A Changing Land(100)
Luke relieved himself a few feet from his camp, dragged a night log onto the fire and splashed creek water on his face before lying down on the sand, his hands cupping his head, the tree-edged sky as a blanket. This self-imposed ostracism would last until they were ready to go droving. Luke knew it was useless confronting his father about his inheritance. What could you say to a man who was obsessed with the land he owned and the protection of it, who was block-brained to the idea of a person wanting something of his own, even his own son? He would leave with the next drive south, not expecting to return. How could he? Not only did he feel totally alienated from his own father, he had broken something that should not be broken. He’d shared one single intimate moment with the woman he loved, his father’s wife, his stepmother, and broken the law of what was permissible within one’s family. Yet all this meant little when he thought of the unravelling within his heart. He had shattered his life’s ideal.
‘Luke?’
Someone spoke his name. It was a soft low voice. A voice he barely recognised. The figure appeared across the campfire. Luke’s fingers felt the cold metal of the carbine’s barrel as he grew instantly wary. Whomever it was squatted before the campfire, the outline thrown into relief by the glowing embers. It took a moment or two before he recognised Margaret. He wanted to turn her away, would have turned her away, but she was crawling towards him, past him and into the darkness of the lean-to. He shuffled up into a sitting position, half-expecting the girl to reappear. The comforts of a woman were something Luke only ever received upon payment and he wondered what was expected of him, and then thought of what she could offer. He ducked his head and crawled in beside her.
She lay naked on his bedroll. Her long limbs stretched out as if in supplication, her hair spread about her like a halo. The campfire showered filaments of light across her body as her right hand fluttered like a small bird on her stomach. Luke studied the slight mound of her breasts, ran a finger down her chest to her hollow belly, encircled the angular hips with a fascinated sweep. Slowly he removed his shirt and trousers. All he could think of was lying atop this warm brown body, feeling the press of his skin against hers, tasting the sweetness of youth and trust. He moved slowly, so worried of crushing the fragile creature beneath him that his thighs and calves grew tight with control. As if aware of his reluctance, Margaret lifted her head, clasped her hands to the side of his face and brought their lips together. When the lengths of their skin met, a sheen of moisture sealed their limbs together.
Later that night, when stillness descended to engulf the creek’s inhabitants, Margaret crept from the lean-to, dragging her maid’s uniform behind her. Luke watched her silhouette from within the lean-to. She lifted a hand, delicately brushed back her hair and slipped the tortoiseshell hair comb in place, before dragging her dress over her head, wriggling her hips as the shapeless form obscured her. Although Luke couldn’t see her eyes he knew Margaret was seeking him within the dark of his bark shelter; then she was moving, skirting the campfire and running into the night. He tried to listen to her leaving, strained his ears for the soft shush shush of her slim brown feet in the sand of the creek bank, but a void crept in and around him. He coughed, the noise sounding recklessly loud in the night’s shadows. For all the wistful moments he’d spent dreaming of Claire Gordon, there had been an equal amount spent in silence in her company while she had spoken. Margaret had wanted him, not asked for anything and had barely uttered a word.
At the stables Sarah unsaddled Tess. Picking up the curry comb she removed her gloves and blew on her fingers before brushing down the mare; long rhythmic strokes that ran the length of the animal from neck to rump. Tess whinnied and shook her head from side to side. Bullet barked from his position on the cement step leading into the tack room. There was only a grudging respect between dog and horse; Sarah knew that friendship did not enter their respective animal vocabularies. Bullet wasn’t one for sharing and Tess’s comradeship only extended as far as letting Bullet benefit from a ride home after a busy day.
‘Sshh, the two of you.’ Filling the feed bucket, Sarah walked into the stables. Tess followed her, snuffling in anticipation, her nostrils breathing in the hair of Sarah’s ponytail. Once Tess was inside and eating, Sarah slid the bolt on the half-gate. Immediately Bullet was by her side, wagging his tail and giving his best impersonation of a dog grin. Sarah patted him. ‘Cheeky bugger,’ she commented. Tess stuck her head over the stable door and whinnied once. Bullet barked. Next door four other stalls were full. Toby Williams and Pancake had their horses stabled in readiness for the big muster tomorrow. A mob of five hundred cows was in the road paddock and they would be joined by the Boxer’s Plains’ cattle tomorrow before being walked out to the stock route. As Sarah roughly calculated the cost of keeping Wangallon’s cattle alive, a Landcruiser pulled up. In the half-light of approaching darkness she recognised the owner by the sheer number of dogs on the tray.