Longings of the Heart (7 page)

She glanced at the wall where two pistols hung. “I’ll do fine. You’re not to worry.” She rested a hand on John’s arm. “Just bring back our sheep.”

John kissed her. “I’ll think about you every moment.”

“I’ll be thinking of you too.”

John stepped outside. Quincy, already sitting atop his horse, nodded at Hannah. “G’day.”

“Good day, Quincy.”

John pushed up into his saddle, lifted his hat slightly, and then turned the horse and moved away from the house. The two men cantered toward the road. Hannah watched until she couldn’t see them any longer. Taking a deep breath, she closed the door and turned to her morning tasks. She tried not to think about what could happen while John was away. They’d not seen any Aborigines since the one incident, but she still worried that they were out there . . . watching and waiting. Plus there’d been an unsuccessful search for an escaped prisoner. Desperate escapees were always a danger.

The day passed uneventfully and, surprisingly, Hannah slept well that night. When she awoke the next morning, however, she felt very much alone. John would be gone at least three more days.

She pushed aside her melancholy. There was work to be done. The Athertons had made a gift of a milk cow. Hannah was clumsy at milking, so the cow was sometimes disagreeable. She had named her Patience, hoping the name might bring out the best in the animal. Thus far it had done little good.

Now the bovine bellowed, letting Hannah know she needed to be milked. Carrying a wooden bucket and a stool, she walked to the corral where the small cow waited, still mooing her distress. As difficult as this task was for Hannah, she was thankful for the fresh milk, cream, and butter.

She let herself into the pen and patted the bovine’s side. “Good day to you. I hope you’ll have patience with me this morning.” The cow looked at Hannah from behind brown eyes lined by long lashes. Hannah caressed her soft nose. The animal snuffled her palm, searching for grain.

Hannah set her bucket and stool beside the cow and then grabbed an armful of hay from a lean-to and spread it out in the crib. Patience pushed her nose into the fragrant fodder and was soon grinding hay between her teeth.

Apprehensively Hannah moved the stool closer to the cow and placed the bucket beneath her. Gwen had shown her how to milk, but Hannah had yet to master the task. Often, before she could finish, Patience would grow frustrated with her and with a swish of her tail would move off, sometimes knocking over the pail. Most days John took care of the milking, but that did her little good now.

She rested a hand on the cow’s bulging side. A calf was expected in the spring. Although eager for the birth, the thought produced a pang of longing in Hannah. If only she were expecting a child.

Using a damp cloth she’d draped over her shoulder, she wiped the udder clean and then pressed her forehead against the animal’s fragrant warm hair and gently tugged on the teats. Milk splashed into the bucket.

Her mind returned to the expected calf. John hoped for a heifer so there’d be enough extra milk and cream to sell, but Hannah wanted a bull calf. That way they’d have beef for eating instead of chicken, rabbit, and kangaroo. She was tired of chicken and rabbit and didn’t like eating kangaroos. The large golden-haired animals were lovely, playful creatures. And the mothers were nurturing to the delightful joeys. She hated killing them.

Hannah worked steadily, but the bucket was only half filled when Patience decided she’d stood still long enough and started fidgeting, swishing her tail furiously. Hannah tried to work faster. Perhaps more hay would help. She straightened, moving the stool back and setting the bucket aside.

Her eyes locked with those of a black man who stood no more than ten yards away. Her pulse jumped and she gulped in a quick breath. There were two of them, their black skin dusted with summer dirt. She backed away.

“What do you want? Would you like some milk?” She picked up the bucket and extended it toward them. She received no response.

Quaking inside, but trying to look calm, Hannah walked toward the gate chatting amicably all the while. “I’d be more than happy to share my bread and cheese with you. There’s cheese down at the river.” She pointed at the makeshift springhouse.

The men remained silent.

Hannah stepped through the gate and closed it. “I can pour you some milk. Just a moment.” Hurriedly she walked toward the cabin. When she glanced back the men were gone. She stopped. Where were they?

Her heart thumping wildly beneath her ribs, she looked all around. What had become of them?

Milk sloshing over the sides of the bucket, Hannah hurried to the cabin, stepped inside, and pushed the door closed, slamming down the latch. Setting the milk on the table, she moved to the window and peered out. She couldn’t see them.

Hands shaking, she grabbed both pistols from their places on the wall and then returned to the window. Still no sign. Setting the guns on the table, she closed the shutters and bolted them. She tried to quiet her breathing. If only she could go to the Athertons’, but John had taken the horse, and the mule was trained only to the plow. There was nothing she could do.

Hannah picked up the pistols and moved to a chair and sat. Quaking, she held the guns in her lap and prayed.

5

Hannah pressed her hands down on the sill of the window and gazed out. “Where is he? He should be home.”

It had been three days since Hannah’s encounter with the Aborigines. They’d not returned, but she was still afraid. Glancing at the primed pistols she’d left on the table, she crossed to the hearth. Using a hook, she moved a pot of stew from the lug pole to a trivet. Lifting the lid, she stirred the vegetable mixture and then hefted it back over the heat. John would be hungry when he got home.

An ache jabbed at Hannah’s lower back. She straightened and rubbed at the sore muscle. Using a corner of her apron, she wiped perspiration from her face. A peculiar noise carried in from outside, and her nerves leaped. She hurried to the window and listened. A murmuring, complaining sound filled the air. What was it?

Suddenly she knew. “It’s sheep! John!” She ran to the door, gathered up her skirts, and sprinted down the drive.

A burst of wind swirled dust into an eddy. Hannah gazed through the earthen cloud. Where was he? A breeze caught at her hair and billowed her skirts.

She saw the first of the sheep and then more. They moved placidly through a dirt cloud. John appeared, sitting confidently atop his dark bay. He spotted Hannah and waved, smiling broadly.

She waved back and fought the impulse to run to him. She dare not startle the sheep for fear of scattering them. “Lord, thank you for bringing him home to me,” she whispered.

Bleating and searching for mouthfuls of grass, the mob moved past. They barely seemed to notice her. When John reached Hannah, he stopped and caught hold of her outstretched hand. “Hannah,” he said, his voice full of devotion.

“Thank the Lord, you’re home. I was worried about you. Now my heart can rest easy.”

Gazing at her, he clasped her hand more tightly, then returning to a more businesslike demeanor, he asked, “Can you open the corral gate?”

“Of course.” Hannah moved cautiously past the sheep, then hurried to the stock pen. After opening the gate, she lifted a lead rope from a post and moved to Patience. Snapping it to her halter, she led the cow out of the pen and tied her.

Returning to the gate, she swung it wide open and stood between the enclosure and the house, wondering just how John and Quincy planned to steer the flock through the gate and into the pen. Hannah spotted a broom on the porch and ran to get it, hoping it would provide her more than an extra arm’s length. She quickly returned to her post and extended the broom to block any attempts at defection.

Quincy kept his horse on the other side of the mob, and John continued to herd from behind. The animals seemed content to remain together and ambled into the enclosure. They crowded around a water tub, burying their noses in the blessed liquid, while John climbed down from his horse and closed the animals in.

He removed his hat and leaned against the fence. Hannah joined him, tucking herself in beneath his arm. He turned a warm smile on her. “It’s grand to see you.” Enfolding her in his arms, he buried his face in her hair. “You smell good.”

“I’ve missed you.” Close to tears, Hannah pressed her face against his neck and tightened her hold. “I’m so glad you’re home.”

“How good it is to be here. All I’ve done is think about you.” Keeping one arm around her, John turned to study the sheep. “We’ve had long, hard days, but we’ve done it.” He looked at Quincy and chuckled. “These are not the smartest animals. I daresay a chicken has more brains than a ewe.”

“Intent on getting themselves killed, I’d say.” Quincy grinned.

“We need a good herding dog.”

“A dog?” Hannah asked.

“If we’re going to raise sheep, we have to get one. Not just any will do, though. Mr. Jones has three he uses for herding. They’re smart and know how to round up sheep and how to keep them from becoming unruly. They’re born that way, knowing what to do. They only need a bit of training. Jones has a female ready to whelp any day. Told me I could have my pick out of the litter for a bit of machine work that he needs done.”

“A dog, eh?” Hannah grinned. “I’d like to see one that knows how to watch over sheep.”

John laid his arms on the top of the fence and rested a foot on the bottom board. “These animals might be stupider than a rock, but they’re sturdy—Merinos from South Africa. Good for mutton and for wool. And in a few months there’ll be lambs.”

Hannah gazed at the shuffling, bleating animals and suddenly felt overwhelmed. How were they going to do this? They knew nothing about raising sheep.

“We’ll be busy come late April, early May. We can expect a lamb from every one of them. And I’m hoping to have more ewes by then too. Mr. Jones said he’d have more when I’m ready.”

“Will the new ones also be carrying lambs?”

“I should hope so.”

“That sounds like a lot of sheep. Do we have enough land?” “I was told that Mr. Jones might allow us to run our sheep on his land since he’s living in Sydney Town and not using it. I’ll ask him.”

“He’s a good man.” Quincy leaned against the fence and eyed the ewes. “Ye can count on losses. Sometimes it seems lambs are born trying to die. If they make it, there are dingoes to think about and disease. And ye’ll need a warm dry place for the ewes to drop the lambs.”

“We’ll have a shed up by then.” John lifted his hat and resettled it on his head. “We’ll do all right.” He turned to Hannah. “How did you fare, luv? Any trouble while we were gone?”

“No.” Hannah said, deciding not to tell him about her fright, at least not just yet. It would only worry him. “Except for Patience. I’m still dreadfully slow at milking, and she won’t stand still long enough for me to finish. I’m worried that if she’s not milked thoroughly, she’ll dry up.”

John dropped an arm over Hannah’s shoulders. “Tomorrow, first thing, I’ll get the stanchion built.”

“First thing, you’ll milk her.”

John smiled and nodded, then glanced at the sky, its blue color deepening as the sun perched on the horizon. “It’ll be dark soon. Figure I’ll take a bath in the river.”

“I’ve stew cooking.”

“Good. I’m starved.”

Hannah moved toward the house. “You’ll need clean clothes.” She glanced at Quincy. “You too. I washed your trousers and shirt, as well.”

“Ye did? Thank ye.” Grinning, Quincy followed John and Hannah to the house.

Hannah shook out an apron, draped it over the clothesline, and then reached into her pocket for a wooden pin to secure it. A wind gust picked up dirt and leaves and swirled them into the air. She groaned. If the wind kept up, the clothes would only get dirty again.

She heard the sound of some sort of conveyance down at the road. She stopped and listened, hoping it wouldn’t pass. Visitors were rare. The jangling of bridles and harnesses quieted and then grew louder as the vehicle moved closer.

Hannah gazed at the road. A wagon approached. There were two people sitting on the front bench—Lydia and Lottie! She’d not seen Lottie for a long while. When they’d crossed from Britain on the prison ship, they were nearly inseparable. Lottie had seemed like her own child.

“Oh,” Hannah exclaimed, running to greet her friends. “I can barely believe my eyes,” she said as Lydia pulled the horses to a stop. Hannah reached up and helped Lottie down. She hugged the little girl. “What a grand surprise.” She turned toward Lydia. “How wonderful to see you.”

Lydia moved around the horses and opened her arms to Hannah. “I’ve missed ye. How have ye been getting along way out here?”

“Good.” Hannah glanced to the north. “John and Quincy are working with the sheep. There’s always so much to do. And they spend a goodly amount of time trying to keep the roaming creatures from straying too far.”

“Too bad ye don’t have a sheepherder,” said Lottie. “They’ll keep watch over them for ye.” When she talked she bobbed her head, tousling her auburn curls.

“Indeed, that would be grand. But we’ve no money for such a luxury. Perhaps one day.” She smiled at Lydia. “I can still barely believe you’ve come.”