The Horse Thief Page 7

  Jim ran his hand across his chin and studied the book. It was exactly the same as the one he’d found in the old office that he’d tucked at the bottom of his saddlebag. Would a record of the sale be here? Forcing his mind back to India he said, ‘It doesn’t leave you with a lot of choice. Which horses do you intend to use?’

  ‘I was hoping you could help me with that.’

  She pulled a chair from the corner of the room and sat down, then gestured to another chair.

  ‘May I look?’ His voice snagged on the words as he waited. Had she noticed his shaking hands, his eagerness?

  India slid the ledger onto the corner of the desk and opened it. His father’s neat cursive script and meticulous figures filled the pages. He craned across the desk. Nothing that resembled a deed of sale or transfer. His hopes plummeted.

  ‘If you turn to the back of the book it’s all listed there.’ India flicked the pages. She started as his wrist brushed against her arm, and then she pulled back and walked to the window leaving him alone.

  His thudding heartbeat drowned out the hiss of the lamp. He flicked to the back of the book where the spider-like lines indicated the ancestry of each of the mares and stallions. The faded writing blurred. He would abuse this trust she’d placed in him. This may not be the sales record but it would show Jefferson’s lineage.

  Oblivious to his rising excitement she stared out the window, her eyes fixed on the night vista. The lines of neatly inscribed names: sires, dams and offspring burned like a brand in his mind. He turned to the very back of the book. Somewhere in this tome lay the information he needed and once he’d found it his job would be done. He could fulfil his father’s dying wish—and, if truth be known, his own dream.

  Flicking from the front to the back of the book he cross-referenced the entries until he found Goodfellow’s name. Sire, dam, grand sire, grand dam. He ran his fingers down the names. The founding stock of Australia. The horse was a wonder. To think Kilhampton had wanted him destroyed. Why would he part with an animal like that?

  ‘Have you come to any conclusions?’ India spoke from across the room. ‘I would like to begin breeding as soon as possible and ensure spring births next year.’ She wandered back to the desk and trailed her long fingers along the tooled leather.

  Dragging his mind from the past he concentrated on her words. ‘We will check all the females and I suggest we divide them into groups with a male. Paddock mating might be better. It places less stress on the males and the younger fillies will feel less threatened in the company of the experienced mares.’

  ‘That sounds perfect. We’ll start tomorrow.’ She yawned.

  Disgusted by his duplicity, he took the opportunity she offered. ‘Why don’t you leave me here to go over the records and I’ll group the mares and check the lineage. Tomorrow I’ll give you a list of suggestions and see if you agree.’

  India nodded. ‘You’re right, I’m tired. It’s been a long day. I’ll leave it with you. Please turn off the lamp and close the door when you’ve finished.’ She took a step closer and offered her hand then withdrew it as though she thought better of it. ‘Goodnight Jim, and thank you.’

  No. Thank you.

  As the door closed behind her Jim returned to the ledger. If he found the deed of sale and transcribed Jefferson’s heritage he would have all he required. Jefferson would race in the Melbourne Cup in November.

  Eleven

  The moon cast a silvery shadow across the smooth surface of the water. Not a breath of air stirred the massive fig trees standing guard over the house, their buttress roots anchoring them deep in the soil. A phalanx of bats flew across a beam of moonlight and India started at the shadows they created on her bedroom floor.

  Jim’s presence kindled as many shadows as the bats. Memories of the past and the brief but tantalising possibility she could succeed in the future. She still cherished the dream Papa would return home and Mama recover sufficiently to take part in everyday life. Who didn’t dream of recreating their happy childhood?

  The fact Mama had spoken to her yesterday rekindled her hopes; it must be a sign of improvement. She’d seen Jefferson and confused him with Goodfellow but she had at least taken notice, responded. That alone was a sign of change.

  A movement caught her attention on the edge of the dam, larger and paler than any bat, and she drew the curtain further back. Breathing heavily on the glass she rubbed at the condensation with the heel of her hand then squinted out the window. A ghostly figure astride a horse swept the perimeter of the lagoon, first walking, then cantering.

  Not tonight, please, not tonight.

  India raced across the hallway to her mother’s room. Not stopping to offer the usual courtesies to gain entry she flung open the door. Emptiness greeted her. The forlorn bath chair sat by the window guarding Oliver’s empty cradle; the curtains drawn back and a pale patch of light illuminated the carpet.

  ‘Mama! Anya!’ She charged through to the adjoining room. Anya’s single bed stood pristine and abandoned.

  Cold fingers clutched at her stomach as the silence stretched and filled the empty room. She dashed back into the hallway and down the stairs, choking back a sob. A thin sliver of light radiated beneath the library door. Jim must still be in the house.

  She tiptoed outside, across the courtyard and into the stables then ran down the aisle checking each bay. The two young stallions peered over the half-doors as she bolted down to the end of the aisle. Jefferson stood in the end stall eyeing her progress with a look of confusion. The mares stood in their stalls, heads turning and ears pricking at her intrusion. The final door swung free—Aura, her mother’s buckskin was missing.

  India grabbed a rope bridle from the tack room and slipped it over Cirrus’s ears. Ignoring the whinnied objections of her stable mates India hurried the horse through the doors. Once outside she hitched up her skirt and straddled Cirrus bareback. The clatter of hooves on the flagstones broke the silence and she offered a silent prayer that Jim would be too absorbed in the ledgers to leave the library.

  The driveway wound around under the fig trees to the front of the house. The lagoon glimmered silver and the tussock grass glittered, throwing spiky silhouettes on the still water. Coming to a halt she scanned the edge of the lagoon and searched the shoreline.

  Nothing. No sight or sound of Mama.

  Driving her horse into a canter she skirted the water following the well-worn path. As she rounded the corner Cirrus lifted her hooves high, refusing to move faster than a walk on the soft spongy ground.

  At a stand of contorted tea-trees she slipped to the ground. An unnatural stillness loomed shroud-like and chilling.

  ‘India.’ A voice cut the darkness. Not harsh. Soft and sensible, painstakingly calm. She swallowed and sucked a breath into her starved lungs.

  ‘Be still. She is safe.’

  India shuddered, the words so close yet no visible sign of anyone.

  ‘I am here. Stand still.’

  She stopped, the voice a reminder of her youth and the cool hand that soothed her brow and chased away the nightmares. ‘Anya. Where are you?’

  ‘Stop and wait. Watch.’ Exuding serenity Anya stood statuesque beneath the tea-trees.

  She squinted in the direction of Anya’s pale fingernail and the long slim arm she pointed across the lagoon.

  ‘She is safe. Watch and wait.’

  Unable to resist the habit of a lifetime she followed Anya’s directions. Amongst the grasses framing the lagoon Mama moved, leading a horse so pale it almost glowed in the dark.

  ‘What is she doing?’

  ‘What she does every night. Searching. Hoping. Wishing. Praying. It’s her way to heal the hurt nestled in her soul.’

  Tears clustered behind India’s eyes as the shadow trailed through the grasses. ‘Oliver’s not there.’ She shuddered as a cold breeze swept her skin.

  ‘Yes, but where there is hope there is life. And without hope your mother would be long gone.’

  �
�She must come home. Go inside. She’ll catch a chill, fall again and hurt herself.’ Her words caught in a sob.

  Anya’s comforting arm wrapped around her shoulders and pulled her close. ‘No. This is what she must do until she has no further need.’

  ‘But the doctors said …’

  ‘The doctors are fools. A broken heart will mend in its own time. Not with medicines or intervention. Just patience.’

  ‘Does she do this every night?’

  ‘Not every night, but often. And tonight is special.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She believes he has returned to help her.’

  India rubbed at the frown creasing her brow. ‘Jim?’

  ‘Who knows? Does it matter? What your mother believes is what matters. If she believes and she can solve her heartache, so be it.’

  India dropped her reins and sank onto a severed tree trunk. She rubbed at her temples; the pounding in her head made thought impossible. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘No-one understands the mind. And a broken heart even less.’

  ‘What if she hurts herself?’

  ‘That won’t happen. She is strong and she is sensible. Except in this one matter.’

  ‘I see her every day and she is none of those things. She’s weak, a delusional invalid.’

  ‘You see what she chooses to show you.’

  ‘I am her daughter.’

  ‘Yes, you are her daughter, her firstborn, but you are not the child of her heart. That child lies buried beneath those fig trees. Until she is certain he rests in peace she will keep searching.’

  India shook her head. Nothing Mama had done for the past fifteen years made any sense. Not since the day she’d fallen from the horse and lapsed into a coma. Or was it when she’d awoken and discovered her beloved son had died? Did she know her daughter was the last person to touch his warm breathing skin, the last to kiss his sweet cheek? The one responsible.

  Quietness drifted across the lagoon, moments, maybe hours passed. Anya’s hand rested warm and firm on her undeserving shoulder, keeping her safe or holding her captive. What did it matter? She couldn’t change the past. When she thought she could bear it no longer the white-clad figure remounted. Mama skirted the lagoon before heading back to the outbuildings.

  ‘It’s time to leave. She will sleep now.’

  Speechless, and with her legs shaking, she struggled back along the track in Anya’s wake. By the time they reached the stables a light burned in Mama’s window and her silhouette hovered staring out into the night.

  Bidding goodnight to Anya, India stabled Cirrus and made certain Aura was back in her stall. Jefferson stood munching a mouthful of lucerne, a self-satisfied gleam in his eye.

  Twelve

  By the time India awoke the sun streamed across her counterpane. She rubbed at her eyes, scratchy and sore from lack of sleep. She’d lain awake half the night, tossing and turning like The Princess and the Pea, consumed by thoughts of Mama and her increasingly strange behaviour, her reaction to Jim and Jefferson’s arrival, her nightly sojourns.

  As the sky began to lighten she’d fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep that had left her head thick and her body heavy. She reached for the small pot of tea on her bedside table. It was cold to the touch. The day for a new beginning and she’d overslept—a fine example of responsible management.

  She struggled from the bed, poured cold water into the china bowl on the washstand and splashed her face. Then raked her fingers through her long swathe of hair and pulled it back into a twisted rope that she knotted with a piece of ribbon. As she turned to the mirror she pinched her pale cheeks and smoothed her rumpled eyebrows.

  Why pay so much attention to her appearance? She shrugged at her reflection then reached for her clothes. She’d be riding again today. She tossed her skirt aside and pulled on the crumpled gauchos and loose shirt from yesterday. With one last look in the mirror she picked up the tea tray and made her way downstairs.

  The empty kitchen proved her tardiness. By now Peggy would be tending her vegetable garden and planning the day’s meals. Jilly would be scrubbing up a storm in the copper and Jim … goodness only knows.

  Voices from the mating yards behind the barn drifted across the empty courtyard as she rounded the corner of the stables. The sight of Violet perched on the top bar of the post and rail fence stopped her in her tracks. Dressed in a deep purple riding habit with a small matching hat festooned with a waving peacock feather, she trilled and tweeted her encouragement while Jim ran his hands over the fetlocks of one of the young stallions.

  At the sight of the incongruous picture India smothered a groan then slipped through the gate. She rested her hands against the fence next to Violet. ‘Good morning. You’re up early.’

  Violet’s face shone, the light sparkling in her eyes and all signs of yesterday’s tantrums passed.

  ‘Good afternoon. You’ve been missing all the fun.’ She swung her legs up, displaying a matching pair of suede boots laced to the ankles and gave a small kick of excitement. ‘Jim’s putting Maestro through his paces. He cuts a fine figure, doesn’t he?’

  Maestro would make a fine sire. ‘He’s well bred. He has his sire’s stamina.’

  ‘Do you know Jim’s family? I thought he’d answered your advertisement in The Maitland Mercury.’

  India snorted and shook her head. What a foolish mistake to imagine Violet would be interested in a horse. ‘I was referring to Maestro.’

  Violet covered her rouged lips with her hand. ‘Silly me! Jim is, however, a fine figure of a man. Don’t you think?’ She fluttered her darkened eyelashes. ‘Do we know his family? Are they wealthy?’

  Getting Violet away from Sydney had done nothing to distract her from her never-ending search for a mate. ‘I doubt it. Otherwise he’d be running his own stud, not working here.’

  ‘Hmm. You’re right.’ With a disparaging look Violet dragged her gaze from Jim and blinked, twice. Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. ‘What in heaven’s name are you wearing?’

  India smoothed her hands down the faded felt encasing her thighs. ‘My gauchos. I’ll be riding again today.’

  ‘Surely you don’t still wear those laughable things. They belong in the dressing up box with all the other bits of rubbish Mama and Papa brought from the Americas.’

  India fingered the well-worn material. The memory of Jim’s raised eyebrows and appreciative stare from yesterday, so at odds with her sister’s look of disdain, made her smile. ‘I find them more practical for working and besides, I chafed my legs yesterday.’ She bit down on the inside of her lip. How foolish to mention that. Next Violet would be asking her when and she couldn’t explain the events of last night. She’d managed so far to keep Mama’s nightly ramblings secret from Violet. Until she had the chance to discuss them at length with Anya no-one need know of her concerns over Mama’s sudden increase in activity.

  ‘It’s entirely your own fault because you insist on riding astride. It’s so unladylike and very unhealthy. Miss Wetherington would be horrified.’

  ‘For goodness sake, Violet, we’re not taking the air in Hyde Park. We’re two hundred miles north of Sydney in the middle of a property the size of a small country. We make our own rules here.’

  ‘You certainly do that.’ Violet rolled her eyes and pulled a face distinctly at odds with her manicured appearance. ‘Thank you for reminding me.’ She slid down from the fence rail with remarkable agility and minced across the yard.

  India dropped her head onto her folded arms. No matter how good her intentions she managed to brush Violet the wrong way every time she spoke to her. Her sister would never feel at home here. The prospect of her returning to Sydney filled India with delight—if only she could find a way to arrange it.

  Lifting her head she turned her attention to Maestro who stood placidly while Violet ran her hands over his body. No doubt Jim was delighted with the picture of perfection Violet presented.

  A high-pitched giggle b
rought India up sharp. With her feathered hat in her hand Violet waved her arm across the stallion’s line of vision. His eyes rolled in terror. He reared. Violet emitted an ear-piercing shriek as Maestro’s flaying hooves dangled above her head. Jim yanked on the lead rope, turned the animal and wrangled him to the ground. Without a word he led the spooked horse away from the jumble of purple velvet thrashing in the dust.

  Violet’s screeches rose to a crescendo. The stallion reared again. India vaulted the fence. This time Maestro’s lashing feet hovered over Jim’s head. She crouched and hauled Violet to her feet and dragged her back to the fence line. Her hand clamped her sister’s gaping mouth then she pushed her between the rails and followed.

  ‘Let me go!’ Violet’s fists pummelled India’s chest as she scrabbled to find her feet.

  Ignoring Violet’s thrashing arms and continued screams India half-dragged half-pulled her across the yard. She deposited the enraged bundle with a thud on the seat outside Jim’s cottage.

  ‘Sit down and be quiet. You’re not hurt.’ Her heart thumped as though it would jump out of her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut, blotting out the picture of Violet lying in a bloody mess in the dirt. ‘Whatever possessed you to get into the yard and wave that outrageous hat in front of Maestro? You know better.’

  Violet screamed and embarked on a fresh bout of sobbing.

  Folding her arms India drummed her booted foot in the dirt. Past experience told her Violet would settle faster without a sympathetic audience.

  Within a few moments her sister’s shoulders relaxed. Her sobbing ceased and her eyes appeared behind her splayed fingers. ‘Where’s Jim?’

  ‘I have no idea. Repairing the chaos you created with your little display, I expect.’

  ‘Right here.’

  She spun around. A hot flush streaked up her neck. ‘I’m so sorry. My sister … Is Maestro all right? Are you?’