The Horse Thief (2 page)

Unable to countenance leaving the woman alone he headed for the lagoon at a gallop. The ground softened, forcing Jefferson to pick his way along the edge of the lagoon, his feet sinking into the damp grass. The slanting sun threw tangled shadows across their path and Jim shaded his eyes as he scanned the foreshore.

She'd vanished. Only the two red brick chimneys his father had said pinpointed the house marred the pristine landscape. He shrugged his shoulders and turned his horse.

Within minutes an impressive set of double gates came into view. Jim dismounted. His heart beat hard and fast against his rib cage as he ran his fingers over the weathered words engraved on the timber sign.
Helligen Stud
.

He took one last look back at the lagoon, but there was no sign of the woman so he swung the gates open and entered the property, taking his first step towards avenging the past and securing his future.

A long meandering driveway curved up to the house, which dominated the landscape. It perched, master of all it surveyed, atop a small incline. Tangible proof of the power of the Kilhamptons. Pillars of Australian society, leaders of business, and the owners of a fleet of trading vessels that roamed the globe. Timber fences as solid as the family's reputation ran the length of the treed driveway and marked out a series of lush green paddocks. Cattle grazed lazily and horses ambled along the river flats.

Dusk had settled by the time he entered the flagstone courtyard. How long since Kilhampton had bundled them off the property? Close on fifteen years. Not a lot had changed. A new dovecot sat in the middle of the vegetable garden and the massive barn was complete. The temptation to turn tail and run coiled in his gut but that would solve nothing. The top storey of the stables, the hay storage beckoned. That's where he'd throw his swag, the perfect spot to keep an ear open and an eye on all the comings and goings.

He cast a surreptitious glance in the direction of the house and slid from the saddle, easing his cramped muscles. No tangible difference, yet everything seemed smaller, less impressive, and a little colourless. He inhaled the warm, heavy air redolent with the odour of hay and dung. A couple of stable doors swung loose on their hinges. The water barrel beneath the eaves wallowed in a damp puddle. Weeds clustered at the base making the most of the seeping moisture. A few chickens picked and plucked their way around the stable doors. More than anything the silence struck him—the heart had been ripped from the place.

Jim led Jefferson into an empty stall in the stable block. He removed his pack saddle then searched around for something to rub down his horse. A tousled head, cocked to one side, appeared around the half-door. Toffee-coloured eyes twinkled a sheepish welcome.

‘This your job?' Jim inclined his head towards his horse.

‘Yep.' The boy brandished a piece of sackcloth. ‘I'll rub him down and see to his feed. They're expecting you. Been waiting since your letter came. Miss India says you're to be treated proper, with respect.' An impish grin lit his face. ‘Sir.'

Jim ruffled the boy's hair. The kid reminded him of a time and a person long gone. ‘What's your name?'

‘Fred.'

‘Well, Fred, you can drop the sir. Jim will do. And this is Jefferson.
He
should be treated with respect.'

Fred ran a practised hand over the horse. ‘Nice animal.' His fingers reached up to trace the brand on his shoulder. ‘A Munmurra animal.'

‘That's right. Know your horses, do you?'

‘Could say that. Jockey needs to know his horses.'

‘Oh, you're a jockey, are you?' Jim grinned; the boy's cockiness impressed him.

‘Not yet. I will be, one day, if I'm ever allowed to race.'

‘Patience. You're young, you've got all the time in the world.'

Lucky. He hadn't a moment to waste and so much to achieve. In a matter of weeks registration for the Flemington Races opened and by then he intended to be ready.

‘Go and see Peggy in the kitchen and she'll tell you what's what.' Fred clambered onto an upturned bucket and reached for Jefferson's neck.

Jim ruffled the boy's hair again and slung his saddlebags over his shoulder. Pushing aside his discomfort he made for the kitchen. The door stood ajar and he poked his head around the corner half expecting to see his mother standing at the stove. Disgusted by his sentimentality he rapped on the open door. ‘Jim Mawgan. I'm looking for Mr Kilhampton.'

‘Are you?' The woman stood, hands on hips, guarding her range.

Jim dropped his bags to the ground and removed his hat. ‘I'm here about the job advertised in
The Maitland Mercury
.'

Small flurries of flour flew up into the air as she brushed her hands together. Her eyes danced with welcome, and she grasped his hand in her plump fingers. ‘I'm Peggy. Nice to meet you. We've been expecting you.' She took a step back and examined him from head to toe. ‘You'll do.'

Jim gave a quick nod; he'd passed the first test.

‘I'll tell Miss India you're here. Dinner's on in an hour.'

‘Right. Good. I need to check on my horse. The young boy in the stable is sorting him out. And then find somewhere to bunk down.'

‘The stud master's house is across the way. Ready and waiting.'

Jim peered through the window across the courtyard, past the two rows of stables, to his birthplace. He'd played in the dust in front of the old cottage, split his head falling from the verandah roof. He blew out a breath of air and raked his fingers across his scalp, scratching the scar where the sweat and damp hair irritated. That house held too many ghosts. ‘That's too big for me. I can doss down above the stables.'

‘You'll do no such thing. That's the stud master's house and that's the job you're after, isn't it?' Not giving him time to draw breath, Peggy continued, ‘And that's where you'll be staying. You'll eat over here with Fred, Jilly, the boys and me in the kitchen. Miss India will see you tomorrow. She'll be pleased. She's got big plans.'

Not half as big as his own, he'd put money on that. ‘What about Mr Kilhampton? Ought I have a word with him, tell him I've arrived?'

‘Nope. He's not here. Miss India's running the show.'

That wasn't included in the advertisement. Jim shrugged off the memory of the mischievous pampered child who had hared around under everyone's feet. Fifteen years of privilege added into the mix would make for a sight to see. Maybe his task would be easier with Kilhampton out of the way.

She dug a key out of a pocket in her voluminous apron and offered it to him. ‘Off you go then.'

The key nestled warm and familiar in his palm. He stooped and lifted his saddlebags, then stopped. ‘By the way, I saw a woman out by the lagoon. She looked upset and took off before I could help. I wondered if …'

The housekeeper's eyes widened then she shook her head. ‘Nah. Take no notice. She's from over the way. Rides at sunset most days. Dressed in white, was she?'

Jim nodded.

Peggy dusted her hands again, tut-tutting and wrinkling her nose at the mess she'd made of the table. ‘Grub in an hour. Don't be late.'

‘Right. Won't be long.' With his bags slung over his shoulder he followed the path to the cottage door, his footsteps dragging and the bitter taste of the past coating his tongue.

He counted his steps. Not one hundred and fifty-four anymore, less than half that. The date etched above the door loomed large. He lifted a heavy hand and ran his fingers over the worn sandstone. He no longer needed to jump to reach the initials he'd carved beneath the lintel.

The key slipped into the lock with ease and he opened the door and ducked inside. Two overstuffed armchairs, both a touch moth-eaten and faded, greeted him. He blinked away the vision of his father sitting in front of the fire. He'd buried him little more than two months ago.

The cottage was smaller than he remembered, the ceiling lower, the walls closer together. The skeletal coat rack by the door stood empty. He wandered down the hallway and peered into the first bedroom. The patchwork quilt his mother used to bundle him up in covered the simple iron bedstead. Next door the spartan room he'd shared with his brother still housed two narrow single beds. He chucked his saddlebags down and made his way out the back, looking for signs of the diamond python that once lived in the roof trusses. The cottage looked and smelled as though it had stood empty for a long time.

Outside the old pump hunched against the wall. With a practised kick and a jiggle of the lever he coaxed it into action. It grunted and groaned and spat a damp, rusty cloud over the dirt before a thin stream of tea-coloured water trickled out—ground water, brackish and bitter, not the best. They needed rain, same as the rest of the country. In the old days they pumped up from the lagoon in a dry spell. Regardless he stripped down and sluiced his head and body, then dried off before pacing back into the house and donning a clean shirt. Once he'd fastened the buttons he pulled the door closed behind him and heeded the clanging of Peggy's bell.

Three

‘Morning, Peggy.' India wandered into the kitchen and poured a cup of tea from the teapot standing next to the range.

‘Mornin', my sweet. And how are you this fine morning?'

‘Well, but I have a list as long as my arm of things to do. I'll have to chase up Fred. The stables are a mess. I want everything spic and span. I suspect Jim Mawgan will arrive today and I don't want him thinking we don't run a decent show.'

‘You might just have left it a bit late.' Peggy's face broke into a knowing grin and she winked. ‘He arrived last night.'

‘Last night! Why didn't you tell me?'

‘It was getting late and you and Violet were going hell for leather in the dining room. I didn't want to interrupt.'

‘Oh dear.' India sighed. Despite her best attempts to be congenial and agreeable, nothing went according to plan. Last night Violet's behaviour had almost driven her to distraction. Her sister couldn't get it through her pretty head that living alone and unchaperoned in Sydney wasn't feasible. They could hope for a suitable marriage offer but as Violet pointed out, stuck in the Hunter it was an outside chance. Helligen wasn't the back of beyond yet it was a good ride to Morpeth and then six hours on the steamer to Sydney. Newcastle was closer, but the company Violet sought wouldn't dwell in the coal mining port.

Some days the responsibility was all too much and Violet's tantrums only added to her difficulties. ‘I wish you'd told me last night.'

‘Well.' Peggy stuck her hands on her hips, her chin jutting. ‘I thought I was doing the right thing.'

‘I'm sorry.' India curled her arm around Peggy's shoulder. ‘You're right. It's far better if I meet him this morning. The last thing we want is for him to become embroiled in family problems. He's here to manage the horses. I need to be businesslike. And anyway, it's probably better to give the poor man a chance to settle in before I bombard him with my plans.'

Her new-found independence was both a blessing and a curse. There were days when she could do with a hand in running the place and a different viewpoint would be a godsend. Maybe Mr Jim Mawgan would provide that—not that she intended to hand over her hard-won right to make decisions, just as a second opinion.

‘Here.' Peggy pushed the round breadboard across the table. ‘You'd better have something to eat. Can't work on an empty stomach. The loaf's just out of the oven and there's some of that strawberry jam you like.'

India hacked off the crust. More than anything else in the world she wanted Helligen to flourish. Make it the vibrant family home it had once been. Bring it back to the time when any horse carrying the
HK
brand commanded the highest of prices.

When she'd stood at the rail at Flemington with four thousand others and watched Archer thunder down the two-mile track she'd made up her mind. Her heart skipped every time she relived the excitement, the clamour, and the thundering hooves. She would breed Helligen's first champion racehorse and win the coveted prize. To present Papa with the winner's purse would compensate for all their suffering, and prove she was capable. When Archer won for the second year running she'd nearly died of jealousy. The prize belonged to Helligen but for the string of misfortunes over the past years.

That single fact had firmed her resolve and after months of cajoling and pleading Papa had agreed—to give her a year once she turned twenty-one. One year to prove her capabilities. Before long the first Thursday of November would be a day in the history of the Kilhamptons, not just Flemington.

‘People say when Archer won the Melbourne Cup they walked him all the way from New South Wales to Melbourne. And he went on to win by eight lengths. That's stamina, but our bloodlines are just as good.'

‘Are you still harbouring that little fantasy of yours?'

‘I might be. It takes time and hard work for dreams to become reality.'

Before Mama's accident the stables had been full of mares awaiting service and the property supported an energetic and vibrant community. Papa had tried but he'd sunk into such despair he retreated to his shipping business in Sydney. When he decided to drag her and her sister off to a school for young ladies in Sydney, Helligen and their mother had withered and become mere shadows.

In the time they'd been away so much had changed. Mama's health had declined further and Papa, out of his depth and unable to cope, rarely set foot on the property.

‘This is just the beginning.'

To achieve her dreams she needed help, and a stud master would provide it. Jim Mawgan's arrival marked the first step on the long journey to Flemington and the prize she coveted more than any jewel. Today was an auspicious day on more than one count. Employing a stud master marked her first independent act in restoring the Kilhampton family fortunes.