The Horse Thief (9 page)

‘If you can spare me an hour or so I've located the studbook and perhaps you could give me some advice. I'd like to begin making plans tomorrow. It should be our first priority.'

‘I think it's a perfect idea.' Two bright spots of colour flared on his cheekbones as he pushed his chair back from the table and began to rise. ‘Thank you for a delicious meal, Peggy.'

‘Come with me and I'll show you the library. It's the office now.'

India led the way through the double doors into the library at the front of the house. The scent of Papa's tobacco still hung in the air and the soft light from the desk lamp bathed the room in a comforting glow.

Ten

An enormous hand clenched Jim's heart and a cold sweat peppered his forehead. The massive oil painting hanging over the fireplace dominated his very being. He forced some air into his starved lungs.

The bay horse in the centre of the framed canvas stood proud between the two fig trees leaving no doubt where it had been painted. A perfect anatomical representation of a thoroughbred in his prime. It might have been Jefferson.

He bunched his fists defying the impulse to reach out and touch the painting. The carriage of the animal's head and the proud arch of his neck were as familiar to him as the lines on his own hand. Even the black markings on the legs replicated Jefferson's. There was no doubt. He didn't need to read the small silver plate screwed to the frame. He knew what it would say. Nevertheless, he couldn't resist.

Goodfellow: Sire Helligen Park 1840–1850

‘That's Goodfellow, Papa's horse. He was his pride and joy.'

Jim winced and turned, a knot tightening in his stomach. The dates couldn't be right. ‘What happened to him?'

‘He had to be put down. He broke a leg.'

The pounding in Jim's ears threatened to block out her words. How could Goodfellow be dead? He was at Munmurra grazing in the paddock behind the stables. He'd groomed him only a week ago. Goodfellow sired Jefferson four years ago.

‘He's buried under the fig trees.' She gestured to the front of the house.

Sucking in a deep breath Jim continued to stare, mesmerised. ‘He's a beautiful horse.' His father's dying words echoed.
I did something I'm not proud of. Right the wrongs of the past before they shatter your dreams.
‘What happened to him?'

‘There was an accident. He reared and threw my mother, badly injuring her. We never knew exactly how the accident occurred. Papa held our stud master responsible. When they found Mama she was insensible. She'd cracked her skull. Goodfellow's leg was broken. He had to be shot. Papa lost his horse, his wife and his son in a matter of days.'

And my father lost his life's work into the bargain, but not Goodfellow.
How could two stories differ so? His father owned Goodfellow. Kilhampton had transferred the injured animal to him, in lieu of wages. After his wife's accident he no longer intended to run the property as a stud. Jim's mind spun. For a moment he was tempted to tell India his real name. How connected their families were. Maybe with two heads together they could solve this strange puzzle.

‘This is the studbook.'

He swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth and turned from the portrait.

‘I found it this afternoon.' India moved the pile of paperwork and revealed the leather-bound ledger.

The picture was so clear. His father in front of the fire, a pencil in his hand, entering the names of the horses. He'd repeat them, labouring over the spelling. The smell of the yellowing paper was as familiar as bread and butter pudding, the crackle of the fire in the grate or his mother's gentle touch.

His fingers itched. India held, in her hands, the very reason for his return to Helligen. If he found a deed of sale he could prove his ownership; he could dispute India's story. Goodfellow had not died. Was not buried underneath the wretched fig trees. He cast a look out the window at the sinister buttress roots nursing untold secrets.

He forced a casual note into his voice. ‘When was the last mating on the property?'

‘Over ten years ago. We've sent some animals out since then but nothing on the property.' She rifled through a series of papers on the desk and produced a smaller book, resting it on top of the studbook. ‘Father sold three of the stallions while Violet and I were in Sydney and several of the mares and their offspring.'

Jim ran his hand across his chin and studied the book. It was exactly the same as the one he'd found in the old office that he'd tucked at the bottom of his saddlebag. Would a record of the sale be here? Forcing his mind back to India he said, ‘It doesn't leave you with a lot of choice. Which horses do you intend to use?'

‘I was hoping you could help me with that.'

She pulled a chair from the corner of the room and sat down, then gestured to another chair.

‘May I look?' His voice snagged on the words as he waited. Had she noticed his shaking hands, his eagerness?

India slid the ledger onto the corner of the desk and opened it. His father's neat cursive script and meticulous figures filled the pages. He craned across the desk. Nothing that resembled a deed of sale or transfer. His hopes plummeted.

‘If you turn to the back of the book it's all listed there.' India flicked the pages. She started as his wrist brushed against her arm, and then she pulled back and walked to the window leaving him alone.

His thudding heartbeat drowned out the hiss of the lamp. He flicked to the back of the book where the spider-like lines indicated the ancestry of each of the mares and stallions. The faded writing blurred. He would abuse this trust she'd placed in him. This may not be the sales record but it would show Jefferson's lineage.

Oblivious to his rising excitement she stared out the window, her eyes fixed on the night vista. The lines of neatly inscribed names: sires, dams and offspring burned like a brand in his mind. He turned to the very back of the book. Somewhere in this tome lay the information he needed and once he'd found it his job would be done. He could fulfil his father's dying wish—and, if truth be known, his own dream.

Flicking from the front to the back of the book he cross-referenced the entries until he found Goodfellow's name. Sire, dam, grand sire, grand dam. He ran his fingers down the names. The founding stock of Australia. The horse was a wonder. To think Kilhampton had wanted him destroyed. Why would he part with an animal like that?

‘Have you come to any conclusions?' India spoke from across the room. ‘I would like to begin breeding as soon as possible and ensure spring births next year.' She wandered back to the desk and trailed her long fingers along the tooled leather.

Dragging his mind from the past he concentrated on her words. ‘We will check all the females and I suggest we divide them into groups with a male. Paddock mating might be better. It places less stress on the males and the younger fillies will feel less threatened in the company of the experienced mares.'

‘That sounds perfect. We'll start tomorrow.' She yawned.

Disgusted by his duplicity, he took the opportunity she offered. ‘Why don't you leave me here to go over the records and I'll group the mares and check the lineage. Tomorrow I'll give you a list of suggestions and see if you agree.'

India nodded. ‘You're right, I'm tired. It's been a long day. I'll leave it with you. Please turn off the lamp and close the door when you've finished.' She took a step closer and offered her hand then withdrew it as though she thought better of it. ‘Goodnight Jim, and thank you.'

No. Thank you
.

As the door closed behind her Jim returned to the ledger. If he found the deed of sale and transcribed Jefferson's heritage he would have all he required. Jefferson would race in the Melbourne Cup in November.

Eleven

The moon cast a silvery shadow across the smooth surface of the water. Not a breath of air stirred the massive fig trees standing guard over the house, their buttress roots anchoring them deep in the soil. A phalanx of bats flew across a beam of moonlight and India started at the shadows they created on her bedroom floor.

Jim's presence kindled as many shadows as the bats. Memories of the past and the brief but tantalising possibility she could succeed in the future. She still cherished the dream Papa would return home and Mama recover sufficiently to take part in everyday life. Who didn't dream of recreating their happy childhood?

The fact Mama had spoken to her yesterday rekindled her hopes; it must be a sign of improvement. She'd seen Jefferson and confused him with Goodfellow but she had at least taken notice, responded. That alone was a sign of change.

A movement caught her attention on the edge of the dam, larger and paler than any bat, and she drew the curtain further back. Breathing heavily on the glass she rubbed at the condensation with the heel of her hand then squinted out the window. A ghostly figure astride a horse swept the perimeter of the lagoon, first walking, then cantering.

Not tonight, please, not tonight.

India raced across the hallway to her mother's room. Not stopping to offer the usual courtesies to gain entry she flung open the door. Emptiness greeted her. The forlorn bath chair sat by the window guarding Oliver's empty cradle; the curtains drawn back and a pale patch of light illuminated the carpet.

‘Mama! Anya!' She charged through to the adjoining room. Anya's single bed stood pristine and abandoned.

Cold fingers clutched at her stomach as the silence stretched and filled the empty room. She dashed back into the hallway and down the stairs, choking back a sob. A thin sliver of light radiated beneath the library door. Jim must still be in the house.

She tiptoed outside, across the courtyard and into the stables then ran down the aisle checking each bay. The two young stallions peered over the half-doors as she bolted down to the end of the aisle. Jefferson stood in the end stall eyeing her progress with a look of confusion. The mares stood in their stalls, heads turning and ears pricking at her intrusion. The final door swung free—Aura, her mother's buckskin was missing.

India grabbed a rope bridle from the tack room and slipped it over Cirrus's ears. Ignoring the whinnied objections of her stable mates India hurried the horse through the doors. Once outside she hitched up her skirt and straddled Cirrus bareback. The clatter of hooves on the flagstones broke the silence and she offered a silent prayer that Jim would be too absorbed in the ledgers to leave the library.

The driveway wound around under the fig trees to the front of the house. The lagoon glimmered silver and the tussock grass glittered, throwing spiky silhouettes on the still water. Coming to a halt she scanned the edge of the lagoon and searched the shoreline.

Nothing.
No sight or sound of Mama.

Driving her horse into a canter she skirted the water following the well-worn path. As she rounded the corner Cirrus lifted her hooves high, refusing to move faster than a walk on the soft spongy ground.

At a stand of contorted tea-trees she slipped to the ground. An unnatural stillness loomed shroud-like and chilling.

‘India.' A voice cut the darkness. Not harsh. Soft and sensible, painstakingly calm. She swallowed and sucked a breath into her starved lungs.

‘Be still. She is safe.'

India shuddered, the words so close yet no visible sign of anyone.

‘I am here. Stand still.'

She stopped, the voice a reminder of her youth and the cool hand that soothed her brow and chased away the nightmares. ‘Anya. Where are you?'

‘Stop and wait. Watch.' Exuding serenity Anya stood statuesque beneath the tea-trees.

She squinted in the direction of Anya's pale fingernail and the long slim arm she pointed across the lagoon.

‘She is safe. Watch and wait.'

Unable to resist the habit of a lifetime she followed Anya's directions. Amongst the grasses framing the lagoon Mama moved, leading a horse so pale it almost glowed in the dark.

‘What is she doing?'

‘What she does every night. Searching. Hoping. Wishing. Praying. It's her way to heal the hurt nestled in her soul.'

Tears clustered behind India's eyes as the shadow trailed through the grasses. ‘Oliver's not there.' She shuddered as a cold breeze swept her skin.

‘Yes, but where there is hope there is life. And without hope your mother would be long gone.'

‘She must come home. Go inside. She'll catch a chill, fall again and hurt herself.' Her words caught in a sob.

Anya's comforting arm wrapped around her shoulders and pulled her close. ‘No. This is what she must do until she has no further need.'

‘But the doctors said …'

‘The doctors are fools. A broken heart will mend in its own time. Not with medicines or intervention. Just patience.'

‘Does she do this every night?'

‘Not every night, but often. And tonight is special.'

‘Why?'

‘She believes he has returned to help her.'

India rubbed at the frown creasing her brow. ‘Jim?'

‘Who knows? Does it matter? What your mother believes is what matters. If she believes and she can solve her heartache, so be it.'

India dropped her reins and sank onto a severed tree trunk. She rubbed at her temples; the pounding in her head made thought impossible. ‘I don't understand.'

‘No-one understands the mind. And a broken heart even less.'

‘What if she hurts herself?'

‘That won't happen. She is strong and she is sensible. Except in this one matter.'

‘I see her every day and she is none of those things. She's weak, a delusional invalid.'

‘You see what she chooses to show you.'

‘I am her daughter.'

‘Yes, you are her daughter, her firstborn, but you are not the child of her heart. That child lies buried beneath those fig trees. Until she is certain he rests in peace she will keep searching.'