The Convict and the Cattleman (10 page)

“Aye. My hats were popular with the ladies, but Mrs. McMann got the credit for the creations. I’ve wondered what I could do with bird feathers from this country. Some of them are very vibrant. I’m sure they’d be popular back home. For the ladies with the money to buy them, of course.” She knew he wasn’t interested. His expression didn’t change much as she talked. Was he thinking about the night before, too?

“I wouldn’t know.”

Bridgit finished pulling the needle through the material. “Would you like to join me? And Olivia, of course.”

Perhaps it was too presumptuous to offer him a chair in his own house.

He shifted his weight. “My sister had a liking for the chair you’ve claimed. She often sat there while she darned and embroidered.”

Bridgit chewed on her lower lip. If he was reminded of his sister, he might not want her here. He’d come into her room last night. Was there nowhere to find solitude?

“Shall I move?”

“No. You look comfortable. At least until I disturbed you.”

“You could join me, if you like. I might not say much, but you could talk or read. Company never bothered me. There was always noise at home.”

Wouldn’t that be a cozy scene? Like the three of them were a family. She smiled at him again, but his face remained stony.

His gaze drifted to the blanket Olivia rested on. “She looks peaceful. It wouldn’t do to get her riled up.” His voice sounded hoarse.

Bridgit imagined he missed his sister.

“Fair enough, but you know if you want to play with her, she won’t break. Babies are hardy.”

“I know that.” He didn’t sound convinced. “Men don’t cuddle babies. It wouldn’t be appropriate.”

“I disagree. My father often cuddled with my brothers and sister. I can remember being held close as a child. It didn’t make him weak.” She dared him to suggest Ian Madden was anything less than a man.

“I’m sure it didn’t.” His voice was bland and his gaze skittered across the room. “I hadn’t heard much out of either of you. I thought I should check up.”

She didn’t acknowledge the hurt his words caused. “We’re both fine, thank you. I’ll retire soon, once I’ve got this pink thread used up. If I let myself, I’d be here until I finished a whole gown, but I promise I won’t be up late.”

He shrugged. “I won’t complain unless I find you shirking your duties.”

“I was brought up better than that.”

“It’s becoming apparent.”

As close to a compliment as she could expect. “Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t let what Martha said upset you. She thinks she knows what’s best for the station, but I’d rather she minded her business than mine. If you continue to follow the rules, then everything will work out fine. I’m off to bed. Good night.”

“I understand. Rest well.” He looked like he could use a good lie-down. Knowing he wouldn’t send her away because Martha demanded it eased her worry.

“You, too,” he said.

“Mr. Andrus?”

He stopped at her voice and arched a brow.

“If you have something on your mind and you’d like to discuss it, I’m happy to listen.”

He seemed to consider the idea, but shook his head. “I don’t. Thank you.”

Those two words meant a great deal. His shoulders dropped as some of the tension went out of him. Clearly he was under a great deal of strain. Her burdens were her own and no one could do much for her, but there was no reason she couldn’t help him. She hoped her presence at Laurie Lark would lighten his strife, but it would only work if Martha stopped interfering. She prayed for the patience to put up with the woman and the right way to get Mr. Andrus used to his niece without forcing the relationship.

9

It was a fool’s errand, talking to a grave. Jonah reckoned he fit the bill pretty well. Fresh blooms replaced the brown, withered flowers he’d left last time. He couldn’t count the days he’d found Charlotte elbow deep in dirt, tending whatever chores were needed to make her flowers grow. Left up to him, the whole lot of them would be dead.

He didn’t know why he bothered bringing flowers when he hadn’t gotten to making a proper marker. After the funeral, the jackaroos had offered, but he’d declined. It was his task. All the anger he’d been carrying since her death surfaced again.

“I hope you know it’s been bloody difficult running things around here without you.” He picked at one of the dry flowers he held, plucking the petals off. “Now I’ve got a convict woman looking after your daughter. You’d think I’d learn my lesson about trusting convicts.” The browned flora crumbled between his fingers. “No, you wouldn’t, would you? You know me better.”

Charlotte would have found it humorous. She’d have seen his attraction to Bridgit right off. And she’d have liked the woman caring for her daughter. There hadn’t been any cruelness in her.

“God, I’d have taken her the other night if I hadn’t come to my senses. Is that how it happened with you? That grubby bastard made a bunch of promises he wouldn’t keep?”

Silence was his answer. The flower stems snapped as he squeezed them. He didn’t like lumping himself into the same category as Olivia’s father.

“She can’t stay here. I’m not the only one looking at her like she’s a thoroughbred among the brumbies. What use would she be, run off with a man like the last housekeeper?”

The air seemed heavy, as though the silence disapproved of his statement. It was Farjana’s talk of ancestors, although he considered the stories a bunch of rubbish.

He scratched the back of his neck, not fully understanding why he felt such an attraction to Bridgit. He wanted a formal arrangement with her. All he needed was to bed her and get her pregnant. That would make for a fine round of gossip. He’d be forced to wed her before she was showing. Bridgit didn’t strike him as the type who would get rid of a baby, before it was born, or after the fact.

Any child born in gaol would be lucky to survive more than a few days. No offspring of his would be raised there. The idea gave him cold chills. Despite the mother’s crimes, the child would still be an Andrus. Like Olivia.

Thinking of a pregnant woman at the Factory wasn’t any easier. She’d be expected to work right up until her delivery. He’d heard too many stories of what went on there. Seen enough of that hellish place to last a lifetime.

“Olivia’s being taken care of. I don’t know what to do with her myself, but Bridgit seems capable enough. I guess she’ll do for now.” He swallowed, staring hard at the bare patch of dirt. “It would’ve worked out better if you’d stuck around.”

Jonah turned his back on the grave. He didn’t feel any better for his talk.

* * * *

It frightened Bridget how quickly the days slid past. Her first week vanished in a blink. Days had dragged at the gaol as she spun endless cards of wool. At the station, she was greeted each morning by a happy, robust baby. Olivia was a pleasure to care for, content to ride in a basket most of the day while Bridgit dusted, polished and waxed around the house. Even her surroundings took on new life. The scent of beeswax floated on the air and the furniture gleamed.

If everything between her and Martha could have gone as smoothly, she’d enjoy her time at the station more, but Martha remained as contemptuous as ever. She lurked wherever Bridgit cleaned, waiting to catch her doing something wrong. It was a wonder the poor jackaroos ever got fed. Mr. Andrus never found fault with the tasks Bridgit did, so Martha’s complaints fell on deaf ears.

Mr. Andrus seemed to avoid her. They barely spoke at meals and he sought the quiet of the study after dinner until he retired for bed. More than once she’d caught herself fantasizing about his touch and the shape of his mouth against hers. Still, it was best if they kept their distance. She didn’t need the complication of a love affair. Whether she liked it or not, she couldn’t stay at Laurie Lark. Daydreaming about her employer was one thing, but wishing he’d come to her room at night was another.

* * * *

The moon spilled soft beams of light through her window. Olivia had been fed and changed for what Bridgit hoped was the last time until morning. She sat in bed and pulled her knees to her chest. At the Factory, she’d slept in a big room with other women, listening to the noises of crying, snoring and moaning. Here with the cadence of insects and the whisper of wind in the trees, peace descended on her, but she wasn’t ready for sleep.

The box on the dresser had beckoned her all week. Fancy scrollwork decorated the edges of the smooth stained wood. It was beautifully made, indicating it had been purchased with its owner in mind.

Of course she’d touched it to wipe away the dust on the vanity, but she’d put it down quickly, afraid of Martha’s meddling.

Light reflected off the case, reminding her of the myth about the goddess Pandora. Da had loved myths and used his storytelling skills to keep his children entertained for hours. What might befall her if she opened this box?

Her bedroom door stood open a crack, and so did Mr. Andrus's. She never knew whether Olivia's fussing kept him awake, but she seldom heard any sound from across the hall during the night. He was probably sleeping, worn out after a long day of hard work. No one would know if she opened the box and took a quick peek. Temptation won the argument.

With caution, she unfolded her legs and lowered her feet to the floor. She listened for the telltale squeaks that would give her movements away, but Mr. Andrus didn’t rush out of his room to scold her.

She pulled the vanity stool out. The plump velvet-covered cushion was suited for royalty. Her fingers slid over the cool silver-plated brush and comb set. How she missed the feel of her mother brushing her hair with gentle strokes while they talked and laughed. Bridgit moved the items aside, clearing a spot for the box.

Afraid she might break the ornate container, she lifted it with care. She hesitated a moment before raising the lid, tracing the letters on top, a swooping
C
and
A
. Charlotte’s initials.

The lid opened with a light touch and two pink ribbons held it on. Inside the box a tangle of necklaces, rings and ear bobs begged to be worn. Jewels set in gold and silver sparkled. They weren’t imitations, but real stones.

A strand of delicate white pearls stood out, each one shining like a drop of moonlight. She almost closed the lid, but the pearls held her captive. Her hand reached for them of its own accord and drew them out. She wanted to wear them, feel the coolness of the beads around her throat.

Bridgit fastened the clasp behind her neck, pulled her hair through the circlet and let it spread against her shoulders.

When she looked at her reflection, she smiled. Once she’d owned a set much like these, although they’d been imitations, a gift from her parents for her sixteenth birthday. It was a happy occasion with her two closest friends and her family gathered near. The gift was special, but the best memories were the laughter and fun, knowing her family cared for her.

Tears blurred her reflection, even as she straightened her back. She wanted to weep for everything she’d lost. At the same time, she knew her parents would be ashamed of the way she held on to the past.

Angry for dwelling on what was gone, she wiped away the tears, then reached up to unfasten the borrowed necklace. Movement in the mirror caught her attention. Mr. Andrus’s reflection stared at her, expression unreadable. She froze, her mouth agape.

He leaned against the doorframe, arms folded over his bare chest. The sight of him wearing only trousers with the top button undone reminded her of the night he’d kissed her. The waistband rode low on his hips. His dark hair was tousled and fell over his forehead.

“Find anything you like?”

Bridgit flushed and hurried to remove the necklace. The clasp caught in her hair. She tugged, but it didn’t come free. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t going to take them. Before...Da died, I owned a set. I never opened the box until tonight. I shouldn’t have snooped. Please forgive me.”

The clasp wouldn’t come loose.

His face was difficult to read. Barefoot and silent, he moved across the floor, standing behind her. “Let me. You’ll break the string if you keep pulling.”

He rested one hand on her shoulder, studying the mess. She sighed, slouching with defeat. Without pulling her hair, he freed the fastener. His hand remained laced through her locks, his face close to hers. The intimate position sent a warm sensation pulsing through her. She wanted his hands to touch other places, but didn’t have the courage to put them there.