dam. What was it like to take a bucket there, fill it with water for washing? Did they have to boil the scum off the water first? What colour were his clothes?
She could hear birds fluttering about in the old pepper tree outside, secretly scratching at the rusty tin roof. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Like cold ghosts trying to get in. The house was chilly, and she wondered how Henry, or Patrick, was coping. She’d have to get him something warm. This was ridiculous. She must be breaking some drifter’s hospitality code. But then she imagined he was breaking a few rules of his own. He was good about the one on not shaving, though. She had to give him that.
There was a large armchair in the corner of the kitchen. Cate vaguely recognised it as one her aunt had once had before it broke and was pensioned off to the shed. Henry had been decorating. She wandered over to it in the still room, and slowly sat, pretending she had lived here a hundred years ago; that she hadn’t happened yet, hadn’t screwed up so royally. No, she was just Constance from Perth, here to wash in dam water, cook meat, and try to grow vegetables in the dust around the house. And she had just planted a small pepper tree in the garden for a little shade.
The house was small but well-loved and well-maintained, and there were small stables next door with three happy horses and a buggy for running errands and going to town. It was a simple life, and she was contented with Edward, who was a hard worker and an honest man. Cate glanced out of the window. It would have held challenges, for sure, but it would also have been a simple way to live.
Thinking of which, someone was home. She heard the sound of his boots on the hard earth outside the house, stomping about slowly, like he was wondering where to go. She sat and listened to him walk this way and back again, then the sound of him entering. And she had forgotten to snoop, but she should have because now it was going to look suspicious and she hadn’t found out anything.
He was watching her as he entered, his face unreadable.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked evenly.
She continued to sit in the corner, in a position she hoped said I belong here.
‘I kind of live here. And I was looking for you,’ she replied. In a manner of speaking.
He entered the kitchen, looking displeased. He had been unbuttoning his shirt but he stopped. ‘Why?’
‘Where have you been?’
‘Feeding a mob of sheep.’ He glanced about, decided she wasn’t important enough to halt his routine, and reached for his bar of soap.
‘I had some visitors for you,’ she said. ‘I think you owe me an explanation.’
The words hung in the chilled air and froze him. ‘Who?’ he asked.
‘Three guys on motorbikes. One was called Kruger. They heard you were in the district.’
Now his gaze flowed out of the window and away. ‘Where are they now?’
‘I sent them away. I told them I didn’t know you, Patrick.’
He turned slowly to look at her, his eyes wide. ‘Why did you do that?’
She paused. It was a good question. Why did she do that? ‘Because you strike me as someone who is hiding, or who wants to be left alone.’
‘And you know I lied to you about my name.’
‘Yes, because you told me.’
‘And you have no idea who those guys were, or who I am?’
‘Um, no.’
‘And you don’t even know if I can be trusted. And you lied to protect me?’
Crap. Now she sounded like an idiot. ‘Well, good workmen are hard to find . . .’
He crossed the sandy floor and dropped to his knees in front of her. His huge arm came out and dragged her forward to him in one movement, and he kissed her hard on the mouth, pulling her torso along his length and separating her legs so that he fitted into a full body embrace. His warm mouth took hers, and his tongue swept into her and stroked her. He groaned hungrily, and she felt her whole body come alive with him.
He felt hard. Bloody hell, he felt fantastic. Her hands went to his shoulders and mapped his hot, smooth skin down his chest. He had been sweating, and his scent was taking her places she probably shouldn’t go. She was breathing heavily, and so was he, his eyes on her, his hands in the small of her back and cupping her backside.
They paused, alight; her hands shyly reached up to his face to touch his long, sweaty hair and his beard. It was strange to her. His eyes flickered, as if her touch hurt him physically. His large chest was rising and falling, moving against her, and, as he watched her, she took her hand down the expanse of his chest to the small scar she knew would be there. He flinched and grabbed her hand, looking into her eyes, warning her.
‘What happened to you?’ she whispered.
He didn’t speak. Just looked at her, hungry and alone. Then he was gone, standing up and leaning back, his shirt hiding his secret, and his face hiding the fact that he had been there at all.
‘I’m sorry. Thank you. For having faith in me, even though I’ve given you no reason to.’ He grabbed an old towel with a Coke symbol on it. ‘I’m off to the bathroom while the sun’s out.’ He smiled. ‘You can see yourself out.’
‘You are a riddle wrapped in a shitload of hair, Henry.’ She stood, slowly – because there was absolutely no blood left in her legs, or her brain, obviously.
He slung the towel over his shoulder. ‘True. And I’m not your problem. You’ll have Awesome Alex sorted out by now, I’d imagine.’
She shot him a look of irritation. ‘Don’t patronise me, homeless hobo person. I’m getting a lot of stuff sorted out for myself. You should totally try it sometime.’
And she got to be the one to stalk out and leave him there, looking after her, which was far more satisfying than the reverse.