Читать книгу The Cattleman's Bride - Joan Kilby - Страница 11

THE NEXT MORNING Sarah put on a skinny sleeveless top and short skirt and slathered sunscreen over her arms and legs and as much of her chest and back as she could reach. She wanted to see the creek where Mom had caught the yabbies.

Jet lag had awakened her in the wee hours, but she’d fallen asleep again at last and now the clock over the kitchen stove said it was nearly ten o’clock. She felt the kettle. Still warm. Luke must have come in for morning coffee and gone out again on the cattle run. Becka was still in her room if the sound of the radio behind the closed door was any indication.

After a quick breakfast of toast and coffee, Sarah stepped outside onto the back veranda. The air was warm and dry and smelled exotically of eucalyptus. Her cross-trainers raised puffs of red dust as she stepped off the veranda and rounded the galvanized steel tank used to collect rainwater.

She headed in the direction of the creek, her mother’s reminiscences ringing in her head. Once a yabby pinched Robby’s big toe and wouldn’t let go. I never laughed so hard.

Sarah could almost hear the sound of children’s laughter coming from the dappled shade near the creek. A few more steps took her out of the comforting shadow cast by the house and into an open stretch of ground. Then it happened again.

Beneath the relentless sun, Sarah began to shiver. Her heart pounded and she struggled to take a breath. She tried to take another step and couldn’t. Her gaze crept involuntarily to the open land on her left that reached into the distance. Her stomach floated; her head felt light.

With an effort she dragged her gaze back to the trees. Suddenly the distance between her and them seemed a vast, untraversable expanse. In her mind the sound of children’s laughter turned mocking.

With her heart thumping so hard she thought it would burst, she spun on her heel and race-walked back to the veranda. There she clutched an iron pillar for support before dragging herself across the planks to sink into a wicker chair, her eyes shutting in sick relief.

What was happening to her? Was she dying? Going crazy?

Gradually her heart slowed to normal and she got her breath back. She stood up, walked the length of the veranda and turned the corner to pace the perimeter of the house. At the front of the homestead she quickly averted her eyes from the view of the open Downs and hurried on around the next corner. She was beginning to feel like a tiger exploring the confines of her cage. Tomorrow. She would overcome her fear tomorrow.

Right now she could use some company. She went in search of Becka, and found her sitting on the floor of her room amid boxes of unpacked toys and books, playing quietly with her doll. Her long blond hair had been pulled into a clumsy braid and she wore a frilly, flowered sundress that matched her doll’s outfit but didn’t suit her tomboyish looks.

Sarah leaned on the doorjamb. “Hi, Becka. What are you doing?”

Becka glanced up, her oval face grave. “Playing.”

“May I come in?” Becka nodded listlessly, so Sarah moved into the room to sit on the bed. She eyed the windows. “I’m going to sew new curtains. What color would you like?”

Becka shrugged. “Whatever.”

“I always think your surroundings make a lot of difference to the way you feel, don’t you? For instance, if we replace those brown curtains with yellow ones—maybe a sunflower pattern—this room would be a lot cheerier. What do you think?”

“Fine.”

“Is something wrong, Becka?”

Becka’s small chin lifted defiantly. “No.”

“I can see you’re unhappy about something,” Sarah said cautiously. “Your dad’s really worried about you.”

Becka snorted. “My dad doesn’t care about me.”

Sarah leaned forward on the bed, her elbows on her knees. “Your dad loves you a lot. Even I can see that.”

“Then why is he keeping me prisoner?” Becka demanded, sullen and defiant. “He won’t even talk to me.”

Sarah’s heart went out to the girl. Behind the defiance lurked fear and uncertainty. “I guess you miss your aunt.”

Becka bit her lip and combed her doll’s hair with a tiny pink comb. “I hate it here. It’s the middle of nowhere.”

“It feels strange to me, too—” She broke off. That was no way to talk around the child. “Hey, I noticed a brand-new superdeluxe computer in the office.”

“Dad bought it so I could use it for school. He tried to teach me, but he doesn’t know how to work it.” Becka’s mouth pursed disapprovingly. “He said a swear word.”

“I can show you how to use it,” Sarah said, suppressing a smile. Surely it would be more fun than dolls at Becka’s age.

Interest sparked in the young girl’s eyes and for a moment Sarah thought she would say yes. Then her shoulder’s drooped as she remembered her role as the unjustly imprisoned. “Nah,” she said, turning back to her doll. “I’ll just stay here.”

“Let me know if you change your mind,” Sarah said, rising from the bed. “Would you mind if I tried it out?”

Becka shrugged, presumably in the affirmative. Then as Sarah was leaving she said so softly it was almost a whisper, “Thanks, anyway.”

Sarah slowly shut the door. Poor kid.

She walked back down the hall to the little room off the living room—or the loungeroom, as Luke called it—that served as an office. Sarah skimmed the titles in the bookshelves lining one wall. Among the volumes on cattle breeding and animal husbandry were a surprising number of books on the geology, botany, zoology and natural history of Queensland.

Along another wall stood a tall wooden chest with many narrow drawers. What was in Luke’s drawers? She grinned at her own pun, but although she was curious about what the chest might contain, the lure of the computer was stronger.

She booted it up, admiring the speed at which it went through its paces. The PC was state-of-the-art and loaded with software. In spite of Luke’s disavowal of the Internet there was even a modem. Regardless of his financial constraints, he’d spared no expense for Becka’s link with the world. For that Sarah thought he deserved a medal. And if he’d learn how to use it himself, he would surely see there were benefits for the station, as well.

But Luke wasn’t kidding when he said he hadn’t ventured into cyberspace. Tsk, tsk. A modem and no Internet connection. She searched the cluttered desk beside the computer, found a phone book and rang up the nearest service provider. She paid for a year’s connection with her credit card and asked for the software to be couriered care of Murrum general delivery. Aside from helping Luke and Becka, if she could get on the Internet she could look up agoraphobia and hopefully find out how to help herself.

Satisfied with her morning’s work, she shut the computer down and repaired to the kitchen for another blah cup of coffee. The phone rang while she was waiting for the water to boil. “Hello?”

“Good morning,” said a cultured masculine voice. “This is Professor Winter, from Australia National University in Canberra. May I speak with Luke?”

“He’s not in at the moment,” Sarah replied. Now, why would a professor be calling Luke? “Can I take a message?”

“Please ask him to call me back on this number….”

Sarah wrote the number down on a pad of paper beside the phone. She’d barely hung up, when she heard boots on the veranda. Luke came in, glanced at her and hung his hat on a row of pegs that already held a bridle, a rope and a coiled, short-handled stock whip as well as several other beat-up felt hats. “Two rules about hats,” he said. “Never wear them in the house. And never go outside without one.”

“I’ll remember that. Oh, a Professor Winter just called. His number’s on the notepad.”

“Thanks. I’ll ring him later.” He crossed to the sink and scrubbed his hands.

She eyed him, mildly frustrated. He not only had no intention of satisfying her curiosity about Professor Winter, he wasn’t even aware she was suffering from it. Heck, he barely seemed aware of her existence. She sighed. It was probably just as well, since there was no possibility of anything but a business relationship between them. “Do you have ground coffee, by any chance?”

“Not worth the bother to make real coffee for one.”

Huh? Coffee was always worth bothering about. Then again, she wasn’t looking after forty thousand acres and fifteen hundred head of cattle single-handedly.

“That’s an excellent computer you’ve got there. I’ve signed you up for the Internet.”

Luke, at the open fridge door, glanced over his shoulder so quickly a lock of sun-streaked hair fell over one eye. “What’s that going to cost?”

“Don’t worry, it’s my treat.”

His jaw stiffened. “I’ll pay you back.”

“No, you won’t,” she replied cheerfully, and poured water over the instant coffee she’d spooned into two cups. Before he could protest further, she added, “I’d like to contribute somehow to the running of the station.”

Luke rummaged in the fridge and returned to the table bearing a plate of cold roast beef, a container of leftover salad and jars of mustard and mayonnaise. “There is something you can do if you don’t mind.”

“Sure. Anything.”

“With the muster coming up we need a cook.” Anything but that.

On the other hand, how could she not cook if that was what was required? She placed a cup in front of Luke and loaded her own with cream and sugar. She had a responsibility to the station, too.

“No problem,” she said, curving her lips in a smile both firm and cheerful. Sacrifice was her middle name.

Luke looked up from the piece of bread he was spreading with mayonnaise. “Beg your pardon?”

“I’ll be the cook. It’ll be…fun.” Even as she said it, her resolve wavered. Was she capable of producing three large edible meals a day for a gang of hungry men? “How many did you say will be in the muster crew?”

“Four, including me. But that’s not the favor. All I want is you to drive into Murrum and put a notice on the board outside Len’s store, advertising the position. I meant to do it yesterday and forgot.”

Oh, no. The next time she faced a long journey through the Downs it would be on the bus out of here. Just the thought of going out there made her tense in case panic struck again when she was alone, away from help. “Truly, I’d be happy to cook.”

Luke began to carve thick slices off the roast beef. “Stockmen like their tucker. It’s got to be good and it’s got to be plentiful or they’ll shoot through.”

“You really can’t go by the pizzas.”

One dark-gold eyebrow rose above a skeptical blue eye. “The garlic bread wasn’t bad. If you really want to help, you could make bread. Homemade beats store-bought anytime.”

“Bread?” she repeated, trying to picture herself up to her elbows in dough. “Uh, sure. But about going to town—”

“I’d bake myself, but you have to do something with the dough every couple of hours or it’s ruined.”

“Like children.” Oh, dear. She hadn’t meant to say that, but now that it was out she wasn’t sorry. His eyebrows drew together in a scowl as he silently layered his roast beef with tomatoes, lettuce and sliced beetroot. Beetroot?

“I know it’s not as if you have a lot of choices,” she said, sipping her coffee and trying not to grimace. “And I’m sure you have a really excellent reason for not wanting Becka to be with her aunt—”

His fierce glance stopped her, but only momentarily.

“You need to talk to her,” Sarah insisted. “She’s upset and confused. She thinks you don’t care about her.”

Luke carefully laid another slice of bread atop the massive sandwich. “Did she tell you that?”

“It’s obvious.”

“That’s ridiculous. She—”

Becka burst into the room, calling, “Sarah!” She saw her father and her steps slowed.

“G’day, Becka,” he said. His gaze followed her as she went silently past him and up to Sarah.

“Will you show me how to use the computer now?”

Sarah looked helplessly at Luke. Whatever their differences, it wasn’t right for Becka to ignore her father.

“Sarah’s going into town for me,” Luke said. Then he added more gently, “You can go, too, and show her the way. Get yourself a treat at the store.”