Amy's Touch (6 page)

‘I’m concerned that he might have nicked the brachial artery, Amy. I’ve got to stop the bleeding before I can stitch it and then close the wound.’

Joe stared at Amy and for a second or two appeared to forget his predicament and the pain. ‘Who are you, pretty lady?’

Danny stepped forward into Joe’s view. ‘Hello, Joe, she’s a nurse, and a darned good one. Stop your whining and let the doctor and the nurse fix you up.’

‘Danny!’ Pleased to see someone he recognised, Joe’s mouth broke into a toothy grin. ‘Hell, mate, it hurts like the dickens.’

‘The bleeding’s stopping,’ David noted. He gave Amy a nod. ‘Get the needle and the catgut.’

‘You’re gonna stitch me up, Doc?’ There was a quaver in Joe’s voice. ‘Will it hurt?’

David looked at the patient. ‘It will, Mr Walpole, but it has to be done, and quickly. I don’t want you losing any more blood.’

‘Aaww, I don’t like pain, Doc. You got some brandy I could have to—you know—make it easier.’ Joe stared hopefully at the doctor.

Danny, who’d been watching the proceedings with interest, shook his head in disgust. His friend was running true to form.

‘No brandy here.’ Amy vetoed the plea, but then, studying Joe’s apprehensive expression, she made a suggestion. ‘Doctor, what about chloroform? Just a few drops to…calm Mr Walpole.’

Amy’s father’s frown told her he had second thoughts about wasting precious chloroform on a stitch-up job. However, they both knew from experience that once the suturing began, this patient would yell the place down.

‘It could be worth it,’ Amy persisted.

Understanding her meaning, David Carmichael pushed his spectacles back up onto the bridge of his nose and gave an approving nod. ‘You’ll administer it?’

She smiled confidently. ‘Of course.’

Danny, fascinated by the small drama unfolding, continued to watch as Amy and her father went to work on Joe. Seeing the blood and the deep six-inch gash might have made some men queasy, but not Danny. He felt just fine. A few drops of chloroform dripped over a gauze cloth quickly rendered Joe unconscious, long enough for them to do what they had to—swab the wound with an antiseptic liquid and stitch it up in double-quick time before applying a secure bandage.

Most of the time Danny’s gaze stayed trained on Amy, watching how she assisted her father. She seemed to know what the doctor needed before he asked for it, and Danny was impressed all over again by her professionalism. Amy Carmichael was some woman, and one day he was going to ask her to marry him.

The startling progression of his thoughts made him blink a couple of times as his intention began to sink in. He could kid himself and try to deny it, but on seeing her today, deep inside he knew what was happening. Admiration, a liking, was turning to something else, something deeper. He was falling in love with Amy, and all he had to do was get her to reciprocate. Of course! Why hadn’t he acknowledged the truth of it before? Since Britain he’d been secretly pining for her. And all those dreams, those fantasies about her, and the letters he so enjoyed writing and receiving. Yes, it made sense now. Instinct told him that wooing Amy would be a challenge and that he might not succeed, but, damn it, he intended to give it his best shot.

In the next instant he wondered what his brother would think of his plan to court Amy. Not much, probably. Danny had noticed that Randall had his fair share of female interest in the district, being a war hero and all, and so good-looking. Not that Randall seemed overly interested in women: he was hellbent on setting Drovers Way to rights, getting the accounts back into the black, and all his waking moments appeared to be focused on that. Danny suspected that his brother wouldn’t be keen on him courting Amy, or any woman for that matter, but—a muscle flicked in his jaw—that was too bad, because he was going to.

Amy glanced towards Danny, only just remembering that he was in the surgery. ‘Your friend should wake in a few minutes, but he will
be groggy for a while. You’ll have to get him home, or we’ll arrange for someone from Ingleside to come and get him. He shouldn’t drive for several hours.’

‘I’d be happy to take him,’ Danny responded.

As if on cue, Joe began to moan and opened his eyes. He winced as he saw his bandaged arm but then tried to sit up. ‘I feel—strange.’

Danny moved to help him get upright. ‘Easy does it, mate. The sister said you’d be a little fuzzy in the head for an hour or so.’ He helped Joe to stand and draped the bloodied work shirt around his bony shoulders. ‘Come on, Joe, thank the doctor and the sister, then we’ll get out of here.’

Dr Carmichael acknowledged Joe’s thanks, though they were given a trifle grudgingly, then reminded him, ‘Your wound is going to be tender for several days, so take things easy.’ He emphasised his next few words. ‘Only very light chores.’

‘My father will love that,’ Joe quipped sarcastically.

‘I should see you in a week’s time to take the stitches out,’ the doctor told him, ignoring the remark about Joe’s father.

‘Yeah, sure.’

After saying goodbye, Danny ushered Joe from the surgery and down the front steps towards his friend’s automobile. He opened the passenger-side door for Joe. ‘Get in. I’m driving you home.’

‘Like hell. You’re not driving my automobile, Danny McLean.’

‘Don’t be a dill. You can’t drive in your condition.’ For several seconds Danny thought Joe would refuse—he could be a stubborn bastard when he chose to—but after a belligerent stare and a resigned shrug of his shoulders, which made him wince, he got into the passenger’s side of the vehicle.

‘You can drive, can’t you?’ Joe asked worriedly.

‘Of course I can. I drove supply trucks in the war.’ This was only a small exaggeration. He had been in the passenger seat assisting the driver in delivering supplies to the front. But, he reckoned, after watching Private Timms drive, the skill couldn’t be hard to pick up. Now was his chance to get some actual practice.

Danny started the engine, crunched the gears before finding first gear, and, as he pressed down on the accelerator, the Rolls leapfrogged forward with several jerks until Danny picked up speed.

R
andall ran the pencil up the row of figures, adding as he went. After more than two years of scrimping and saving, watching every penny spent and every penny earned, the total was again in the black—but only just, and only because the sales of lambs and last year’s wool price had both improved dramatically. It had been a difficult time for him and Danny. He chewed a corner of his lip as he thought…what was the old saying? Living off the smell of an oily rag. Well, they’d done that. Both had worked their backsides off to make repairs to and around the homestead, and to begin to restock the pastures with a modest number of good breeding Hereford cattle and more merino sheep.

His eyes lifted from the accounts book and, gaze narrowing, he stared around the spartanly furnished study-cum-office. His parents’ books were gone, sold to a second-hand bookstore in Hawker, as were the bookshelves. The only pieces of furniture kept were the oak desk and the bulky wooden chair, which squeaked whenever he moved. The wallpaper was still there too, put up—he couldn’t quite remember when—while his mother was still alive, as well as the heavy velvet curtains. They had faded and looked tatty, but they would have to do for a while longer.

Distracted from his figures, he stared at the only frame on the wall, hanging opposite the desk. It was a copy of the original title deed issued to his grandfather, Howard McLean, for Drovers Way, and detailed the boundaries and Boolcunda Creek flowing through the middle of the land, which was why, according to family stories, his grandfather had bought those particular acres. He kept the copy of
the deed because instinctively he knew that just looking at it, something he often did when he sat at his father’s desk, would renew his determination to bring Drovers back to its former glory.

He grunted softly. Bill Walpole, Ingleside’s owner, still hoped that he and Danny would fail. The man was obscenely eager to buy Drovers Way and had called at the homestead three times during the past months, each time with his daughter Beth in tow, to make an official offer. Like his son Joe, there was something about the older Walpole that made Randall’s jaw tighten with irritation. Perhaps it was the man’s smugness or his assumption that all he had to do was wait. Bill would be waiting a very long time, Randall vowed, as, satisfied, he closed the accounts book.

Danny, dressed in a suit, collared shirt and tie, came and stood in the doorway.

Randall looked up. ‘Where might you be going in your best clobber? Now, let me guess…’

‘You know very well. I’m escorting Amy to church, then having Sunday lunch with her and her father at their home. As I’ve been doing on and off for the last year.’

‘Aahh, yes. Your Sister Carmichael.’ Randall gave a wry smile. ‘I’ve heard you’re not the only one wanting to pay her attention.’ He watched Danny’s mouth tighten. ‘Frank, the blacksmith’s son, for one, and that new schoolteacher, what’s his name?’ He paused, as if he found it hard to remember. ‘Steven Radford.’

‘I didn’t expect you to be so interested in my affairs,’ Danny said, tight-lipped, as he shifted his weight from one foot to another.

‘When they might concern the welfare of Drovers Way, I am interested.’

‘What’s my seeing Amy got to do with Drovers?’

Randall shrugged. ‘If the courting progresses and you decide to ask her to marry you, it could make a huge difference. I’d rather hoped that if one of us were of a mind to marry, it would be to a woman experienced in country life. One who would fit in and be an asset to Drovers.’

‘Amy would be an asset wherever she lived,’ Danny said staunchly, his expression betraying annoyance at his brother’s expectations. ‘If you’re keen to have someone come in and do the housekeeping and cook meals, why don’t
you
get married? Rumour has it that several local ladies would jump at the chance to be Mrs Randall McLean.’

‘I don’t have the time or, at the moment, the inclination to court anyone,’ Randall replied. Why did his brother’s suggestion suddenly make him feel uncomfortable, tense? He had needs, like any red-blooded man, but he had sublimated physical desire to concentrate on re-energising Drovers Way. Somehow, though, he didn’t think Danny, who was clearly in love with the nurse, would understand what drove him, and there were times when he didn’t understand it himself.

‘Could it be that you’re simply afraid to let your feelings take precedence over that hard head of yours?’ Danny, with brotherly intuition, asked.

‘That’s rubbish.’ Randall’s reply was sharp. ‘I’ll marry when the time’s right and not a moment before.’

Danny grinned, pleased that his remark had got under his brother’s skin. ‘Well, I’ll be off then.’

‘Yes, enjoy yourself. But come back by four p.m. so we can start mustering the herd into the south pasture where there’s better feed.’

Danny grimaced. ‘Can’t it wait till tomorrow?’

Randall shook his head. ‘Tomorrow we need to look at the possibilities of digging a trench and running a pipe to get a little more water from the Boolcunda to irrigate the wheat we’ve planted.’

‘Oh. All right.’ Danny’s agreement was without grace. ‘I’ll be back at four.’

Randall smiled as he watched Danny walk away. He had always been able to convince his younger brother that his way was the right way, but it had been a damned sight easier when Amy Carmichael wasn’t around.

For a moment or two he allowed his thoughts to dwell on the future and the probability of Danny and Amy marrying and her coming to live at Drovers. On the one hand it would be good to have a woman’s touch about the house—he’d missed that after his mother’s death—but on the other hand something indefinable, something he didn’t want to name, brought a sour taste to his mouth when he thought about Danny and Amy as man and wife.

Not liking where his thoughts were going, or the feeling trying to take root inside him, he stood up, making the old chair squeak in protest. What was the matter with him? He’d only seen the woman about half a dozen times, so how could he possibly harbour more than just casual interest towards her? Why? Because she…she…interested him in a way no other woman had managed to do.

He slammed his fist into his other hand. Stop right there. Loyalty to Danny forced the errant thoughts from his consciousness. He had no time for women right now, and that was that. There was too much to do and too few hands with which to do it.

He gave a relieved sigh at how easy it was to put thoughts of Amy aside and to think instead about checking the fences along Ingleside’s boundary. That would take all morning…

Danny swung his body into the saddle with the ease of someone who’d been doing it almost since he could walk, and followed Randall out of the stabling yard, through the main gate and towards the southern end of the property. Alongside Randall’s horse ran Tinga, the blue cattle dog his brother had bought as a pup and trained to help with musters. Tinga was good at what he did; it was almost like having another station hand when it came to herding the sheep or cattle in a certain direction.

The herd of about two hundred and fifty cattle, including yearlings and heifers, wasn’t too strung out, so with luck they should get them to suitable pasture before the sun went down, though it meant having to herd them across the creek to the other side of the property.

Danny heard Randall give a shrill whistle and turned to see his hand command. Tinga barked just once then streaked around to the tail of the mob, nipping the cattle’s heels to get them going the right way. There hadn’t been much rain over the last two months but there was still enough water in the sluggishly flowing creek. The level had dropped just enough to expose the roots of several gum trees along the banks.

This was where Danny, Edward and Randall had swum as kids. Danny pulled his mouth in tight. Those days seemed a long time ago now. The war had helped to create a different, more competitive, faster-moving world—with more automobiles on the roads and aeroplanes in the sky—and he’d read recently that some Queenslander had started a commercial airline company and called it a strange name: Qantas. He shook his head in mild amazement at the rapid modernisation of life. There were times when he wished things could be as they had been before war had broken out. But then he smiled. If it hadn’t been for the war he wouldn’t have met Amy, and wouldn’t have seen much of the world, war-torn though it had been. But Amy…

He let his thoughts drift to the earlier events of today. He had called for Amy at Primrose Cottage and taken her and her father, in
the doctor’s sulky, to the Sunday service at St John’s Methodist church. It had been a good feeling to walk down the church’s aisle with her on his arm, so that the congregation saw them together. Frank Smith, the blacksmith’s son, had scowled at him, but the new teacher, Radford, hadn’t been there—he wasn’t a churchgoer. When Danny thought about it, he believed Amy wasn’t keen on church either; probably she went to please her father.

Danny and the doctor got along well. Dr Carmichael was a quiet, learned man, and when they shared a cigar and a port in the cottage’s parlour after lunch, the conversation invariably centred on the doctor as he became melancholy and began reminiscing about the son he’d lost to the war. Danny knew about Anthony from Amy; her brother had lasted three days on the beach at Gallipoli and then been cut down by a sniper’s bullet to the heart.

Meg Barnaby was an excellent cook and always served a delicious lunch. Good tucker, well cooked, was something Danny missed at Drovers. More often than not he and Randall ate whatever was quick and easy, because neither of them had too much time to cook, or skill with cooking. Sometimes, when provisions were low, they lived on jam fritters, stale bread and dripping for several days, till one of them went into Quinton’s to restock.

‘Hey, Danny,’ Randall yelled from behind the herd, ‘lead them through the water. That black and white is the lead steer; they’ll follow him.’

His daydreaming interrupted, Danny pulled on the reins to get his horse to change direction. Engrossed in getting into a better position, he didn’t see two of the steers, their eyes wild with fear of the water and the stampeding action of other cattle milling around them, until it was too late. One steer, the largest, slammed sideways into Danny’s mount, knocking the horse off balance. The horse floundered to regain his footing, and in doing so bucked Danny off and into the creek.

Danny landed heavily in the water and went under, still holding the horse’s reins. His weight and the pull of the water pushed him to the creek’s bottom, where his head hit something solid, which stunned him. His grip on the reins relaxed and the horse pulled free, leaving Danny beneath the water’s surface with half a dozen steers paddling across the water, around and over him…