Home Before Sundown (8 page)

Bella was in her element now that she'd settled into her life at Mullinjim. Checking kilometres of fencing, waterlines and dams was all in a day's work for her. Each morning, she headed off early for distant corners of the property, monitoring water troughs and licks and making sure that cattle weren't bogged in muddy dams.

Under the slamming heat of the North Queensland sun the days were long and exacting, but she got the jobs done and it gave her a buzz to know she was doing it well. On her own.

Now, when she rang her father, he didn't quiz her minutely about every detail of her day and that had to be a sure sign that he was beginning to trust her and to believe in her ability to run the show here.

‘You've taught me well,' she told him fondly.

It was the truth. Every day she was reminded of all the little ways her father had passed on his knowledge. There'd been many conversations on horseback or leaning on a stock rail, even squatting in the dust, when he'd talked about how to read the country and to handle the cattle.

But despite her busy, tiring days, Bella wasn't sleeping well. Most nights she lay beneath the inadequate, slowly circling ceiling fan, tossing and turning, unable to sleep. Thinking about Gabe, of course. Which was pointless.

Much better to concentrate all her thoughts on her dad and to will him to get stronger and stronger.

She thought about the years she'd spent in this room, lying in the dark. When she was little she'd actually been afraid of the dark. Truly terrified . . . and in the end, it had been her dad who'd come to her rescue. Good old Dad . . .

Like all little kids, she'd had nightmares and if she cried out at night it was usually her mum who came hurrying in to give her a warm cuddle and tuck her in safely, assuring her there were no monsters under the bed.

Luke, being a typical older brother, did his best to undermine this and he'd told her scary stories about the Yewengie, the Gulf Country's version of the Bunyip.

‘It stalks down from the north-west at night,' he'd told her in a creepy stage whisper. ‘And it takes babies from their beds.'

Bella screamed, of course, and Luke got into trouble, but this didn't stop her from being afraid. Her fears exploded one night when she walked down the hall from the bright comforting lights of the kitchen and into her bedroom and found that the fearful Yewengie was waiting to take her.

Its huge, evil dark claw scraped across the bedroom window and it let out a horrible screech.

No amount of cuddling from her mum could comfort Bella. She was past listening to explanations about the night wind blowing a dead she-oak branch on the window. She was beyond logic. She was near hysteria.

Then her father came into her room.

‘Okay, love,' he said in his quiet, steady voice. ‘I'll go outside and chase it away.'

Bella was flooded with relief.

‘But it will only work if you come, too,' her dad said next.

Oh, help
. Her father was the bravest man in the world, but Bella couldn't bring herself to take a single step outside into that terrifying darkness.

Naturally Luke was grinning like mad and making scary faces at her from behind their parents' backs.

Perhaps her father guessed this. He turned to Luke. ‘Mate, I've heard you telling Bella all about these Yewengies and how they've suddenly turned up on Mullinjim. You're the expert, so you'll have to come with us. Get the battery-pack spotlight from the cupboard.'

Luke almost rubbed his hands with glee. ‘Can I get the rifle from the gun cabinet as well?'

‘No, you bloody can't.' Their father gave an exasperated shake of his head. ‘You're supposed to be the Yewengie expert. You should know rifles are useless with them. Their problem is they can't hack bright light. That's why nobody's ever been seen them in the daylight.'

Luke looked less smug as he fetched the spotlight.

Then Bella was hitched high onto her father's hip, and Luke was taken by the hand and told to focus the light ahead of them as they walked across the dry lawn towards the big fig tree that covered most of the closest shed.

The light was very powerful, beaming out far into the distance.

‘Don't go flashing it all over the place,' Dad warned. ‘Keep it on the fig tree, Luke. That's where the Yewengie will be hiding.'

Bella's heart pounded and she clung to her father more tightly than ever, grateful that he was so big and strong and that he knew
everything
.

‘Okay, Luke,' her dad said. ‘Flash the light up and down and across the tree, but do it quickly.'

The beam flashed over the dark branches and leaves, turning them silvery grey.

To Bella's surprise, her father suddenly yelled at the top of his voice, ‘Bugger off, Yewengie. There are no babies here.'

Feeling safe in his tight grip, she couldn't help giggling.

‘Okay, Bella. You call it out, too.'

She didn't stop to think twice. ‘Bugger off, Yewengie. No babies here!' she squawked.

She heard her father's cry of triumph. ‘See that? It took off from the back of the tree. Out towards Red Top. A big dark shadow.

‘I saw it, Dad,' Luke whispered. ‘I saw it.'

Her father slid Bella gently to the ground then and he stood between her and Luke with a hand on each of their shoulders.

‘Right,' he said solemnly to Luke. ‘Now you saw it go, didn't you?'

Luke nodded, but he looked a bit guilty too.

‘So, we've seen the mongrel off our property and that means there's no need for any more Yewengie stories to frighten your little sister. Got that?'

Luke nodded vigorously, slightly overawed.

Bella felt her father's hand squeeze her shoulder. ‘Now, Bella,' he said gently. ‘I want to show you something special. Do you see the little red eyes in the tree?'

‘I – I think so.'

He took the spotlight from Luke.

‘Look on that branch. Four little red eyes.'

‘Yes, yes, I see.' They were glowing and scary.

‘That's a beautiful little mother possum,' her father said ‘A mother and her baby. And they're not afraid of the dark, are they?'

‘No,' Bella whispered, not quite sure.

‘That proves the Yewengie's gone,' her dad said. ‘A mother possum would never bring her little one out if she thought something bad might happen to it.'

Bella shook her head, thoroughly impressed.

‘Now let's take a quiet walk around the house and see what other animals might be out. Luke, you were a great help tonight, but I think Bella can have a go with the spotlight now.'

So Bella's night-time bravery had begun via the security of a bright spotlight.

It led to walks along the creek at night, spotlighting.

Then to nights on the sand by the water with nothing but the campfire's glow to spoil their night vision, as she and her Dad and Luke fished for jewfish in the dark.

Later she'd been fearless, and she was always the first to challenge the children of dinner guests and party visitors to hide-and-seek contests in the dark around the homestead.

Later still, Bella had avoided using any unnecessary artificial light around a camp . . . taking comfort and security in the stars blazing in the night sky as she swagged down in the open.

Now she smiled into the darkness. She thought about the heart trouble her father was fighting.

Bugger off, Yewengie
.

On Saturday morning as Liz waited, without enthusiasm, for her new pupil, she added fresh supplements to the troughs in the home paddocks, fed the chooks, collected the eggs and watered the still-struggling veggie garden.

These days, the sun was already high and blistering by nine, and as the house tanks were dangerously low, Liz used a precious bucket of water that she'd collected when she showered. The withered lettuce leaves had long ago been fed to the chooks, but she was trying desperately to save a few of Virginia's ripening cornstalks and tomato plants, as well as the basil and rosemary bushes.

At the sound of a truck coming along the track, she set the bucket down and wiped her damp hands on her jeans.

This would be the grandfather with Alex. In preparation, she'd printed off sheet music from the internet, but it was difficult to guess the possible standard of an eleven-year-old who hadn't played the piano for nearly a year.

She planned to suggest that Alex's grandfather could wait on the side verandah while the lesson took place. She had no intention of letting the old man into the lounge room to glower at her from the sofa while she tried to instruct his boy.

The verandah was shady enough and he could thumb through the pile of cattlemen's journals she'd set out for him on the cane table. She'd give him a jug of iced water and a glass and hope he didn't expect a cup of tea and scones. After all, she wasn't the CWA.

A dusty truck rounded the bend and rumbled to a stop on the pale, brittle grass that had once been lawn.

Well . . . here goes nothing . . .

Liz pinned on a smile.

Her smile faltered slightly when a tall and decidedly athletic figure jumped down from the driver's side of the truck. She'd been expecting white hair and a stoop, maybe a soft paunch. Certainly not wide shoulders and a flatish stomach and blue-jeaned legs that seemed to go on forever.

If this was Jack Roper, he was a damn young-looking grandfather . . .

Then again, Liz reluctantly remembered, she was a similar age to many grand
mothers
and she didn't like to think of herself as elderly, thank you very much. Her surprise wasn't helped by a sudden, annoying desire to change out of her oversized shirt and to tidy her hair.

It was time to remember that Alex was the focus of her attention. She smiled directly at the boy as she walked forward. He was tall and slim with longish light-brown hair and intelligent dark-chocolate eyes.

She extended her hand. ‘Hi, Alex, I'm Liz.'

The boy nodded shyly as they shook hands.

With careful timing, Liz lifted a deliberately cool gaze to the grandfather. Okay, so up close there were a few signs of ageing. Deep creases gave his face a lived-in look. Silver flecks showed in his dark hair. He wasn't too handsome, but his face made her think of the tough good guys in movies.

She gave a formal nod. ‘Mr Roper.'

‘
Ms
Fairburn.'

Had she imagined the faint mockery in his tone as he emphasised Ms? Liz broke eye contact.

‘Come inside then, Alex.' She gave the boy her warmest smile. ‘We can have a nice chat about the lessons you've had so far.'

Alex nodded and Liz fancied she saw excitement burning in his eyes, but as they reached the verandah, she remembered there were questions she needed to ask the grandfather.

‘Alex, why don't you go on in?' She pointed to the open front doorway. ‘The piano's just inside, in the lounge room. I won't be a minute.'

She turned to Jack Roper. ‘I thought you might like to sit here in this shady spot, Mr Roper.'

She had to look up – she couldn't address his boots or his shirtfront – but at least she was prepared this time. She was no longer thrown by the rugged looks or the confident blue eyes.

Well . . . perhaps she was still ever so slightly thrown . . .

‘Before I start the lesson, I'd like to understand Alex's situation,' she said. ‘About his parents. On the phone he mentioned an accident.'

The grandfather's face was suddenly bleak. ‘There was a car accident. A fatal one, I'm afraid. We––' He looked away. ‘We lost them both.'

‘I'm so sorry.'

Jack Roper nodded.

Gently Liz asked, ‘Was either of Alex's parents a musician?'

‘Simon, his father, was a pianist.' Jack Roper shrugged. ‘Sydney Opera House. All that kind of thing.'

‘So Alex––'

Liz was cut off in mid-sentence by a burst of music from the lounge room. Stormy right hand octaves gave way to the calm serenity of a wonderfully familiar melody. It was the start of Chopin's
Ballade No 1
.

Her jaw dropped. She couldn't help it. The music was way beyond anything she'd expected Alex to have tackled and although it wasn't a polished performance it conveyed, right from the start, a wonderfully heartfelt quality, the kind of playing that lifted the fine hairs on her arms.

Young Alex Costello was gifted.

By the shock in Jack Roper's face, Liz was sure he was as startled as she was. For long seconds they stood on the verandah, locked in mutual surprise as the notes rippled and flowed and thundered around them.

‘You said you've never heard him play,' Liz accused.

‘I haven't.' Jack Roper looked genuinely shamefaced. ‘Not for years at least – not since he first started.' He gave a dazed shake of his head. ‘He's pretty good, isn't he?'

‘Yes,' said Liz sternly. ‘He's bloody good.'

Liz had given master-classes to several of Europe's most outstanding students and yet she couldn't remember a lesson she'd enjoyed more. No doubt it was the surprise of discovering Alex out here in the bush. He was raw and his technique was a little haywire, but he was naturally talented and totally passionate about music. Working with him was exciting and fun.

He'd told her that he'd been teaching himself for the past year, playing on an old piano in the Gidgee Springs Hall after school. The other kids had teased him, but even the least sensitive had eventually caved, apparently. No doubt they were silenced by his obvious talent, and apart from christening him Mozart, the kids had left him to get on with his practice.

‘So who taught you to play this Chopin piece?' she asked.

‘My dad,' Alex said, dropping his gaze quickly. ‘He made a recording and I have it on my iPod.'

Liz imagined the deep bond the father and son had shared and a deep lonely pang speared her heart. Her throat was so suddenly tight that for a moment, she couldn't speak.

Alex was looking at her, his dark eyes worried.

Liz blinked hard. ‘We do need to work on your technique,' she said, managing a quick smile. ‘You've made things hard for yourself at times, Alex. See this bit here? These triplets?' She played a short passage. ‘I'd like to see you try this fingering.'

She replayed the section, demonstrating again and the sudden excitement in Alex's eyes was very gratifying.

He tried the notes, copying her.

‘Yes, that's it.'

‘Wow. It sounds so much better already.'

Liz's grin mirrored his. ‘And now, with this section here, you could––'

A knock at the door interrupted them. Liz glanced at her watch and realised they'd gone well over the hour.

Of course, it was Jack Roper who stuck his head around the door.

‘Sorry to interrupt,' he said, not looking the slightest bit apologetic.

‘We won't be long, Mr. Roper.' Liz's response was just a tad haughty. ‘Another five minutes?' Trust the grandfather to stand by with a stopwatch. He was probably worried she'd charge extra.

‘Take as long as you like,' he said, surprising her. ‘I wanted to speak to you quickly about one of your pregnant heifers. I noticed her when I was driving in and I thought she looked as if she was in trouble, so I ducked back to check. I'd say her calf is stuck. She's made no progress in well over an hour. I think she needs help.'

Liz blinked, needing a moment to adjust from the artistic intricacies of Chopin to the practical realities of a pregnant heifer in labour.

‘Would you be able to help her?' she asked uncertainly. ‘If you like I could try to phone my niece.'

She heard a faint snort from Alex beside her and realised she'd probably insulted the man. Jack Roper was a cattleman after all.

‘I'm sure I can manage.' His eyes held that faintly mocking light again. ‘But I didn't want to take any action until I'd spoken to you first.'

‘Well, yes, I appreciate that. Thank you.' Chin high again, Liz was at her most dignified. ‘Please, by all means, do what you can.'

As Jack Roper turned to leave, however, she jumped impulsively to her feet. ‘Perhaps I should come, too.'

He looked back to her, blue eyes narrowed. ‘There's no need.'

No. Of course, there was no need. Liz was already regretting her impulse. Damn it, she'd dug a hole for herself and now there was a measure of arrogant disdain in Jack Roper's gaze.

She'd dealt with arrogant men plenty of times – first violinists, conductors, operatic soloists – and she'd never let them intimidate her. She wouldn't back down now.

‘It's not that I don't trust you, Mr Roper. But it's our heifer and I'm sure I should take an interest in her welfare.' She knew Bella wouldn't dream of letting a stranger deliver their calf without keeping an eye on him. ‘Alex can work on his Chopin. Can't you, Alex?'

‘Sure.' The boy looked as if she'd given him an early Christmas present.

Jack Roper, on the other hand, let his gaze linger on her, taking her measure, probably trying to decide if she'd be in the way.

‘It's your call,' he said, finally, in a neutral tone that gave nothing away. ‘We'll use my truck.'

It was almost surreal to find herself suddenly bouncing along in a truck that smelt faintly of hay and dust. And with this tall stranger beside her, Liz felt unusually self-conscious.

When she was young she'd never been attracted to fellows from the bush. Right from the start she'd had her eyes set firmly on a career based in the city and she'd preferred her escorts to be dressed in dinner suits rather than jeans and dusty riding boots.

Now she was conscious of the raw masculinity of the man beside her, so tall and broad shouldered, and with a kind of leashed energy. She was fascinated by his work-toughened hands, spinning the steering wheel or deftly shifting gears, so different from the smooth, manicured hands of city men.

Jack Roper's strong, long thighs encased in denim were another disturbing distraction.

‘Here she is.' He pulled up on the edge of the track.

Liz peered past him, looking for the heifer. ‘Is that her lying down?'

Jack Roper nodded and turned off the engine. ‘One thing,' he said sternly, turning to her.

Up close, his eyes were the incredible blue of the sea on a sunny day. ‘Yes?' Liz's voice was barely more than a whisper.

‘You'd better stop calling me Mr Roper.'

‘Right . . . Jack.'

She thought he might smile.

If he did, she missed it. He'd already turned to open the door and climb down.

Jack fetched a satchel and rope from the back of his truck, looped them over his shoulder, then held down rungs of barbed wire with his boot and offered his hand as Liz climbed through the fence.

The poor heifer was lying on her side, her labouring sides inflated, with two little black hooves protruding from her rear end.

‘Did you say she's been like this for over an hour?' Liz asked.

Jack nodded. ‘Still no change, I'm afraid.'

‘The poor thing.'

He knelt beside the animal and made soothing noises as he examined her with gentle hands. ‘Just as I thought. The calf's very big.'

Liz winced in sympathy.

‘She should be okay with help.' Jack began to tie the rope around the hooves, gently, carefully. Then he wound the rope around his hand to gain leverage.

As a musician, Liz had spent a lifetime noticing hands. Now she found herself once again fascinated by this man's hands – workmanlike, strong and callused, but long fingered and gentle, too. And she couldn't help admiring his careful, unhurried manner and the concentration on his face as he slipped one hand inside the heifer to ease the calf's legs down.

The poor first-time mother deserved shade, but there wasn't a tree nearby and it was disgustingly hot out in the dry paddock. The sky was cloudless and pale, as if the blowtorch sun had blasted away its colour, and Liz felt dust in her throat and sweat trickling down her spine. She wished she'd thought to grab her hat on the way out.

The muscles in Jack's arms bunched as he hauled on the rope again, easing one little leg down, and then the other. She found herself holding her breath as she watched him strain, placing a booted foot on the heifer's rump to gain extra leverage.

He shot Liz a quick glance. ‘Can you get the jar of Vaseline out of the satchel?'

‘Of course.' She hurried to find it and brought it to him, unscrewing the lid.

Jack held out a hand, palm up. ‘If you could slap a dollop on there.'

‘Right.' Liz kept a poker face as she deposited a fat blob into Jack's palm.

Immediately he turned back to the heifer, gently rubbing the soothing jelly around the edges of the straining birth canal.

‘Good girl,' he murmured, his deep voice calm and soothing. Over his shoulder he said, ‘I'd rather not use the truck to haul it out.'

Liz would rather he didn't, too.

Then, after wiping his forehead on his shirtsleeve, he was pulling on the rope again, steadily, strongly, his face grimaced with the effort.

Liz bit down hard on her lip, trying to banish threatening memories . . . and at last the little wet calf was slipping from its mother. Jack peeled away the membrane to reveal a dark, silvery grey Brahman.