Dark Torment (19 page)

“G’ morning, Miss Sarah,” Mrs. Abbott said
comfortably, emptying her burden on a cleared space at the far end of the table
and sorting through the tumbled vegetables with her hands. “Last
night’s carryings-on must have tired you out. I’ve never known you
to sleep so late.”

Sarah tensed, giving the older woman a wide-eyed look, afraid of
the meaning that might be hidden in the seemingly innocuous words. But Mrs.
Abbott was examining her vegetables with a frown, serenely unconscious of
having caused Sarah any distress.

“I was tired,” Sarah acknowledged, hoping that her
voice did not sound as thin to Mrs. Abbott as it did to her own ears.
“Where—where is everyone?”

Is Gallagher around? she was screaming inside. But of course he
wouldn’t be. Percival had sent him to tend the horses—something
that he showed marked aptitude for—while Lowella had guests. He would
have no business up at the house—unless Mrs. Abbott meant to slip him in
for a bite of breakfast. But of course it was long past time for breakfast.

“Well,” Mrs. Abbott said, tapping her forefinger
against her front tooth thoughtfully, her attention still focused on the
vegetables, “Mr. Percival came by a couple of hours ago to get your pa.
Seems that somebody set a fire in one of the fields; the men working there got
it out all right, but Mr. Percival thought your pa should have a look at it
anyways. Mrs. Markham is still abed, so far as I know. Leastways, I
’aven’t seen her. Miss Liza is, too, and so are the other ladies,
except for Mrs. Grainger and Mrs. Eaton, who are sittin’ on the front
porch; I’m to take them some tea presently. The Taylors and the Crowells
’ave already started for ’ome; asked me to make their good-byes for
them; said you’d all understand, since they ’ave a long way to
go.” She looked up then, smiling broadly. “Did I leave anybody
out?”

Sarah shook her head, smiling too. “I don’t think
so.” Where’s Gallagher? she wanted to demand, but she
couldn’t. The last thing she wanted was to create curiosity where none
existed.

“What are you wantin’ for breakfast?” Mrs.
Abbott inquired, pulling a chair up to the table and sitting down, paring knife
in hand, to start on the vegetables. “There’s porridge left, and
some cold mutton—I could fry it up for you. Or there’s some fig
jelly left, and fresh bread.”

Sarah shook her head. “I’ve already eaten a piece of
Liza’s cake. I don’t want anything else.”

Mrs. Abbott frowned. “Miss Sarah . . .”

“I know, I know, I’m too thin, I should eat. But
I’m not hungry. I think I’ll go for a ride.” And with that
she escaped out the door into the garden. Just at the moment, she didn’t
think she could tolerate Mrs. Abbott’s well-meant criticism of her
appearance.

Going for a ride had been the furthest thing from her mind when
she said it; it had merely been an excuse to leave the kitchen before the thin
shell of her composure cracked and she snapped at Mrs. Abbott, or the maids, or
anyone else who ventured near, as a means of releasing the tension that still
had her stomach tied up in knots. But, thinking about how wonderful it would
feel to get away from the homestead for a while, to put aside her troubles in
the sheer joy of having a horse beneath her and the endless miles of bush
spread out before her, she suddenly longed to ride. Before the drought, she had
been used to riding every day. The heat had made her think of Malahky’s
well-being before her own enjoyment, and she had stopped riding so frequently.
But the urge was back, and she would answer it—except for one difficulty.
Gallagher would be in the stable. She winced at the thought of coming face to
face with him so soon. Later, when she had had time to put what had happened
out of her mind . . . But would waiting really make any difference? Sarah asked
herself. The truth was that she never wanted to see Gallagher again. And
equally true was the fact that she would not be able to avoid it. How she
dreaded the encounter! She knew the dread wasn’t likely to go away. It
would haunt her constantly, limiting her movements for fear that she would run
into Gallagher. She couldn’t live like that, constantly on edge. Sarah
knew it, and, reluctantly, came to the conclusion that there was only one thing
to do about it. She would have to face Gallagher as soon as possible and get it
behind her. The longer she put it off, the harder it would get, until she
became a prisoner of her own embarrassment.

Now was always the best time for doing something distasteful. Her
father had said that many times. Sarah grimaced, the words replaying in her
brain, as she stopped momentarily at the edge of the kitchen garden and stared
at the whitewashed walls of the stable as David might once have stared at
Goliath. She had to battle a strong impulse to return to the house. But the
ordeal would not get any easier for postponing it. Squaring her shoulders, she
walked deliberately toward the stable. She would lay the groundwork for her
future relationship with Gallagher by behaving as though nothing, absolutely
nothing, had happened between them. She was the mistress of Lowella, he a
convict laborer. It was time to get that clear between them.

It was dark in the stable after the brilliance of the light
outside. Sarah hesitated in the wide doorway, one hand on the edge of the open
door. Try as she would, she could not make out Gallagher’s tall form. . .
.

“Goin’ for a ride, Miss Sarah?” The voice was
not Gallagher’s. Sarah nearly fainted with relief. She had not realized
how flimsy her courage was, or how much effort it had cost her to summon it for
this confrontation, until she found that she no longer needed it. She let out
her breath in a long, shaky sigh. Her knees trembled. Percival must have
decided that Gallagher was now well enough to do the labor he had originally
been meant to do and assigned him to one of the convict work gangs that were
digging for water on the range.

“Yes, Jagger, I am. Would you please saddle Malahky for
me?” Her voice sounded almost gay, she was so giddy with relief.

“Sure thing, Miss Sarah.” Jagger’s dark face
creased in a broad grin as he hurried to do her bidding. He had lived and
worked on Lowella for as long as Sarah could remember. Like most of the other
aborigines, he would occasionally disappear for a few months—“gone
walkabout”—they called it, but he always came back. The aborigines
had trouble staying in one place for too long, but Lowella was his home.

“Uh—what happened to the convict who was taking care
of the horses while you helped with the digging?” She hadn’t meant
to ask that, but the words forced themselves to the surface. She had to know if
she was safe from running into Gallagher for hours, or days, or even weeks, if
Percival had sent him out to join the men digging on the farthest edge of the
property. This part of Australia required approximately one acre to support
each sheep, and Lowella had thirty thousand sheep. If Gallagher was working
near the station’s perimeter, he would be camping out with the others
because it took too much time to ride back and forth each day. She might not
set eyes on him for quite some time. No matter what she had told herself about
the virtues of getting unpleasant tasks out of the way, she could not suppress
the bubbling sense of having been reprieved.

“Oh, he’s . . .” Jagger began.

“Here, Miss Sarah,” Gallagher said with an edge of
mockery.

Sarah felt as if a huge fist had just made contact with her
stomach. Turning slowly in the direction of that distinctive lilt—it had
come from one of the stalls—Sarah found to her dismay that her courage
had quite deserted her. He stood in the stall beside Master, a big roan,
pitchfork in hand and sweat glistening on the bronze planes of his face. His
black hair was wildly mussed; it formed deep waves all over his head. His mouth
was set in a controlled line, and his eyes—she was almost afraid to meet
those blue eyes—were unreadable. Sarah stared at him, unspeaking. She had
not been prepared for this. She felt sick, dizzy. To her horror, she was
completely unable to speak.

“Did you want me for something, Miss Sarah?” Despite
the glint in his eyes, the words were respectful, Sarah supposed for
Jagger’s benefit. The smaller man was in the process of saddling Malahky.
His cocoa-brown eyes, flickering from one to the other of them, were only
casually interested. Sarah knew that she would have to get hold of herself
before his interest became more than casual. The aborigines loved to gossip.

“Not—really.” Sarah forced the words out.
“I just wondered where you were. You can go back to work now,
Gallagher.”

Instead of taking her words as dismissal, Gallagher opened the
stall door and stepped out. His height and breadth were intimidating. Sarah
gritted her teeth and put up her chin. This was far, far worse than she had
expected. All she wanted was to find a hole and crawl into it and quietly die
of mortification. The memory of this man’s hands and mouth on her body
made her want to cringe. But she looked at him steadily, hoping he
couldn’t read her feelings in her eyes.

“Thank you, Jagger.” Malahky was ready, and Jagger had
chosen that moment to lead him forward. Sarah could have kissed his frizzy
hair. Not looking at Gallagher, she put her foot in Jagger’s cupped hands
as he stood half-stooped, waiting to help her mount.

“If you’ll hold there a moment, Miss Sarah, I’ll
saddle Max as quickly as I can.” Gallagher’s tone was still as
respectful as she could have wished. Sarah eyed him as he deliberately set the
pitchfork, tines up, against a wall and moved to the tack room, where he
extracted a saddle and bridle, slinging the bridle over his shoulder and
carrying the heavy saddle negligently with one arm. While his back was to her,
Sarah noticed that the white linen between his shoulder blades was wet with
sweat. She shuddered. The sight was so rawly masculine that it made her stomach
quiver.

“There’s no need for that.” Sarah tried to speak
crisply as he led Max from his stall. Jagger had handed her her reins and was
adjusting her stirrup for her. Inwardly Sarah screamed for him to hurry. She
had to get away from Gallagher, or disgrace herself by being sick. . . .
“I don’t need you to accompany me. You can go back to whatever work
you were doing.”

“Your father asked me to keep an eye on you when
you’re away from the house. It’ll just take a moment for me to be
ready. Miss Sarah.” He didn’t even look at her as he spoke.

“I tell you it’s not necessary. I am quite accustomed
to riding alone. Isn’t that so, Jagger?” He was fiddling with the
stirrup strap, raising it one notch and then another, so slowly that Sarah had
to fight an urge to kick him.

“Yes, miss, it sure is. Miss Sarah is one bruisin’
rider.” This was addressed to Gallagher, who didn’t even bother to
grunt in reply. He had tossed the saddle on Max’s back and was reaching
under the horse’s belly for the girth. As he had promised, it would be no
time at all before he was ready to go.

Sarah panicked. She slipped her foot into the stirrup, not caring
whether it was the right length, and gestured at Jagger to stand back. He did.
Sarah touched her heel to Malahky’s side, and the animal trotted out of
the stable. Behind her she heard Gallagher’s angry shout. Thus spurred,
she put her heel to Malahky’s side again and urged him into a fast canter
despite the heat. She rode straight for the orchard, knowing that once the
trees stood between her and the stable there was no way Gallagher could follow
her. He was not familiar with the countryside and would have no idea which way
she had gone.

By the time an hour had passed, it occurred to Sarah that she had
only delayed the inevitable. Gallagher would still be waiting in the stable
when she returned. It was ridiculous to feel nervous at the idea of confronting
a convict, but she did. Nervous and embarrassed and so on edge that she wanted
to scream from tension.

When two hours had passed, Sarah knew that she could delay no
longer: she had to go back. Malahky was flagging, and it wasn’t in her to
be unkind to a horse. And it would be unkind to keep him out much longer in the
baking heat. Besides, she couldn’t stay out indefinitely. Sooner or later
she would have to return to the stable. And face Gallagher.

Her heart was pounding as, a scant quarter-hour later, she rode
Malahky back through the stable door. It was late afternoon by then, but the
heat had not lessened. She was perspiring, and her hair was straggling down her
neck. It itched, and she scratched at it dispiritedly. She was still scratching
when she felt hard hands grab her around the waist and haul her from the saddle
in an unsettling repeat of the attack on her days earlier. Malahky, alarmed,
skittered into his open stall. Sarah kicked frantically until her feet touched
solid ground.

“Take your hands off me!” Those were the first words
out of her mouth as she slewed around to face Gallagher, who was glaring at her
as angrily as she was at him. His hands had left her waist before the words
were out of her mouth. Sarah bit her lip, looking furtively around for Jagger.
The angry command had revealed an intimacy between the two of them completely
out of keeping with their mistress-servant relationship. But Jagger was nowhere
in sight, as she should have guessed as soon as she felt Gallagher dragging her
from the saddle. He would be careful; he could not be more anxious to advertise
their hateful familiarity than she was.

“You stupid little bitch.” Gallagher bit the words
out, his hands clenched at his sides as he obviously struggled to keep them off
her. Sarah’s eyes widened in angry amazement at his temerity in speaking
so to her.

“Don’t you dare speak to me like that!” Her
voice trembled with anger. It was all she could do not to launch herself at
him, tearing at that handsome face with her nails, savaging him with her teeth.
She wanted to lash out at him so badly that she ached. . . . In the one part of
her mind not wholly given over to fury, Sarah marveled at the strength of the
rage that shook her. Before meeting Gallagher, she had prided herself on her
self-control.