Matilda's Last Waltz Part 32

The blurred outline of a horse and rider emerged out of the shimmering horizon, and as she drank from her water pouch, she watched the almost dreamlike figure sharpen into focus.

At first she thought it was one of her drovers, but as he drew nearer, she realised he was a stranger. With the water pouch stowed away, she reached for her rifle. It had been many years since the Depression and its wandering vagrants but it was better to be safe. Her drovers were spread throughout the thousands of acres of Churinga and she was alone.

She sat very still in the saddle and watched him approach. It was difficult to tell how tall a man was when he was in the saddle but she guessed he was above average height and by the way he rode, obviously at home on a horse.

'G'day,' he called when he was within earshot.

Matilda acknowledged his greeting by lifting one hand in a wave and the other to take a firmer grip on the rifle. She could see now that he was broad-shouldered and slim-hipped. His shirt was open at the neck and his moleskins and boots covered in dust. She couldn't see his face, it was in the shadows beneath his wide-brimmed hat, but as he drew nearer, she saw it was friendly.

He brought his mean-mouthed stock horse to a dancing halt and took off his hat. 'You must be Miss Thomas,' he drawled. 'Glad to meet you at last. Finn McCauley's the name.'

His hair was black and curly, his smile warm and his eyes the most extraordinary blue. It was difficult to tell how old he was, the elements out here aged a man's skin and drew lines around eyes and mouth much sooner than in the cities but the gossip over the two-way radio and bush telephone had not done him justice, she acknowledged. He had to be the most handsome man she'd ever seen.

'Pleased to meet you,' stuttered Matilda. She still felt awkward with strangers and he'd caught her off guard. 'How you settling in over at Wilga?'

His hand was warm and firm as it swamped hers. 'Good,' he said with a grin. 'It's a bonzer place, Miss Thomas. Just right for horses.'

She stuffed the rifle back into its saddle pouch and caught him watching her. 'Can never be too safe out here,' she said quickly. 'How was I to know who you were?'

'Too right,' he said solemnly. 'Must be crook for a woman out here on her own.' His amazing eyes were looking at her closely. 'But then, I suppose that doesn't worry you very much, Miss Thomas. I heard about how you managed through the war.'

'I just bet you did,' she replied tartly.

His laughter was deep and melodious. 'Fair go, Miss Thomas. A bloke's got to find out about his neighbours, and I know enough to believe only a third of what I hear over the bush telephone.'

She eyed him for a moment, not sure if he was teasing her. He only needs an eye patch and an earring, she thought, and he would make a perfect pirate.

She drew up the reins and smiled, prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. 'Good thing too,' she said lightly. 'If half the things were true, this place would grind to a halt. No one would have any time for work.'

He looked at her for a long moment, his extraordinary eyes dancing over her before returning to her face. 'Reckon you're right,' he said softly.

He'd caught her off guard again, and she didn't like it. There was something in his eyes and in the way he spoke that did strange things to her insides, and as she had never experienced such feelings before, she wasn't sure how to handle them.

'I was about to stop for a drink and some tucker,' she said gruffly. 'Care to join me, Mr McCauley?'

One dark brow lifted and he smiled. 'Only if you call me Finn,' he drawled. 'Had too much formality in the army and a man kinda loses something of himself when he isn't called by his Christian name.'

'Then you must call me Molly,' she said before she had time to think.

She didn't wait for his reply but led the way through the green canopy of the Tjuringa mountain bush to the rock pools. He confused her, and it irritated her not to be fully in control of her thoughts. She needed these few moments to catch her breath.

Sliding down from her horse, she let the reins drop to the ground. A good stock horse was trained to stand still once the reins were released, and she had no fear of its wandering off.

'This is ripper,' breathed Finn. 'I didn't even realise it was here.' He took off his hat and dipped it in the pool, tipping the water over his head.

Matilda was mesmerised by the way the droplets glistened in his dark tangle of curls and hurriedly dragged her attention back to her saddlebag.

'I try and come here once a week,' she said, pulling the bag down and carrying it to a flat rock. 'The water's so clean and cold after the sludge back at the homestead, and it's usually cool under the trees.'

She knew she was chattering like a galah, and tailed off. 'But it's a bit sticky today after the rain.'

He filled his water bag and drank deeply before wiping his mouth on his sleeve. 'Tastes wonderful after the tank water. No wonder you visit here as much as you can.'

His face was suddenly serious as he took in the broad flat stones and the deep pool that was so obviously just right for a swim. 'I hope I haven't spoiled your plans by turning up like this? If you want to swim, I'll leave you to it.'

Matilda blushed at the thought of how she'd planned to strip off and plunge right in as usual. 'Of course not,' she said quickly. 'Too cold for a swim. I usually just paddle,' she lied.

He eyed her for a long moment, and if he disbelieved her, he wasn't saying.

Matilda took the sandwiches out of the saddle-bag and put them on the stone between them. 'Help yourself, Finn. They're probably a bit warm and soggy by now but I made them this morning so they're quite fresh.' She was gabbling again. What was it about this man that made her as senseless as a headless chook? she wondered.

He bit into the ham sandwich with strong white teeth and chewed contentedly as he stretched out on the rock and watched the waterfall. There was a stillness about him, she realised, a contentment with his life and who he was. Perhaps that was what made him so attractive.

He broke the silence, his slow, southern drawl a ba.s.s accompaniment to the orchestra of the bush birdsong. 'How long have you been at Churinga, Molly?'

'All my life,' she replied. 'My grandparents were pioneers,' she added with pride.

'I envy you. You must have a real sense of where you belong.' He looked around him. 'My parents moved around a lot when I was a kid and I never felt settled. Then the war came along and I was on the move again.'

'Where did you serve?'

'Africa and New Guinea.'

He'd spoken lightly, but she'd noticed the shadow in his eyes and decided to move away from what was obviously a painful subject.

'I've never heard the name Finn before. Where does it come from?'

He lifted himself on to an elbow, his head cradled in his hand, and smiled. 'It's short for Finbar. My parents were Irish.'

She grinned back at him. 'So were my grandparents.'

'So,' he said thoughtfully. 'We have something else in common other than Wilga.'

She looked down at her hands. 'So you reckon you'll stay, then?' It was absurd to feel her pulse race as she waited for his reply.

'I'm not new to this way of life. I come from Tasmania, Molly, and although I haven't had much to do with sheep, the drought and heat there are much the same. I'm not planning on moving anywhere for a very long time.'

She looked at him in surprise. 'I thought Ta.s.sie was supposed to be like England? All green, with lots of rain and cold winters.'

He laughed. 'Common fallacy, Molly. The coastline is cooler than here, but the plains in the middle can get just as brown and dusty. We suffered as much as you in that last long drought.'

'So why choose to come here and not return to Ta.s.sie?'

His easy smile vanished. 'I wanted a new start and the government were willing to teach me about sheep farming.' He threw a pebble into the water and watched the ripples spread. 'Horses are my real pa.s.sion, but I knew I would have to have another source of income until my breeding programme was up and running. These wonderful rich pastures give me room to breathe, Molly. I needed to get away from small-town gossip where everyone knows your business.'

It was her turn to laugh, and it held a sharp edge of scorn. 'Then you've come to the wrong place. Gossip out here is what keeps everyone going. And I wouldn't mind betting you've already heard a good deal of t.i.ttle-tattle about the strange Matilda Thomas who lived alone with her Bitjarras for almost twenty-five years.'

His grin was mischievous. 'I heard Matilda Thomas kept herself to herself and was thought to be stand-offish. But I see no evidence of that.'

She looked at him and smiled. 'Welcome to New South Wales, Finn. I hope your new life gives you what you've been searching for.'

His eyes were so darkly blue they were almost violet. 'I think there's every chance of that,' he said softly.

Jenny brushed away the tears and sighed. At last things seemed to be coming right for Matilda and although it was early days, she had a feeling the last diary would bring about a happy ending.

She leaned back on the pillows and stared out at the paddocks, surprised to find the day had dwindled and time had lost its meaning while she'd been reading. She thought of Diane and felt guilty. Poor Diane. She was only trying to make light of the situation with Brett and Charlie she didn't deserve to be shunned.

With a yawn and a stretch, Jenny climbed off the bed and padded into the kitchen. There was no sign of Diane but a note on the table said she'd gone for a ride. It was signed with a flourish and two kisses. Diane must have forgiven her.

Feeling better, Jenny let Ripper out for a run in the home pasture, and while she waited for him, leaned on the fence post and watched the dozing horses. The temperature was high, the sky a clear denim blue and almost impossibly wide. She breathed in the smell of hot earth and could hear the rustle of dry leaves on the gum trees. The gra.s.s was thinning in the paddock, soon the horses would have to be moved.

She snapped out of her rambling thoughts and turned away. It didn't matter to her that the horses would have to be moved or that it hadn't rained for months. Churinga wouldn't be her concern in another few days.

Chapter Eighteen.

The storm clouds gathered overhead and as the next two days wore on the heat intensified. The air crackled with electricity as rolls of thunder swept across the sky and Ripper sought shelter beneath the kitchen table, trembling.

Diane stared out at the looming sky. 'Gonna be a fair cow when she breaks,' she said as she towelled her hair after her shower. 'I hate these dry storms.'

Jenny looked up from the rocking chair on the porch. 'So do I. There isn't a breath of wind and I'm positively drained by this awful heat.'

Diane grimaced. 'At least we have air con in Sydney, and as much as I hate the way it dries you out, it's a G.o.dsend at times like this.'

Jenny ran her fingers over the tooled leather of the diary in her lap. She wanted to get back to it, to escape the ferocity of the impending storm and return to Matilda's world. But reluctance had made her hesitate over these past two days.

'That the last tone?'

Jenny nodded. 'It's the final chapter,' she murmured. 'And I almost don't want to read it.'

'Why?' Diane shook out her dark curls and flopped into the chair next to her. 'I thought you said it was bound to have a happy ending?'

Jenny thought deeply for a moment. 'It's not that so much. It's just that when I've finished the last page, it will be like saying goodbye to a close friend I'll never see again.'

Diane's dark eyes stared back at her. 'You can't just leave things unfinished, Jen. Not when it obviously means so much to you. Besides,' she added practically, 'you'll always wonder how things turned out.'

'I know. I'm being silly, aren't I?'

Diane's curls bounced. 'Not at all. I always feel sad when I come to the end of a good story but you soon get over it.'

Jenny opened the fly-leaf and rifled the pages. There weren't many more to read, for the book was only half used. She smoothed back the first page and settled deeper into the chair. Perhaps her reluctance to finish the diaries had more to do with that strange headstone in the family cemetery than with unwillingness to break contact with Matilda. For the mystery of that enigmatic epitaph was bound to be explained in these last few pages and she was almost afraid of what she might learn.

She hadn't read more than a few words when the telephone rang.

'Who the h.e.l.l is that?'

'Not being blessed with telepathy, I wouldn't know,' answered Diane dryly. She returned moments later. 'It's Helen for you.'

Jenny frowned as she looked up from the diary, but Diane merely shrugged. 'I know as much as you.'

'h.e.l.lo, Jennifer.' The cultured voice drifted above the click and hiss of many party lines. 'I'm so glad to have caught you.'

Aware that Doreen at the exchange and probably most of the stations in New South Wales were listening in, Jenny chose her reply carefully. 'With this storm looming, it didn't seem wise to venture far.'

There was a moment's hesitation at the other end of the line before Helen spoke again. 'I was wondering if I could come over?'

Jenny frowned. 'Of course,' she said quickly. 'When?'

'Today, if that's not too inconvenient.'

Jenny heard the note of urgency and wondered if it had been transmitted halfway across the outback to the other stations. 'Fine by me. I'll do lunch.'

There was that hesitancy again and Jenny hoped Helen hadn't been drawn into the protracted tussle over Churinga for she liked her, and the thought of a girls' lunch had lifted her spirits.

It was as if Helen had read her thoughts. 'I think I should warn you,' said the older woman carefully, 'I do have an ulterior motive for my visit but it has very little to do with what you and Andrew discussed the other week.'

'Then you've probably saved me a journey to Kurrajong,' Jenny said with relief. 'There are things we need to talk about.'

'I agree,' Helen said firmly. 'But not with half the state listening in. I'll see you in about three hours.'

The click at the other end echoed through the wilderness. As Jenny replaced the handset she stared at it thoughtfully. Helen had made it clear that Ethan's hostility was not an influence, but would her impending visit explain the vendetta that had been going on for so long or merely muddy the waters?

Jenny chewed her lip as she went back out to the verandah. The sky was pregnant with storm perhaps a portent of things to come?

Diane took the news of Helen's visit with surprise then delight. 'Nothing like a girly lunch to blow away the blues,' she said cheerfully.

Jenny smiled but felt uneasy as she took the diary back to the bedroom and changed into clean clothes. Something was obviously bothering Helen, and as she was part of the family who had waged a vendetta against Matilda and Churinga, she wondered if it could be connected with that.

'We'll have salad,' Diane declared. 'Too hot for anything else.'

Jenny took the steaks from the freezer and put them in the meat safe away from Ripper's inquisitive nose and the ever-present flies. As Diane mixed up a jug of lemonade and laid the table, Jenny whipped up an apple fool then set to preparing a salad from vegetables she'd just cut from the garden. With a dressing of oil and garlic, lunch was almost ready.

The house was as clean and dusted as it could be, the great vases of wild flowers Diane had placed strategically around the room bringing a welcome touch of colour to the gloomy morning. Jenny and Diane stood back and admired the effect, but the thought that this was probably the last time she would entertain here made Jenny restless.

'I'll take Ripper for a walk while you get changed,' she said finally.

An oppressive heat lay over the pastures as she and Ripper followed the line of trees which stood sentinel by the dry creek. Birdsong was lethargic, black hairy spiders hung drowsily on giant, silken webs, and a mob of 'roos lay supine in the shadows of the tea trees.

Ripper found a basking goanna and gave chase as it whipped away in fright. Jenny called him repeatedly but he was obviously on a mission and chose to ignore her.

With a sigh, she leaned against a tree and watched a colony of termites repair their damaged hill grain by grain. The similarity between their lives and those of the squatters was not lost on her. For inch by inch they had carved out a life in this wilderness a fragile life that could be destroyed in seconds, by fire, flood and drought and yet it was their spirit for survival that gave them the will to begin again.