Heart of the Dreaming (9 page)

Queenie flashed in seconds behind the winner with TR at her tail. The crowd went wild.

Dingo was helped down and he pushed his way through the happy throng to Queenie who was dismounting from Nareedah.

Dingo went to her. ‘You took your time getting here, girl. If you'd ridden like that all the way you would have got in way ahead of me.'

Queenie smiled at him. ‘I don't think so, Dingo. You won fair and square.'

Dingo leaned forward and brushed his lips against her cheek, speaking for her alone to hear. ‘You're a winner, Queenie Hanlon. I owe you one. When you want a favour, call me.'

Dingo was swept along in a flood of wellwishers and Queenie turned to find TR grinning at her. He held out his hand to her and winked. ‘I can see I'm going to have to watch myself when you're around, Miss Hanlon. Congratulations.'

Queenie laughed, her eyes dancing. ‘Why thank you, Mr Hamilton. Now the score is even.'

Patrick pushed through the crowd and hugged his daughter, his heart gladdening to see the joy and laughter in her face. His only regret was Rose was not here. And Colin hadn't even bothered to turn up to see the Tingulla team take second and third place.

The celebration of the end of the Endurance Ride continued late into the night. Sipping drinks around the campfire, Dingo and Patrick were joined by TR.

‘Dingo, do you know TR? He's started working for me at Tingulla. TR, you know who this is of course,' said Patrick.

TR shook hands warmly. ‘It's an honour, Dingo.'

‘TR, eh? I've heard about you. Pretty good with wild horses, aren't you?'

‘Well … I've made a fair living dealing with horses one way and another.'

‘You wouldn't be interested in making some fast, big money in America, would you? Sorry Pat … don't want to steal your boy, but he might be just the kid I've been looking for.'

Patrick shrugged. ‘Can't blame a man for trying, and I can't blame another for taking a better offer. We have no written contract.'

‘We have a handshake, Patrick — and that's a contract in my book. But what are you talking about, Dingo?' asked TR curiously.

‘I visit the States a bit and a mate of mine runs the biggest rodeo circuit in North America. They're always looking for new blood and he asked me if I could find him a hotshot “Aussie cowboy” to ride a few wild ones round the circuit for him. It's good money — provided you don't get busted up.'

TR laughed. ‘I can't see myself in one of those fancy satin shirts with fringes all over it and a ten gallon hat!'

Dingo slapped him on the back and winked at Patrick. ‘Well, if old Pat here gives you a hard time you can tell him you've got an offer in America any time you want it, TR!'

Queenie had settled Nareedah for the night and planned to head back to Tingulla at first light. She was stiff and weary and began looking for Patrick's truck, planning to wrap herself in a blanket in the back and get some sleep.

Suddenly she spotted Colin sitting on the ground by one of the Tingulla Land Rovers.
He was leaning against a wheel, holding his flask of rum and looking morose.

‘Hey, Colin, where've you been? Dad and I were looking for you. Did you see the finish?'

‘Maybe I did. Maybe I didn't. If I hear one more person tell me how fantastic my sister is, I'll vomit.'

Queenie sighed and sat down beside him. ‘Colin, what's up? Why do you have to turn everything into a deadly competition between us? I thought you'd be pleased for me.'

‘Why should you care how I feel? You've got Dad patting you on the back every minute of the day telling you how bloody wonderful you are.'

‘Colin, don't be like this. Dad is just as fond of you. But you make it so difficult for him to get close to you. You push everyone away all the time. I know you miss Mum — I do too — so we've got to stick together and help each other.'

‘You and Dad can't help me. I'm stuck down in Sydney at boring uni while you stay at Tingulla running everything with Dad. Why do you want to try and run the place, Queenie? What am I supposed to do?'

‘Colin, when you graduate we'll run Tingulla together — as a family. Like a board of directors. I always want to be involved in Tingulla. I love it. It's my home.'

Colin struggled to his feet. ‘Yeah, well one day one of us is going to have to leave … and it won't be me.'

Queenie watched him go, staggering slightly from the rum. She knew his words
were spoken out of maudlin self-pity, but his resentment worried her.

The spectre of her future loomed ahead. The thought of ever leaving Tingulla was anathema to her. Yet … what if she did fall in love with someone who wanted to live elsewhere? She didn't want to even begin contemplating such an idea.

Queenie yawned and pushed the thought to the back of her mind. She couldn't think straight when she was tired. She wrapped a blanket around her like an Indian, and headed for the truck.

The weeks spun slowly into months, and although a new routine ensured the smooth running of Tingulla, the days seemed empty.

Walking through the deserted rooms of the house, Queenie would sometimes pause, listening for the soft humming of her mother as she went about her tasks, hearing her light footstep on the stair or her sweet voice teasing Patrick. The house always seemed cold, and the warmth and laughter of Rose hung in the air like a fading echo.

Millie kept the house spotless, and wholesome meals appeared with quiet efficiency. She even dotted small bunches of flowers in the house as Rose had done.

Looking at the neat posy in the centre of the dining room table, Queenie remembered her mother's deliriously vivid arrangements scattered about the house — pottery jugs filled with fresh gum tips and wattle blossoms;
trailing lengths of jasmine entwined around the bannisters; stems of bush orchids, and massive bird-of-paradise lilies springing from a large bowl.

Colin had returned to university and never wrote. Queenie and Patrick worked together with the station hands, moving sheep to better grazing paddocks as the drought continued. In areas where feed was scarce, they chopped the lower branches from trees for the sheep to eat. They were forced to sell some stock to reduce numbers, but the market was depressed — other graziers were selling too.

At night Queenie and Patrick went through the paperwork, planning for the coming shearing season and balancing the books. TR had proved to be a great asset and Patrick began to rely on his opinions, involving him more and more in helping to keep the property running smoothly.

Occasionally TR would join Patrick for a beer at the end of the day and they would talk about the prospects of breeding a strong line of stockhorses. TR talked of crossing the thoroughbreds with some good bush stock. But although he listened with interest, Patrick was reluctant to commit himself to the venture.

Queenie never joined her father and his capable new right-hand man. As Millie prepared the evening meal she would sit in the kitchen talking to her about supplies and the care of the men on the station, or simply making small talk. TR didn't join them for dinner,
but ate with the station hands and returned to the shearing quarters where he shared a room with one of the jackaroos.

As they worked together, Queenie watched her father, noticing how his attention would wander and how he would stop and stare into the distance; or would become distracted and let little details slip past him — something he would never have done before Rose died.

Queenie was worried, and she and Millie talked at length on how to shake him from his lethargy.

‘Maybe a trip to Sydney to see Colin?' suggested Millie.

‘Yes, it's been a long time since we've been to the big smoke, I could ask him,' said Queenie.

Patrick said he'd think about the idea and didn't mention it again.

Queenie kept up her early morning ride, taking Nareedah for a gallop through the sparkling air before returning to eat breakfast with Patrick.

One morning as she washed Nareedah down, she heard wood being chopped and, peering around the stable, she saw TR swinging the axe into a log, making wood chips fly.

‘Working up an appetite for breakfast?' asked Queenie.

TR straightened up. ‘No, Jim is having a tinker with that old Land Rover I bought myself — so in exchange I said I'd chop the wood for him.'

‘Oh, I see.' Queenie paused. ‘How's the horse in foal coming along?'

TR's face lit up and as he leaned on the axe, the muscles of his suntanned arms strained against his shirt. ‘Terrific. I think she'll deliver any day.'

‘I'll be interested to see that foal,' smiled Queenie.

TR returned her smile. ‘Ill be sure to get you the minute it's born.'

Kevin Hooper, the Flying Doctor, whose practice extended for fifteen hundred miles around the northwest section of Queensland, sat at the controls of his new Cessna, enjoying its smooth manoeuvrability. The plane hummed through the midday heat, a silver speck glinting in the endless blue.

Seven thousand feet beneath him there stretched ripples and waves of red sand dunes. It was a wind-made lunar landscape almost devoid of wildlife, its flatness broken by the occasional hiccup of rocky outcrop, or deceptive dirt track made by geologists carrying out surveys for possible oil exploration sites. From the air these rough roads could be seen running in squares and geometric patterns leading nowhere — a desert maze with no signs and no distinctive landmarks.

Kevin rarely flew over this particular remote stretch of land, tending to hop directly between the sprawling properties. Earlier in the morning he'd been called out to an isolated droving camp where one of the men had been badly trampled by bullocks during a ‘rush' at night. They'd finally got a message through to the Flying Doctor Service on the two-way
radio after one of the Aboriginal stockmen had ridden for two days back to the nearest homestead.

The injured man, suffering badly fractured ribs and a dislocated shoulder, was now lying on the specially fitted stretcher along the length of the cabin behind Kevin.

As he headed towards Cloncurry Hospital, Kevin glanced at the ground where something had caught his eye. He looked again, seeing a flash of sun reflecting off a shiny object. Near a rocky rise he saw a truck, so dusty it was almost invisible, camouflaged by the bull dust and sand around it.

Kevin banked the plane and swung around in a right-hand arc for another look. The truck doors were open but no figures were to be seen. Obviously it had been there some time because its tracks were completely covered by the bull dust. He circled, wondering where the driver had gone, why the truck had been abandoned and, more curiously, what was it doing there in the first place. It certainly wasn't a prospector's rig. The driver had obviously been lost as he was on no recognised road or track.

As Kevin flew lower he whistled softly in surprise — lying beside the open door, almost underneath the truck, was the body of a man.

He called over his shoulder to the sedated drover. ‘Hang on, mate, we're going to make a bit of an unscheduled stop, won't take a tick. Nothing to worry about.'

The drover didn't open his eyes but lifted a limp hand in acknowledgement.

The Cessna slewed slightly as it skidded in a thick layer of dust before bumping to a stop on the crude road. Kevin jumped down from the plane, reeling as the solid wall of heat hit him in the face. Two hundred yards away the truck seemed to shiver in the dancing heat haze.

The four-wheel drive had been there many weeks and there were two badly decomposed bodies — both men. The one lying beside the truck probably died of dehydration, the second body was slumped across the front seat, a rifle beside him.

‘Poor bastard took the quick way out,' thought Kevin as he picked up the dusty rifle. They had obviously been totally lost and unprepared for the harsh environment into which they'd driven.

Kevin shook his head as he saw the inadequate and impractical gear they had carried with them. Picking up the bags that contained their personal possessions, he reached into the glove box for any papers that might give a clue to their identity.

In the eerie silence of the outback where death had come so hideously to these men, Kevin unfolded the registration papers. The Land Rover was registered to Patrick Hanlon, Tingulla, RMB 427, Queensland.

Sergeant Dick Harris returned once more to Tingulla. He drove down the road leading to the massive log entrance where he saw Queenie riding ahead of him, the kelpie sheep dogs trotting beside her.

He tooted and pulled up. Still in the car, he quietly broke the news about the discovery of the truck and the two bodies. They had been escapees from a New South Wales prison — Rose must have disturbed them as they stole food and gear.

Queenie listened as she fiddled with Nareedah's reins, her throat dry, her heart pounding, then she leaned down from the horse to shake the Sergeant's hand. ‘Thanks for coming out to tell us in person, Sergeant Harris.'

She turned the horse and rode away from him.

The Sergeant continued up the tree-lined drive to the main house and waited on the verandah, twirling his broad-brimmed hat in his hands while Millie went to fetch Patrick.

He gave him the details briefly. Patrick listened, not speaking, chewing the edge of his lip, his arms folded tightly against his chest.

‘So it's all wrapped up now, mate. At least we know they didn't get away with it. God has his own method of retribution, I suppose. We can arrange to get your vehicle back, though it'll take time. It's to hell and gone out there.'

Patrick dropped his arms. ‘Don't bother, Dick. Close the book. How about a cold drink or cup of tea?'

Calling to Millie, he turned indoors and the Sergeant sunk into one of the cool and comfortable squatter's chairs, sorry to have reopened the painful wound of Rose's murder.

In the quietness of the night Jim stepped softly into the kitchen where a kerosene lamp burned on the sideboard. Queenie dozed in the bentwood rocker by the Aga stove.

Jim poured the remains of the tea into two cups as Millie, wrapped in an old chenille dressing gown, joined him. Even though the days were hot, the land chilled quickly after sunset; and although Millie and Jim had their own quarters, they all liked the cosy warmth of the kitchen.

‘Look at that girl,' whispered Millie. ‘Tired out, she is. I don't know what we're going to do with her and Mr Patrick. Work and work, it's all the pair of them think about. It's not right, Jim. She's a young girl — she should be having some fun in her life.' Sipping her tea, she added quietly, ‘There's no laughing in this house any more.'

‘Give it time, Millie. They got to work it out in their own way.'

‘I blame her Dad. He's pushing her too hard. Like he's trying to teach her everything all at once. I can't make him out. He's getting older by the day — and thinner. I'm worried, Jim. He doesn't seem to care about anything any more.'

‘Millie, stop worrying about everyone or you'll get run down too, and then where will we be? Come on, I have to get up at daybreak.' Jim yawned and placed his cup on the sink.

Millie bent over Queenie and tapped her shoulder. ‘Queenie, go on up to bed.'

Queenie stretched, settled more comfortably into the chair, and without opening her
eyes murmured. ‘G'night, Millie. I'll go upstairs in a minute'.

Half an hour later she was still sleeping soundly in the rocker when there was a knock at the kitchen door. Queenie didn't stir. TR opened the door and stepped inside. He stood looking down at Queenie — her head tilted to one side, her face shadowed by the curtain of her hair which tumbled over her shoulder. The yellow light from the lamp cast a shine through the coppery gold tints of her glossy locks. TR leaned forward and gently smoothed a silky strand from her face.

She stirred and a smile curled about her mouth as her eyes fluttered open.

Seeing TR standing there she sat up with a start. TR drew back, embarrassed.

‘Sorry, Queenie, didn't mean to startle you. I thought I'd see if you were still awake. The mare is in labour, I thought you might like to be there.'

Queenie relaxed and jumped to her feet. ‘Yes, yes, of course. I'll get my jacket.'

In silence they hurried through the frosty night to the stable. The mare lay breathing heavily, her eyes wide as she concentrated on working the bulk of the foal out of her body.

TR crouched by the horse's tail as Queenie sat by her head stroking her and talking softly.

Twenty minutes later the horse grunted as a muscular spasm began forcing the foal in its placental bag from her body. However, instead of dropping from her body in a swift
easy movement, the foal seemed to be obstructed. The mare whinnied and panted and began struggling to her feet.

TR moved swiftly. ‘Hold her still, Queenie — it's breeched.'