Matilda's Last Waltz by Tamara McKinley Page A

caught the angry blisters, the pain was not enough to daunt her – not after what she’d suffered in the past few hours – and she snatched up the bag and shawl bundle and headed deeper into the bush. It was a faster route through it than around it, and if she kept heading south she would come out on the crest above Wilga.
    By the time she emerged from the humid green shadows and into the dying sunlight, she was sweating profusely. Yet she felt a jolt of achievement as she looked down on the great sweep of Wilga’s pastures, and the thin spiral of smoke from the homestead on the horizon. She’d almost made it.
    As the stands of trees grew sparse and the sun dipped even lower in the sky, Matilda picked her way over the tumble of boulders at the foot of Tjuringa. The water bag was heavy on her shoulder, the bundle cumbersome as she slid and stumbled over the loose, treacherous ground, but she had no thought of discarding either – they were precious. Creatures scuttled and slithered from beneath the rocks as she disturbed their late-afternoon slumber and the laughing jackass mocked her progress, but finally she reached flatter ground and stopped for a moment to catch her breath and take a drink.
    It was almost twilight, and Wilga homestead was at least another three hours’ walk away but she had to dredge deep to find the strength to carry on. Mervyn might have come across Lady and could be just a few miles behind her.
    Thudding the stopper back into the neck of the water bag, she stepped out on to the plains and headed for the wisp of smoke on the horizon.
    Time lost all meaning as she walked. She was aware only of the deepening shadows and the glimmer of Wilga homestead in the distance. Her boots scuffed the dry earth and silver grass as her thoughts centred on Tom and April Finlay.
    Tom Finlay’s family had owned Wilga for years. Old man Finlay had passed on a few months after his wife. Now Tom was married and ran the property with his wife. Matilda hadn’t seen him in a long while – not since Mum got sick and Mervyn refused to let him visit. Yet she knew she would find shelter at Wilga. She and Tom had grown up together, and although he was several years older, Matilda knew he regarded her as the sister he’d never had.
    She remembered him as a skinny boy who’d teased her mercilessly about her mother calling her Molly. What kind of name was that? he’d asked as he’d pulled her hair. But as they’d grown older, his tugs weren’t quite so hard and he’d agreed that her pet name suited her. For Matildas were supposed to be rather stern people, not larrikins who climbed trees and played in the dust with their hair in their eyes.
    Matilda smiled, despite her fear and weariness. How right he’d been, she thought. Great Aunt Matilda was very starched and proper if her portrait was anything to go by. No wonder her mother had changed her mind once her baby began to display less than immaculate behaviour.
    A familiar sound disturbed her thoughts and in sharp anticipation she looked around.
    The drum of hoofbeats vibrated in the ground, and there, far behind her, was the unmistakable blur of a horse and rider. At last. Someone had seen her and was coming to help.
    She waved. ‘I’m here. Over here,’ she called.
    Her cries went unacknowledged but the horse kept coming.
    Matilda shivered as the first tingle of unease crept over her. There were two horses but only one rider. She took a step back. Then another. And as the outlines sharpened, the dread returned. There was no mistaking the solid figure on the back of the chestnut or the grey lumbering outline of Lady.
    She began to run.
    The sound of hooves grew closer. Wilga seemed an impossible distance away.
    The adrenaline pumped as Matilda raced through the long grass. Her boots slipped and tripped over the uneven ground. Her hat flew off and dangled down her back. But her eyes were fixed on that