Miles Off Course (12 page)

“What do you think?”

Rowland smiled faintly. “I don’t know… I have a couple of enemies, but these blokes seem persistent. Most of the people I offend are not so committed.”

Edna frowned. “I don’t like this, Rowly.”

“It’s not ideal,” Rowland agreed as he gunned the engine. “But so far all they’ve managed to do is terrorise my housekeeper.”

The Rules Point Guesthouse overlooked Long Plain, the vast fertile plateau which had been divided into what had become known as snow leases—generous tracts of Crown land
which were leased for summer and autumn grazing. The guesthouse was a rustic construction, with a high pitched roof of corrugated iron. A wide verandah surrounded the main wing, around which were
clustered smaller structures including a well, stables and, of course, the amenities. Rowland glanced at the last dubiously. He’d become accustomed to plumbing.

A round yard had been erected close to the guesthouse, with a rough bush fence which straddled the trees. There were a few horses within the yard. Several stockmen perched on the fence, and
followed the yellow Mercedes with slow, hat-shadowed eyes.

Rowland parked beside a pale-barked snow gum and they climbed out into the chilly day. Edna pulled her coat tighter. It was hard to believe it was just March.

“Winter comes early here, doesn’t it,” she said, shivering.

Clyde laughed. “This isn’t winter, Ed. This isn’t even cold for up here.”

They were welcomed warmly on the doorstep by a very large, quite elderly woman, who introduced herself as Mrs. Harris.

She bustled them in to the fireside. Despite Rowland’s concern that the establishment would prove to be on the rudimentary side of rustic, the guesthouse was neat and inviting. It was not
opulent, or even stylish; more homey than fashionable. The easychairs were well-worn and draped with patchwork quilts and knitted blankets. The hearth had been scrubbed and the mantel was set with
framed photographs and little china figurines.

“I’m afraid you gentlemen will have to share a room. We’re quite full with the Sports Day on Saturday.”

“The Sports Day?”

Mrs. Harris beamed, her round face creasing upwards. “Oh yes, it’s quite the occasion, my word! Folks come from all over to watch and take part in the events. There’s a dance
afterwards… you’re really in for a treat, my word you are.”

She showed them to their rooms. Each boasted four beds, although Edna had a room to herself. Like the rest of the guesthouse the bedrooms were furnished simply in a manner that was more
comfortable than impressive. There was a wardrobe on either side of the window, and a washstand in the corner with a large pitcher of water and towels. Each room had a door which opened onto the
verandah. The bathrooms were, as Rowland had noted earlier, external.

“We light the fire under the water tank every afternoon so that there’s ample hot water for everyone, my word there is,” Mrs. Harris assured them. “Now would you care for
a cup of tea? I’ve just baked a butter cake.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Harris, but I’m meeting an associate in the bar this afternoon. We might just wait in there for him.”

Mrs. Harris looked at Edna. “All of you?”

“I might have that cup of tea, Mrs. Harris,” Edna said, smiling briefly at Rowland. There was no need to start out by upsetting their hostess.

And so they parted company. Edna disappeared with Mrs. Harris, chatting happily about the upcoming Sports Day and the other guests of Rules Point. The gentlemen retired to the bar to wait for
Moran.

As it was, they didn’t have to wait all that long.

The bar was crowded, being the only establishment with a liquor licence for miles. A few dogs had crept in behind their masters and lay unobtrusively at the base of bar stools or under tables.
Milton, or more likely his attire, received a few sideways glances but generally the patrons appeared used to guests from the city. Rowland ordered drinks and asked the barman to let them know when
Moran walked in, which he did just a few minutes later.

A thin and weathered figure, Moran’s hat slouched low over his eyes. He wore a long riding jacket, split high at the back to accommodate the saddle. He went straight to the bar, ordered a
whisky and slammed it down. Rowland waited, watching as the stockman made enquiries of the bartender. Moran straightened when he realised Rowland was already there, and removed his hat as he made
his way to their table.

They stood.

Moran’s eyes, now visible, moved slowly from Rowland to Milton and Clyde.

Rowland put out his hand. “Mr. Moran, Rowland Sinclair.”

Moran shook his hand silently. His face relaxed into a broad smile that showed more gold than teeth, and Rowland introduced Clyde and Milton.

“Pleased to meet you gentlemen,” Moran said as they sat down. “I’m just sorry you had to come all the way up here. I told that other Mr. Sinclair that we’ve got
your mob in hand, sir. We’ll bring them in as planned, even short-handed. There was really no need for you to come.”

“Except for the fact that Harry Simpson is missing,” Rowland replied evenly.

Moran shrugged. “Oh, Simpson… His kind do that, don’t they? Somethin’ in their blood.”

“I understand that you and Harry didn’t necessarily see eye to eye.”

“That’s just gossip… those fellas from Batlow, I s’pose. Me and Simpson had our differences. The High Country ain’t like drovin’ on the flats. He was a bit
arrogant your Mr. Simpson—seems he forgot who he was at times.”

Clyde and Milton recognised the hardening of Rowland’s gaze, the very slight flex of his jaw, but Moran did not.

“Are you saying he forgot he was in charge? Because as I understand it, Mr. Moran, we put him in charge.”

Moran looked at him. “Naw, you mistake me, sir. I had no problem with Simpson, but you pay me to look after your mob. Sometimes I had to point things out to Simpson and he didn’t
take that kindly. He was a bit high and mighty, considerin’…”

“Considering what?”

“Considerin’ we were all there to do the same job.”

Rowland took a breath. “When did you last see Simpson?”

“About ten days ago. Had breakfast and he went off to check the Eastern boundaries.”

“And he didn’t return?”

“Nope. After a day or two, I rode down to Caves House and had them call the other Mr. Sinclair and send a telegram to the agent in Tumut. A couple of blokes quit, but all in all
we’ve been managin’ pretty well. We’ll start to bring the mob in after the Sports Day. It’s been a tough season… we’ve lost a few head… but so has
everyone else.”

For a moment Rowland said nothing, and then, “Where are the men now?”

Moran smiled, a little embarrassed. “With the mob. Some of them are comin’ in for the Sports Day,” he said. “Most of the stockmen ride in for it,” he added
defensively. “It’s only a day and it can get awful dull up here.”

“Well I certainly wouldn’t begrudge you that, Mr. Moran,” Rowland replied. “We might come out with you after the Sports Day. I’d like to talk to the men myself, see
if any of them saw anything.”

“It’d be a waste of time, if you don’t mind me sayin’, Mr. Sinclair. None of the boys saw nothin’.”

“Still, I’d like to have a look around myself. If you’re short-handed we may even be of some use.”

Moran laughed loudly at the notion.

Rowland was mildly affronted but outwardly he didn’t react.

“Well, sir,” Moran said finally, “if you’re determined, I can’t stop you comin’ out, but I gotta warn you: the boys ain’t used to tourists, you may find
them a bit rough.”

“I’ll take that risk, Mr. Moran.”

E
dna sat contentedly at the sturdy kitchen table, drinking sweet black tea and eating rich butter cake. Mrs. Harris and her fellow proprietress, a
Mrs. Bruce, bustled about with news and gossip. Both women had a largesse that matched their physical size; they were baking for the upcoming Sports Day. Judging by the rotation of trays being
placed into the Metters stove, quite the crowd was expected. While they mixed and rolled pastry and fed the firebox, they regaled the young woman from the city with stories of stockmen and guests,
laughing often and loud, their great soft bellies jiggling with mirth.

A couple of very young poddy lambs were settled in a basket by the stove and got up to explore occasionally, wandering a few feet on their awkward spindly legs before they were shooed back.

Edna absorbed the warmth of the kitchen and the company. She smiled, picturing the two elderly women in sculpture, smooth round shapes polished to a gentle sheen. Clay she thought, not
bronze—there was something earthy about the old girls. She would pit-fire the sculptures so that the figures would be baked like the biscuits which filled the house with their aroma.

“I’ll just put in another roast for supper, Mrs. Harris,” Mrs. Bruce said, as she took the last tray of biscuits from the oven. “With three extra gentlemen we’ll be
wanting at least another leg.”

“Yes, my word, Mrs. Bruce.” Mrs. Harris checked the soup simmering on the stove top. “Miss Brent will be wanting her tray as usual, I suppose.”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. She’s still eating in her room.”

“Oh dear, is she unwell?” Edna asked.

“Oh no. My word, she’s as healthy as a horse!” Mrs. Harris laughed, her enormous girth bouncing gently. “Our Miss Brent is a writer… working on her latest book.
Very committed she is. Why she’s been here for weeks and we’ve barely seen her.”

“Brent?” Edna tried to place the name. “I don’t think I’ve heard of her. Is she very famous?”

Mrs. Harris looked at Mrs. Bruce and Mrs. Bruce looked back. The pause was just a breath too long.

“No, no… not at all.” Mrs. Harris decided. “You won’t have heard of her, my word.”

“What is she writing?”

“Something about a monkey, I believe.”

Rowland, Clyde and Milton enjoyed the benefits of the bar for a while after Moran had left, and so were in that congenial state just beyond complete sobriety when they returned
to Edna. It was nearly suppertime by then and so they joined the rest of the guests in the dining room where the waitress brought them generous plates of the fare which Edna had watched being
prepared. Over roast lamb and potatoes they told her of Moran and their plans to go out to where the men were camped.

“We’ll have to get horses.” Clyde poured more gravy over his plate. “There’re no roads,” he added, as Rowland began to protest. “You don’t want to
have to abandon your car because she gets bogged or worse, Rowly.”

“No, I suppose not. I’ll speak to Mrs. Harris and try to arrange something.”

Edna beamed. “When are we going?”

Rowland halted. He had actually expected, hoped, that Edna would stop at the guesthouse. He mentioned that.

Edna cocked her head to one side. For a moment, Rowland dared to believe she was considering it. Then she laughed. “No, I think I’ll come.”

“Ed…”

“I’m not made of glass, Rowly. What happened, happened, I’m all right now.” She glared at him, challenging him to tell her otherwise.

Milton glanced at Clyde. They had both known it would be only a matter of time before Edna rose against Rowland’s protectiveness. It had never been in her nature to take a back seat,
however safer that seat might be.

“Ed, we may have to stay out there a couple of nights. It’s a camp of men…”

Edna spoke quietly, a bit too fiercely. “I’ve never been afraid of men, Rowly.”

“Come on, Ed,” Milton said. “Be reasonable.” He suspected that Edna was trying to prove something to herself more than to Rowland. Still, the sculptress had very nearly
died.

Rowland met Edna’s eyes, a little uncertainly. He knew Edna would never tolerate any compromise of her independence, however well-intentioned, but that bastard had nearly killed her.