Amy's Touch (13 page)

R
andall’s mind wasn’t on the job at hand. He was supposed to be tracking several stray steers in a thick, scrubby area of land. His thoughts, however, kept boomeranging back to Danny’s announcement at breakfast that he and Amy were getting married. He should be happy for his brother, so why wasn’t he? Danny deserved his chance at happiness and Amy Carmichael was a good enough woman, but a question nagged at him: was she right for his brother? And if not, why not?

A tree branch flicked across his upper chest, scraping the skin exposed by his open-neck shirt. He bent the branch back till it snapped, the action disturbing his train of thought, but not for long. As his gaze focused on the ground, trying to pick up the steers’ trail, internally he was doing considerable soul-searching for the answer to his query. Amy wasn’t right for Danny because…

Randall pulled on the reins sharply and brought his horse to a stop, the steers he was trying to find forgotten.
He knew why!
Damn it to hell and back, yes, he did.

His features settled into a grim expression as the preposterous reason etched itself into his brain. He wanted Amy for himself! There, after so long, the thought, the need, had forced its way through his subconscious and he couldn’t ignore it.

A derisive smile curved his mouth as the admission took a firm hold. God, he loved her. It wasn’t logical that he did—they couldn’t be near each other without bristling, and her confidence and independent streak confounded him, though they also made him
admire her. Then he remembered with great clarity that moment at Bill Walpole’s birthday dinner when their hands had touched, if briefly. He had never felt anything like it before or since—the sensation had dazzled his senses. His feelings defied all common sense as far as he was concerned, but without any encouragement from her whatsoever he had fallen in love with Amy Carmichael. With a certain fatalism he now accepted that it was so, just as he knew the sun would set in about four hours’ time then rise again in the morning.

A groan of frustration forced its way out of his throat into the still country air. He didn’t need this complication in his life, not when things were starting to go well at Drovers Way. For the second consecutive year the property had made a healthy profit, most of which was being ploughed back into improving breeding stock and the cultivation of another acre of wheat. He even had a long-term plan to fully refurbish the homestead.

Well, what are you going to do about Amy, about your feelings for her
? a voice inside his head asked.

The answer came quickly enough: nothing. She had decided that Danny was the man for her, and he loved his brother too much to do anything that might destroy his happiness. He shook his head, trying to clear the muddled thoughts within. Somehow, unpalatable as the thought was, he would live with the knowledge that Danny and Amy were going to be man and wife.

What about Beth Walpole?
The question popped into his head. It had become abundantly clear that she had feelings for him and…she was all right, was Beth. They got along, understood each other, and she knew the needs and demands of the land in a way that Amy Carmichael most likely never would. He could do a lot worse than Beth Walpole, he concluded, even though he had little admiration for her father or brother.

Then marry her,
the voice advised.

Randall’s dark eyes narrowed as he tossed the idea around in his head. He might never come to care for Beth the way she cared for him, but many a marriage had been founded on less than what they’d have: mutual respect and admiration. And in his case,
if
he decided to go that way, it would have to be enough.

He lifted his hat off his head to wipe his sweaty brow, and tried to bring his thoughts back to what he was meant to be doing. Where the hell were those steers? Using his knees, he urged his horse forward
and found a break in the scrub, which led to a clearing. A frown marked his tanned forehead as he studied it. The summer grass had been flattened, and, cleverly woven into the bushes, so that only a keen eye would notice, were branches and twigs that formed a natural-looking corral. In patches of bare earth many hoofprints were clearly visible.

‘What’s going on?’ Randall muttered to himself.

He got off his horse, tethered the reins to a tree near some grass, and thoroughly inspected the area. No wonder he could find no physical trace of the steers. To one side of the ‘natural’ corral he found an old fire pit. He kicked the ashes with the toe of his boot: they were several weeks old. Hands on hips, his gaze narrowed in concentration. It wasn’t hard to work out what had happened to the stock.

Cattle duffers.
The cunning bastards had seen that Drovers cattle were strung out, most of them in pastures well away from the homestead. They had built the corral then rounded up probably ten to twenty steers, altered the brand from
McL
to something similar, such as
McU
or
McD
, then driven the beasts off Drovers land, selling them wherever they could pick up a reasonable price. The duffers knew that a small number of steers wouldn’t be missed by graziers, possibly not even when they were mustered for branding or selling.

It was common knowledge that Drovers Way and other properties had, periodically, been the target of cattle duffers since the land had first been settled. He remembered stories his father had told him, one in particular about his grandfather catching a gang trying to make off with almost half the herd. Grandfather Howard had been out hunting kangaroos and had shot and killed one man, wounded another, and the other two had fled at top speed, never to be seen in the Flinders again.

A muscle flexed angrily in Randall’s jaw as he thought of the stolen cattle. How many had been lost, and how often had the duffers raided their stock? But, more importantly, how were they going to be stopped? And stop them he would, he decided, for once the word got out that the McLean brothers couldn’t be duped, other duffers would give Drovers Way a wide berth.

Remounting, he rode out, taking particular note of the landmarks around him so he could find the area again.

‘Cattle duffers. Are you serious?’ Jim Allen asked with a chuckle as he, Danny and Randall each drank a glass of beer, sitting on the back verandah in the twilight.

Randall nodded. ‘I’ve telephoned a few properties. We’re not the only ones who have lost stock. The bastards seem well organised. They come in, raid a couple of properties, drive the stock off then disappear for several months, before coming back again for another go. They’re probably doing it all over the Flinders and making nice money for themselves.’

‘If they come on an irregular basis, how on earth will we catch them?’ Danny’s question was pertinent.

‘That’s the tricky part,’ Randall admitted. ‘We have to work out a plan, and watch that corral area. Doing it in the daytime would be too risky. They’ll go to work around twilight, or when there’s a full moon.’

‘To do the job would take several hours, by the time they round the cattle up, herd them into the corral, then re-brand them. I reckon five to six hours for two or three men,’ Danny gave his opinion.

‘Sounds about right,’ Randall agreed. ‘They probably have a spotter who rides onto a property to check the stock’s location. If the stock isn’t easy to get to they move on to another property, work till they have about one hundred head, then drive the mob to Hawker, Port Augusta, or even as far as Peterborough.’

‘When’s the next full moon?’ Jim asked.

Danny got up and went inside. He came back a minute later and advised, ‘I checked the almanac. The next full moon is in a week’s time.’

‘That gives us time to get ready for them.’

‘Are you going to tell Constable Wallace?’ Danny asked Randall.

The McLean independence came to the fore. Randall shook his head. ‘We’ll handle the bastards ourselves. And I want to keep this quiet. We don’t want everyone in the district knowing our intention. The information might find its way back to the duffers.’

Danny looked at Jim. ‘Gee, mate, I’m starving. When’s dinner?’

Jim finished the last drop of his beer before answering. ‘Give me ten minutes. Does the prospect of spaghetti and meatballs tickle your tastebuds?’

Danny shrugged. ‘Dunno. Never had it. Is it Italian?’

‘Sure is.’

‘If it’s as good as that, that la-’ Danny strove to remember the name of the dish, ‘that one you made last week—lasagne, that was it—it’ll be all right.’

‘You’re spoiling us, Jim,’ Randall chimed in. ‘We used to be plain eaters: meat and three veg. Now we have, uummm, greater expectations at mealtimes.’

‘Just my way of making myself indispensable,’ came Jim’s retort, accompanied by his usual cheeky grin. He got up, taking his glass with him, and walked into the house.

‘I’d like to invite Amy and her father out here for dinner one Saturday. The doctor needs driving practice now that he has his own automobile,’ Danny announced.

Randall took a deep breath. Amy being here at Drovers was something he had to get used to. ‘Of course. Think they’ll mind eating in the kitchen? We don’t have any dining-room furniture and there’s only one settee in the drawing room.’

Danny smiled confidently. ‘It’ll be fine. Amy knows you sold almost everything after the war. I just want her to see her future home and to assure her father that I can take care of her.’ He stood up, took a long look at the twilight darkening through a stand of eucalypts, and added, ‘I’ll go and set the table.’

Randall sat in his wicker chair, his features betraying nothing of his inner turmoil. In all probability living under the same roof as Amy was going to test his self-control to breaking point. He stayed there until Jim called him in for dinner.

Randall had settled into the habit of having dinner at Ingleside with the Walpoles most Saturday nights. Sometimes it was a pleasant experience, sometimes it wasn’t, depending on Bill Walpole’s mood. The man treated his wife as if she were slightly stupid, and tolerated Joe because he had no other choice. He’d also made it clear that Beth’s opinion on land and stock management was unimportant because she was a woman.

An accomplished pianist, Beth would often play classical and semiclassical works after dinner on the grand piano near the window of their beautifully furnished drawing room, and invariably that, together with a couple of glasses of port, would put Bill in a more convivial mood.

‘As usual, a splendid dinner, Margaret,’ Randall said politely.

‘Thank you, Randall,’ she replied with a nervous smile.

Bill’s wife was a small, jittery, birdlike woman in her late forties. She hadn’t had a hard life physically, not like some women on the land, but her face was weather-lined and streaks of silver glistened in
her dark hair. In spite of her subservient role, Randall liked, or, more accurately, felt sorry for Margaret. She was well under the thumb of Walpole’s dominating personality, and the idea came to Randall with a little surprise that it spoke well for Beth’s character that she refused to knuckle under to her father; she rather enjoyed a ‘healthy’ discussion with him, Randall thought.

Beth played her favourite Debussy piece, ‘Clair de Lune’, then several lively Gilbert and Sullivan tunes from
The Pirates of Penzance.

‘How are things at Drovers Way, Randall?’ Bill, not known for subtlety, asked straight out between sips of port.

‘Very good, Bill. We’ve doubled our flock, we’re planting more wheat and an acre of lupins and clover.’

‘You’re in the black then?’

‘Most definitely.’

Bill gave an approving nod. ‘Good, good. You’ve done well, turning things around in a few short years. Your father would be proud.’

Really! The word
hypocrite
came into Randall’s mind. Walpole didn’t want him to do well. He’d love Drovers Way to be in dire straits so he could walk in and buy it at a bargain price. But Randall had no intention of letting Bill know that he knew Bill’s real, longterm ambitions. He watched the older man settle more deeply into his padded wing-backed chair and fold his hands across his expanded stomach. Slowly, Bill’s eyelids drooped as Beth continued to play, and after a few minutes his chin dropped forward onto his chest.

When Beth stopped playing, Margaret Walpole gave a contented sigh. ‘That was delightful, Beth. You know, Randall, she could have gone to the conservatorium in Adelaide and studied to be a concert pianist, but,’ she glanced at her sleeping husband, ‘Bill wouldn’t hear of it. Said it was a waste of time and money.’

‘It’s all right, Mother. It was never my dream to be a concert pianist; it was more a piano-teaching goal for me,’ Beth said. She got up from the piano, walked over to Randall and sat beside him on the sofa.

‘You are very good, Beth. I always enjoy your playing,’ Randall complimented her, not because he had to but because it was the truth. The music she chose to play always soothed him.

‘I might get your father to bed,’ Margaret said. She went over to where her husband sat slumped in his chair and shook his shoulder. ‘Bill, wake up. Time to retire, dear.’

‘What! Wh-at? Did I nod off?’

‘You did, Daddy,’ Beth told him with a tight smile.

‘Sorry, my dear, a bit tired, I think.’ Bill struggled up and out of the chair and said his goodnights. Margaret followed him out of the room.

‘Alone at last…’ Beth’s tone was teasing as she turned on the sofa to smile at Randall. Her gaze followed his as he studied the room, taking note of the various pieces of furniture, the thick woollen rug over polished floorboards, the drapes, the marble fireplace and the chandelier. When he didn’t respond she added, as she tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, ‘Penny for your thoughts?’

Randall came out of his reverie. ‘You have a lovely home here at Ingleside. I…I…’ He stopped, frowned momentarily, then continued, ‘I wish I could offer you similar comfort at Drovers.’

‘Are you offering me a job of some sort?’ She arched an eyebrow at him. ‘You don’t need a cook. I’ve heard that Jim is excellent in that area, and when Danny and Amy marry you’ll have a housekeeper. I’m not above helping out in a muster, you know, but I don’t think…’