Driftwood (12 page)

With a forceful kick to William's groin, Hocking gained the upper hand and grabbed hold of the bottle of whisky he'd been drinking when William had come crashing into his home. Striking it against the dining table, shattering the glass and wasting the whisky, he tightly gripped the bottle's neck and held the jagged edge to William's throat, dragging it steadily downwards.

‘Your woman was sweet, William. I savoured ravishing her. And you know what? I think she relished it too. The cheap whore.' Hocking's face contorted in pain and anger, yet a smug smirk curled his lips. ‘And now I'm going to enjoy killing you so I can have her for my own and do to her as I desire.'

‘Over my dead body! To hell with you, Hocking,' roared William, toppling over the edge of self-control. Pent-up fury distorted his vision as he used every bit of his strength to throw Hocking off, grappling for the bottle in the trap's hands as he did so. Finally gaining possession, William lashed out at Hocking. If only he could reach his pistol, which now lay in the corner of the room, he would be able to defend himself better. He could shoot Hocking through the kneecaps; steal the sordid man's ability to ever walk again. That would give William the greatest satisfaction. It would be a longer sentence than for Hocking to endure a quick bullet between the eyes.

A gurgling sound snapped William back to reality, as Hocking's eyes widened and blood spurted from his throat as he fell to his knees then collapsed face first to the floor.

William stared in shock at the crumpled body, at the bottle in his hand, and then at the blood splattered across his own shirt. He scrambled to his feet, stumbling backwards, deep gasping breaths escaping him. He'd killed Hocking, a police officer — taken a
human life
with his bare hands.

Gathering enough sense of mind to move, William hurried towards the back door of Hocking's cottage, his boots clomping heavily on the worn timber floorboards. He halted on the veranda, sucking in the fresh air, trying to slow his racing thoughts. He couldn't just run; he had to be clever about this and try to cover his tracks. Buy himself some time to escape. Pulling a packet of matches from his pocket, he ran back inside, searching for more alcohol. He didn't have to look far: two half bottles of whisky were in the kitchen. He dashed about the cottage, tipping the alcohol everywhere, then went back out onto the veranda, lit a match and tossed it through the doorway. A trail of flames travelled along the floor, caught hold of a curtain and ignited. Within minutes, the cottage was a smoke pit with flames licking around doorframes and furniture. Thank God it was five miles from the town centre, otherwise the traps would be here instantly.

Satisfied he'd done all he could, William whistled for his horse. He had to get out of Goldbury, fast, if he wanted to stay alive. The traps would most certainly hang him for this if they caught him — if they didn't shoot him dead on the spot. Killing a trooper was not a crime taken lightly. William knew he would now be infamous for killing a trap. But wouldn't any man, so passionately in love as he was with Anne, do the same thing? And although he'd never killed anyone in his life, the unexpected relief he felt knowing that a worthless, spineless man like Hocking could never hurt another living soul made it somehow worthwhile. There was a little comfort in the fact that Hocking had had it coming to him after what he'd done to Anne and the Ballinger family.

Looking towards the future, William mounted his horse. It was time for him to collect his future bride and take her away to a place where nothing and no one could ever hurt her again.

2012 — Far North Queensland

Glancing around at the once flourishing front gardens now overgrown and full of weeds, Jay trod up the front stairs of the veranda-wrapped Queenslander, cursing under his breath at the endless list of jobs he never seemed to get round to doing. He always had good intentions but found there were never enough hours in the day to complete the ones outside the homestead grounds let alone in them. His mum used to be so damned house proud, too, wearing your boots inside a mortal sin. Nowadays she couldn't give a hoot; the state of the house was the last thing on her mind. Jay tried his best to keep up with the cleaning, but he didn't have the knack to make the house warm and welcoming like a woman could. It was just another thing that he had to sweep under the carpet if he was to get through his day without crumbling.

Kicking off his boots, body and mind weary after spending the heat-laden day out in the saddle, Jay stepped inside the homestead, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the darkness as the screen door creaked closed behind him. He removed his tattered Akubra and hung it on a cast-iron hook, his father's equally weather-beaten hat still hanging in the spot he'd left it, a pair of his boots gathering dust in the corner beneath. Jay knew he had to pack them away one day, along with his dad's clothes and personal items, but every time he tried, he couldn't bring himself to do it. And his mum was always too drunk to do it herself.

Padding down the hall, Jay covered his nose with the back of his hand as the pungent stench of vomit filled his nostrils, and his mood sank even lower. Long gone were the days when he would come home to the smell of mouth-watering hot meals, the kitchen filled with love and laughter as his mother, father and sister caught up on the day's events. Now, all he had to come back to after a hard day's work was a hollow-feeling house and the empty shell of his mother. What he wouldn't give for the perfect woman to whisk into his life and make it worth living again. But for that to happen, he had to open his heart, and he just wasn't ready for it.

Fatigue adding weight to his already burdened shoulders, Jay walked into the lounge room, a lump the size of a football landing in his throat. Slumped on the couch, head lolling to one side, was his mum. There was a pool of vomit on the floor and an empty bottle of vodka lying beside it. Only a few years ago, his mum was so full of life, so full of optimism, and so full of love. He shook his head regretfully at the state of her.

Gently helping her up from the couch, Jay led her towards the bathroom, her arm draped limply over his shoulder as he half carried her.

‘I'm so sorry, son,' she muttered, her red-rimmed eyes glistening. ‘I'm a lost cause. Someone should just take me out to the paddock and shoot me I reckon. Put me, and you, out of our misery.'

Jay's eyes stung and his heart ached. He hated it when she spoke like this, but ignoring her words was his only way of coping. He'd given up pleading with her to stop speaking like that ages ago. ‘Come on, Mum. Let's get you in the bath.' He ruffled her unkempt hair, screwing up his nose. ‘And make sure you wash this mop of yours. Something could be nesting in there and you wouldn't even know it — it stinks!'

Placing the plug in the hole, tipping in some bath salts, and then running warm water, Jay left his mum to it; she was sober enough now to not drown herself.

‘I'll go and make us some dinner,' he said, pulling the door closed behind him.

‘Love you, son,' she called after him.

‘Love you too, Mum,' he whispered as he snatched her words from the air and stored them in his heart. These were the moments he clung onto, which gave him hope, fleeting moments where his mum wasn't inebriated. Hungover? Yes. But not devoid void of her senses, her memory. Memories, he guessed, that forced the bottle to her lips once more, and then the cycle would start all over again.

He just hoped his mum behaved herself tomorrow. He didn't want to scare off the first woman he'd had here since Becky. And if things went well, and Taylor took the job, at least he'd have a very good incentive to get out of bed every morning, the simple thought of being in such a beautiful woman's company while out in the saddle enough to lift his spirits and make him smile. Even though it was purely platonic — of this, he'd make certain. He had to, for both their sakes. Besides, Taylor was interested in Cooper. And he didn't tread on other men's territory. He had too many morals for that, regardless of what some people liked to think.

The phone rang and Taylor prayed for the answering machine to pick the call up at the other end. She'd deliberately left her mobile phone off for the last four weeks, had even saved it from the bin a few times after she'd chickened out of tossing it for good. Begrudgingly giving into her stubbornness this morning, she'd charged it up and turned it on, her guilt growing as she'd listened to countless messages from her mother. Grace's voice ranged from angry, to concerned, and then to downright panicked as she begged Taylor to call home. There were no messages, Taylor noted, from her stepfather. Not that that was any surprise.

Point proven to herself that she could survive out in the big wide world on her own, and be confident in the fact, she'd decided to give in and finally make the call she'd been dreading, knowing her mother's relief at hearing her voice would soon give way to the all-too-common lecture.

Halfway through a ring, the phone was picked up and Taylor's heart stopped dead in its tracks. ‘Good morning, Whitworth residence. Grace speaking.'

Taylor jolted herself back to life with a sharp intake of breath. ‘Hi. Mum. It's me — Taylor.'

A gasp, then the sound of the phone being dropped and gathered back up again, followed by her mum's high-pitched voice, which Taylor knew Grace only got when she was stressed out or excited. ‘Oh my goodness, Taylor, I've worried myself sick about you. Thank God you're okay. You are okay, aren't you? Where are you? Who are you with? What are you doing? When are you coming home?'

‘Yes, Mum. I'm fine. I'm living up north, actually. Working at a hotel for now but I've also been offered a job as a jillaroo. Exciting, hey?'

A short moment of silence was followed by a muffled conversation that Taylor couldn't quite make out. Her mum obviously had her hand over the receiver.

‘Ahh, up north. Why there, Taylor?' asked Grace shakily.

‘No reason really, I decided at the last minute to head this way and I'm really happy I did. I love it here. I believe there's a purpose for me coming here, I just haven't worked it out yet.'

Grace chuckled in a way that made Taylor feel a little stupid. ‘Oh,
darling
. When are you going to learn that life doesn't work like that? There are no such things as karma and destiny.' She clucked her tongue, causing Taylor to bite her own. ‘So, would it be overzealous of me to think you've come to your senses and you've rung to tell me you're coming home?'

Taylor huffed, the loving mother — daughter bond short-lived. ‘No. Mum. I'm not coming home. I have a good job and I've made some great friends here. I like it and it's where I want to be right now. I'm never going to go to uni like Charles and become a doctor. I have no interest in it whatsoever.'

‘Now, listen here, Taylor. Your father and —'

Taylor knew what was coming: the whole your-father-and-I-have-worked-very-hard-for-you-girls-and-this-is-how-you-repay-us speech. She cut Grace short, hurt that her own mother couldn't support her wishes and her dreams. ‘
He is not my father
, Mum,' she said, squeezing back tears. ‘And he never will be. Or should I say, never
wanted
to be. I'm old enough now to do as I wish, and that is what I'm going to do. You have my mobile number. You can call me when you feel like it. Bye, Mum. Love you.'

And with that, Taylor hung up, not waiting for a response. She couldn't take her Mum's criticism any more, or the declarations of her stepfather's selfless parenting. It hurt too much and had gone on for far too long. And even though she loved her mum, it was time to put a stop to it and to stand up on her own two very capable feet. She would be forgiven eventually, just as she would find forgiveness in her heart for her mum's selfishness.

Straightening her hunched shoulders and taking a few deep breaths, Taylor licked her emotional wounds. It was time for her to focus on the exciting day ahead at Waratah Station with Jay, as he showed her around and introduced her to the other workers. A day she was sure would be full of adventure.

Jay's call last night had taken her by surprise, his voice so deliciously husky down the line as he'd asked her if she still wanted the jillarooing job. She'd acted unsure, even though she'd wanted to scream yes straightaway, telling him she'd rather have a day out there before she told him yes or no. Part of her was still annoyed at him for walking out of the hotel the other night without even a goodbye.

Stepping in front of the mirror, she slipped in her favourite Montana Silversmiths earrings. She thought about Jay and how much he intrigued and confused her. She sighed, her head spinning. Jay was going to be her boss and as the saying went, you should never mix business with pleasure. But could she resist his magnetism? Since laying eyes on Jay Donnellson she never doubted for a moment his ability to bestow pleasures upon her that would blow her away and leave her begging for more. So it would be dangerous to step over the line with him if she wasn't prepared for the possibility of a broken heart.

With one last look in the mirror she bounced towards her front door, eager to get out and enjoy her day, her backpack filled with everything she needed, including her sexiest bikini. She whistled to Floyd as she stepped outside, colliding with Zoe and sending the breakfast tray she was carrying crashing to the floor. Floyd rushed to her side to lick up the crumbs.

‘Oh, crap, sorry, Zoe,' Taylor said, kneeling down to help clean up the mess of shattered plates, gently pushing Floyd out of the way so he didn't cut his tongue on the broken glass. ‘Lucky it was only dirty dishes and not someone's breakfast.'

Zoe scowled as she yanked a piece of broken plate from Taylor's hand. ‘You should watch where you're bloody going. Mum's going to be so pissed off that you've broken all these plates and cups. And I'm damn well not going to take the blame.'