Moonstone Promise (2 page)

Luke ran to yank the door open for him, then jumped into the driver's seat. ‘You're in the back, Tom!'

Tom came out of the feedroom looking sharp in a fresh change of city clothes. ‘Can't,' he said, slinging a pack over his shoulder. ‘Dad's here.' A horn honked out the front of the property. ‘See you in a few weeks, okay?'

Luke slumped. It had been good having Tom around for the weekend. ‘Thanks for the help with the hay,' he said, closing the door and winding the window down.

‘Look after my horse for me!' Tom ran to the gate.

Luke waved out the window and then glanced at Harry, who was lighting up – unbelievable. Luke crunched the ute into gear, pumped the accelerator, then hung his head and half his body out the window while reversing to the top of the laneway. After opening the gate, he kept reversing, all the way down.

At the bottom he pulled his head back into the cabin. Harry stared at him with a puzzled expression.

‘Something with the crankshaft,' shrugged Luke. ‘Lawson's gonna look at it this week.' He yanked on the handbrake.

Harry raised an eyebrow, then dragged in a lungful of smoke, wheezing and spluttering as he exhaled.

Luke tried not to listen to it. How a man with lung cancer could keep sucking on those things was beyond him. ‘I tightened up all those fences, replaced two of the posts,' he said, pointing to the other side of the mares' paddock. ‘They came up real good. And I fixed the ball–cock in the trough. It runs heaps better now.'

Harry kept coughing. Luke walked to the back of the ute and grabbed a whole bale of hay. He'd show Harry the cut on that filly's leg once he got them all fed. It wasn't healing right. Out in the paddock, he spread the bale out between the horses, then headed back for another one.

Harry was slumped over in the front of the ute with his eyes closed.

‘Oh no, Harry.' Luke broke into a run, leapt the fence in a bound and yanked the door open. In the front seat, Harry took long squeaky pulls for air. The ciggie smouldered quietly, burning into his trousers. Luke grabbed it and flicked it out of the car. ‘You okay, Harry?'

Harry didn't respond.

Luke gave him a gentle shake. ‘Harry?'

The old man squeezed his eyes shut and sucked harder for air.

Luke slammed the door and ran to the driver's side. He crunched and crunched at the gears, but couldn't get it into first. ‘Hang in there, Harry.' He pressed the horn on the steering wheel and a limp whine came out. Leaping out and dragging the gate open, he yelled ‘
Lawson!
' as loudly as he could. ‘Hold on, Harry!'

Luke reversed at full speed into the mares' paddock, scattering the horses, then hit the brakes and sent the ute into a one-eighty. He reversed back out, not bothering with the gate and flew backwards straight up the laneway, bumping and banging the whole way. Harry slumped onto the dashboard, fighting for breath.

He yelled for Lawson again as he entered the stable yard. Lawson came running. He opened Harry's door and immediately reached into his pocket for his phone.

‘He can't breathe!' said Luke, as he leaned across and helped Harry to sit back. The old man's eyes were wide open and his neck strained. ‘He's not getting any air in at all!'

While Lawson gave the nearest crossroad to the triple-0 service, Annie ran up behind him. She pulled him out of the way and knelt down by Harry. ‘What've you done to yourself, love?' she said gently, holding her husband up. She looked across at Luke. ‘Was he sneaking fags again?'

Luke froze. He didn't want to dob on the old man.

‘Was he or not?' snapped Annie.

Luke nodded.

Annie set her lips tight and shook her head. ‘You've got lung cancer, you old fool!' She pulled a puffer from her pocket and tried to squirt it into Harry's mouth. ‘Try to breathe in, love.' She turned to Lawson. ‘How long till they get here?'

‘Twenty minutes.'

‘He won't last twenty minutes!' Annie began frantically squeezing the inhaler at Harry's lips. ‘Come on, love,
breathe
.'

‘Help me sit him up,' said Lawson. Luke reached across the ute and helped to hold the old man up.

‘Don't you give up, Harry!' said Lawson. ‘Keep trying. Get that air in.'

Harry lifted his head and sucked for air.

‘That's it, relax your shoulders, stay calm,' said Lawson. ‘Keep trying, the ambulance is coming, you just gotta keep sucking in what air you can, old man.'

2

WEEKS LATER,
Luke lay in his bed with his arms over his face. Harry's snore, jagged and erratic, vibrated along the hallway, reaching his room and rattling at the door. Luke hated the snoring. No matter how many times he told himself it was just Harry, that sound made the walls close in on him. Memories of other foster homes came crashing into his head. He rolled onto his side, pulling a thin cotton sheet over his bare shoulder. He covered his head with his arms again and tried to think of something better.

But it didn't work. Another snore ripped through the night, choked and raspy.

Luke didn't know what was going to happen once Harry's old lungs finally gave out. All he knew was that there would be some big changes, but no one had talked about what those changes might be. To do so would be premature, disrespectful. Until now, everyone had carried on as usual. Harry had faded more and more into the background while Luke and Lawson had tried to keep the property running for him.

Everything will work out. Harry won't let anything
bad happen to me.

Luke closed his eyes and tried to sleep again, but his legs wouldn't stay still. Eventually, he pushed the sheet off and sat up. It was a hot night and he wore only a pair of shorts. He peered out the window, then gently slid it open and swung his legs over the sill. Outside, crickets chirruped. A horse snorted softly down at the stables. Biyanga: he recognised the deep, throaty tone of a stallion.

On the mossy pavers of the courtyard lay a carpet of decomposing flowers from a big old jacaranda tree. Annie and Harry had afternoon tea under that tree in the summer months. It was their special place. Luke had seen them kissing on more than one occasion, just a bit of a peck, but it was still all lovey-dovey, which was kind of gross. They were so . . .
old
. Too old for that sort of carryon, anyway.

He heard one last snore as he closed the window and padded across the courtyard. He came to the back wall of the stables and slipped through the small door leading into the building.

The stable aisle was cool and dark. Biyanga sniffed at the air and gave a low rumbling greeting as Luke walked softly along the concrete towards Legsy's stall. Other horses shuffled through the thick wood shavings, their joints clicking quietly. They peered over the stable doors with curious faces.

Luke held out his hand and found Legsy's muzzle. It was cool and whiskery and nipped lazily at his empty hand. ‘Hey,' he whispered and ran his hand over the colt's warm, satiny neck. Legsy ran his muzzle up over Luke's shoulder and sniffed at his hair. It gave him goosebumps and brought a smile to his face. Legsy was one of the first horses he had ever gentled; they were best of buddies. He wore a red rug, the prize they had won together at the last campdraft. ‘Did I wake you up?' Luke mumbled. ‘Lucky fella, at least you can sleep.'

He walked to the feedroom, pulled the door across and slid into the blackness. Groping his way to the back wall, he found a pile of horse rugs in the corner. He pulled them up in armfuls, carried them out into the aisle and tossed them on the ground. Then he flopped down into them and breathed in the salty horse sweat, the earthy dried mud, the lucerne and pine. A tiny breeze ran along the cool concrete and over his bare shoulder. The steady munch of a horse chewing hay, the shift of hooves over the soft wood shavings, the faint whistle of Legsy's breathing rocked him gently into sleep.

A clatter of horseshoes on concrete jolted Luke into the new day. Biyanga called loud throaty whinnies and banged at his stable door with his front hoof. Legsy squealed excitedly. Luke pulled himself out of the pile of horse rugs and cursed himself for sleeping in. It was hot already and a pulsing headache thudded against his skull.

Grace Arnold, Harry's thirteen-year-old niece, sat on a grey horse wearing old jeans, a singlet and black helmet. Although she was a slob, a tomboy, a loudmouth and general pain in the butt, she was about the bravest girl rider Luke had ever met. She would get on anything. The horse she sat on now looked young and gangly – probably a breaker, judging by the big old poley saddle she was sitting in, and the way it shifted about nervously, scraping its metal shoes over the slippery concrete.

‘What are you doing?' she asked. ‘Did you sleep there?'

‘What does it look like?' Luke got to his feet and began bundling up the rugs.

‘No need to be snappy,' said Grace, slipping off the horse and tethering it.

Luke knew he shouldn't be short with her, but his head was pounding. He carried the rugs into the feedroom. ‘Excuse me,' he said, as he pushed past her, but not before he caught her eyes running over his broken, lumpy ribs. He usually kept them well hidden.

‘Why did you sleep down here?' Grace asked again. ‘Is there a sick horse or something?'

‘Legs was a bit colicky,' he lied. ‘Can you feed up?' He stalked off to get some breakfast. It was Sunday – his day off.

Back at the house, he didn't bother showering. Standing with the fridge door open, he skulled the last of the juice and chucked the empty carton in the bin. He scoffed ten honey-smothered Weet-Bix, two more than comfortably fit in his stomach, and went to his room to get changed. He could hear Harry wheezing from the end of the hallway as he pulled a T-shirt over his head. It didn't sound as if the oxygen tank was doing him much good.

He probably wouldn't see the old man until lunchtime. That was the only time Luke saw him now: after the horses were fed and worked, and all the odd jobs were done. Annie rarely left Harry's side. She sat next to his bed, adjusting the tanks, fiddling about with the sheets and bringing him cups of tea which he never drank. Around midday, Luke usually went in there and gave him a morning report on the horses. The last couple of days, though, Harry had seemed uninterested.

Luke decided to quickly pop his head in and see if he was feeling any better this morning. He'd missed the old man's gruff humour and reassuring manner, even though they never really talked about much – just horses, mostly. He knocked quietly on the door.

A voice mumbled.

Luke pushed the door open and saw Harry pulling himself upright onto the side of the bed, facing out the window.

‘That you, Lawson?'

‘It's Luke,' he said, walking around to where the old man could see him. ‘Just wanted to see if you were feeling any better today.' He sat in the chair that had been strategically placed for visitors.

‘Bloody freezing,' said Harry. ‘Pass me my jumper, will you?'

Luke helped him to sling it around his shoulders, noting how hot he felt himself. After a short silence, Harry spoke again. ‘Can you put Bunyip in the paddock where I can see him?'

‘Bunyip?' Luke questioned. Bunyip was Harry's first horse – he had died years ago. ‘Don't you mean Biyanga?'

‘Yeah, yeah, the stallion,' Harry corrected himself.

‘He's just finishing his feed, then I'll put him out.'

Harry stared at the window. Outside, his property stretched over acres of riverfront land, patched into paddocks, sloping gently down to the water. But Harry didn't seem to see past the glass. ‘Gonna see old Bunyip again soon,' he mumbled.

He'd been saying this for days and it seemed to make him feel better, so Luke went along with it. ‘Gonna pull some big scores on that old fella, hey, Harry,' he said, trying to sound cheerful. ‘Sounds like a pretty sharp horse.'

‘The best,' mumbled Harry. He hacked out a horrible wheezing cough and reached for a hanky. ‘I want to ask you a big favour,' he whispered.

‘Anything,' said Luke. ‘You name it.'