scarcely aware of either anymore. To her
right as she walked was ordinarily a flower garden. Now it was a collection of
dried stalks protruding forlornly from the earth. In this time of drought,
water was too precious to spare for flowers. The normally green lawn had
suffered a similar fate. It rustled dryly against Sarah’s skirt as she
moved.
Sarah shook her head sadly as she glanced back at the house. With
its sheltering grove of eucalyptus nearly leafless, the sprawling structure
looked almost ugly. Edward and a small band of aborigine workers had built it
years ago from sun-dried planks that they had hewed and shaped themselves.
Sarah had often wondered if her father had had any kind of a plan when he
began, and, if so, what had happened to it. Certainly now, with the additions
that had been made through the years, the house looked to have been put
together at random, with wings jutting out in odd directions from the original
two-story structure. Wide porches had been added to the front and rear when
Sarah was a child, and the whole structure had been painted white. Now, exposed
to the glare of the sun without the protective canopy of leaves that usually
sheltered it, the whitewash was blistering in places. The feather flowers of
the wattles on either side of the porch steps drooped sadly; their color and
perfume had been baked away by the heat. Without the softening influence of the
trees and flowers, the house’s imperfections became glaringly obvious. It
looked like what it was: a house built by a man in a hurry.
The few horses in the corral by the stable huddled together in the
building’s shadow, nose to tail as they obligingly twitched at one
another’s flies. They were feeling the heat too, poor things, Sarah
thought as she entered the relative coolness of the stable. Still dazzled by
the glare of the sun, Sarah, bestowing an absent pat on Clare’s thrusting
nose as she passed, could see nothing but shadows as she made her way to the
stall where Malahky, her favorite riding horse, nickered a welcome. Despite the
heat, she felt like riding. She would go down to the river, where the trees
still retained most of their leaves. It would be blessedly cool.
“Saddle Malahky for me, please,” Sarah instructed the
shadowy figure that she took to be Jagger, the aborigine groom.
“Yes, ma’am,” came the reply, almost mocking in
its subservience. That was not Jagger! That gravelly voice with the illusive,
lilting accent . . .
Her eyes were gradually growing accustomed to the dimness; she
squinted at the man who had answered, realizing that he was too tall, too
broad, too big altogether to be Jagger. Then his features swam into focus. In
the midst of that lean, dark face, she had no trouble at all recognizing the
dazzling blue eyes.
----
CHAPTER IV
“Gallagher.” Sarah identified the convict she had
hoped never to lay eyes on again after that disastrous night at Yancy’s
place. What was he doing in the stable? With his injured back, she and her
father had agreed that he needed several weeks of Madeline’s nursing and
rest before being put to work.
“You know my name.” Now that she was used to the
relative darkness, she could see one jet-black eyebrow winging upward. He
looked much better, she thought, eying him with a trepidation that owed as much
to his sheer size as to the memory of her previous exchange with him. She had
known he would be tall, but she had not expected to be dwarfed by him. Still
lean, he was no longer emaciated. His shoulders admirably filled the clean
white shirt he wore, and his legs in their sober black breeches looked well
muscled. Her gaze had run over his body involuntarily; the overwhelming
maleness of him aroused in her a curious unease.
Remembering his obscene suggestions and realizing how he might
interpret her interest, she jerked her eyes back up to his face. And there they
halted, widening. The brief glimpses she had
right as she walked was ordinarily a flower garden. Now it was a collection of
dried stalks protruding forlornly from the earth. In this time of drought,
water was too precious to spare for flowers. The normally green lawn had
suffered a similar fate. It rustled dryly against Sarah’s skirt as she
moved.
Sarah shook her head sadly as she glanced back at the house. With
its sheltering grove of eucalyptus nearly leafless, the sprawling structure
looked almost ugly. Edward and a small band of aborigine workers had built it
years ago from sun-dried planks that they had hewed and shaped themselves.
Sarah had often wondered if her father had had any kind of a plan when he
began, and, if so, what had happened to it. Certainly now, with the additions
that had been made through the years, the house looked to have been put
together at random, with wings jutting out in odd directions from the original
two-story structure. Wide porches had been added to the front and rear when
Sarah was a child, and the whole structure had been painted white. Now, exposed
to the glare of the sun without the protective canopy of leaves that usually
sheltered it, the whitewash was blistering in places. The feather flowers of
the wattles on either side of the porch steps drooped sadly; their color and
perfume had been baked away by the heat. Without the softening influence of the
trees and flowers, the house’s imperfections became glaringly obvious. It
looked like what it was: a house built by a man in a hurry.
The few horses in the corral by the stable huddled together in the
building’s shadow, nose to tail as they obligingly twitched at one
another’s flies. They were feeling the heat too, poor things, Sarah
thought as she entered the relative coolness of the stable. Still dazzled by
the glare of the sun, Sarah, bestowing an absent pat on Clare’s thrusting
nose as she passed, could see nothing but shadows as she made her way to the
stall where Malahky, her favorite riding horse, nickered a welcome. Despite the
heat, she felt like riding. She would go down to the river, where the trees
still retained most of their leaves. It would be blessedly cool.
“Saddle Malahky for me, please,” Sarah instructed the
shadowy figure that she took to be Jagger, the aborigine groom.
“Yes, ma’am,” came the reply, almost mocking in
its subservience. That was not Jagger! That gravelly voice with the illusive,
lilting accent . . .
Her eyes were gradually growing accustomed to the dimness; she
squinted at the man who had answered, realizing that he was too tall, too
broad, too big altogether to be Jagger. Then his features swam into focus. In
the midst of that lean, dark face, she had no trouble at all recognizing the
dazzling blue eyes.
----
CHAPTER IV
“Gallagher.” Sarah identified the convict she had
hoped never to lay eyes on again after that disastrous night at Yancy’s
place. What was he doing in the stable? With his injured back, she and her
father had agreed that he needed several weeks of Madeline’s nursing and
rest before being put to work.
“You know my name.” Now that she was used to the
relative darkness, she could see one jet-black eyebrow winging upward. He
looked much better, she thought, eying him with a trepidation that owed as much
to his sheer size as to the memory of her previous exchange with him. She had
known he would be tall, but she had not expected to be dwarfed by him. Still
lean, he was no longer emaciated. His shoulders admirably filled the clean
white shirt he wore, and his legs in their sober black breeches looked well
muscled. Her gaze had run over his body involuntarily; the overwhelming
maleness of him aroused in her a curious unease.
Remembering his obscene suggestions and realizing how he might
interpret her interest, she jerked her eyes back up to his face. And there they
halted, widening. The brief glimpses she had
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