The Cedar Cutter (44 page)

Settled in a frail patch of moonlight outside the General Store, Roisin sat and shivered. Almost twelve hours had passed since Carrick and Slinger had ridden down the road in a flurry of dust, more since Dankworth had taken Ruan. The courthouse was locked tight, and there was no sign of Maisie, Elsie or the cutters. Only a brooding silence, as though the whole town was holding its breath behind closed doors, waiting.

Roisin couldn't take her eyes off the road winding over the hill and disappearing into the moonlit line of trees. She'd never travelled that way, never needed to. Carrick had brought her trunks, Alfie Sullivan drove it twice a week bringing the mail and supplies, the bullock drays took their loads along it, whereas she had no idea what lay around the corner. The air was stiller than the grave. Not even a breath of wind in the trees. She squinted into the darkness, seeing clouds of dust, hearing the drum of hooves where there were none. Or were there?

She shaded her eyes, the muscles in her stomach clutched in an even tighter ball, and she pushed back the chair. She couldn't bear it, couldn't sit a moment longer. Moving to the centre of the road she started walking.

The blood buzzed in her head as she took one step after another, one foot then the next. The cloud of dust billowed, grew larger. Blood throbbed through her body, vibrating up from the soles of her feet to meet the tangled knot in her stomach. Her feet took on a life of their own, pushing her forward as she ran, ran down the road, past the cemetery, over the rise and down towards the millpond. And then her heart stopped.

Dust swirled in the silvery light and the drumming increased. She opened her mouth to call but no sound came out, her mouth was dry, her throat tight. Through the haze a horse appeared, its hooves beating out the tattoo in her heart.

‘Mam!'

Her legs turned to jelly and she sank to the road.

His hand reached for the nape of her neck and drew her close, his soft cheek against hers. ‘I'm home. Don't cry.'

Ruan's fingers wiped the tears, tears she didn't know she was shedding. ‘Carrick rescued me. I'm home. Slinger threw me and we galloped nearly all the way.'

Then Carrick's arms wrapped round her, taking her weight, lifting her to her feet. She buried her face in his chest, with its cedar scent, musky and alive; the hard, fast beat of his heart against her cheek.

‘We're here now. It's over.' His voice smooth and deep, potent as the rum he favoured, soothed. ‘Come, let's go home.'

She didn't want explanations, didn't want to know what had happened. He and Ruan were here. That was enough.

Then he was kissing her, kissing her mouth. She clung to him as if they might drown if they did not hold onto each other. He became still, so very still, then his lips moved below hers and she felt him smile.

Ruan tugged at her hand. ‘Come on, Mam. I need my treasure box. And I'm ravenous, real hungry.' He towed her along the road and Carrick fell into step beside her, leading the horse, his arm tight around her shoulders. The three of them moving side by side, step by step. Warmth replaced the cold stone of fear that had been lodged for so long in her chest and she smiled up at the man who held her heart in the palm of his strong, calloused hands.

‘I told you that day after the Woodchop yer lad's as safe as houses with me. Did you not believe me?'

As they rounded the bend at the millpond the town came into view. It was no longer sleeping, and the street was full. Elsie and Maisie, the cutters, the Blackmores, Mr Winchester, everyone was crowded in a group in front of the inn, waving and calling. Then Jane appeared, her hair streaming and legs flying as she ran towards them.

‘Carrick?'

‘Yes, my love.'

‘Where's Slinger?' Why wasn't he here? She hadn't even asked. She was so overwhelmed, she hadn't spared a thought.

‘Don't be worrying yourself, he'll be along soon. He's just tidying up the ends. Slinger's a lucky man.' He winked at her. ‘But I've got the luck of the Irish and I've got you.' He raised her hand and kissed it.

‘Jane will want to know where he is.'

‘Aye.'

He didn't want to speak to Jane. Didn't want to have to lie. Slinger was fine. He had to be. He'd waited, waited for over an hour outside Morpeth, and when Slinger hadn't appeared, he'd left as he'd promised, to bring back the lad. Slinger's words still niggled.
Cutter's justice.

Jane slithered to a halt in front of them. ‘Where's Slinger?'

‘He'll be back in a day or two. Got some unfinished business.' He looked away, up the road, hoping against hope Slinger would appear. Finally he summoned the courage to turn to Jane.

Tears pooled in her eyes and her lips quivered. ‘He's all right? Not hurt?'

‘He's fine.' At least he hoped to God he was.

‘I hoped he'd come back. He told me he would.'

‘He'll be back, of that I promise you. Give him a day or two.'

It broke his heart to utter the words as she turned away into Elsie's waiting arms. It was no longer his story to tell. Besides, he didn't know the ending.

‘Carrick?'

He buried his face in Roisin's golden-red hair, drew in her scent. ‘It's over now.' He framed her face with his hands. Her eyes, shadowed yet steady, gazed up at him and in that moment everything changed. Revenge couldn't fill the hole in his heart, only Roisin and Ruan could do that.

The desire for vengeance that had fuelled his very existence, sustained him for so long, leached away, replaced by hope and the future, a future with her and Ruan. ‘You mean everything to me. Everything.'

The love he had for Roisin was stronger than all the ghosts in Ireland. Better to honour Liam and Brigid's memory by giving up the misery, the recriminations and reprisals. Roisin had healed his need for blood, his need to strike back. He fingered the brand on his shoulder—that was Liam and Brigid's memorial, ever with him, not some cold granite lump on a grassy hillside he could no longer see. Time to move from the shadows into the light—the light that was Roisin, Ruan and their love.

‘You are my home now, you and the lad. I want you so much I can scarcely draw breath. Will you have me?'

Her lips met his and clung, all the sweeter now he'd stepped into the light of her eyes and left the darkness behind.

THE MAITLAND MERCURY
WEDNESDAY 14th

AUGUST 1855

FATALITY ABOARD THE SS
MAITLAND.

[BY TELEGRAPH.]

(FROM OUR WOLLOMBI CORRESPONDENT.)

As the steamer Maitland, which left Morpeth at 3.00 yesterday afternoon, was coming round Nobbys, one of the passengers, Mr GD Dankworth, a man of 31 years of age, was opening the gangway doors, when the vessel gave a lurch and he fell overboard. The engines were at once stopped and a boat lowered to search for him, but no trace of the poor fellow could be found. It is feared that he was struck by one of the paddle wheels, and sank immediately. His travelling companion raised the alarm and only three minutes elapsed from the time of his falling overboard to the lowering of the boat. It is believed the deceased was involved in an altercation on the wharf before boarding and may have become disorientated.

Mr Dankworth has been several years in the colony, and was a well-known Sydney figure and landowner in the Yarramalong. Great regret is felt at his death. He is survived by his wife, Lady Alice. Sadly, the Dankworths were not blessed with children.

[It will be seen by our telegrams that the body of the unfortunate man was found in Newcastle harbour on Sunday, and a verdict of found drowned was returned at the inquest held upon it.]

The Cedar Cutter
began with photograph in my local Museum—three larrikins admiring a massive, felled cedar tree. Throw in an obituary I stumbled across on TROVE and the village of Wollombi in the Hunter Valley, the place I am lucky enough to call home, and this story started taking shape. The name ‘Wollombi' is derived from the Aboriginal meaning ‘meeting place'. The traditional owners are believed to be the Darkinjung, Awabakal and Wanaruah people although many others travelled hundreds of miles to visit Mount Yengo, a place of huge cultural and ceremonial significance connected to the Dreamtime story of the creation of the Earth. In 1833, after the completion of the Great Northern Road, plans for the village of Wollombi appeared in the NSW Government Gazette and by the mid nineteenth century Wollombi had become a thriving European community. Yarramalong is an Aboriginal word meaning ‘the place of cedar'. The valley is now part of the Central Coast region of New South Wales. Timber cutters driving bullock drays from Wollombi and Maitland logged the area until it was permanently settled in 1856.

Competitive Woodchop competitions began in Tasmania, and quickly became a popular sport throughout Australia making an appearance at the Sydney Royal Easter Show in 1899. Every October, down on the banks of the Wollombi Brook, behind the Tavern, the Wollombi Woodchop is held. It is a more recent event so I have to admit to tweaking the timeline there, and in a few other places, to fit the fictional story. I take full responsibility for any errors.

Massive thanks are due to so many people…

Sue Brockhoff, Annabel Blay, Laurie Ormond and the entire team at Harlequin Australia. It is a pleasure and a privilege to work with you all. Also to my editor Alex Nahlous for her patient and insightful editing.

My wonderful critique partners Eva Scott, Ann B Harrison, Sarah Barrie and Joanna Lloyd who are there for me every step of the way. They listen to my mad ideas, read my dodgy plots and plans and without them my stories would never reach a conclusion.

And last but not least, thanks to the Wollombi locals, most especially ‘wardrobe consultant' Lynda Marsh, Wollombi's own historian, Carl Hoipo, and Charles—I still can't make sense of those topographical maps!