The Cedar Cutter (2 page)

‘Yarns,' Roisin echoed. She spun around, managing to catch her foot in the hem of her travelling skirt, before scuttling after Ruan's retreating back. The lack of light hit her the moment she passed under the timber lintel into the passageway. ‘Ruan!'

‘Down here, Mam.'

Following the sound of Ruan's high-pitched giggle and a burst of deeper laughter, she edged her way through the half-open door and stopped dead. ‘Excuse me!'

‘Just testing the bed.' Carrick slammed the palms of his big hands down on the coverlet, making Ruan bounce in the cloud of ensuing dust.

More shrieks of laughter from Ruan reverberated around the crowded room and Roisin smothered a sneeze, then groped in the pocket of her jacket for a handkerchief.

‘'Tis a very fine colour on you. Brings out the green in your eyes. Emerald like the green grass of home, enough to tweak a poor man's heartstrings.'

‘Come along, Ruan. Now.' Roisin grasped at her son's hand. As much as she longed to, she didn't dare make eye contact with the owner of the dulcet tones. Not again. What man noticed the colour of a woman's clothes? Even more, appreciated the fact she'd chosen the colour because it was an exact match to her eyes. It served her right, payment for a foolish moment of vanity.

‘That will be all, thank you.'

In a flash the cutter was on his feet. His lopsided grin made a mockery of her cold words and his wretched eyes sparkled with amusement. ‘The pleasure's mine, ma'am.' He tugged his forelock and winked at Ruan, before striding through the door, whistling some tune that reminded her of swirling skirts and madcap dancing.

‘Get off that bed. I need to put the bags there. Where are they?'

Ruan struggled off the mattress and landed on the floor with a bump. ‘Carrick put them down over there so they'd be out of the way.' He pointed into the back corner of the room where both bags sat in a forlorn heap.

‘I hope you said thank you to Mr … Carrick.'

‘Yes. And he said mates didn't thank each other.' Ruan gave a delighted jump. ‘I'm going to like it here.'

‘Ruan, darling,' she sighed, ‘you really must be a bit more sensible. You can't just go off with anyone who comes along. It's not the right thing to do.' Roisin couldn't bring herself to look into his eyes. Warnings like that belonged in Sydney, yet she couldn't shake her concerns. They'd become second nature after two years of looking over her shoulder every time she and Ruan set foot outside the house.

‘I wasn't following
just anyone
. I was following our blasted bags.' He slammed his hands on his hips and pouted.

‘What is the matter with you? I shall scrub your mouth out with carbolic if I hear words like that again. And for that matter they're not
blasted bags
, they contain our livelihood, our possessions.' Her most precious possession, the pocket sewing machine Aunt Lil had given her, bought for a song from a gold digger's wife when the woman and her husband had run short. ‘I'll have you remember …' Roisin sucked in a deep breath and glared at Ruan, a mirror image standing hands on hips scowling back at her. Her shoulders sank. ‘Oh, darling, I'm sorry. I'm tired after the long journey and you must be exhausted, too. I was worried. Come along, let's wash your face and hands and then we'll go and find some food.'

A jug and bowl sat atop the single corner cabinet. ‘You're big enough to do this yourself.'

While Ruan threw handfuls of water across his face and the floor, she rummaged through their bags until her fingers touched the tasselled silk shawl covering her pocket machine. It was there, safe, just as Ruan was.

Ruan scrubbed at his face, then his green eyes met hers over the top of the cloth and her heart hitched. She hadn't made a mistake. Leaving Sydney was the right, no … the
only
thing to do.

‘My turn and then we'll find something to eat.'

‘I'm not putting my coat back on.'

Roisin nodded into the damp cloth as she patted her face, thankful to remove the grime from the journey. None of the raggle-taggle bunch hanging around the inn wore a jacket. She'd never seen such a collection of brawny arms and muscled shoulders. What she needed was a decent night's sleep and some food, then with a bit of luck, this time tomorrow they would be in their new home.

She patted the envelope tucked into the pocket of her skirt, relishing the reassuring crinkle of paper; a letter of introduction to the Reverend Benson, who would provide the key to the house. The owner, Mr Martin, had assured her there would be no problem, saying he was pleased the property could be used and the women in the town would more than welcome Roisin's services. She couldn't wait. This would mark the end to all of the uncertainty and the beginning of a lifelong dream. Every penny she'd saved, she'd gambled on this venture, and she had every intention of making it a success. The idea had grown from the moment Aunt Lil had told her half the businesses in Sydney were run by women, some of them even ex-convicts. That was when she began to think that perhaps her plan wasn't as far-fetched as she'd originally believed.

‘Come on.' She smoothed Ruan's tousled hair behind his ears and opened the door. At least she didn't have the stigma of
convict
hanging over her head. She was as free as the day her mam had birthed her. If convict women could make a go of a business, then so could she.

When they entered the front room of the inn the woman behind the bar tipped her head towards a small table tucked against the wall. ‘There's room for you over there, lovey.'

‘Thank you, Mrs …'

‘Me name's Maisie. And you'd be?'

‘Roisin, Roisin Ogilvie.' She swallowed, praying Ruan didn't overhear her lie. ‘And my son, Ruan.' He was too busy staring around the room, wide-eyed. Her stomach rumbled in anticipation when Maisie pushed two huge helpings of stew across the counter.

‘And you take this.' She leant across the bar and handed Ruan a basket full of sweet-smelling damper.

Roisin glanced across at the rough-looking men sprawled in front of the smoking fire, hogging the best spot.

‘Don't worry about them. Just a bit rowdy. Celebrating Carrick's win.'

That confirmed it, as if she'd been in any doubt. Carrick was the
good-looking bloke she couldn't take her eyes off
. Her face flushed. Had she really made it so obvious? Nodding her thanks, she edged her way to an empty table tucked into the corner. The conversation lulled and then a large guffaw filled the room. Determined not to be intimidated, she concentrated on the task at hand, crossed the room and set the plates down and turned back to Ruan to take the damper.

The chair was whisked back from the table and she stared up, transfixed by the intent expression on the cutter's face. His eyes were an even deeper blue in the dim light, almost black, the colour intensified by his thick lashes. For the second time they stared at each other amidst the clatter and chaos for a long moment, the impact of his glance warming her skin and scoring a path deep down into her belly. ‘I can manage, thank you.'

‘Ah, you'd not be depriving a man of a bit of pleasure, would you?'

Pleasure? That wasn't a word to be discussing right now. Not in front of Ruan, not in connection with this man. ‘Thank you Mr …'

‘Carrick, Carrick O'Connor at your service.' He wiped a stained, roughened hand down his trousers then shook his head. ‘Maybe not. Cutter's hands.' He laughed and settled her into the chair. ‘And now for you, me lad.'

Before Roisin could speak, he swung Ruan onto the chair next to her. She turned aside, determined not to notice the muscles bunching in his arms, or the way his broad shoulders strained the seams of his stained shirt.

He pushed Ruan's stool up to the table. ‘Maisie does a rare mutton stew.'

‘Are you going to have some?' Ruan gazed up at the big man with a look suspiciously like adoration.

Oh, for goodness sake. The prospect of having to spend another moment in his company set her heart rate scampering. She'd never experienced anything quite like it before. It had to stop. ‘No, Ruan, the gentleman is busy with his friends. Now eat up and then it's time to sleep.'

‘Your mam's right. Eat up, won't you?' With a wink at Ruan he strode back to his cronies by the fire, picking up an oversized tankard from Maisie on his way.

‘Has Carrick eaten?' Ruan asked.

‘I have no idea.' Roisin pushed her spoon through the mutton stew in an attempt to set Ruan an example, but her appetite had vanished.

For a moment there he'd believed his sanity had deserted him. He rubbed at the cold fingers of fate still prickling the hairs on the back of his neck. When he'd first caught sight of them standing on the side of the road, it was as though the very angels had answered his prayers. Now, even in the half-light of the inn, he could see his mistake.

Where was she going and why? Meeting up with a husband or a lover? The child was hers, no doubt about that. He shared her eyes and she made no attempt to hide the fact he belonged to her. And why was she travelling alone?

He sneaked a glance at her over his shoulder. She reminded him of days gone by, hair somewhere between the spun gold of the sunshine and the pure new cedar in the forest after the first axe stroke. And those eyes, flaming emeralds heightened by the artifice of her outrageous green jacket, the colour of new leaves, love and home. Certainly not a widow. He hadn't seen a woman dressed in a colour that bright since … since ever.

Tossing back the last of his drink, he dragged his attention to the timber cutters' stories growing taller by the second as the free-flowing rum lubricated their imagination. Let them have their fun before they headed back to the forest for another bout of hard labour. The possibility of crossing the path of the delightful Miss … he didn't even know her name. That wasn't good enough.

‘Who's for another, for the road?' Clasping the eager, outstretched tankards, he made his way to the bar. ‘Fill 'em up, Maisie. There's a girl.' His gaze strayed to the table in the corner, where they sat, heads close. Her hair was shades darker than the strawberry blond of the boy's.

‘She's a sweet young thing, is she not?'

‘Aye. And you needn't grin at me like that, you scheming old witch. I'm back to the forests tomorrow.' Back where he wanted to be, in the company of men relying on strength, nothing more. He'd not have his heart ripped out again, though it couldn't hurt to know her name. ‘Has the sweet young thing got a name?'

‘What would that be to you if you're going back to your timber cutting?'

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Just curious. The boy's Ruan. That's a good Irish name. Little red one.'

‘And she's Roisin, another good Irish name.' Maisie winked one of her I-told-you-so looks. ‘Though there's not much poor Irish about her, dressed like that. That jacket would be worth as much as one of your cedar trees.'

‘I'd be doubting that.' He picked up the drinks and made his way back. Full to the brim, the tankards slopped rum across the back of his hands and down his fingers. He plonked them onto the table and licked away the sticky mess. He'd be needing every drop tonight to keep the ghosts at bay. It didn't do for the boss to be heard thrashing and screaming. His cutters were hard men and it took an even harder one to keep them in line, to make them pull together in the forest and keep them safe. Complain as they did, they were happy enough when they divided the profits; better than slaving for the bleeding government.

‘Give us a tune, Slinger.'

‘Where's your fiddle?'

‘Something from the old country. A taste of home.'

And so it all began again, the simple pattern of the last night free of the forest. Slinger caressed the old fiddle as a man would a woman. Perhaps it reminded him of someone he loved. Carrick had never asked. They'd cut together for years, from the days when they both wore the irons, and never asked questions. Rarely did a man tell of what went before. That was the realm of dreams, the land of what if and one day. So long as there was something to return to.