Absolution Creek (61 page)

‘W
here have you been?’ Meg emptied a saucepan down the sink and sat it back on the kitchen table. A steady stream of water was dripping from the ceiling in a number of places and it was all she could do to keep up with the rain infiltrating the other rooms in the house. ‘Surely it couldn’t have taken that long to fetch the rams in.’

Sam looked at her blankly. He was wet and muddy.

‘I had to take most of the paintings down in the dining room. One of the walls has rivulets of water pouring along the length of it. I think I’ve used every saucepan, towel and bucket in the house and I can’t stop it.’ She mopped up water on the kitchen table with a towel, squeezing the dirt-flecked moisture into the sink.

‘Where’s Cora?’

‘Who knows? The sunroom’s flooding from the drain pipe outside. The poddy lambs escaped from the garage after I fed them and the gutters are overflowing and –’

‘Forget about the house, Meg,’ Sam said, raising his voice. ‘Where’s Cora?’

‘Okay. You don’t have to yell. I haven’t seen her since you all rode out this morning.’ Meg glanced at the kitchen clock. It was now 3 pm. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘You could say that,’ he answered tightly. ‘Damn it all.’ He slumped in the nearest chair and then stood again, fidgeting with his shirt collar, his belt, the high back of the wooden chair.

‘The girls are in their room.’ Meg glanced towards the door leading to the walkway. ‘Tell me what’s happened.’

‘Kendal’s been injured.’

Meg’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Injured? How? Is it bad? Where is he?’

‘He fell in the shed. I swear it was an accident, Meg. He’s hurt bad, real bad.’

Meg grappled with the implication of Sam’s words. ‘So where is he?’

‘Still out there. I think he’s dead.’

Meg leant against the sink for support. ‘Oh, Sam.’

Cora tugged at the brim of her hat. The rain continued to pelt down and she could feel the water beginning to seep through the seams of the oilskin jacket. She’d been walking for hours and was still a good trek away from the main creek crossing. If only she’d left the homestead an hour earlier then maybe she would have found Montgomery before he’d decided to seek refuge under a stand of wilga trees. It took an hour to locate him. He had retreated a couple of miles to the south-east, as far from the creek as possible, and was nowhere near his usual patch of ground. It was a canny move on the ram’s part, but Cora couldn’t risk leaving him there alone with no access for weeks if they did get a good run down the creek. She was surprised Sam didn’t see Montgomery when he rode that way, but what did she expect? All these young blokes were tussock jumpers. They rode from tussock to tussock and saw nothing in between.

Horse gave a low whicker and nudged her shoulder. Cora knew what he was thinking: it was time to dump the ram and head home; every man for himself. She patted him on the nose and put up with his hair nibbling. Walking was the better option at the moment, for Montgomery and Horse had never been friendly and their meeting under the wilga tree earlier had led to an almost nose-to-nose standoff. Only a brief break in the rain and Cora’s dogged ‘on foot’ persistence managed to get Montgomery moving, and it had been a battle to keep up any pace since. The ram walked ahead slowly, his legs matted with mud, his wool sodden. Every so often he would stop, look over his shoulder at Cora and Horse, and then resume his onward progression. At the rate they were going it would be dark by the time they reached the crossing.

Cora pushed and ducked under belah branches heavy with rain. When they passed through the clearing where Jack’s original hut once stood – the one she had accidently burnt to the ground – Cora slowed. There had been no substantial flood here since before Jack Manning had walked this very ground. Here he’d cut scrub in a ring around the hut, fished at the creek, read letters from the woman he loved, who in return lied and lost him. They all lost him in the end and Cora still carried the scars.

Montgomery gave a series of grunts and trotted ahead, disappearing into a thick stand of trees. Cora resettled herself on Horse’s back, and followed the ram between the woody plants. The dense overhead canopy sheltered them a little from the rain, and it was here that Montgomery dug in his heels and stopped. Horse waited patiently as Montgomery considered both directions, his stately head turning first left then right.

‘We don’t really have time for a debate on this, Montgomery,’ Cora scolded. Horse whinnied in agreement.

The rain continued to fall steadily and with nothing to eat since the single piece of toast at James’s place at daylight, Cora knew she would have to draw on her resolve to get Montgomery to safety. ‘Don’t think about James,’ she chastised, ‘or Jack for that matter. Think about getting home.’

Finally Montgomery trundled onwards. Horse followed suit and they left the tree-arched pathway for open grassland and pouring rain.

Chapter 50

S
crubber never had seen such a dirty storm. It hounded him from the east, like a money-lender ferreting away, until by the time sunlight streamed into his eyes the angry squall was almost upon him. The rain had started real soft, similar to a woman pawing at his skin offering plenty, lulling a man into a false sense of security. Then the swirling breeze arrived, teasing, playful, raising dried leaves in swirling ribbons of brown, before shape-shifting into a fierce wind that lifted anything not tied down. Rubbing grit from his eyes, Scrubber elected to keep plodding onwards. The girls were pleased to be on their way again and Dog was back sitting astride Samsara, all little Lord Fauntleroy, nose in the air.

‘Well, mate –’ Scrubber patted the pouch at his waist ‘– how are you travelling?’

Hindsight wasn’t something Scrubber ever had time for, nevertheless, with the wind howling and the wet stuff from above increasing in intensity, he knew he should have fetched some timber and sourced a dry camp before the storm hit and darkness spread across the plains.

‘I know what you’re thinking. At my age a man should be prepared.’

The trouble was he never was one for minding a bit of wetness: that tangy splat of rain on a man’s face; the smell of dry dirt turning damp, branches heavy with moisture. Being cooped up in a hotel room only made Scrubber’s desire to keep moving greater. Once out in space and air he wanted to suck it all in. Hadn’t he been riding for the last three months trying to keep the east at his back, attempting to stall the inevitable while fulfilling the one thing that had been eating into him all these years? Course he had an excuse. Two actually. Veronica and then his own sickness.

‘Bugger.’ The rain lashed his face as Scrubber trotted his entourage towards the outline of some trees. The trunks were thick enough and close enough to provide a smattering of cover, and it was here Scrubber dismounted. ‘Get off, Dog.’ The mangy animal snarled, eyes glowing in the dark. Scrubber grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and threw him off, and then set about unsaddling the horses and his gear. He piled everything up in the direction of the incoming rain at the base of the thickest tree. Spiky leaves brushed his skin. He let the horses find their own cover and layered the ground with a couple of saddle blankets. Throwing the swag about his shoulders, he huddled close to the timber. Dog nosed his way into Scrubber’s cocoon, positioning himself under his bent knees.

It wasn’t too bad, Scrubber mused, opting for a positive slant as he peered out at the driving rain. He bit his lip as a sliver of pain ran through his belly, a razor slicing him raw. ‘Not now,’ he groaned. Hadn’t he been holed up in a hotel for two days without even the hint of an ache? The surge rippled and dissipated then bit again, fiercer, stronger. Scrubber concentrated on a blade of grass, watching the rain belting it back and forth. His vision blurred and refocused until an image of Squib wavered before him. Then the world went dark.

Chapter 51

A
trail of mud signalled their progress as Meg and Sam dragged Kendal through the homestead. Behind them the twins watched as Meg flipped back the bedcovers. Kendal flopped lifelessly onto the sheet. Meg grasped her side, pinching at a painful stitch.

‘Is Kendal hurt, Mummy?’ Penny had two fingers shoved in her mouth and Jill peeped over her sister’s shoulder.

Kendal was still alive, his breathing shallow. Sam pulled the boy’s muddy boots off. ‘Now what?’

Meg’s breath started to return to normal. ‘Turn him on his side.’ She grappled for nail scissors on the bedside table and began snipping at Kendal’s clothing.

‘We’ll be here all day,’ Sam complained, removing Kendal’s pocketknife from the boy’s belt and slicing through the material. The wound was on his shoulder: a deep gash that appeared to have bled itself out. ‘I reckon he knocked his head, that’s why he’s out to it.’ Sam stripped Kendal to the waist. ‘Penny, fetch a blanket from your room for me.’

Meg probed the nasty gash. The blood was already congealing. ‘I think you’re right.’ There wasn’t enough blood in the dirt at the work shed to suggest he was going to die from blood loss. Meg closed her eyes briefly in relief. They were lucky. Sam was very lucky. ‘When he wakes we’ll have a problem, won’t we?’ This was Sam’s third fight that Meg knew of, and although she expected Kendal to recover he’d definitely press charges. Her husband was looking at gaol time.