Code of Honor (Australian Destiny Book #1) Page 13

  “Sugarlea.”

  The bushy face studied her in the gathering gloom. “Sloan.”

  “Aye. Ye know him?”

  “By name and odor. Never met him.”

  Samantha could see nothing, but this man was moving along at a normal pace. He wasn’t bumping into anything, so he must be able to see something in the blackness. She ought to get a conversation going, or at least introduce herself. She dropped back a pace and reached out to put a hand on the bicycle seat. She felt much better touching something actual in this world of shifting shadows and palpable darkness. More flummoxing of the mind.

  They slipped and slid along in silence, and he seemed not at all inclined to talk. Samantha finally began a conversation just to be polite. “Foss—ye were what, did ye say?”

  “Fossicking. Seeking minerals. Digging.”

  “Ah. Be nae such in Ireland. Nae even coal that anyone’s found.”

  “Australia’s rich, lass, rich as can be. Gold and silver, and I’ll wager only the least of it’s been found so far. Tried some of the strikes myself, here and there. Fitzroy River was a little before my time, but Charter’s Towers. Croydon. Gympie down south by Brisbane. Woulda wandered over to Kalgoorlie when they struck there ten years back, but it’s too far. I’m an old man to be chasing dreams out beyond the black stump.”

  The sky turned gray suddenly; they had emerged from the forest.

  “Anywhere in particular along the railroad?”

  “Nae. The grade be good enough.”

  “Then here you are.” He let go the bicycle so abruptly that it nearly pulled Samantha over; she gripped the seat with both hands. He reached in his pocket. “And the chain and the clip what holds it. You’ll see easy enough how it goes on, come daylight.”

  “Wait!” She let the bicycle fall and snatched at the darkness. She caught his sleeve. “Er, me name be Samantha Connolly, at your service, sir.” She extended her hand.

  His huge warm paw wrapped around her hand, and she could feel the strength in it, even though he didn’t squeeze hard, as some do. “Abner Gardell. If you mention me to Sloan, tell him you were talking to McGonigan’s old partner.”

  “I shall. Tell me: how’d ye happen so far out here, that ye could come to me aid?”

  “Live out here.” His voice dropped to a rumble and she could not tell if he were explaining something very dear to his heart or feeding her a merry line. “Seeking the biggest gold strike in Australia’s history. This here’s the new Ballarat. It’s right here; I’m certain of it. Y’see, quite a few years back—near forty years—some miners found a reef in these hills …”

  “A reef. A vein of gold.”

  “A rich lode.” The gray head bobbed in the darkness. “And they marked the way to it with a boulder—a rock about this high. I find the boulder, I’ll find the lode. Keeps me healthy and honest, the search does.” He chuckled in the hot and humid darkness. “You’re a good woman, Samantha Connolly, to keep your courage up like this. G’night now, and God bless.”

  “And yourself, sir. Thank ye so very much for—”

  But he dissolved in the gloom, gone like the steam from a teakettle.

  The wet steel rails glistened in the gray sky light; she could see them lose themselves in curves in both directions. She could hear a river, too, though she could not see it. It must wind its way through the trees alongside the tracks. She climbed the weedy bank and stepped with her battered bicycle onto the grade.

  She settled onto the seat. The disconnected pedals didn’t operate the bicycle, but neither did they swat her in the ankles. Perhaps … Experimentally, she pushed with one foot, then the other. It bumped dreadfully on the ties until she got a little speed up and the ride smoothed out somewhat. Rough and choppy as it was, it was faster and easier than walking—especially walking while dragging the bicycle along. The front wheel made a rapid tictictictic sound—the broken spokes, no doubt.

  She stopped suddenly. The bicycle bumpbumpbumped to a halt. A rock. A boulder this high. Sudden doubt engulfed her. When she sat down to rest there—when the amorphous somethings threw pits at her—what did she sit down on? It was moss covered. But she could not for the life of her remember whether it was an old rotting stump or—

  —or a boulder this high.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Obsession

  What a mess. What a royal mess! For the hundredth time, Luke Vinson berated himself violently for his foolishness. He should have known why those energetic little boys were romping around so cautiously. Even if they didn’t, he should have known….

  Hindsight. Would that his foresight were one tenth as good as his hindsight. Luke snickered. Were man’s foresight that good, the children of Israel wouldn’t have suffered all the problems that came of their departures from the straight and narrow. He certainly wasn’t alone in foolishness, when one views the cataclysms of history.

  He studied himself in the mirror and tried to decide how to shave the blond stubble emerging from the coral cuts on his face. Prudently, he withdrew the razor. Hudson Taylor, Dwight L. Moody, Chinese Gordon—the giants of the faith—all sported beards. Actually, he wasn’t certain about Gordon, but the bushes on the other chins made up for any lack. The matter was decided. He would let comfort rule the day.

  His left arm and shoulder still seeped. How long did Burriwi say it took to heal? Forever? And the little shark didn’t even taste all that good.

  Someone knocked and he recognized the light touch. He really should cover up this mess before opening the door. If she saw his arm in this condition …

  “One moment! I’m coming.” Cautiously, gingerly, he pulled on the baggiest shirt in his clothes press. It set fire to every square inch of torn hide that it touched. He buttoned his way across the parlor and stuffed in his shirttail just before he reached the latch. Satisfied in mind if not in body, he swung open the door.

  What Luke saw as the door opened was the sort of vision that evoked poetry from the romanticists and made wandering Greeks forget their homeland. Her russet hair was drawn up and back in a pile of soft curls. The smooth and tender skin, the limpid gray-green eyes brought the lovely face to perfection.

  “Ah, Meg. Do come in!”

  She stood transfixed, staring not into his eyes but into the gouges on his face. “Oh, Luke … !” and he regretted a thousand times over his brief moment of foolhardiness.

  “It looks much worse than it actually is. Come in.”

  “However did it … ? And your arm. Look at your arm, with the blood coming through your shirt there. It must have happened just now, aye? Eh, Luke, me heart aches to see ye thus.”

  He planted a hand on her elbow and forcibly ushered her across the threshold. “Waste no sympathy on me, beloved. I richly deserve whatever befalls me, for not thinking. Morning tea is ready. Have you broken fast yet?” He closed the door and planned for a moment to kiss her properly. Prudence, not modesty, prevented him. Were he to kiss her she would embrace him, squeezing his poor rib cage, and … A peck on the cheek sufficed; but then, she seemed preoccupied anyway.

  He conducted her to the kitchen, popped open the biscuit tin and dug a plate out of the cupboard.

  “Breakfast? I be nae hungry, thank ye. But, uh … meself would be pleased to sit with ye.”

  “Ah! The verandah? I’ll be right there.” He watched her move ever so gracefully across the kitchen and out the door.

  His fingers fumbled, things escaped his grasp, tea slopped from the teapot spout … Why did he turn into a bumbling schoolboy whenever she was near? He gathered things more or less willy-nilly, paused long enough to rehearse the breakfast; was he forgetting anything major? He carried the tray out the door.

  She sat on the edge of her chair and stared unseeing at the nanny goat out in the paddock. She was visibly upset, and he loathed himself for being the author of her unhappiness. Drat his clumsy thoughtlessness!

  He put on a cheerful mien. “So. Did the slave driver give you the day off?”
>
  “Mr. Sloan be out of town on business. Luke, whatever could’ve happened to ye so early in this day?”

  “Yesterday. I was romping around on a coral reef and took a dive. We were trying to catch a shark, you see, and—” He stopped. He had just said about a mouthful too much.

  “Shark!” Her whisper was barely audible.

  “Not a real shark. I mean, not a man-eating sort. This was just a—what did Burriwi’s nephew call it? A wobbegong. Rather a humorous little thing, actually. Funny shape, funny fins. You would have liked it. It wasn’t …” And he quit trying to keep the air light. He sighed. “I’m sorry, Meg, that my accident upsets you. Now please disregard it, as I am disregarding it. It was a moment of carelessness and worth no further mention.”

  Her eyes were brimming over. “Luke, I have to get away from here. I want to get out of here. Anywhere. A town, a city, this country, some other country. Back to Erin. ’Tis the worst mistake I ever in me life made was coming here. Please help me.”

  He abandoned thoughts of breakfast. He swung his chair around and plunked it down hard beside hers, right leg by right leg and pointing the opposite way, that he might talk to her face to face. “What’s wrong, Meg?”

  “Everything! I hate this place. It destroys all the things I care about. Look at ye! This place did that to ye. A shark! And the crocodile. Kathleen was such a happy lass, Luke, the kind of girl the world needs more of. And Sam. Sam was such a good girl until she came here. It destroyed her, too. And the jungle. It closes down all around yer ears and presses ye to death.”

  At the seminary, Luke had received lessons in maintaining detachment while ministering to those who would seek his counsel. The lessons went out the window as he wrapped his arms around her and gathered her in. The vibrant warmth of her against his breast filled him with delight, even in the midst of this gloomy conversation. He let her simply sob and cling to him a few minutes.

  “The nature of the jungle we can do nothing about. It’s close, yes. Someday, Meg, you must see the rest of the land. All open. Wonderful panoramas, uncut distance. You feel hemmed in here; out there you may well feel exposed—the only soul left in the universe. I look forward to showing it to you, Lord willing.”

  “Take me now. Take me anywhere now. Please.”

  “I can’t, yet. I’m not finished here with what I set out to do. Soon, though. Soon. What else did you say? About Samantha?”

  She shuddered. “Ye did nae know her back in Cork. Sensitive and p—pure. A sort of sister ye might fight with and tease, but one ye would look up to. Ye know? And now. She be obsessed, and it’s ruint her, the obsession.”

  “Obsessed with what?”

  “That Sloan. She ranks on poor Linnet: ‘Work harder. Do more. Mr. Sloan expects more of ye.’ Never a kind word for the girl, or for me either. ’Tis always the same complaint. We never do enough to please her. And all for her Mr. Sloan.”

  “She seems to be a person with a strong sense of responsibility. That may well be—”

  “In Cork she would’ve mourned the likes of Kathleen, and here it seems nae to bother her a bit. Kathleen dies horribly one day and the next day Sam’s in the kitchen as if nae more has happened than a stubbed toe or a hangnail. She was the one packed up Kathleen’s belongings, for I could nae bring meself to do it. ‘Must be done,’ she says, and never a tear. And now … and now she’s—” Her voice broke.

  “You said Sloan’s out of town. Samantha is as well?”

  The gorgeous head bobbed against his breast. “May me aged parents never hear the truth.” And she began again to weep.

  A rush of bitter disappointment flooded his thoughts for a moment. Meg’s sister seemed to exude integrity and honor. She was good from the inside out. How could she so quickly let her high standards slide? How could she present such a miserable example to her younger sisters?

  The disappointment subsided, replaced by anger. Sloan. What chance has even the most upright of young women if her master decides to take her? So long as she remained enthralled to that lecher, Samantha had no real options, moral or economic or otherwise. But neither did Meg, and the sudden thought chilled him.

  “Tell me the truth, Meg. Has Sloan ever made improper advances toward you?”

  The head shook, no.

  “Or Linnet that you know of?”

  “She lives in a little world of her own, but methinks she’d mention such. I dinnae believe so. Why should he? He’s got his pleasure now.” The beautiful head lifted away, that the beautiful eyes might meet his. “Ye said ye care for me, Luke.”

  “I do!”

  “Then take me away. Let us go a-marrying and start again some other place. Please, Luke?”

  “I can’t. Not yet. When—”

  “Ye’re the most important thing in the world to me, and the only person meself trusts. Am I nae just as important to you?”

  “Yes! But it’s not that simple.”

  Her voice hardened. “Then perhaps ye might explain.”

  “I’m committed to the work of Jesus Christ, Meg. He is my master, far more than Sloan is Samantha’s master—or thinks he is. I’ve been given a task, an important task, and until it’s done I can’t just up and leave.”

  “This parish, or whatever your church calls it, can find another man. Ye can preach wherever; it need nae be here.”

  “That’s not the only task I have. And the other’s far from finished. I’m sorry, Meg. I understand your burning desire to get away. To escape. But right now I can’t—”

  “Luke, I will nae stay. Do ye ken? ’Tis all I can think about, getting away. Will ye take me?”

  “Yes. As soon as my work here is completed. It won’t—”

  “Now. I’m leaving now.”

  The thought of her going away—the mere thought of it—robbed his mind of its ability to think straight. He grabbed her arms and held her tight. “If you walk out now you’ll be abandoning me. Is that what you want? I’m the one who must stay. If you care about me as you say you do, you won’t leave me destitute. I need you. I desire you. And I want to get out of here as much as you do, believe me. But I have no choice. You’re the only one of us with a choice, so whether we part or remain together is up to you. I love you, Meg.”

  She stared at him the longest moment, those huge eyes pouring tears. “Ye’re no better’n Sean Morley or any of the others. Ye care nae to understand.” She wrenched free suddenly and leaped to her feet. She bounded off the verandah and strode away across the goat paddock.

  He really ought to catch up to her. He really ought to try to press some sense into her. No. There’d be no sensible persuasion so long as she was this distraught. Let her cool off.

  Was she right? His task was next to hopeless; he knew that before he ever came here. He’d given it a hard try and so far nothing good had come of his efforts. Was it time to give up? Was God telling him through Margaret Connolly that it was time to move on? Or was she a stumbling block set up by the Evil One to deter him from his goal? He lacked the gift of spiritual discernment that enabled the Apostle Paul to say, “Satan did this” and “God did that,” and never did he feel the lack more than now.

  She disappeared into the back door of the church at the far side of the goat paddock. Instantly the sunshine lost its gleam. Never had a young lady affected him as this one did.

  He unbuttoned his shirt and slipped his right arm out of it. He tried carefully to peel it away from the other side, but the warm breeze of morning had already done its work. The shirt had dried fast to the seeping wounds.

  Samantha. Sloan. Sharks and coral reefs. Crocodiles. He could well see how Meg might feel somewhat disoriented, having left an orderly little European city not in the least like this splendid savage land. He sat down at his lonely table and stared at the biscuits.

  No! Faint heart ne’er won fair maid. He could not leave without completing what he had begun, but perhaps with God’s help he could speed things up somewhat. He pulled the shirt back on his right arm,
buttoned it on his way across the parlor and stuffed in his shirttail as he bounded out the front door.

  He stopped by the wharf long enough to borrow Jason Wiggins’ roan gelding, sent a telegram to Brisbane, and rode up the shore to Burriwi’s village. He should be enjoying this superb day with its fine weather and cooling breeze. But Meg’s possible defection clouded his thoughts and his appreciation. Surely she wouldn’t—would she?

  Village was perhaps too structured a word for the aboriginal settlement by the sea. The most makeshift of crude rain shelters leaned against trees and bushes, tilted at crazy angles above props of boards and stumps, huddled shoulder to shoulder along the shore. Dogs lolled about or stood to growl as children played in the smoldering ruins of this morning’s fires. Aged and ramshackle as the settlement might appear, it was brand new, for the previous one had been swept away by the typhoon.

  People of all sizes and shapes lounged about, none of them under a shelter. Every pair of eyes watched Luke approach. Adults masked their interest behind a glazed look of indifference. The small children, without pretense, froze in place to gawk. Their satiny black skin and blond-streaked hair never ceased to amaze him. Three brindled dogs bounded forth to worry his horse, but an old woman whistled them back.

  Luke dismounted near two young men he knew. He smiled and hunkered down beside Burriwi’s nephew. “Your uncle around?”

  The nephew paused in his whittling. He waved his work of art, a tortured yellow stick two feet long. “Up in the hills, him and Dibbie. Gonna tell Dibbie about the cassowary people. Dib’s father was a cassowary.”

  “The clan totem, I assume you mean.”

  “Huh?”

  Luke shrugged. “An idle sociological guess. Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  “Naw. Prob’ly he don’ know, either. Wurraoona’s with him, so they’ll do some hunting and some loafing and tell Dib the stories and maybe stop by Sugarlea, see if there’s some work.”

  “Pick up some extra money?”