Joan Kilby - The Cattleman's Bride

“Becka, you know that’s not true—” Luke began.

“It is true! You said I can’t go back to Aunt Abby’s, but you won’t even tell me why.” Blinking ferociously, Becka pushed away from the table and went through the sliding doors onto the veranda.

Sarah turned to Luke. “Oh, dear. What happened?”

“Kids,” he said with a dark scowl, and took another bite of charred pizza.

Sarah put down her fork. Clearly, more was going on than he was prepared to tell her. “Is there some reason I shouldn’t mention Becka’s aunt to her?”

Luke’s forearm flexed as he gripped his water glass in his fist. “Don’t mention her to me.”

“Okay,” Sarah said carefully. “You’re angry with the aunt but don’t want to talk about it. Becka is upset about whatever it was that happened and can’t talk about it. I’m completely in the dark but should mind my own business because I’m a stranger here. Have I got it right?”

Frowning, Luke nodded. “Nothing personal.”

She glanced out at Becka, who was leaning morosely against a pillar. Wal came up and tried to lick her face, but the girl pushed him away. “You are going to talk to your daughter, I hope?”

His scowl deepened. “I’ve said all I’m going to say.”

He got up and stalked out of the room instead of going out to comfort his child. Or explain what was obviously incomprehensible to her, too.

Sarah watched him go, shocked and saddened. It really was none of her business. But she’d had a father who’d never been there for her as a child or as an adult. And now he was dead and there was no possibility of reconciliation.

Sarah knew she shouldn’t project her feelings of rejection onto the little girl who was crying on the veranda, but her heart ached for Becka. Although Sarah didn’t know a lot about kids, she remembered how much it hurt to think her father didn’t care about her. She’d seen the worry on Luke’s face last night when his daughter hadn’t been brought home on time. He loved Becka, but for some reason he couldn’t express it. Whether it was any of her business or not, Sarah knew she wouldn’t rest until she discovered what was wrong between Luke and his daughter.

And fixed it.

THE NEXT MORNING Sarah put on a skinny sleeveless top and short skirt and slathered sunscreen over her arms and legs and as much of her chest and back as she could reach. She wanted to see the creek where Mom had caught the yabbies.

Jet lag had awakened her in the wee hours, but she’d fallen asleep again at last and now the clock over the kitchen stove said it was nearly ten o’clock. She felt the kettle. Still warm. Luke must have come in for morning coffee and gone out again on the cattle run. Becka was still in her room if the sound of the radio behind the closed door was any indication.

After a quick breakfast of toast and coffee, Sarah stepped outside onto the back veranda. The air was warm and dry and smelled exotically of eucalyptus. Her cross-trainers raised puffs of red dust as she stepped off the veranda and rounded the galvanized steel tank used to collect rainwater.

She headed in the direction of the creek, her mother’s reminiscences ringing in her head. Once a yabby pinched Robby’s big toe and wouldn’t let go. I never laughed so hard.

Sarah could almost hear the sound of children’s laughter coming from the dappled shade near the creek. A few more steps took her out of the comforting shadow cast by the house and into an open stretch of ground. Then it happened again.

Beneath the relentless sun, Sarah began to shiver. Her heart pounded and she struggled to take a breath. She tried to take another step and couldn’t. Her gaze crept involuntarily to the open land on her left that reached into the distance. Her stomach floated; her head felt light.

With an effort she dragged her gaze back to the trees. Suddenly the distance between her and them seemed a vast, untraversable expanse. In her mind the sound of children’s laughter turned mocking.

With her heart thumping so hard she thought it would burst, she spun on her heel and race-walked back to the veranda. There she clutched an iron pillar for support before dragging herself across the planks to sink into a wicker chair, her eyes shutting in sick relief.

What was happening to her? Was she dying? Going crazy?

Gradually her heart slowed to normal and she got her breath back. She stood up, walked the length of the veranda and turned the corner to pace the perimeter of the house. At the front of the homestead she quickly averted her eyes from the view of the open Downs and hurried on around the next corner. She was beginning to feel like a tiger exploring the confines of her cage. Tomorrow. She would overcome her fear tomorrow.

Right now she could use some company. She went in search of Becka, and found her sitting on the floor of her room amid boxes of unpacked toys and books, playing quietly with her doll. Her long blond hair had been pulled into a clumsy braid and she wore a frilly, flowered sundress that matched her doll’s outfit but didn’t suit her tomboyish looks.

Sarah leaned on the doorjamb. “Hi, Becka. What are you doing?”

Becka glanced up, her oval face grave. “Playing.”

“May I come in?” Becka nodded listlessly, so Sarah moved into the room to sit on the bed. She eyed the windows. “I’m going to sew new curtains. What color would you like?”

Becka shrugged. “Whatever.”

“I always think your surroundings make a lot of difference to the way you feel, don’t you? For instance, if we replace those brown curtains with yellow ones—maybe a sunflower pattern—this room would be a lot cheerier. What do you think?”

“Fine.”

“Is something wrong, Becka?”

Becka’s small chin lifted defiantly. “No.”

“I can see you’re unhappy about something,” Sarah said cautiously. “Your dad’s really worried about you.”

Becka snorted. “My dad doesn’t care about me.”

Sarah leaned forward on the bed, her elbows on her knees. “Your dad loves you a lot. Even I can see that.”

“Then why is he keeping me prisoner?” Becka demanded, sullen and defiant. “He won’t even talk to me.”

Sarah’s heart went out to the girl. Behind the defiance lurked fear and uncertainty. “I guess you miss your aunt.”

Becka bit her lip and combed her doll’s hair with a tiny pink comb. “I hate it here. It’s the middle of nowhere.”

“It feels strange to me, too—” She broke off. That was no way to talk around the child. “Hey, I noticed a brand-new superdeluxe computer in the office.”

“Dad bought it so I could use it for school. He tried to teach me, but he doesn’t know how to work it.” Becka’s mouth pursed disapprovingly. “He said a swear word.”

“I can show you how to use it,” Sarah said, suppressing a smile. Surely it would be more fun than dolls at Becka’s age.

Interest sparked in the young girl’s eyes and for a moment Sarah thought she would say yes. Then her shoulder’s drooped as she remembered her role as the unjustly imprisoned. “Nah,” she said, turning back to her doll. “I’ll just stay here.”

“Let me know if you change your mind,” Sarah said, rising from the bed. “Would you mind if I tried it out?”

Becka shrugged, presumably in the affirmative. Then as Sarah was leaving she said so softly it was almost a whisper, “Thanks, anyway.”

Sarah slowly shut the door. Poor kid.

She walked back down the hall to the little room off the living room—or the loungeroom, as Luke called it—that served as an office. Sarah skimmed the titles in the bookshelves lining one wall. Among the volumes on cattle breeding and animal husbandry were a surprising number of books on the geology, botany, zoology and natural history of Queensland.