Darkening Skies Part 19

With water dripping on to his damp shirt, Mark slid his hat back on. 'I had to put some cattle in the scrub paddock the other day but they need moving to better water. Ground's rough there and they'll need rounding up, so I'll ride. How's the foot?' Despite the years and the worries, his grin took her right back to their teens. 'Do you want to saddle up and join me?'

On horseback through the bush with Mark? Oh, she was tempted. Memories of times she'd loved, felt alive, caught her imagination. But reality intruded and doused the short flight of fancy with practicality. 'It's better, but not that much better. I haven't ridden for years. Give me something I can do in the car or on a quad bike, though, and I'll do it.'

He didn't tell her to rest and take it easy, or doubt her abilities despite the years she'd been away from this place. 'Could you check the dam in the creek paddock? I was out there a few days ago and it's getting low.'

When she nodded he added, 'Take Dash with you, if you like. She's only just started, not ready yet for serious work.'

The quad bike was a smoother ride than the old one she remembered and although she took it slowly, re-acquainting herself to the controls and the feel of a quad, most of it came flooding back quickly and her nerves evaporated.

The creek had only a trickle of water in it but the small dam still held enough for the stock, and enough for Dash to burn some energy swimming to the sticks she threw into the centre of it.

How many times had she been here with Mark? Sitting beside him in the shade of this old eucalypt at the end of a long day, while he threw sticks for his dog, Sammy. Quiet, peaceful, his contentment both a salve and an abrasion on her own restless, unhappy spirit. She loved this land, Mark's land, but she didn't understand it as he did; as steward and guardian, attuned to the rhythms, the ebb and flow of water, the wind, the heat and soil, the complex web of plants, animals, insects and weather.

Dash bounded back and dropped the stick at her feet, shaking herself vigorously and showering her with water and mud. Jenn signalled her up on to the back of the quad and they headed towards the homestead. Closing a gate behind her, she paused and watched from the rise on the far side of the wool-shed paddock the mob of cattle moving out of the scrub, the single horseman guiding them along. For years she'd ridden those paddocks with him, and she knew exactly how he and a horse worked together. Perfectly.

He'd excelled as a member of parliament, representing his electorate with energy and dedication, but this, here a man and horse and the land and beasts to nurture and keep a this was where he belonged. He'd managed Marrayin and the other properties sustainably for more than a decade, respecting the land and its needs, taking a leadership role in the farming community even before his election.

As she left the quad bike in the shed, she heard the canter of a horse, its whinny as the rider dismounted, and Mark was there, sweaty, dusty, those rich brown eyes lit with energy and joy, the mare nuzzling him, dogs at his feet. At home. Lean and muscled and so d.a.m.ned attractive that the rush of desire caught her by surprise and she only barely stopped herself from gaping.

Fingers gripped around her heart and squeezed and she muttered something about seeing him up at the house and walked away, unable to think clearly.

When he returned from releasing the mare into her paddock, Jenn took a jug of tank water out on the terrace, and they sat together, their backs to the house, the paddocks rolling down to the river in front of them, the dogs flopping to relax in the shade, tongues lolling out.

Mark leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasping the gla.s.s. 'I remembered something last night,' he said. 'I remembered that when I came out of hospital after the accident, I went down to the shearers' quarters and my old room there.'

She stilled.

He tilted his head around to look at her. 'Apparently, in those days that have been erased from my memory, a girl lost a hair scrunchie on the bed down there. And it's pretty unsettling to have no recollection of how, although I can guess. And it's worrying not to know ... not to know if what happened hurt her in some way. I a.s.sumed it was Paula, because I was told she and I got together. But that in itself puzzled me until the other day. And now I'm more concerned that it wasn't Paula. That it was you, and that I may have hurt you a and that perhaps that's why you left.'

Her face heated a a blush for heaven's sake a and she didn't know what to say, words scattering in her thoughts, elusive. How could she respond? How could she hide, protect herself?

The light breeze skimmed her face. Dash snapped at a fly and missed. The late-afternoon sunlight made long shadows of the trees lining the paddocks and the rivers.

And he waited silently.

Protect herself? From Mark?

All the careful words and phrases she might gather as emotional armour were meaningless, inadequate. Mark deserved nothing but honesty, and for the first time in a long, long time she spoke without vetting the words, without caution, silencing her intellect and laying her emotions bare.

'Paula and I were planning to leave for Melbourne that week. I had a great-aunt there, batty as all heck, but she had a big house and was happy for us to live with her. It was all arranged. But I wanted ... I wanted to be with you before I left. So that I'd have that to remember you by. So, yes, it was me. And you. The first time for both of us. Gentle and sweet and more beautiful than I ever dreamed.' She met his gaze steadily. 'And then I told you I was leaving. I'm the one who did the hurting, Mark. Not you.'

He reached over, brushed a thumb against her cheek, a fleeting, so-soft touch. 'I loved you, Jenn. But I always knew you'd leave. I'm glad I had the courage to show you that before you went. I just wish I had a memory of it.'

'Maybe I'm glad that you don't. I never gave back to you a fraction of what you gave me. Maybe you'd remember that and hate me.'

'One afternoon change years? I doubt it. All the rest of that time is firmly in my memory, Jenn.'

Fear edged its way forward again, and she wasn't quite sure which emotional shield to use to keep it in its place. 'I wish sometimes that ... that I could forget you. It was half our lifetimes ago. You're supposed to be back there as just a fond remembrance of youth. But you don't stay firmly in your place.'

What did it say about her choice in men that none of them made her as happy, as whole, as an eighteen-year-old youth had? She forged on blindly, unsure where she was going. 'You should be married, Mark. Sharing this place with a partner. Begetting Marrayin heirs and putting them on ponies and teaching them the relative strengths of Angus and Hereford cattle.'

She couldn't quite read his expression: part closed, part amused, part ... sad? 'I'm not. Yet. I haven't had much time for a personal life these past six years. There's always too much else that needs doing.'

'You should put yourself and what you want first sometimes. You don't have to save the world every day.'

Now there was definite amus.e.m.e.nt. 'Speak for yourself. Do you ever put yourself and your needs first?'

Her needs? She needed to step away from this intimacy, keep it from going any further. In an echo of that long-ago afternoon she had to make the break with him again.

'The network's correspondent position in Moscow will be vacant at the end of next month,' she said brusquely. 'I've put my hand up for it. The paperwork's not through yet but I don't expect any problems. I've worked out of Moscow a few times, and I have some good contacts in the region.'

'Moscow.' He took a mouthful of water and his gaze returned to the landscape in front of them.

Uncertain what to say, she kept her eyes forward to the view. The vista of dry brown paddocks, the wool shed and shearers' quarters and the darker greyagreen line of trees at the river, the vibrant blue sky crowning it all with the light starting to shift to gold as the sun dropped lower in the western sky.

'The job's based in Moscow but it covers Eastern Europe and Central Asia.' Where there were steppes and plains and mountains and stunning views and hard-working people ... and nowhere she belonged.

'Sounds like you'll be busy,' Mark said, and although his words were perfectly courteous they lacked energy. When he rose and faced her, his eyes were shadowed, hiding his thoughts. 'Just keep in touch, okay?'

'I will.' She stood up, too, busying herself with gathering their gla.s.ses and the jug, the quiet interlude between them over. If there was never another one, at least she'd told him the truth, put things right between them as best she could.

Dash danced around his feet and he leaned over to scratch her head. 'With no refrigeration I don't have enough food here to offer you a decent meal,' he said, changing the topic evenly. 'How about we go back to Dungirri and after I shower in hot water I'll shout you dinner at the pub to thank you for your help?'

'Thank you. I'd like that.'

'Good.'

She laughed at something Karl said, the serious lines of her face relaxing, mischief dancing in her eyes as she quipped back at him, and the others joined in the laughter at Karl's good-natured expense.

Mark hardly listened to the conversation flowing around the table. His senses overloaded with Jenn beside him, and it was all he could do not to stare at her, not to drink it all in a the sound of her voice, her too-scarce laughter, the profile of her face, animated by the easy company, the subtle scents of shampoo and some light perfume.

Mark had envisaged a quiet dinner with Jenn in the courtyard; not a romantic gesture with half of Dungirri around to see, merely a chance to talk. A chance to spend time with her before she walked out of his life again. But he'd forgotten that Monday night usually saw some of the SES team share a meal after training a the younger, single ones without kids. Officially single, although there were definitely relationships developing. Karl and Gemma, the new young teacher at the Dungirri school. And Karl's brother, Eric, back from uni for the summer break and Melinda Ward. Adam, off-duty for the night, and Keisha, the teaching a.s.sistant.

Accepting the invitation to join their table proved a good decision, Jenn relaxing for perhaps the first time since she'd returned. The conversation was light-hearted and irreverent, avoiding serious topics. But the open affection between the three couples, the body language and the simmering energy of sensuality and love all served to remind Mark of what he didn't have, and he had to clamp down a surge of envy.

When they eventually called it a night, drifting away in pairs, he stayed at the table with Jenn, the conversation from the bar a hum in the background.

The liveliness fading, she stared down at the empty gla.s.s in her hands, fiddling with the edge of it.

He didn't touch her, not here in public. All evening he'd tried to hide his awareness of her, the way she occupied his thoughts. He wanted to hold his feelings for her privately so that when she left there'd be no awkward questions from others, no pitying looks, no mumbled condolences.

He'd left his gear in her room when he'd showered, but going back up there now to retrieve it, into her small, private s.p.a.ce, didn't seem a good idea. He drained his gla.s.s of water. 'It's getting late,' he said. 'I should go.'

'You'll need to come and get your bag,' she said quietly.

He took their empty gla.s.ses back to the bar, and was a minute behind her going up the stairs. He doubted that anyone in the bar noticed. Good. Neither of them needed any misplaced a.s.sumptions or gossip.

In her room, she drew the curtain across the French door to the veranda. He paused in the doorway, his pulse a drumbeat in his head. She was beautiful, with her hair falling loose, the sheer white fabric of her shirt over the curve of her shoulder, the collar framing the delicate nape of her neck. Beautiful and serious and thoughtful.

His bag containing his sweat-stained clothes and shaving kit sat neatly by the door. He should just pick it up, say goodbye and leave.

'Mark ...' She stopped. A sad half-smile softened her face. 'Nothing like seeing all that young love to make a person wish ... well, wish that everything wasn't so complicated. Wish that maybe time could roll backwards.'

He spoke quietly, carefully. 'Wish that he could remember an afternoon, long ago.'

'Yes. Maybe. I'm sorry, Mark. I'm sorry I can't be ...' She stopped again, and gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. 'You were supposed to be out of my system half a lifetime ago. Maybe when all this is over you can come and visit me in Moscow and we can have a wild weekend together. And then we can forget each other and move on.'

Desperate hope took flight and collided immediately into the brick wall of reality. 'Maybe in a year or so,' he conceded, clinging to the frail remnants of hope. Definitely without the forget each other and move on. 'I have to stay here, Jenn. I can't walk away from Dungirri, from this community when it's been through so much trauma. Not when some of it is my doing. I have to stay and see it through.'

'I know.'

She did understand him, because she didn't argue the point. She stood close to him, only feet from the bed, and if he was a man without a conscience or into casual s.e.x he could easily have manipulated her uncertainty, the loneliness and yearning she'd half-admitted to, and persuade her into bed. But he wasn't that kind of man, and he didn't want that kind of s.e.x.

He bent his head and brushed her mouth with his, felt her initial shock dissolve so that she sought his mouth again. He cupped her face with his hands and kissed her one more time, light, brief, gentle and full of all he couldn't say.

Then he stepped away from her, before the rush of need and desire and longing overpowered him. He had a cloud over his head, an uncertain future, and responsibilities that stood between him and her.

'I'm going, Jenn. But not because I want to. You understand that, don't you?'

She nodded without words.

'I'll phone you tomorrow,' he promised, before he turned on his heel, picked up his bag and walked out.

She dreamed of him. Her subconscious ignored her body's need for deep, restorative sleep and instead kept neurons firing and nerves on edge with dream after dream, alternating between nightmares of flames, explosions and guns and altogether different dreams of naked skin, pa.s.sion, and a man who held her close and kissed her and overwhelmed her with tenderness, broke her heart with gentleness.

When she woke for the umpteenth time, at around seven, she gave up trying to sleep. Untangling herself from the twisted sheets she rolled out of bed, blinking grainy eyes until the room came properly into focus. A shaft of sunlight angled in through the gap between the curtains and already the heat was building. She pulled the last clean clothes a jeans, tank top, blue cotton shirt a out of the bag she'd hastily packed the other night, less than two hours after she'd flown home from Tashkent.

Practicalities. The pile of grubby, smoke-stained clothes stuffed in a plastic bag in the corner might come good with a run through a washing machine. Presumably the pub had one somewhere. But she added a trip into Birraga to her mental list. Most people probably went to Dubbo or Moree to shop for clothes but surely she'd be able to get another pair of jeans and some basic T-shirts in Birraga.

She took her laptop down to breakfast. Snagging the best table in the courtyard a under the spreading branches of the kurrajong tree a she accessed her emails and the major news sites while she ate. The police statement she'd written for Leah yesterday formed the basis for each of the brief reports; it didn't seem as though any of the newspapers or television stations had sent anyone to cover the murders. Yet. No-one had connected the dots she'd been very careful not to join in the bland police statement. Not because she wanted the story herself a quite the opposite. She hadn't told her boss the location of her urgent family business, but one of the emails she had to deal with had come from him a a tactful enquiry about whether she was related to the Dungirri Barretts. She replied but told him she was too involved to report on any of the events; too involved to be objective. If he wanted a report he should send someone else a but with Franklin no longer a threat and the latest sports scandal the media frenzy of the day, she doubted he would.

Too involved to be objective. Her gaze drifted to the table she'd shared with Mark and the others last night. Mark. The turmoil of confusing emotions swirled again as it did every time she thought of him a and even when she didn't. It was there, underlying everything, a constant sense of drowning in him even as he seemed the only solidity she could count on.

She pushed aside her empty cup and closed her laptop. Practicalities. But as she climbed the stairs to her room to collect her things, something niggling at the back of her mind broke through. The blood-alcohol reading. The Gazette had reported it as 0.14. That was high. That was a count that would have a young man reeling, obviously drunk. Mark might have only reached the legal age days before, but out here moderate amounts of alcohol were part of life, and although the pub had been strict, no-one blinked when the older teenagers had a beer at a barbecue, or shared a six-pack between a group of friends at the waterhole. She'd never known Mark to have more than one beer, and he didn't touch alcohol when he was driving. Paula wouldn't have got into the car with him if he'd been drunk. She enjoyed a wine cooler now and then but with an alcoholic father she knew too well the impairment of intoxication.

Realisation hit. The blood-alcohol reading couldn't have been Mark's. Even if he'd gone on some kind of bender that afternoon after he'd dropped her home, Paula would have stopped him driving.

As she walked down the short corridor to her room, she pa.s.sed the open door of another room, and caught a glimpse of the head forensic officer a Sandy, she recalled someone calling him a closing up a laptop bag with one hand while he spoke on the phone.

'I took a metal detector out to the original accident site at first light this morning,' he was saying, and she paused as she put her key into her door. 'Picked up a couple of wheel nuts and bolts buried in the sand beside the road. I'll have to clean them up further, but at least one of them suggests deliberate weakening. I know, sir, but it's a country road, a dry climate. Metal lasts decades. If the bolt type matches the make and model of the vehicle, then combined with the photographic evidence there's strong evidence that the vehicle was tampered with.'

She let herself into her room and quietly closed the door behind her. Strong evidence. Loosened wheel nuts, maybe damaged wheel bolts. Swerve hard to avoid a kangaroo, lose a wheel ... and lose control.

That afternoon, long ago, Mark had parked his car in the usual place in town, in the shade of the gum trees at the waterhole. Away from the activity of Dungirri's main street, and off the road far enough for someone to get to it, unnoticed.

And the evidence was building that someone had tried to harm him, back then.

She couldn't tell Mark what she'd overheard. But they both needed to go into Birraga later in the day, among other things to finish their statements about the explosion, and if they drove in together, perhaps Steve would give him an update and the official word about it.

Driving to Birraga and back, buying groceries and finalising their statements about the explosion? Two hours, he figured. Two hours with Jenn in town, and then maybe ... maybe he'd be able to make some sense, some meaning of the connection that still bound them together. Maybe find some peace for the yearning that had been with him for so long.

She'd been distracted when she came to get him. So distracted that she'd acknowledged it with a shaky laugh, made some excuse about being tired, and handed him the car keys.

A few kilometres beyond Ghost Hill, he slowed for a rough section, where the road awaited repair. But the truck that had come up behind him didn't, swinging out into the other lane and drawing up alongside him.

'Idiot,' Mark muttered, slowing still further to let it pa.s.s.

Instead, the truck veered over, slamming against the side of their car, the force of the hit jarring through his body, sending the car off its course. Jenn cried out and grabbed the dashboard.

With no clear verge, and too many trees lining the road, Mark fought to keep the wheel steady and the vehicle on the edge of the bitumen. He couldn't see the driver's face, but he did see his hand, mimicking a gun shooting at him, as the truck veered over and sc.r.a.ped along the side of the car.

He swore. If he stopped, so could the truck, and that might put them in more danger. He'd have to accelerate. He had more power than the truck, could pull ahead and out of its range. He pressed his foot down.

Mark braced to keep control on an upcoming bend, hoping for a good grip on the road. As the acceleration kicked in and he pulled ahead of the truck, he heard the answering roar of its engine ... and saw the school bus rounding the bend, travelling straight towards the truck.

The school bus.

With no choice, he yanked the steering wheel over, sending the car off the road towards the trees.

For long, slow microseconds his senses sped into overdrive. The gnarled trunk of the huge tree in front of them. Jenn's sharp gasp. The grip on the steering wheel as he angled it, desperate to hit the tree on his side, not hers. His voice in his head, drumming, 'Not Jenn. Please, not Jenn.' The white explosion of the airbag. The crunch of the bullbar against thick wood. The hard band of the seatbelt, ramming into his chest. And more distant, the squeal of brakes on bitumen, and the harsh scream of metal tearing as the school bus and the truck collided.

FIFTEEN.

She was alive. Alive and conscious and breathing, and despite the general undefined ache of her jarred body, in that first few seconds after the car stopped, she identified no major pain.

Mark moved, pushing aside the airbag to switch off the ignition, unclipping his seatbelt.

'Are you hurt, Jenn?' She heard the tremor in his voice.

'No.'

'The school bus ... we have to ... I'll get you out.' He pushed on his door, and when it didn't open he shoved hard against it, but still it stayed closed.

Her movements sluggish, requiring concentration, she unclipped her seatbelt, found the door latch and with an effort managed to open her door. The car was at an angle, leaning to the driver's side, the front wheel up on a log. Maybe that had saved them from worse injury, slowing the car before it hit the tree at a lesser angle.

She clambered out, her legs unsteady on the rough ground among stones and dead branches. Even with the boots supporting her ankle the sloping ground sent pain shooting up her leg.

Mark scrambled out on her side. He gripped her arm, looked into her eyes. 'Are you okay?'

'Yes. Just shaken.' Very shaken. So shaken she wanted to sink to the ground.