Fiery Possession (10 page)

Giving herself a mental shake, she pulled herself back to the present, and headed for home. Chores needed to be done before sundown. Ian had stocked the woodpile with logs, but she needed to split them. While she proved barely adequate with an axe, Fiona was hopeless. Fortunately her sister-in-law excelled in cooking, and would do all the household jobs while Jo kept the farm running. So much to do and virtually no-one to help her. Somehow, she still needed to find time to start up the school and keep an eye on poor little Mary Smith.

On the ride home, she stopped to check the pigs, six sows that Ian had recently acquired.  He could not afford a boar, but one of their neighbors generously loaned them his. With any luck, some little piglets might be on the way already. Watching them rolling around in the mud pool Ian had dug for them, she shuddered. Revolting creatures, but bacon tasted good as long as you didn’t dwell on where it came from.

Tomorrow I'll go over to see Mary Smith. Straightening her shoulders, she gave herself a lecture. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Jo Saunders, look at the comfortable home you live in compared to that unfortunate girl. Count your blessings.

She arrived home to find a laden cart, a lean miserable horse between the shafts, pulled up in the front yard. Hawkers sometimes called on isolated settlers. Tethering her horse, Jo walked towards the homestead, her booted feet making no sound on the ground.

“I don't want to buy anything, thank you. Please go.”

“Listen Missus.”  The scruffy individual argued with Fiona. He was dark skinned, probably an Afghan, dressed in some kind of filthy robe affair. Making sure her hair remained tucked into her hat, Jo stuck her hands into her pockets and took up what she hoped was a masculine pose.

“You heard my wife.” She deepened her voice. “Leave before I set the dogs on you.  We don't want your wares.”

“The Missus say she buy.”

“I didn't, honestly.” Fiona’s lips trembled.

“Are you going to leave or not?”  Jo rocked back on her heels. “The gun, my dear, I mean business, Mister, git.”

The hawker shook his fist at them and bared his teeth in a snarl.

“Get the gun, Fiona.”

The man shambled off. Close up he appeared even more horrible, and a rancid stench lingered after he passed by.

In two steps, she made it to Fiona’s side. Over her shoulder, Jo watched the man climb into the cart and whip up the horse, leaving a cloud of swirling dust behind him.

“You were wonderful.” Fiona giggled. “You should have seen the look on his face when you turned up. I told him I was on my own, probably why he turned nasty and wouldn't go. He threatened me, said he'd burn all our wheat.”

Jo gave an angry snort. “Despicable types like him play on gullible women on their own, they'd sell nothing otherwise. Their merchandise is inferior rubbish. They give reputable merchants a bad name.”

“I shouldn’t have been so silly. I didn't think.”

“No harm done.” Jo spoke the words quietly, trying to hide her exasperation. How could a grown woman be so foolish? “Mm, something smells nice.”

“Ginger cake. I’m sorry for being so stupid.”

“Don't worry about it. Where's Lucy?”

“In the bedroom playing with the blocks Ian made.”

For dinner they shared cold mutton left over from yesterday and hot vegetables, finishing off with scones, spread with plum jam and freshly churned cream from their one house cow. She was grateful Fiona cooked so well, because if it was left to her they would probably starve.

Later, after Lucy went to bed, they sat outside with a cup of tea.

“I wonder where Ian is?”  Fiona mused.

“He’s probably sitting around some camp fire listening to tall stories or singing songs. I wish I'd been born a man. Life is so much easier for them. They can do as they wish, whereas women are so restricted.”

“I'm glad I was born a woman,” Fiona declared.

“It's easier for you, you're so feminine and dainty men feel protective towards you.”

“They would to you except you act so self-assured it frightens them off. Men want to be the boss and a clever woman lets them think they are.”

Jo laughed at this piece of wisdom. Perhaps there was more to Fiona than she had previously thought.

They passed a pleasant hour or so sitting on the porch, enjoying the cool evening breeze blowing down from the mountains, and hearing the night creatures going about their business. The low mournful cry of a wild dog calling to its mate trembled on the air, and a nearby mopoke took up the cry.

Fiona clutched Jo's arm. “Let's go inside, they sound so spooky.”

“All right.”  The night sounds held no fear for her, but today had been hectic. Sudden weariness washed over her. Tomorrow would be another busy day.

***

Jo awoke next morning feeling refreshed. After a quick wash, she dressed in shirt and breeches and strode outside to split some kindling for the fire. By the time Fiona got up, Jo managed to have their porridge cooking.

After breakfast she finished the milking, fed the dogs, prepared mush for the pigs and filled the copper with water ready to boil up their weekly wash.

“Why don’t you take Mary some of the clothes Lucy’s outgrown? They're still quite good, but I've decided to keep only the best things for myself in case I need them in the future,” Fiona said.

“That’s a good idea. The poor thing will be glad of anything. It's so sad.”

Mid-morning she saddled up and rode towards the Smith place. She had taken Ian's rifle so she could bag a couple of rabbits on the way home.

When she arrived at Mary’s a fire burned outside the humpy but there was no sign of the girl.

“Mary.”  No answer. “It's me, Jo.”

What was that?  She strained her ears. A cry came from the creek. She vaulted off her horse, and leaving the reins trailing, dashed towards the sound.

“Over here,” Mary screamed. Jo fell on her knees next to the girl.

“I fell over and I c…can't get up. Help me, I think the b…baby's coming.”

“Hold on to me. We have to get you inside.”

Mary screamed again and clutched at her stomach. “It's coming. It's coming.”

“No. You'll be all right.” Fear clawed through Jo as she saw the girl's face contort with another spasm of pain. It was weeks too early.

“Where's your husband working?”

“He went to K…Kangaroo Gully to collect his wages.”

“Who’s your closest neighbor?”

“C…Camptons.”

“They're miles away.”

“Not across country, it's less than a mile.”

Calling on a reserve of strength she hadn’t known existed, she dragged the girl to her feet. With Mary slumped against her they started for the hut, stopping several times when the pains intensified, and those few hundred yards felt like miles.

“Nearly there, I'll get help once you're inside.”

Somehow they made it. She helped Mary to the piles of skins and blankets and got her out of her gown. Underneath she wore a threadbare cotton shift, which stretched tautly across her swollen stomach. Jo’s heart rose up into her throat and her chest tightened – there was blood everywhere.

“Lie still, I'll get help.”

“H…Hurry,” Mary gasped.

“I won't be long.” Jo dashed to her horse, grazing where she had left it. Grabbing the reins, she vaulted into the saddle and rode with hands and heels, urging the animal on to greater and greater effort.

She followed a track winding through the scrub, and when this petered out she rode straight through the bush. This was a sturdy stock horse with a brave heart, and whether her urgency and desperation somehow conveyed itself to the animal she did not know, but it cleared the fallen timber in its stride.

Branches scratched and tore at her face, but she didn’t care. When Kangaroo Gully came into sight, stretched out like a compact little town, tears of relief filled her eyes.

***

Luke, leaning with one hip against the verandah rail, narrowed his eyes as a horse and rider broke out of the scrub.

“Who the hell is that mad man, Parkinson?” he asked his bookkeeper.

“I don't know, boss, seems in an awful hurry.”

“Probably one of the outriders anxious to collect his pay. It won’t do him much good if he breaks his bloody neck before he gets here.”

“Say, can he ride.”

The exclamation caused Luke to swivel his head back, just in time to see horse and rider sailing over one of the fences. Yes, the fellow could certainly ride. He watched with a grudging respect as the horse cleared the last fence and galloped towards the homestead. Barely had the horse been pulled up then the rider vaulted from the saddle.

“Jo Saunders,” Luke snarled. “What the hell does she want?”

She raced towards him. Her hat blew off and her hair spilled out like molten gold across her shoulders. Her green eyes burned fever bright. He had never seen such a dazzling color. Desire fired his loins with such heated intensity his manhood started to harden. Damn it all. He cursed under his breath.

“Get off my property.”  He wondered whether this red-haired witch had any idea what affect she had on him.

“Where's Nat Smith?  Mary's started to have her baby.”

“It’s nothing to do with me.” He thrust his hands into his pockets.

“She said he came here to be paid.”

“He left about an hour ago, Miss. Heading for the pub, at a guess,” the other man said.

“Oh God, no. I need help.”  She glanced from one man to the other. “The baby and mother will die if someone doesn't come. Please, I'm not asking for myself.” 

“I'll get someone, Miss.”

“You'll do no such thing, Parkinson,” Luke snapped. “There must be work requiring your attention.”

“But boss...”

“I pay you to be a bookkeeper, not a midwife.”  He dismissed the man with a curt nod as he took a step towards Jo.

“Because you blame me for killing your brother, you'd let poor little Mary and her baby die,” Jo screamed. “You're no better than a murderer.”

“Don’t you dare accuse me of such a foul thing.”

She spun around and raced back to the horse. “I'm sorry, boy.” She patted his sweating neck.

“Wait.” Luke strode up to her.

She swung around.

“Exactly where is the Smith place?  I'll get someone to go over,” he said abruptly.

The hard glitter remained in his eyes, and he stood so still he could have been a statue cast from stone.

In a few words she told him the exact location of the hut, mounted and galloped away.

On reaching the hut, she leapt from her horse and pushed the bag aside. A horrific sight met her.

She dropped to her knees on the ground. In the time it had taken to ride over to Campton’s place, little Mary had given birth and without help literally bled to death. A choking sound alerted Jo that death for one, meant life for another. Between the dead girl's legs a small scrap of humanity gasped for breath as the umbilical cord was wrapped around its neck.

She worked frantically to loosen the cord so the infant could breathe. She glanced around for something to cut the cord with. All she could find was an old knife with a broken handle. She covered the lifeless body with a blanket, and held the baby close so it might gain warmth from her body.

“You poor mite.”  It was a girl, but so tiny it could have been one of Lucy's dolls.

She cleaned the birthing mucous out of the baby’s eyes and mouth and wrapped her in a shawl. Blood covered her own clothes and her hands felt sticky with it. She badly wanted to scream but couldn’t afford such a luxury.

On legs that could barely carry her weight, and with the infant pressed against her breast, she managed to mount her horse using one hand. The baby kept giving weak little whimpers and she wanted to take her to Fiona, but dared not. Kangaroo Gully was much closer. Had it only been herself to consider, a team of wild horses would not have dragged her back there again, but every second counted for this poor little mite.

“Please God, don’t let her die. Don’t let her die,” she whispered. By the time the homestead came into view, Jo verged on collapse. She hated having to use her heels so cruelly to force more and more speed from the tiring horse. Its sides were flecked with foam, its steps almost faltering when they pulled up in the front yard.

Diving to the ground, with the baby still clasped close to her breast, she screamed. “Help me, someone help.”

“What the hell!” Luke's snarl pulled her up near the front door.

“You monster, see what you did.”  She thrust the little bundle at him. “Mary's dead.”

“What?”

He took the baby and held it in the crook of one arm. The shawl slipped down to allow him a glimpse of what it covered. Even in her distressed state, she saw the color recede from his face, and a nerve twitch at the side of his jaw.

“Mary's dead. Mary's dead and you killed her.”