The Convict and the Cattleman

Also by Allison Merritt

The Convict and the Cattleman

The Wrong Brother’s Bride

THE CONVICT AND THE CATTLEMAN

By ALLISON MERRITT

LYRICAL PRESS

http://lyricalpress.com/

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/

To my parents, who put the pen in my hand and showed me what happily-ever-after looks like.

1

Parramatta Female Factory, New South Wales

October, 1840

One could go wrong with bringing a convict into his life. Especially when the prisoner in question was a young woman. It was only out of necessity Jonah Andrus sat in the hot, cluttered office. Three thousand women in Australia, give or take, and his last option was hiring a convict in lieu of a civilized nursemaid.

“I’m afraid I don’t have an older woman at the moment, Mr. Andrus.” Mrs. Bell, the factory matron, folded her leathery hands on the scarred desktop. Her mouth pinched in a frown. “The inmate I’ve arranged has the experience you specified. I’ve personally observed her work. You can’t go wrong with her.”

“That isn’t acceptable. There are a thousand women alone in this factory. You couldn’t find one old crone who’d be suitable?”

Her eyes narrowed. “May I ask why you desire an older woman?”

The answer appeared obvious. He failed to understand how she missed it. “I won’t have some tart tempting my men. I can’t have them thinking about women while they should be working cattle.”

Mrs. Bell’s frown grew. “In the six weeks since her arrival, I’ve never seen her spare more than a passing glance at any of the guards or male convicts.”

Playing hard to get, no doubt. He ignored the matron’s assurance. “You failed to mention her crime.”

“She has no record prior to her arrest in Dublin. The prisons there are overcrowded, as they are in much of the isles.”

He drummed his fingers against his leg. “Mrs. Bell, her crime.”

The matron looked insulted. “I’m not excusing her actions. Merely trying to place a woman in a decent job so she can be properly rehabilitated before her sentence is completed. I try to place the qualified ones as soon as possible after they arrive.”

The flesh beneath her eye twitched as he stared.

“She attempted to relieve another woman of a few coins. It’s not as if she’s a murderess. Will you at least agree to look at Miss Madden? You can see for yourself if she’s up to your standards.”

All their stories were alike. Thieves, beggars, whores or murderers. Few women in the budding country were decent, proper ladies. Jonah ground his teeth. He’d come this far. There wasn’t time for a journey to one of the other factories. “Fine. Let’s see her.”

Relief fluttered across Mrs. Bell’s face, softening the lines around her mouth. “A moment more of your time then, sir.” The robust older woman rose, hurried to the door and disappeared.

Jonah rubbed his forehead, willing away the headache caused by the tension in his shoulders. The words of his cook came to mind, sharp as when they’d passed through her lips.
Her
daughter was of proper English bloodlines.
Her
daughter was of age to marry.
Her
daughter could provide heirs for his empire. Calling the girl ugly would be a compliment. That she was of a better temper than her mother was her saving grace.

Opening his eyes at the sound of footsteps, he observed the room Mrs. Bell dared call an office. A weak patch of sunlight peeking through the single, grimy window only served to make the dust-covered room drearier. Tattered, stained papers and leather-bound books with broken spines covered all but the smallest spot on the desk. A filthy, unraveling rag rug lay in front of the door. The floor was dirt, but he felt certain it hadn’t been swept in a very long time. Bits of litter hugged the sandstone walls.

He loathed being inside the gaol walls. The smell of unwashed bodies, rotting food, mildew and God alone knew what else made him nauseous. He didn’t care for the way some of the prisoners looked at him, either. There didn’t seem to be a woman among the lot with a shred of decency. The sooner he had Parramatta behind him, the better.

A slight figure appeared in the doorway clutching a stained, battered valise against her chest. She looked like she might bolt at any minute. Mrs. Bell pushed through the door after her.

Jonah suppressed a groan.

The matron gestured at the girl. “This is Bridgit Madden. She’s been working at carding wool these last three weeks, but she assured me she can clean or do whatever else you might require.” Her voice was hearty, as if attempting to sell him a show pony.

Jonah’s mouth tightened. Her brown serge dress appeared clean. Her wrists stuck out of the sleeves by a couple of inches, revealing pinkish scars left behind by the manacles. Bits of straw clung to her tangled blond hair and a smudge of dirt stood out against her sunburned cheek. Light green eyes were set in a smooth face, although her expression was grim. Her tongue slid over her lower lip, drawing his attention to the full set. With the right amount of attention, she’d be a pretty girl.
Not
what he needed on a station with ten full-time jackaroos.

She didn’t meet his gaze. He needed help, but did he need it this badly? How dare Mrs. Bell think he could take such a scruffy person into his home?

“Thank you for agreeing to employ me. You won’t be disappointed. Whatever it is you need done, I can do. I don’t look like much, but I’m useful around the house. I can read and write, as well.”

Her soft voice took him by surprise. After taking in her appearance, he'd expected something coarser. She was ashamed of how she looked, of her crime, and her presence in Australia. He heard it in her Irish lilt, pleading with him to take her out of this hellhole. He stared at her until she raised her gaze. Pear-colored eyes framed by golden lashes only met his for a moment.

His will weakened like a tidal wave washing over him; he was powerless to swim against it. Turning her away would be like kicking a mangy pup in the street. And the matron knew it. Her knowing smile gave away her thoughts. A paper appeared in front of him as if by magic, gleaming in the low light.

“This is Bridgit’s contract. How long can I expect her to stay at your station?”

Again he looked at the pitiful girl standing by his side. Whatever trouble she brought him, there was no leaving her here.

He snatched the pen out of Mrs. Bell’s hand and signed his name. “A month, give or take.”

“We’ll mark it as a month.” Mrs. Bell nodded, her small eyes on the convict. “Take care, dear. Behave yourself. And you, Mr. Andrus.”

It sounded like more of a warning than a pleasantry. She marched away, no doubt feeling clever. Jonah faced Bridgit. Weariness descended on his shoulders. He hooked a thumb toward the door. “Let’s get to the bloody buggy, then.”

* * * *

How she found the courage to speak, much less look her employer in the eye, mystified Bridgit. When their gazes met, she was transported to her childhood, and the first time she’d looked up at the tallest reaches of the cathedrals where the fierce-eyed gargoyles perched.

His eyes were like that. A dark brown shade, nearly black. Judging, and keen but not shifty. He hadn’t looked at her the way the male gaolers with their blatantly carnal thoughts did. A moment before he signed the contract, his eyes softened, then went hard as granite when he stood.

Mr. Andrus was several inches taller than her, and built like a stone wall. His tanned skin indicated he wasn’t the type who spent much time indoors. Hair dark as pitch stuck out beneath his battered hat. He moved with an easy stride that suggested he’d never known confinement or the humiliation of imprisonment.

What he must think of her wearing a too small dress and her hair untidy, with an Irish accent in a colony ruled by England. He wasn’t pleased with her. Not yet, but when he saw how useful she could be, he wouldn’t regret hiring her.

She stumbled when she stepped outside the building. The full glare of morning sunlight blinded her for a moment. A firm hand gripped her elbow.

She looked up at him. “Thank you.”

A fluid shrug was his reply. His warm hand left her as swiftly as it had come, the contact leaving an undeniable tingle running through her. She stared as he approached a dust-coated black buggy hitched to a sturdy bay mare waiting in the scant shade. The kind of gig people with money drove. He looked over his shoulder and opened his mouth to speak, but his gaze started her forward again.

Closer to the gig, she saw four seats; the back two were crowded with sundries. It could only mean they wouldn’t be accompanied by a chaperon. No one seemed fussed about her going off with a stranger.

Her imagination ran wild with the possibilities of everything that could happen between a man and woman alone in the bush. The knowledge there was nothing she could do to prevent any of it made her hesitate. Rather than earn another sullen look, she forced the fear down. Resigned to the situation, she pulled herself into the gig.

He grabbed her bag, setting it in the back seat before climbing up beside her. His current mood didn’t bode well for the rest of the day. With a snap of the reins over the horse’s back, they set off at a brisk pace, although the heat promised to turn blistering as the sun crossed the sky.

Bridgit didn’t bother looking back at the Female Factory as they left the gates. In a month, she’d return, whether she wanted to or not.

“What crime did you commit? Unless of course you’re innocent, as so many convicts claim.”

She flinched at his dry tone. If she cried innocence, he’d know it for a lie.

“I’m a thief,” she admitted. “I stole with the hope of feeding my family, but got caught before the act was carried out. I stuck my hand into a lady’s pocket, sure she wouldn’t know the difference.”

He gave a brisk nod, apparently satisfied it was the truth. “I have rules I expect you to abide by. If you don’t, I have every right to punish you, as I’m sure you well know.”

Bridgit swallowed to relieve the lump growing in her throat.

“First, you’re not to fraternize with the male employees. I’m not bringing you clear out to the station to be a strumpet. Don’t think to dip into their pockets for your services.”