The Horse Thief (6 page)

‘Dinner's ready.' Peggy eyed Violet as she sashayed up the stairs.

‘I don't want anything. I might as well starve myself to death. There's no other way out of this preposterous situation.'

A door slammed.

‘Everything progressing as normal, I see.' Peggy removed the serving dishes from the trolley and plonked them on the table.

India indulged in a loud sigh. ‘It would appear so. It would appear so.'

Seven

Jim cast a surreptitious glance around the courtyard then slipped through the newly repaired door and into the stable block. Jefferson whickered a welcome as he offered the horse a carrot filched from Peggy's vegetable garden. ‘That's bribery. Now keep quiet. I've got business to attend to.'

The path of moonlight slanting across the hard-packed dirt floor led the way to the back room. As he slid back the bolt the grating of the rusted metal put his teeth on edge. With a wrench he pulled the office door open and peered inside. In India's presence he'd only scanned the room, not wanting to appear overinterested in the haphazard contents. Now every nerve ending tingled in anticipation. He'd waited an eternity for this opportunity.

It was as black as pitch. His fingers closed around the small stub of candle he'd purloined from the cottage. With the other hand he rummaged in his back pocket for his battered box of Lucifers. As he struck the match the acrid phosphorous fumes mingled with the dust and mould in the air. Once the candle was alight he snuffed the match out with his damp fingers. One errant spark and the whole room would go up in a moment.

He cupped his hand around the flame. The yellow glow emphasised the thick layer of dust coating every surface. The cloying, musty smell of the air caught in his throat. Debris littered the floor—baskets, crates and boxes, piles of old curtains and cushions. In the flickering shadows a large cupboard tucked into the back corner became visible. One door hung slightly open. He picked his way through the piles of discarded household goods until he reached the back of the room.

The door squeaked as he pulled it open. He reached inside searching for books, papers, anything resembling records. A rat stunned by the unexpected intrusion scurried across his hand. The piles of old cushions made a perfect nesting spot but hid nothing of any use to him. He hadn't enough time to explore every nook and cranny. He swung the door closed. Holding the candle high he eased his way past the rows of shelving containing all manner of items bundled in disarray.

He pulled the lid from a brown box and peered inside. A collection of framed daguerreotypes. Family portraits. India dropping a half curtsy and grinning while a pouting young child looked on, her younger sister, perhaps. A woman sat side-saddle on a buckskin horse dressed in a fashionable riding habit. She peered haughtily into the distance while Kilhampton stood in front of the house, arms folded, master of all he surveyed. Jim slammed the lid back down on the box. None of this was any use to him.

He hadn't time to waste on the Kilhamptons' family affairs. He shifted the candle and resolved to continue his search. The stale smell made his flesh creep. A burial ground, a tomb for decades of discarded lives.

With the palm of his hand placed flat against the sandstock wall he steadied the candle and shone it down the wall. Twisted barley sugar legs poked out from the wall blocking his path. He ran his fingers around the intricate twirls. The smooth timber sparked a vision of boots, of sitting on the floor below the desk—his father's boots, his father's desk.

His heart rate kicked up a notch or two and his body hummed with excitement. Lifting the candle higher he stepped back, crashing against a wicker basket and sending it toppling to the floor. A collection of rusted tins clattered and tumbled to the ground.

The candle shook between his fingers as he stood stock-still, holding his breath and waiting. Jefferson snuffled and snorted in his stall and a mopoke owl hooted somewhere in the distance. He licked his fingers, snuffed out the candle and waited while his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

The scarred desktop scored his palms as he traced the worn timber searching for a drawer. When his fingers closed on the metal handle he tugged. It squeaked and groaned as he wrestled it free, then he reached inside.
Nothing.

The second drawer slid open without complaint and his fingers closed on a book.

He smoothed the worn leather cover, swallowed the lump lodged in his throat, then tucked the book inside his shirt. Pocketing the extinguished candle he edged his way through the debris of the past to the door and outside.

A solitary light burned brightly in an upstairs window of the house. He slipped into the shadows of the storehouse as the curtain twitched, and accomplished his trip back to the cottage in no time.

Once inside he lit the lamp then sank into the old armchair in front of the empty grate. His eyes fluttered closed and his hand rested on the book still tucked beneath his shirt. As he waited for his breathing to settle he eased it from his shirt and laid it on his lap, running his thumbs across the red pockmarked leather.

Had he really found what he was searching for? The prospect of holding the stud records proving Jefferson's bloodlines stunned him. He'd anticipated spending weeks, if not months, building up enough credibility to allow him access to this book.

His hands shook as he opened the cover and angled the book to the light. Neatly pencilled cursive script filled the pages. He smoothed a dog-eared corner and ran his forefinger down the columns. Every sale, every purchase, every mating. The faded dates continued until 1847. He turned the final page. There was no more.

He yanked the lamp closer and flicked back through the book, even held it by the spine and shook it. The entries began in 1840 and ended in 1847. They hadn't left the property until he was ten, in 1850. Of that he was certain. There were no entries from September 1847 and three blank pages at the end of the book. Why? What could it mean?

It was all a fruitless waste of time. He was a fool to imagine it would be so easy. He dropped the book back onto the small table beside the chair and began pacing the floor. There had to be a second book. What had India said? When his father left Kilhampton took over the management of the property. He'd moved the records to the library, inside the house. He had to get in there, but how?

India woke with the sun and sprang out of bed. Today they would bring the brood mares in from the back paddocks. Housed in the stables below the hayloft they would be on hand and ready. Helligen's two remaining stallions could be stabled with Jefferson, next to the mating yards, and they would assess the young colts.

Nothing would tarnish her excitement. Not Violet's continual complaints, Mama's increasingly strange behaviour or the prospect of the mountain of paperwork covering Papa's desk in the library.

Dressed in sensible work clothes and ready for whatever the day might bring she clattered down the stairs, the solid heels of her riding boots ringing on the timber treads. Before she'd made it halfway across the courtyard Peggy's call stopped her in her tracks.

‘You get back here and have some breakfast, missy. No riding without a full stomach, or a hat!'

She skidded to a halt and retraced her steps to the kitchen. ‘Just tea, please. I'm not hungry.'

‘You'll sit down and eat this and no nonsense.' Peggy pushed a plate with a thick slice of toasted bread and a mound of egg in front of her.

‘I don't have time. I want to bring the mares into the home paddock. We're going to check them over and see who is ready.'

‘Oh,
we
are, are
we
? That would be you and Mr Mawgan, would it?'

By shovelling a large mouthful of egg into her mouth India managed to hide the flush on her cheeks. She couldn't wait to get outside. Her life had changed so much since Jim arrived. It was wonderful to have someone to work with, someone who understood and shared her interest. ‘Yes,
we
are. If you remember that's why I employed Mr Mawgan.' She wiped a piece of egg from the corner of her mouth and put down her knife and fork. Then she picked up a couple of slices of bread and slipped them into her pocket.

‘Mawgan! What kind of a name is that? Sounds like some Cornish smuggler. Don't forget to take your hat with you.'

‘Yes, Peggy.' India threw the words over her shoulder and rolled her eyes as she escaped into the courtyard.

Jim lounged against the rail, his long, long legs crossed at the ankles and the inevitable piece of grass clamped between his white teeth. Jefferson and her mother's buckskin stood side by side, saddled.

‘Morning, Miss Kilhampton.' He lifted his hat a fraction and flashed a grin that instantly increased her pleasure in the day.

‘India, I told you.' Unable to resist she returned his friendly smile. ‘Good morning.'

‘I hope I made the right decision. I thought you'd like to ride the buckskin and she was already in the stable.'

She eyed Mama's horse, took a deep breath and nodded. Violet was right; it was time to put the past behind her and forget her childish superstitions. This was as good a start as any. She gave Jefferson a rub on his velvety nose then ducked under the rail and untied the buckskin's reins. Despite her best intentions, she failed to control the smirk creeping across her face. Jim had indeed saddled the horses and expected her to ride side-saddle. She glanced down at her overskirt, and pressed her lips tightly together to restrain the bubble of laughter building in her throat. She reached for the saddle.

‘I've tightened the girth,' he said as she lifted the leather flap.

‘I can see that.' She unbuckled the girth, lifted the saddle from the horse and deposited it on a pile of hay resting against the stable door.

Jim followed her every move. She could feel his eyes on her and she smiled up at him, noticing the way his brow creased and the wary look that flickered across his face. Unable to resist she slid her fingers to her waist and unclipped her overskirt. She threw it on top of the saddle. Dressed in her divided skirt or
gauchos,
as Papa insisted on calling them, she vaulted onto the buckskin's bare back.

‘I don't ride side-saddle,' she called over her shoulder as she edged the horse into a trot and made for the front of the house. Papa would throw a fit if he saw her riding astride in company, but he was in Sydney and while he was away she called the shots. Releasing a loud bellow of laughter she spurred her mother's horse into a gallop.

‘Bloody hell.' Jim closed his mouth with a snap. She should barely be in control of the horse she'd taken off so fast; instead they were as one. She guided the animal without any effort down the driveway before disappearing behind the fig trees flanking the house.

‘Could've told you that.'

He glanced at the impudent young upstart leaning against the stable door sporting a knowing grin. ‘Then why the hell didn't you?' He pulled himself up into the saddle and wheeled Jefferson around. ‘I expect those stables mucked out and clean by the time we get back or you're for the high jump.' He dug in his heels and headed down the driveway, Fred's laughter echoing in his ears.

To add insult to his dented ego India sat waiting under the shade of the huge trees in front of the house. She'd pushed her hat back and a smile as broad as Fred's lit her face. Without a saddle her lithe body merged with the horse's back and her hair blew in the breeze mirroring the buckskin's tail. His body tightened. He'd seen women riding astride but never looking so completely at ease on their mount. Loose-fitting pants that covered the top of her polished riding boots accentuated her taut muscles.

He reined in the prancing Jefferson beside the buckskin. ‘I'll know next time. Sure you don't need a saddle?'

‘No.' She grinned. ‘The horses prefer to be ridden like this. My mother taught me to ride and she rarely bothered to saddle a horse. She felt it hampered the horse's enjoyment and sense of freedom—and her own.'