The Horse Thief (22 page)

The fragile bird-like bones belied the strength in her hands, hands that could control Jefferson, and his sire. What a mass of contradictions this woman was, just like her daughter. ‘It's my pleasure, he belongs here. As soon as we entered the property his ears pricked up. I couldn't slow him down. He wanted to come home.' The rightness of his words sank into the churchlike stillness.

She inclined her head in agreement. ‘Perhaps now what I say will not be taken as the foolish ramblings of a hysterical female.'

Anya tutted in the background while Mrs Kilhampton's lips twisted in a sad smile. Did she believe they had treated her that way?

He sat down on the stack of hay and Anya joined him. Mrs Kilhampton hung over the gate stroking Goodfellow's muzzle and crooning to him. The old horse's eyelids closed in delight as her hands ran over his ears. ‘It wasn't your fault, was it, boy. That big black snake spooked us.'

Jim turned to Anya and she covered her lips with her finger to silence him.

‘You saved my life, rearing and stamping on the snake.' She turned from the stall. ‘When I looked back I fell.'

‘You broke your skull,' Anya said. ‘We thought we had lost you.'

‘I woke up and everyone had gone. Oliver, Goodfellow, Thomas. Everything had changed.' Her voice caught. ‘Everything I held dear. My life was over.'

Anya moved like a shadow until she stood next to the distraught woman and could wrap her arm around her shoulder. ‘Not of your making.'

‘I shouldn't have taken Goodfellow without telling Thomas.'

Jim stilled, and Anya looked at him.

‘I tried to explain to Alexander. He didn't understand. He thought I was distressed over Oliver. My baby died and my heart broke. But it wasn't Thomas's fault.' She turned her tortured face to him. ‘Not your father's fault. I took Goodfellow out of my own accord.'

‘Did Mr Kilhampton sign Goodfellow over to my father?' There! He'd asked the question he'd wanted to ask from the moment he'd seen the portrait of Goodfellow.

She shook her head, her long hair flying around her face. ‘I don't think so. I don't remember.' Her hands turned palm up and she shrugged her shoulders. ‘Anya?'

‘Mr Kilhampton told Thomas Cobb to shoot Goodfellow and bury him under the fig trees and get off the property. Your mother left and took you and your brother and your belongings. Your father stayed to finish the job, his last task at Helligen.'

Jim's heart sank. Kilhampton hadn't given his father Goodfellow in lieu of wages. He had taken him. ‘Why were you so certain Goodfellow wasn't buried under the fig trees?'

‘He was a good man, Jim. He loved those horses like he loved you. They were a part of his family. He couldn't have shot Goodfellow any more than you or your brother. The horse was like a son to him.'

His father may have been a good man, but it was beginning to look as though his search for a deed of sale was nothing more than a wild goose chase. If Kilhampton hadn't given his father Goodfellow and he'd spirited him away then the answer was clear. His father had stolen the animal.

I did something I'm not proud of. Right the wrongs of the past before they shatter your dreams.
The full impact of his father's words made his blood turn cold and his heart pound. By stealing Goodfellow his father had ruined any opportunity for him to fulfil his dream. He would never see Jefferson stand at stud or race because he'd never be able to produce his papers. Jefferson was the product of a mating with a stolen animal.

‘Goodnight, Jim. Thank you for bringing Goodfellow home where he belongs.'

He inclined his head as the two women left the barn, the taste of bitterness thick in his mouth. He swallowed. The anger left him as quickly as it had come. There was nothing he could do. In inheriting Goodfellow he had assumed the responsibility to right past wrongs, as his father had said, or live with the consequences. He would have to face Alexander Kilhampton.

Twenty-Three

India slipped from the saddle and took in the vista before her. ‘We've had rain.' She unlatched the gate and swung it open to allow her father to pass. ‘I've been gone less than a week and the paddocks have greened up.'

‘It doesn't take much. It's good land.'

As she remounted she cast a sideways glance at Papa. He sat relaxed in the saddle and his eyes roamed the property, missing nothing. Why he would even consider selling the place was beyond her. If he didn't want to live here, why couldn't she? Giving up and running away wasn't something she wanted to consider.

The long meandering driveway wound its way to the house, always her favourite approach. The post-and-rail fences marked the paddocks and the cattle grazed contentedly in the afternoon sun, their coats gleaming. To her right the mares wandered along the river flats but there was no sign of the stallions in the adjacent paddock. Whether Jim had continued with the services in her absence she would find out when they arrived—if he was still on the property. The thought of him leaving turned her stomach. Had he honoured his promise to stay until she returned? More than anything else she wanted to believe in him. It was six days since she'd left him on the wharf at Morpeth. Papa's business in Sydney had taken longer to conclude than either of them expected, and while he was tied up at Customs House Cecil squired her around town. If nothing else it proved one thing—a cosmopolitan life was not for her. The thought of living in Sydney left her cold. Despite Mrs Bryce's best intentions the interminable round of morning calls and tea parties drove her to distraction. The only event to prove other than inextricably boring was their trip to the Sydney races.

While still not as structured and sophisticated as the Victoria Racing Club, Randwick proved to be a worthy track. The promise of a new autumn carnival gave her hope of seeing a Helligen horse make a name—if she could convince Papa not to sell. Their few desultory discussions on the occasions they found time to dine alone were unsatisfactory. He drew the line at making any decisions until he was back, simply repeating his statement that she'd have to make a choice between her family and Jim. He was so adamant; no member of the Cobb family would set foot on the property. Fifteen years was a long time to carry a grudge against one man and his family.

‘Nearly there,' she called over her shoulder, and unable to contain her impatience a moment longer she dug in her heels and galloped up the driveway.

Clattering to a standstill in the courtyard she searched for any sign of Jim. The courtyard sparkled. Rain had given new life to the daisies blooming in the old barrels. Peggy's vegetable garden sported a new trellis and her scarlet runner beans were once more restored to their former glory.

‘Fred!' She led Aura over to the stables and swung the two stable doors open. She wanted Papa to be impressed with the welcome he received, the air of efficiency and prosperity. It was important he should see from the outset that she was capable of running the place, and the difference Jim's presence had made. ‘Fred! Where are you?'

She tethered her horse and set off in search of him. As she rounded the corner to the kitchen she heard a high-pitched giggle and ground to a halt.

Violet straddled the fence sporting a pair of gauchos and boots, with a cabbage palm hat stuck on her blonde ringlets at a rakish angle. Jefferson stood in the middle of the yard with Fred balanced precariously, his knees high and his body bent forwards and Jim … Jim straightened up and met her eyes.

The breath disappeared from her lungs as though she'd been thrown. He removed his hat in a salute and smiled with such pleasure she forgot everything, and ran. He reached the gate before she did and his strong arms swept her into his embrace. As he lifted her from her feet and spun her around and around the familiar scent of horses, leather and home enveloped her.

Once he'd ground to a halt and relaxed his arms he let her sink to her feet. His heart thudded in time with hers and she rested her cheek against his rough work shirt for a moment before he held her away from him.

‘You're home.' His smile sparked the dimple in his cheek.

‘At long last. I feel as though I was away forever.'

His eyes glittered and the corner of his mouth tweaked as if he had a special secret, and then he said, ‘I want you to come and meet someone.'

As he led her through the gate into the small yard she remembered seeing Fred astride Jefferson.

‘India, this is Goodfellow.'

Speechless, her mouth gaped. The huge stallion resembled Jefferson, the colour and markings identical. He stuck his nose into her hand and she fingered the grey whiskers sprouting on his muzzle. Something in her chest cramped and twisted as she ran her hand down his long neck.

How could it be Goodfellow? He lay beneath the fig trees with Oliver.
May 16
^th
, 1850. Goodfellow: 17 hands bay stallion: black points: broken hind leg: shot …
‘Goodfellow is dead. How? Papa will be—'

‘Papa will be what?'

‘Papa!' Violet vaulted off the fence and barrelled into her father's arms.

Over the top of Violet's head Papa spotted Goodfellow. His jaw dropped and a frown puckered his weathered forehead. A look of confusion flashed across his face, followed by disbelief, and then his eyebrows pulled together and his mouth dropped again. He as good as tossed Violet aside and stumbled across to the fence, crumpling like an old man against the rails as he studied the horse standing amiably in the yard.

Everyone stood in a frozen tableau waiting for his response.

‘Papa, I …'

He gave a shudder and with a look of pain let out a huge sigh, turned and stormed across the courtyard and into the house.

Violet grabbed India's arm, her fingers bruising her skin. ‘Let him be. It's a shock. A shock to us all—except Mama.'

‘Oh God. Mama?'

‘She's fine. Better than she's ever been, in my memory anyway.'

Violet's words swirled around her. Her eyes blurred and she sank onto the ground, her legs no longer capable of holding her upright, her mind jumbled, full of confusion and conflicting emotions.

Jim's shadow fell across her, blocking the heat of the sun and making her shiver.

‘Fred—' his voice came from a great distance, ‘—sort things out. Put Goodfellow in the barn with Jefferson and see to the other horses.'

India closed her eyes and dropped her head between her knees, concentrating on the insurmountable task of dragging air into her lungs.

‘Violet, could you go and organise a cup of tea for India? I'll bring her to the kitchen in a moment. I expect Peggy knows your father is back by now.'

India grimaced as she waited for the waves of nausea to pass. Her father was no doubt at this moment on his way to see her mother. A scene she couldn't even imagine. ‘How? How?' She crooned as she rocked to and fro. Whatever had possessed her to delve into the past? Not more heartbreak. She should have left life as it was. All this upheaval and confusion only made matters worse. Why did she ever imagine she could make life better? How could Jim have known all this time that the grave in front of the house was a sham? How could he have looked at the portrait in the library and said nothing? Would his lies never end?

When his arm wrapped around her shoulder the tears began, great gulping sobs shaking her whole body, rendering her incapable of thought. He pulled her against him and smoothed her hair from her face saying nothing. What could he say?

How long he held her there in the dirt of the yard she had no idea. Slowly the breath returned to her body and her world came into focus. ‘Jim, I—'

‘Don't talk, not yet.'

His strong arms held her firm against his chest until the light began to fade and the cold seeped from her heart into the marrow of her bones. With infinite care he helped her to her feet. ‘Are you ready now?'

She swallowed the last remnants of her sobs and shrugged him off. ‘I have to see Mama and Papa.'

‘You don't have to do anything until you're ready.'

Oh, but she did. There were so many things she must do. First and foremost she must discover the truth. ‘Why is Goodfellow here? I thought he was dead. We all thought he was dead.'

‘He has been at Munmurra all along. My father didn't shoot him. He took him away, healed him. Goodfellow sired Jefferson.'

Of course, he sired Jefferson. How could she have missed it? She must have been blind. On their ride together down to the river she'd even commented on how similar the two animals were, how much it reminded her of riding with Papa and he'd brushed her comments aside and then they had … Oh God! What had she done!

‘Why didn't you tell me? Why did you keep it a secret? Why … oh,
the studbooks
. You weren't interested in Helligen, or the job here. And that's why you refused to let me use Jefferson over the mares, because they're related.' How many lies had he told? How much had he kept from her? And she'd fallen for every single one of them, and worse, him! She had believed herself to be in love with the man and he was nothing more than a scheming fraud.

She shrugged his hands off and steadied herself against the fence line. Tears still blurred her eyes and as she dashed them away she stared into the empty yard. She could almost have dreamt the whole thing. Only a smouldering pile of horse dung indicated a horse had once stood there. A horse she'd believed dead.

‘India, let me take you inside. To Peggy.'

She lifted her head and looked him up and down. The dark wing of hair falling across his forehead, his strong, warm arms with the sleeves of his shirt pushed up above the elbows. Her gaze travelled to his face and his eyes, dark and unfathomable. The eyes of a liar.

From the outset she had been taken in by his attention and his concern and while he smiled and kissed her, toyed with her affections, he hid his true motive.