The Cedar Cutter (9 page)

Roisin nodded, her cup cradled in her hands as she blew a stream of air across the top of the scalding tea. ‘I don't know where he finds all these things. They keep turning up.'

‘Boys like to collect things. I'll keep my eyes open in case I see anything he might like.' It didn't explain how the blown egg had come to be in the woodshed and sure as shite it hadn't got there by itself. He pushed back his chair. ‘Is there anything else I can be doing? Have a look at that chimney in the front perhaps?'

‘Oh, would you? Now I've got the trunks I can set up shop, and if I'm going to use the room for fittings it mustn't be cold.' A hint of colour stole across her cheeks, no doubt at the thought she might be discussing ladies' business in front of a man.

‘I expect it'll be something else for young Ruan's treasure box hiding up the chimney.'

She raised her head and locked eyes with him. A flash of fear, at least he thought it was fear, traced her eyes, but in the next moment it had gone. ‘A possum nest would be my guess. The chimney hasn't been used for a few years and they've moved in. Let me go and have a look.'

Roisin cleared the table and swept up the crumbs from the scones, then carried them outside to throw to the birds. No wonder Ruan found eggs and feathers everywhere for his treasure box. She attracted the birds by feeding them. They must have made a nest inside the woodshed. She pushed the door wide and peered into the gloomy depths, pausing to allow her eyes to adjust to the dimness. Since Carrick had cleared the old timber and chopped new pieces, the pungent smell had dissipated, replaced by the clean, sweet smell of fresh wood. Surely a bird wouldn't nest in the dark and it didn't account for the egg being blown. Someone had done it. Maybe Carrick hadn't found it, maybe he'd brought it with him as a little surprise for Ruan. He was full of tricks and treats like that.

Shaking her head at her own foolishness, she returned to the house. Ruan sat at the kitchen table, his box of treasures in front of him, sorting the strange assortment of bits and pieces. It kept him amused, but he needed more of her time and attention. Before they left Sydney he had already begun to learn his letters, though she'd paid him scant attention since they'd arrived in Wollombi. He lined up a group of stones then added a few more and muttered twelve.

‘It's all sorted now.' Carrick appeared, dwarfing the doorway, thick black curls in a messy disarray hanging almost to his shoulders, and those eyes, as indigo as the night sky, above a mouth that just wouldn't stop grinning. ‘No possum nest, just a lot of leaves, sticks and soot. Shall I be lighting the fire?' He ruffled Ruan's hair and pulled up a chair, peering into the box with fierce concentration. He sat down next to him and laid his arm along the back of his chair.

Something about his familiarity made her skin prickle, a reminder of Sydney, the lascivious look on Dankworth's face as he'd recognised his own blood. The fear that had clutched at her throat as he'd reached out for Ruan.

‘So these are your treasures?' Carrick plucked a dried gum nut out of the box and twisted it in his fingers.

Ruan nodded and continued to line up the stones in the base.

‘You'll be needing a new box soon. This one's as good as full now you've got the eggshell.'

Had he really found the eggshell in the woodshed? She caught the expression on Carrick's face as he tousled Ruan's hair. A faraway look in his eyes, almost as though he wanted her son for himself. It made her want to scoop Ruan up and hug him close. Thoughts like that belonged in Sydney, not here, not where they were meant to be out of harm's way.

All of a sudden she wanted Carrick gone, out of the house. What if he took her in his arms again? What if his attentions were simply a way of getting to Ruan? ‘I'm going to start unpacking my trunks. I must get my business up and running.' Did he expect some sort of reward for his favours, for bringing the trunks, chopping the wood, clearing the chimney? She stopped stock-still. Heavens above, she'd never thought of that. How naïve could she be? The way he'd pulled her to him when he'd arrived. Did he think she'd be happy to exchange her favours for his?

Carrick didn't respond, didn't even glance at her, instead he concentrated on Ruan. ‘What's this here?'

‘It's a skull. I thought it was a skeleton, but it's only the head. See here where his eyes went.' Ruan smoothed his finger across the polished bone, making her shudder.

‘And where were you finding it?'

‘On my window when I woke up.'

‘On your window. How would it be getting up there? Did the fairies leave it?'

Ruan stared at him with complete disdain and Carrick winked and elbowed him in the ribs. He squirmed and squealed and threw himself across the big man's lap. Carrick tucked him under his arm and stood, lifting Ruan high in the air, spinning him around until she was dizzy with watching. Her bright-eyed, towheaded boy laughing as she'd never heard before and Carrick's deep rumbling chuckle filling the room. The next minute he took off with Ruan clasped in his big hands.

The door slammed behind them and her heart started to hammer, one blow after the next, pulsing with fear. She flew to the door and wrenched it open. The garden was empty, the door to the woodshed swung in the breeze.
No!
It couldn't be happening, she shouldn't have let her guard down, begun to relax. She scooted down the path out to the brook.

Cavorting on the grassy bank, Carrick and Ruan performed some strange sort of dance involving yelping and screaming and carrying on. Her legs turned to jelly, her knees wobbly and she sank onto the damp grass.

Before she could steady herself, Ruan threw himself down next to her. ‘Mam, Mam. Save me.'

Because she needed it more than he did, she lifted him into her arms for a ferocious hug. ‘It's time you came inside now.' Her breath heaved and her voice sounded breathless and wavering, more from her vivid imagination than her flight from the house.

A shadow fell over them. Carrick. His face grinned down at her, as flushed and excited as Ruan's. Her heart started thumping again. He had to leave. Now. She couldn't let him into the house again. She struggled to her feet, ignoring his outstretched hand offering assistance. ‘Thank you. I really can't impose on your time any longer. You've been too kind.' And too terrifying. Taking Ruan and running outside, frightening her half to death.

‘You're not imposing. I've got nothing on me plate until early tomorrow morning when I'll head to the Yarramalong. I won't be back for another while. You'll be needing some more wood, the shed's as good as empty.'

‘I can arrange the delivery of some wood myself, Mr O'Connor.' She clasped Ruan tightly by the hand and made her way back to the house, praying he wouldn't follow. She knew she was being rude. Now the thought that he might take Ruan had invaded her mind she couldn't get rid of the man fast enough. ‘Thank you.' She repeated. He frowned at her, he must have noticed the change in her behaviour. No matter how attractive or amusing she found him this was not a good idea. Ruan's attachment to him was bad enough without admitting to her own.

He nodded and the corner of his mouth quirked in disappointment. ‘I'll be seeing you, then. Goodbye, young man.'

‘Goodbye, Mr O'Connor,' she chimed before Ruan had a chance to respond.

Ruan tossed a quick, fleeting grin over his shoulder before he turned and ran inside, unaware of the ridiculous heart-wrenching fear gripping her.

As she locked the door a wave of relief swept over her. Ruan buried his head in his treasure box, oblivious to her churning emotions. In her trunk she had some pattern paper and charcoal. She'd find them and give them to him. They should keep him amused while she unpacked the trunks and soothed her befuddled brain. Their clothes could remain in the smaller trunks in the bedroom and the lid would serve as a dressing table. The sooner she set up her business and started work the better. Then she wouldn't need help from anyone.

Carrick had pushed the largest of her three trunks up against the wall in the parlour. She sat on it, running her hand over the studded surface, fighting a pang of homesickness. How she and Aunt Lil had laughed when they'd packed it, imagining all the customers who would flock to her door and the flurry of business she'd have. Well, that was to be seen. She could hardly remember what they'd put inside now. It had been forgotten in the mad rush when that wretched man had started hounding her, following her every time she left the house, demanding to see Ruan, shouting about rights and records. How he could imagine that she'd hand over her son, out of the blue, just like that. He hadn't even known of his existence until that chance meeting on the street. She'd seen the flash of recognition in his eyes the moment Ruan had gazed up at him. Why would a man like that, an upper-class toff, be interested in his by-blow, the result of his filthy attack?

Goosebumps flecked her arms and she rubbed her hands up and down, forcing away the thoughts. She had to forget, put the past behind her, otherwise what was the point of leaving Sydney? She wouldn't let anyone have Ruan, not now, not ever. Ruan was her son. No one else's.

Jumping to her feet, she pushed her tumbled hair away from her face and bent to the padlock on the trunk. The key slipped in and turned without complaint and she lifted the lid. Spread across the top was her patchwork quilt. She pulled it out and held it to her cheek, inhaling the flowery scent, such a reminder of her mam, Aunt Lil and all her friends. Each scrap of material had a story to tell. Ruan's first nightdress, pieces of her mother's favourite silk shawl, scraps from the first sampler she'd made. Bunching it into her arms, she carried it down the hallway to the bedroom. She shook it high, each little piece of colour sparkling with memories as it floated down, and covered the bed. She let out a long, slow breath. Now the house felt like home.

Disgruntled, Carrick kicked the stone along the path running alongside the brook. What had happened? Why had she closed him out like that? He belted the stone and it swung off the bank and into the water. Too fast, too strong a kick, just like he'd behaved with Roisin. A woman needed to take things slow, he'd forgotten about that.

He found the bullocky down by the brook, the campfire raging and the billy boiling, the ever-present flagon of rum at his feet.

‘Wasn't expecting to see you back here. Lady friend turn you down, did she?'

More than turned him down, as good as kicked him out. ‘No. She's got things to do. Unpacking those trunks. She was pleased to get them though.' Just not so pleased to see him and have him in her home.

‘Sounds like you've been given the heave-ho to me. Here.' He passed up the flagon of rum.

‘Thanks.' The rum burned a path down his throat, dousing the memories and the pain in his heart. He was better staying away, the lad reminded him too much of Liam. Thoughts like that would make him soft and he hadn't the time. The stand was as good as cleared. He needed to move on. His deposits in the bank were mounting.

He tipped the flagon and drained it. ‘Let's go see what's for tea. I want to make an early start in the morning.'

The inn was crowded, the start of another round for the cutters. Familiar faces, same old rivalries, tall tales and free-flowing rum. The noise was enough to make a man long for the forest. Carrick knocked back another tankard then weaved his way to the bar. ‘Whass for tea, Maisie?'

‘You'll want to be quick.' She tossed her head in the direction of the crowd clustered around the fireplace. ‘The cutters are in from Paterson. Reckon they'll drink me dry, never mind the food.'

‘Good job Slinger's tucked up in the forest, then. Had a run-in with the bastards last time.'

‘They're a rough bunch and making the most of it. I'll give you a hoy when your tea's ready.' She pushed a full tankard across the bar.

The reputation of the Paterson crew preceded them. A large group of hard-drinking, hard-fighting men who liked nothing more than a barney once the grog took 'em. Crowded around the fire in a tight semi-circle, the cutters packed the small room, fists thumping as a hefty bloke tossed a couple of cartwheel pennies from a cedar chip. All eyes followed the coins as they twisted and fell to the ground. Cries of outrage from the losers rent the air and serious money changed hands.