The Cedar Cutter (8 page)

‘They'll get there in their own time. Patience, man.'

‘Give me a crack of the whip, that'll get them moving.' He reached across the bullocky and got a clip around the ears for his trouble. The bullocky rarely used his whip; his charges responded to the tone of his voice.

‘You'll do no such thing. My bullocks, my dray. Settle down.'

Carrick slouched on the seat and gazed up at the sky, drumming his foot. The trip never took this long, least not in his memory. He let out a long sigh and took to counting the bullocks' steps.

It took another godforsaken two hours before they reached the outlying farms. Already the tall eucalypts cast long shadows across the track. There was at least another mile or two to go. His feet just wouldn't keep still. Maybe he'd get out and walk.

‘When we get there pull up outside the General Store.'

‘That's not going to please Elsie. She'll be shouting about bullock crap on the road and her customers' shoes.'

‘It'll only take a moment. Just tell your bullocks to keep their legs crossed. Promise them something fine for their tea.'

Finally the trees cleared, the track widened and the flourmill on the pond came into view. The dray slowed as it passed the cemetery and Carrick swung down well before it came to a halt outside the General Store. He jumped up onto the back and hefted the largest trunk onto his shoulders ready to leap off as soon as the bullocky brought the animals to a standstill.

He hit the ground running. ‘Just leave the other two outside the store. Won't be long.'

With a careless toss the bullocky dumped the two smaller trunks onto the flagged footpath.

‘Gently does it. They're not a length of timber.'

The bullocky wiped his hand across his face and winked. ‘Wouldn't be wanting to upset your lady friend, then?'

‘Get off with you. I'll be catching you later.'

‘Unless you get lucky.' The bullocky let out a belly laugh and clambered back onto the dray, cracked his whip at Carrick and moved off.

‘Bugger off.' Carrick grinned and turned sideways to ease down the alley to the gate, his heart beating a tattoo inside his chest. Ahead of him the door stood open and a pool of light shone right down to the back of the house. The smell of baking scones made his stomach growl and he lowered the trunk to the floor. ‘Anyone home?'

‘I'm in here.'

Through the front window the sight of Roisin with her head half up the chimney and her backside stuck up in the air made him want to laugh aloud. She was as right as rain and all his worries had been for naught. Stepping over the trunk he ducked inside.

‘And a very good afternoon to you, 'tis a lovely sight to greet a man.'

She whipped around, as good as flying to her feet, and then wiped her hand across her face, leaving a sooty streak from the end of her upturned nose to her right ear.

Her cheeks pinked and she tugged at the piece of green material she'd wrapped around her head and her glorious mass of red-gold curls tumbled down below her shoulders. His heart gave a thundering hammer and his mouth dried.

‘I look a fright. I'm trying to get the chimney to draw. It's …'

She held her arms wide, palms up, a picture of dishevelled loveliness. In three swift strides he covered the space between them and she was in his arms. Soft and supple beneath his hands. For a fleeting second she relaxed against him, then her body stiffened and she uttered a sharp cry and jerked away from him. Holy Mother of God, what had possessed him?

‘Mr O'Connor …' She turned her back on him, her shoulders lifting and falling as though she couldn't get enough air into her lungs.

He couldn't either. Couldn't even get his tongue to work, couldn't say a thing. He shook his head to clear the fog. ‘I've got your trunks for you, from Morpeth.' Would that make up for the outrageous liberty he'd taken? Not that he hadn't enjoyed it, hadn't wanted to feel her in his arms. He could still smell the scent of her—baking and beeswax, lavender and linen.

She spun around with the grandest smile, as though the sun had come out from behind a cloud. It warmed his very heart.

‘My trunks.' She clapped her sooty hands together. ‘How did you know they had arrived?'

He tapped the side of his nose and wriggled his eyebrows, trying to make a joke of it all. ‘Just a lucky guess. The big one's on the doorstep and the others are sitting on the footpath outside the store. If you'll be telling me where you want them I'll fetch them in before some bugger does a runner.' He let the breath trickle out between his lips. She'd recovered faster than he had, and the trunks—well, that was his best move. From the look on her face he might have presented her with a fistful of jewels—emeralds they'd be, to match the sparkle in those eyes.

‘The big one in here. In here will do just fine. And the smaller ones in my … I can sort the smaller ones. Can you take them down to the kitchen? How can I thank you?'

‘We'll worry about that when I've got them all inside.' He could think of a thousand ways, though none that a lady like Roisin Ogilvie would relish. ‘A mug of tea and one of those scones wouldn't go amiss.' He settled the trunk in the centre of the room. ‘And where's the lad?'

‘He's out the back collecting things for his treasure box. I'll tell him you're here and go and put the billy on.'

Carrick as good as ran back to the street, whistling with the sheer pleasure of the reception he'd received. Her reaction had whisked away his foolish concerns. She and the boy were as fine as fine. The expression on her face and that smile when she'd seen her trunk had given him more of a kick than dropping the biggest cedar. He'd forgotten such simple pleasures.

‘And what would you be up to, I'd like to know?' Elsie glared at him, hands on hips, guarding the two trunks. ‘These don't belong to you. Sure as eggs is eggs.'

‘No they don't, you're right there. They're Roisin's. I picked them up in Morpeth.'

‘Did you indeed, and what would she be saying about that?'

‘Not sure it's any of your business, Elsie. For the record, she's asked me in for tea and scones, so she can't be too bothered.' Interfering old biddy. What business was it of hers? Just the reason he'd wanted to come and check, make sure Roisin wasn't suffering any nonsense from the meddling old bags around town. He grabbed a leather strap in each hand and swung the two trunks up onto his shoulders. ‘Now, if you'll excuse me I'll be on me way.'

Spluttered mumbles drifted after him as he walked back down the alley. The townsfolk barely tolerated the wild ways of the cedar cutters. Branded them a bunch of lawless fools addicted to bushranging and cattle stealing in their spare time. Chance would be a fine thing. They slaved away from dawn to dusk and only hit the town when they received their pay. Damn Elsie and her squinty-eyed gaze. She was happy to take their money when it suited her, though if anything went wrong the blame was always laid squarely at their feet. Stupid fools, most of them owed their heritage to a trip in a transporter, so why should they put on airs and graces? He kicked the door wide, dumped the trunks down and dusted off his hands. He'd not be letting some dragon shopkeeper spoil the afternoon. And besides, Roisin had promised tea and scones.

Deep in thought, his feet as good as went from under him as his knees were clasped in a firm hug. ‘Carrick, Carrick. I've been waiting for you to come.'

He swept the boy up, closing his eyes and inhaling the smell of little boy and memories. His heart twisted and he clamped his teeth against the shaft of pain. He was so like Liam with his pale hair and freckled face. He even smelled the same. If it hadn't been for what he'd witnessed with his own eyes, he'd almost believe the angels had carried his boy away unharmed and dropped him here in his arms.

Ruan wriggled his way down to the floor and grasped Carrick's hand. ‘Come with me. You've got to see my room. Quickly.'

He let himself be dragged down the hallway. Roisin had worked miracles in the past weeks. A cheerful fire burned in the kitchen grate and a table and chairs were in the middle of the room. She'd somehow managed to find two soft chairs and had placed them on either side of the fireplace and above it a clothes rack hung scenting the air with the smell of clean, fresh washing. ‘This is a far cry from the hovel I was seeing last time.' And a far cry from the hovel he'd subjected poor Brigid and Liam to back home.

She put her hands on her hips, sending his eyes to the swell of muscles beneath her honeyed skin, and then she laughed. The pure joy of the sound made him want to catch her up in his arms and twirl her around and around. ‘I'll have you know, Ruan and I have worked really hard these past weeks. We're pretty happy with our new home. Aren't we?' She ruffled the lad's hair and rearranged her sleeves, her cheeks flushing in embarrassment. ‘I wasn't expecting visitors.' And he wasn't expecting to be as taken with the lovely lass. If his heart kept performing backflips this way he'd never catch a decent breath of air.

‘Shall I bring the other two trunks down here?'

‘That would be wonderful. I'd like them in there.' She pointed to the open door off the kitchen. The bedroom. So that was why she'd paused earlier. She must have come to some decision and was happy about him entering her bedroom. He strolled along the corridor and brought back the two trunks, Ruan leaping and skipping behind him as though he'd really missed him.

‘My bed's up there.' The lad pointed to the ladder running up to the roof in the corner of the bedroom.

‘That'll be a fine place to sleep. Nice and cosy with the chimney, I don't doubt.' He placed the trunks on the floor, snatching a peep at the cosy bed. A picture of Roisin with her hair fanned across the pillows sent his pulse skittering again and a ball of heat slammed into his guts. It had to stop. He pushed the trunks against the wall and the bed from his line of vision.

‘Do you want to come and see?' Ruan sat perched on the ladder in the corner of the room, his grin as wide as his mam's. No doubting who the child belonged to.

‘Later, Ruan. Let Mr O'Connor have his cup of tea.' Roisin held back one of the chairs and invited Carrick to sit. The snug kitchen even had curtains at the window and the contents of shelves beneath the dresser were covered in a matching pair.

‘Can I swing the billy? Please, Mam.'

‘If you're very careful.'

She grimaced and mouthed ‘sorry'. Why should she be sorry? Because his tea was taking too long? He'd happily sit for the rest of the night watching her move around the room. The homeliness of it all made him ache. How long had it been since he'd sat before a fire enjoying a woman's company? Close on ten years. Way too long.

‘Now be careful, Ruan, remember to swing it gently just to settle the tea leaves.'

‘Only townsfolk swing the billy.' The words flew out of his mouth and he clapped his hand across his face.

Ruan peered up at him and frowned. ‘What do you do, then?'

‘Well I'll be needing to go outside and get meself a stick. Just hold everything right there.'

The cold wind hit him as he stepped outside the door. It was so snug and comfortable inside. Better than a dripping canvas tent in the depths of the forest. He bent down to pick up a stick from the kindling just inside the woodshed door. Atop the pile a perfectly formed pale-blue egg sat. Just the gift for a young lad. Cradling it in the palm of his hand, he tucked the stick under his arm.

‘Now take the stick and slap it on the side of the billy, just once, a sharp rap. That's right and then let your mam pour the tea and we'll see which way's best. The townsfolks' way or the cutters' way. And while we're waiting I've got something for you.' He squatted down and opened his palm.

Ruan's squeal of delight was a pleasure in itself. He stretched out his fingers.

‘Be careful now it's very fragile.'

The lad took the egg and held it up to the light. His mouth turned down. ‘It's empty. There's no baby bird inside.'

‘Here give it to me.' Carrick pinned the egg between his forefinger and thumb and held it up to the window. The afternoon sun shone through the almost translucent shell as he turned it over in his fingers. Then he spotted the two tiny holes, one on the top and the other at the bottom. ‘Ah, you tricked me. You've blown the egg.'

‘Blown it? What's that?'

Carrick lent down again, his finger pointing to the tiny pinhole in the top of the egg. ‘See here, there's the hole you made and there'll be another in the bottom.' He turned the egg over and pointed to the other tiny hole. ‘Now, who taught you how to do that?'

Ruan reached out and took the egg. ‘No one. I didn't do it. Look, Mam. It's another treasure from the woodshed.'

‘Sit down and drink your tea while it's hot, Mr O'Connor.' She picked up a scone and spread it with butter and jam before handing it to Ruan. ‘And you sit down, too, young man and no more of your funny stories.'

‘It's not a funny story. It was in the woodshed. Carrick found it this time. Not me. It's another treasure.'

A frown played across her smooth forehead and her eyes darted to the back door then to the window as if she was checking to make sure everything was closed. ‘A scone, Mr O'Connor?'

‘Thank you.' He bit into the scone and chewed. What was bothering her? One minute laughing and happy, the next cold and uncomfortable. She looked like a startled roo. ‘What else have you found, Ruan?'

‘He's forever finding bits and pieces. His treasures, he calls them.' Her voice held a tremor and her gaze flicked to the window again.

‘I've got feathers and a skeleton, well not really a skeleton, just a skull. It's polished, and a snakeskin. A real, live snakeskin, but dead. A butterfly. And more feathers. The three black ones I found on my bed and a blue and brown one and now this.' He picked up the egg and held it up to the light again. ‘Can I go and put it in my treasure box?'