Fiery Possession (6 page)

The kurrajongs flowered profusely. How pretty the creamy, bell-shaped flowers were. What a pity more didn’t grow on their property, because sheep and cattle could eat the foliage. Their wheat, even though Ian had planted only a small amount, would be harvested after Christmas with a little luck and some good weather.

Her horse was a nondescript looking nag. In stockman's garb, with her hair pushed up into her hat, even if someone did spot her from a distance, recognition would be virtually impossible. If Luke Campton ever found out what she contemplated today, retribution would be swift. Trepidation tinged with excitement, shimmied down her spine.

A sharp bend caught her by surprise. The creek here ran through a deep narrow gully before opening up into a large pool. She expelled an angry breath on seeing fallen trees forming the main wall of a dam. No wonder the water had slowed down to a mere trickle - they only received what overflowed across the logs. In summer when the water level dropped further, they would get nothing.

As she stared out over the large lagoon where fat cattle grazed on well-grassed pastures, anger burned right through her. To think that a man who owned so much could be despicable enough to deprive others of their lifeblood - water.

She tethered the horse to a bush, sat down on the soft grassy bank and removed her boots. After a quick glance around to make sure there were no witnesses, she rolled her trouser legs to knee level before entering the water. Ian's trousers getting wet did not bother her, but she dared not ruin her one decent pair of boots.

The cold water rippled against her bare toes. On one side of the fallen logs the creek ran deeply, on the other it reached calf level. All they got was a slight overflow, plus what came through the cracks where one trunk lay on top of the other. It would be impossible to move the bottom tree because of its enormous size. The second one seemed smaller, tapered at one end. She would start chopping here.

On and off over the years, she had split logs for the woodpile, when George, the old man who helped out at her Melbourne school, had been sick. This proved much harder. She applied the axe with vigor. After a dozen strokes, she had made little progress. Her arms ached. This would be a long, hard haul. She must pace herself. Six strokes then a rest, otherwise exhaustion would set in before the job was finished.

By midday, she could scarcely raise the axe above her head. As she ate her lunch she ruefully surveyed her burning hands. A blister in the centre of her right hand looked particularly nasty. Why hadn’t she thought to wear gloves?

There must be another way. After all her hard work she had cut away only a few branches. The one heartening aspect being that a small space had been cleared allowing more water to pass through. If the sand and stones packed around the bottom of the trunk loosened, the pressure of the water would force a passage through. Yes, she should have thought of this earlier.

Although her hands throbbed, she took up the spade with renewed vigor and entered the water once more. Her feet stung from where the sharp stones had jabbed her bare flesh.

After a few shovels full, a sudden gush of water knocked her over as it swirled through the opening. As she rose to her feet, the top trunk shuddered. There was a grating sound as it shifted, pain shot through her foot and she found herself wedged against the bank. Caught like a rat in a trap.

Panic screamed through her as she frantically worked to get free. The harder she struggled, the more wedged she became. The spade lay out of reach. No matter how hard she twisted or stretched, the handle eluded her. If only she could dig away some of the bank. Her hands tore at the earth. She wouldn’t drown or die of thirst, but visions of slow starvation brought sobs to her throat.

No one knew her whereabouts. Failure to return home would have Ian out searching, but Campton land would be the last place he would look.

“Stay calm.” She spoke out loud trying to steady herself. “Think, woman, think. If you panic, you're as good as dead.”  Cold invaded her lower limbs now, but her hands and brow glistened with perspiration.

You impetuous idiot, see what you’ve done. Over the years Ian had continuously warned her about being so rash, and had she listened? No, too stubborn and headstrong to take heed. There was no pain in her foot, so it could not be broken. Maybe the circulation had stopped?  Visions of losing a leg brought tears to her eyes. Didn't some man whose foot got caught in a steel trap amputate half his leg with an axe so he could get free?

“God, please help me.” 

She half lay across the log. Maybe it would shift and release her. What if it moved, trapping her even more?  Instinctively she glanced around for the axe. If she lived to be a hundred, she would never know whether to be glad or sorry it lay well out of reach.

She couldn’t be sure of how many hours had passed since she’d become stuck. 

Choking back on a sob, she stopped digging to draw breath. She inspected her broken, mud-encrusted nails. You fool, she castigated herself, worrying about your wretched nails when you could be dead by morning.

In a patch of cleared ground a few feet away, yellow buttercups and blue native flax intermingled in a moving carpet. She concentrated on the scenery by counting the buttercups which didn’t appear as numerous as the flax, all the time whispering over and over. “Do not panic. Do not panic.”

She started singing. Someone would come, of course they would. While there was life there was hope. Dread formed a knot in her stomach and fear’s bitter taste fouled her mouth.

Her torn hands bled, yet still she struggled with the dirt. It had been soft and easy to move when using a spade, now it felt like rock.

The sounds of stock whips and bawling cattle broke the silence. Man and beast came into view simultaneously. Thank God, her prayers had been answered. No way could they miss seeing her, even if she didn’t wave her arms and yell at the top of her voice.

A young stockman leapt from his horse and dashed towards her. “Are you all right, Miss?”

“My foot got caught.”

“Let me see.” He squatted down on his haunches as another voice rang out.

“Leave her be.”

“But, boss.”

Mounted on a large chestnut horse, Luke Campton rode up to them. “Leave this to me.”

The stockman backed away.

“What are you doing here, Miss Saunders?” Luke demanded.

“I went for a ride and decided to stroll across your bridge, um, to pick some buttercups.”

“Use an axe to cut them with, do you?” Sarcasm dripped from his voice.

“Are you going to help me free my foot?”

“Why should I?”

“Please,” she pleaded.

Somehow her hand came in contact with the top of his boot and her torn flesh left a bloodied stain on his light color breeches.

Two other men dismounted and dashed up to them. “Need a hand, boss?”

“No. See to the cattle.”

“Go on,” she yelled. “Jump when the big boss man tells you to.”

“The cattle, you hear me.”

They left, clearly so in awe of their boss they were prepared to leave her to his mercy.

He dismounted with an easy, liquid grace. “Now tell me, what are you doing here?”

She shivered with fear and cold. Her teeth chattered and her fingers felt numb. A muscle twitched in his jaw, momentarily his eyes darkened with concern, then turned hard, pitiless.

“All right, I wanted to let more water come down the creek to us.”

“Why didn't you say so in the first place?  It doesn't pay to fight me because I always win.”

She would have given a great deal to be in a position to slap the leer off his handsome face.

“Don't try it.” He might well have read her mind. “You being a woman wouldn't stop me from hitting you back.”

With gentle hands he examined her ankle. “I don't think it's broken. It would take a team of horses to drag that trunk away. He reached out and picked up the spade.

She stood upright now, her hand resting on the trunk for support. Luke wielded the spade carefully and within a short time freed her foot.

He picked her up, sat her on the trunk as if she were a child, and rested the injured foot between both hands.  Because he was bent over so closely, she saw thin lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes, and the dark stubble of beard on his jaw and cheeks. The scar stood out white, jagged looking against his tanned skin.

“Does this hurt?”  He moved her foot in a slow circular motion.

“A little.”

“It isn't broken.” He rubbed her foot between his hands to warm it up, his touch gentle, almost caressing. “Right, see if you can put your weight on it.”

She rested her hand on his shoulder for support, and as her foot took her full weight, excruciating pain shot up her leg.

“Lucky for you, it's only bruised and swollen.”  He lifted her into the saddle and swung up behind her so suddenly she had no time to protest. “Sorry to make you carry double, boy,” he muttered, patting his horse’s neck.

Her heart hammered so loudly in her chest she prayed he wouldn’t hear it.

“Are you all right, Miss?” the young stockman called out from where he had been hovering a little distance away.

“She's all right. Get the gear on the horse; we've wasted enough time as it is.”

“Thank you, Mr. Campton, but I'll be all right now.”

His arms tightened around her waist.

“I'll take you home.”  Turning his head he said to the stockman, “give me the horse, I'll lead it, you help the others with the cattle.”  He took the proffered reins.

“Thank you,” she smiled. “I'm quite all right now.”  She wasn't, but the young man seemed so worried she wanted to reassure him. “It's kind of you to take me home, Mr. Campton.”

“Kindness doesn't come into it. I want to speak with your brother.”

“Ian didn't know, I swear it.”

“No man would be stupid enough to try what you did. I want to tell him to keep a tighter rein on his sister, or I'll put the law on her for trespassing on my land, and for malicious damage.”

As they rode in silence, bile rose in her throat. She swallowed it down for as long as possible.

“Stop! Quick! I'm going to be sick!”

He pulled the horse up, allowing her to slide to the ground. She landed in an inelegant heap. There she stayed, vomiting her heart out, the ultimate humiliation. Weakly climbing to her feet, she wiped her trembling mouth with the back of one hand.

“I'm all right now, I can ride.”

“No, you come up with me. We can’t have you fainting and falling off your horse.”  He kneed his mount forward, bent down and scooped her back up in front of him again. As they travelled along she slumped against him more and more often, no matter how she fought against it.

“You've got guts, Yankee woman.” His warm breath skimmed one side of her neck. “Don't fight me. You can't win, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Are you threatening me?”

He made no reply, but his arm about her waist tightened and he pulled her so close her back slammed against his chest. The heat of his body seared through her clothes. His heart beat strongly. His male scent infused her nostrils, a combination of leather, soap and virile man. Why hadn’t they met under different circumstances? She admired strong, resilient men who were prepared to take what they wanted and fight to keep it. Men like him had tamed this harsh, inhospitable land. She bit back on a sigh of regret. If only he hadn’t wanted Ian’s little farm.

Turning, she glanced at him. For a split second something burned in his eyes, a light so strong she clenched her ravaged hands together. When she glanced at him again, it had gone.

The homestead came into her view. Against a backdrop of mountains, darkening to purple in the dusk as the dying rays of the sun disappeared, it looked serene and mellow. Ian and Fiona stood on the verandah, like tiny toys in the distance, but the figure detaching itself and hurrying toward them was her brother.

Luke dropped the reins of her horse. The fingertips of one hand trailed across her cheek in a feather soft caress. He loosened his grasp on her and she slid to the ground.

“Ian!” Ignoring her throbbing hands and knees, and her awkward limping gait, she rushed into his arms.

“What happened?” He hugged her close. “Your clothes are all wet.”

“Your sister has been tampering with my dam,” Luke growled. “Almost got herself drowned in the process. Don't you have the guts to do your own dirty work?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don't argue with him,” Jo interrupted. “Courtesy dictates I should thank you for rescuing me, Mr. Campton, but don't expect me to apologize for what I did. I'm sorry I didn't do more damage.”

He savaged her with a hostile glare, wheeled his horse and galloped away.

Jo fell to the ground in a dead faint.

She awoke in bed to find Ian forcing brandy through her lips.

“I must have fainted.”

“You certainly did.”

Fiona came in with some salve and a dish of warm water. “You were so brave. I'll bathe your hands. What happened?”