Fiery Possession (5 page)

“Leave the horse. Ian will see to it, he's out back.”

With a grateful sigh, she followed Fiona inside; the encounter with Tim Campton had shaken her. A sinister aura lurked around him. She knew it as surely as she knew that night must follow day.

***

As she ate her evening meal, Jo talked about the families she had visited. “Do you know Nat Smith?” she asked Ian.

“Not really, except he’s old enough to be Mary's grandfather.”

“Poor thing.”  Fiona glanced up from eating. “Few men would want her after Tim Campton had his way with her.”

“I know. I saw him today. He’s got the strangest eyes, they… well, they appeared almost colorless, somehow.”

“He should be locked up. I heard he beat up one of the grooms a few weeks ago, all because his horse wasn't saddled on time. Luke had to give the man money so he wouldn’t complain to the police.”  Ian stabbed his fork into a carrot.

“Wishing it was Tim Campton?”  Jo grinned at his action.

“A terrible thing to admit, but yes, I do.”

“It's strange,” Fiona mused. “A lot of people say Luke is Tim's father.”

“Really?” Jo’s spoon clattered against her plate.

“Yes, his mother was years younger than the father, in her early twenties when they married.   Gossip has it Luke had an affair with her.”

“With his stepmother?”  The food curdled in Jo’s stomach.

“Yes, he would have been eighteen or so, which would explain why he's so protective of Tim.”

“You women and your gossip! I’d like another cup of tea, please.”

“All right.” Fiona got up. “Luke's father thrashed him with a stock whip, because he caught him in bed with the stepmother, and that came from someone who knew someone working for the Camptons.”

“Fiona, the tea please. Even if it's true, it's none of our business,” he said grimly, “but nothing that happened over there would surprise me.”

Would a man like Luke Campton force himself on his own stepmother?   More likely she would have thrown herself at him. Piratical good looks combined with extreme wealth would be a magnet few women could resist. They would be like ripe plums, ready to drop into his hand. I’ll resist him, though. I won’t be an easy conquest for any man.

Chapter Three

Still simmering from her recent encounter with the Camptons, Jo accompanied Ian and Fiona on their weekly trip into town for supplies.

Sitting beside Fiona in the wagon, she smoothed down a crease in her cream silk gown. Having spent many a long night by lamplight sewing this outfit, she felt especially pleased with the matching bonnet.

Her sister-in-law looked fetching in her gown of pale blue poplin with the matching straw bonnet tipped fashionably forward over her fair curls. Narrow ribbons of deep blue and white flowers encircled its small shallow crown. Perched on Fiona's knee, Lucy was gorgeous in a white lawn dress, lavishly trimmed with lace.

“I'm proud of my three beautiful women.” Ian smiled, pride glittering in his blue eyes as the wagon rattled down the dusty road.

Jo had not forgotten her promise to Mary Smith. She would buy some material today to start the poor little baby's layette. How awful to be so alone and friendless.

They stopped at the blacksmith to order some spare horseshoes in preparation for Ian’s impending trip. The smithy was a massive man, close to seven feet tall. His arms, tanned to a deep coffee color, were thick as tree trunks but unusually hairless. Did he have Negro blood?  The black fuzzy hair on his head and full lips indicated that he did.

Throwing down his hammer, the Smithy slapped an enormous hand against Ian’s back, almost knocking him over. Hopefully the hearty greeting hadn’t given him a spinal injury.

She stepped back a pace in case he slapped her back too. The slightest blow from his mighty paw would be catastrophic. “I’m thinking of starting up a school. Do you have any children who would be interested in coming?”

“Yeah. Good idea, good idea.”  The blacksmith patted his big leather-apron and roared with laughter. “Get some learning into those two boys of mine.”

“How old are your children?” She returned the big man’s infectious smile.

“Jacques is ten, Henri's seven.” Pride glinted in his brown eyes.

“French names, that's nice.”

“My missus came from France.”

“Would she mind the children attending school?”

Ian leaned close and whispered. “She's dead.”

“Oh, I'm sorry.” Jo clapped her hand over her mouth.

“It's all right, Miss Saunders, I've still got my boys.” The big man folded his beefy arms across his chest.

“Of course you have.  When I get things organized, I'll let you know.” 

She stretched out her gloved hand. The blacksmith stared at it for a moment, and then with a grin, took it in his huge hand. His handshake was surprisingly gentle and she let out a relieved breath when he didn’t crush her fingers.

After they left the smithy, they drove to the parsonage. Reverend Thomas, the Methodist minister, agreed to announce the formation of the school from his pulpit next Sunday, provided the church council approved.

“Fiona, we've started something now,” she gloated, cautioning herself not to pick up her skirts and dance up the dusty street.

As Fiona and Ian walked on ahead, Jo paused to peer in a shop window. Spinning around, she cannoned into a hard wall of warm male flesh. Strong hands clamped either arm, stopping her falling into an undignified heap on the ground. Shocked, she glanced up into the cool, smoky grey eyes of Luke Campton.

“Why don't you watch where you're going?”  Of their own volition, the angry words fell from her mouth. She was asking for trouble and knew it, but somehow couldn’t stop herself. It was a form of self-preservation. She had to dislike him and needed him to dislike her, so he would keep his distance.

As if finding her touch offensive, his hands dropped away.

“I did watch where I was going,” he growled. “You had your nose stuck so high in the air you couldn’t possibly see anything in front of you.”

“A gentleman would not speak to a lady in such an obnoxious manner.”

“I'm no gentleman.” His cold gaze ranged insolently all over her. “And you're no lady.”

Jo’s cheeks burned. Her behavior had been dreadful, but he drove her to it. Fuming, she swung away from him before he noticed how much his touch affected her. How she longed to reach out and touch his smooth tanned cheek, run her finger across his full sensuous lips. What would it be like to be kissed by him? Butterflies fluttered in the pit of her stomach. If she could have found a horse trough she would have flung herself in it to cool down.

She took several deep breaths to calm herself as she walked away. When she caught up with Ian and Fiona, they both looked worried. “What's wrong?”

“The bank wants their money by the end of the month,” Ian muttered. “I haven't a hope of giving it to them.”

“What will we do?  They might take our home away.”  Fiona’s eyes filled with tears.

“I've got a few pounds saved up, use that.”

Ian, who would normally be too proud to ever ask for financial help, hesitated before shaking his head. “No, we couldn't let you do it.”

“Of course you can. Think of it as a loan, you're feeding me, aren't you?”

He hugged her close. “Thanks, I shouldn't take your money, but I'm desperate enough to consider it.” Lines of worry etched his face.

“I insist.  We'll go back to the bank this very minute. I mean it, Ian.  Unless you want us to have a stand-up argument out here in the street, you'll take the money. I don't need it, pay me back later.”

Fiona took Lucy to the wagon while Jo and Ian went into the bank. The manager showed no surprise at seeing Ian again.

“Mr. Griffith, this is my sister, Josephine Saunders.”

She greeted the tall thin man with a smile. He wore an immaculate brown suit and spoke with an affected English accent. As she handed him the letter from a Melbourne bank, he patted the few strands of hair covering his receding hairline.

“Ah, seems in order, Miss Saunders.”

“You’ve got a few weeks reprieve now, so stop worrying. With me here to keep an eye on things, you can take the droving job. You’ll be able to pay the loan back in next to no time.”

“I won't forget this.”  He squeezed her arm. “If it was just me, I wouldn't worry so much.”

“Cheer up, or you’ll be grey by the time you’re thirty,” she teased.

***

Early the next morning, Ian dashed into Jo’s room.

“Wild dogs have savaged six of my ewes.”

She shot upright in bed. “Why are these awful things happening to you?”

“I don't know. Others have been troubled, too. They rigged up traps and sat up some nights with a gun. I suppose I should have done the same.”

Yes, you should have. “You weren't to know,” was all she said, but inwardly worry overwhelmed her. This venture was doomed unless Ian showed more initiative. He didn’t know much about farming, maybe they could ask some of their neighbors for guidance?

“Get dressed and give us a hand.  We might as well salvage some of the skins. I don’t want Fiona to know, it will upset her too much.”

Jo hurriedly pulled on her clothes and met him outside on the back porch. “Isn't there something you can do?”

His shoulders sagged and he gave no answer. She helped him drag the sheep into the shade of a huge tree, watching without speaking as he skinned them. His knife gleamed in the morning sunlight as he cut up the meat for their dogs.

“I can't even re-stock, the squatters have forced the prices up.” 

They secured the skins to hooks along the wall of the barn to dry out.

“I could dye them, perhaps make some rugs.” She tried to cheer him up. There was a desperate kind of resignation about him now. He had reached a point where he could take no more and her heart ached for him.

“Things will come out all right, Ian. I'll fight the squatters to the death if necessary.”

“Go easy, maybe we should just cut our losses.”

“Never!”  She stamped a booted foot, causing one of the work dogs to leave off the grisly task of eating the sheep's offal. “You know what?”

He leaned dejectedly with his elbows resting on the top rail of one of the few intact fences. “Don't try cheering me up because it won't work. Oh, I can put on an act in front of Fiona, but you and I were always straight with each other. I sometimes wonder what would have happened if we’d never left California.”

“You can’t turn back the clock.” She gave him a bracing pat on the arm. “I’ll need to raise money for the school. What do you think about holding a dance? Everybody loves them. Some families can provide refreshments while others will pay an entrance fee. I'll need money for slates, and I've got a few books left from my last school that we could use. I thought I’d charge a penny a week, but those who have no money can pay in goods. Of course, if they're poor, the children can attend for free.”

“Sounds all right. Think I’ll grub out some of those trees, we could do with a few more cleared acres.”

She realized he wasn’t concentrating on her plans. “I’ll help you.”

“No, it's all right.”  He turned away, his shoulders slumped, his head bowed.

She gnawed at her lip. He had never been quite this down before. Feeling more depressed than ever, she wandered down to the creek meandering through their property. Eighty acres wasn’t much, yet the land could be productive with money spent on it. Ian wasn’t cut out to be a farmer. If only they could afford to pay an experienced man to help them, they could make a go of it.

Willow trees and native sarsaparillas lined banks that fell away steeply in parts; in other places it was flat. Plop, plop, one after another she threw pebbles into the water, watching them cause ripples before sinking.

To think was to act. Ian needed water. Luke Campton and his cronies had blocked off the creek. Time to sabotage his plans. Yes, Mr. Luke Campton, you might bluff my brother and the others around here, but not me.

Whistling tunelessly, with her hands thrust into the pockets of Ian’s breeches, no one would take her for a well brought up young lady. Her refined, well-bred mother would have had a fit of the vapors. Her father, a West Point graduate, would have applauded her enterprise. What kind of lives would they have led, if her father had not forsaken his army career to prospect for gold? When the gold petered out in California, he had dragged his family thousands of miles across the sea, and his dreams of wealth had soon turned into a nightmare.

She saddled one of the horses, found a spade and axe in the barn, and put these in a sack, which she tied to the saddle. Back in the homestead, she buttered a couple of slices of bread, shoved an apple in either pocket and set off.

Birds flittered overhead as she rode along, darting here and there, and she laughed at their antics. She wasn’t sure of the way, but by following the line of the creek it was easy to see where the water level had fallen. Pink dog roses scrambled along the banks intermingled with the purple sarsaparilla.