Fiery Possession (3 page)

“What about you? You're educated, too. For heavens sake, Ian, happiness is worth more than money.”

“Father always hoped you might find a rich American husband.”

She stamped her foot. “I have no plans for marriage at the moment. Besides,” she added with a smile, “who would marry a hellion like me, either here or in America?”

“You’re a beautiful woman. Oh hell. Look at this.” He stabbed his finger toward the creek. “It’s little more than a trickle now, thanks to the squatters damming the water upstream. My cattle have to go right out in the middle to drink. If the drought continues, it will dry up, and then what are we supposed to do? Bloody well starve?”

“It will be better now I’m here to help you,” she soothed. “I’m not frightened of Campton or the other squatters.”

Anger burned through her with every step they took. The squatters were deliberately, callously trying to starve them out. They wouldn’t get away with it, though. Right then and there, she declared war on them. No man intimidated Jo Saunders. 

Chapter Two

Who the hell did Miss Jo Saunders think she was, anyway? Luke spurred his horse into motion. That fiery, redheaded witch inflamed his senses, not to mention his groin, made him want to drag her into his arms and make wild passionate love to her. Women were only necessary to warm a man’s bed or give him heirs. He forgot that at his peril.

Damn her to hell for it. Women had never bothered him before. He enjoyed them for the short time it took before they bored him, and then without a qualm he moved on to the next conquest.

He had absorbed the message his father thrashed into him over the years. Women were necessary to satisfy a man's lust or give him heirs. They were treacherous, untrustworthy. Bitterness soured his mouth when he thought of how his father had disregarded his own advice and let lust for Lucille almost bankrupt them. Women deceived and betrayed men when they were at their most vulnerable. No, you’d never see him tied to any one woman. He was grooming Tim for this role, and it would be up to him to sire the next generation of Camptons.

I’ll write to the coach company about that vicious brute of a driver too. Ill-treating horses. Cruelty to animals had always sickened him. He took several deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down by thinking of the letter he had picked up. Cassandra, what an idiotic name, had just turned sixteen years old, but her family seemed anxious for a match with Tim.

He crested a hill and came upon Tim's horse grazing in a patch of grass just off the main track. Damn the boy’s rampaging sexual appetite. Most likely he was paying a visit to Bessie Roberts. Jack Mulvaney’s child grew in her belly, but he’d rather the boy come here instead of seducing their young serving girls. It was too inconvenient trying to find replacements for those he had to banish because his brother got them with child. Expensive, too, when he felt obliged to give them money to start a new life well away from Kangaroo Gully. A wife would calm the boy down.

Once Tim was safely married, he would provide Bessie with enough funds to begin a new life somewhere else. The girl did not deserve the condemnation heaped on her by the pious old biddies in town. Knowing Jack, he would probably have forced himself on her. Not that he would ever let anyone know he felt sorry for her. It suited his purposes to be perceived as hard, ruthless and without pity.

Tim had been outrageously indulged by his doting mother. Bloody young fool would end up in real trouble before too long. Even money and influence couldn’t cover up everything. He gave a deep sigh of regret for not having been a better father figure for the boy. Sometimes the weight of responsibility that he had taken on at such a young age weighed him down, but it wasn’t in his nature to show any sign of weakness.

Against his will, his thoughts strayed once more to Jo Saunders. Why had she come here?  Ian Morrison verged on bankruptcy - it was common knowledge. In a matter of weeks, the bank would foreclose. Good riddance to him and all other incompetent farmers like him.

Campton land had once stretched over an area of one-hundred and eighty-thousand acres, but thanks to some ridiculous Government Act in the years 1860 to 1861, it had been forcibly whittled down to less than half that amount.

Young Morrison had offered well above market value for the property and I wasn’t even given the chance to make a bloody counter offer. He had heard somewhere that the wife was delicate. No local cattle station would employ him, so the Yankee woman must have come to keep the wife company while he left the district for work. Mulvaney had recently hired men to move a mob of sheep up to Queensland.

Well, Jo Saunders was in for the shock of her life. He would put the pressure on now. He squashed down a twinge of guilt. Hell, he needed Morrison’s land, dozens of families depended on him for their livelihood.

***

Jo and Ian rode towards the police station. The town of Langford consisted of a wide street with verandah-covered shops on either side. Several narrow alleyways with ramshackle buildings led off the main street. Probably where the poorer townsfolk lived, she surmised. The wind gusting up these alleyways kicked up swirls of dust. No such thing as gutters, just a culvert with wooden planks forming a crossing every hundred yards or so.

Carriages, wagons, carts and horses crammed the thoroughfare. After they tethered their horses outside the newspaper office, she found herself being introduced to numerous people, mostly farmers who, like Ian, had sunk all their money into small acreages. Debt weighed heavily on them. One bad season meant financial disaster. No wonder worry etched such deep lines on their faces.

Children, scrubbed clean, wearing worn and patched clothes, chased each other as they ran between the adults. Dark materials dominated. She felt overdressed in her white muslin gown with a soft, red line pattern and sprigs of red roses. The bodice was trimmed with black lace over green ribbon. In retrospect, it would have been wiser to wear something a little more subdued.

The more farmers Ian told her about, the stronger her impression grew of a town divided. An invisible line had been drawn in the dirt, wealthy squatters and business people on one side, struggling farmers on the other.

The police sergeant, a lean officious man, listened without comment as she explained about the robbery.

“You had a pound taken from your purse?” He made the amount sound like a pittance.

Opening her mouth to protest about his indifference, she caught a desperate, silent plea from Ian and the rebuke died on her lips.

As they left the police station she muttered. “Why did you stop me from demanding my rights as a citizen? He's here to uphold the law.”

“The only laws he upholds are for Campton and his kind.”

“It isn't fair!  There must be something you can do.”

“Leave it alone or you'll make things worse for us.  We're small farmers, remember, second class citizens.” His mouth twisted with bitterness.

His bleak tone cut off the tirade she nearly uttered. Ian had changed almost beyond recognition. He had never been a strong man, but this hopelessness frightened her.

At the side of the police station, a boy wielded a broom with such energy it brought up clouds of choking dust.

“How are things, Benny?” Ian asked. “This is my sister Jo.”

When the boy glanced up, she gasped with a shock. He was a middle-aged dwarf. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Benny.” She smiled. “You're doing a fine job there.”

“Good job, good job.” He gave a slobbering grin. Was he mentally retarded as well?  Poor man, pity surged through her.

“Got a dog, got a dog,” he chanted in a sing-song voice. “Mr. Campton got me a dog.”

“That's good, keeping you busy, are they?” Ian asked.

“Busy, busy.”  He chortled. “Benny always busy. Wanna see my dog, pretty lady?”

“Not today, thanks, we're in a hurry, but we would love to see him another time, wouldn't we, Ian?”

“Benny like, Benny like.”

She waved to him as they walked away. “Oh, the poor little man.”

“He's happy enough in his own way. Most people are good to him. They give him a bit of casual work here and there. Campton paid for someone to build him a hut in the doctor’s backyard, and I heard that he gives him money from time to time.”

So, Campton at least had a spark of kindness. “You have a doctor?”

“Yes.” He gave a wry grin. “Not a bad sort, when he’s sober, that is.”

“The doctor drinks?” She gave a little jump and held her skirts up as she crossed the culvert, not waiting for brother’s help her.

“Has binges every now and again, gets absolutely insensible. He was a top surgeon in the Crimean war, before going, well, you know.”

“I wonder if he knew the lady with the lamp?” She wrapped her fingers around Ian’s arm as they crossed the road.

“You mean Florence Nightingale?”

She nodded. “Now there’s what I call a brave woman who saw a need and did something about it.  That's what I'd like to do.”

“You're a teacher, imparting knowledge to those who wouldn’t receive it otherwise.”

“I know, but I'd like to do something more, I'm not sure what, though. Give me time, I'll think of something.”

He chuckled. “I know you will.  It is good having you here. Fiona's a lot happier now.”

A laden wagon lumbered past them. “My, he's got a load up,” she said.

Ian nodded to the driver who responded by raising his whip. “Supplies for Camptons. There's a big charity ball there next week, all the district’s gentry are going, of course.”

How would Luke Campton look in formal attire? Drat the man. She didn’t care about the arrogant beast. He could walk around in a loin cloth for all she cared. She took a couple of deep, steadying breaths. “Were you invited?”

“What do you think?”

He sounded so despondent she wished she could cheer him up. “If I hadn't been robbed, I could have treated you at that nice little tea room.”

He rolled his eyes. “Tea room! I don’t think so. Anyway, I'd rather get along home. I don't like leaving Fiona alone for too long. You know how it is.”  He gnawed his lip. “We can come into town again next week for supplies.”

She patted her brother’s arm. “I understand.” But she didn’t. Never having been weak and helpless herself, she couldn’t begin to imagine what it would be like to be frightened and timid all the time.

The spring sun beat down, unseasonably hot. The white straw hat trimmed with black lace over green ribbons, shaded her face from the worst of the sun.

The gum trees along the sides of the road looked gnarled and twisted, the knots in the branches standing out like large brown bumps. Now and again some trunks appeared almost white, so smooth they might have been planed down by a giant hand. In the distance the dark green leaves were tinged with grey. A few blackened stumps bore testament to previous fires.

Spring flowers decorated the grassed areas between the trees. In one section, the everlastings grew in such abundance they turned the whole hillside into a mass of moving orange heads.

As they passed by a clump of scraggy bushes, three grey kangaroos bounded off into the opposite direction to them. What a strange mixture this country was. Almost mountainous in some parts, yet quite flat in others, a little like the American West where she had spent part of her childhood.

***

Two days after her arrival, Jo decided to put her plans for opening a school into operation. Fiona endorsed the idea and gave her directions to several homesteads where school-aged children lived. As soon as they finished breakfast, Jo borrowed a shirt, breeches and boots from Ian, saddled up one of the stock horses and set off.

Riding through the bush, she laughed aloud at the antics of the multi-colored parrots zigzagging through the trees. What beautiful birds they were. The weather seemed warm for September, the bright blue sky unusual, as summer did not officially start until December. If it wasn’t for the fact they were short of water and feed for the stock, it would be perfect.

She received a warm welcome at most of the homesteads, and found people eager for their children to attend school. Should she call into some of the larger properties?  No, wiser to control her enthusiasm at this stage. Phew, she wiped a trickle of perspiration from her brow; the heat intensified as the country became dryer, more barren.

Several thin, miserable chickens scratched in the dirt outside a crude lean-to. It had no chimney, just a pot sitting on a fire outside. Who would live in such a hovel? Curiosity had her dismounting and tethering her horse to a tree stump.

“Anyone home?”  She hesitated, debating whether to enter. Suppose it belonged to some unsavory individual?

A sack covering the entrance was pushed aside and a girl, heavy with child, waddled out. A faded torn gown stretched over her swollen stomach.

“How do you do? I'm Jo Saunders.”

“M…Mary Smith.”

“I'm Ian Morrison's sister.”

“C…come in,” Mary invited, with pathetic eagerness. “I don't get many visitors.”