There were some things about Australia that had to be experienced. For
instance, no words would suffice to adequately describe the red soil that
gave newcomers the odd feeling of walking on burning ground. Or the sheer
breadth of the land with its blue sky arching from one horizon to the other
with barely a cloud to mar the perfection.
Or the oxen. Looking at them eating contentedly in the twilit gloom, no one would believe that anything could be worse than their appearance. Elliott Marston was wiser than that: he knew the importance of sitting upwind of them at all times.
He sat propped against the wagon wheel, with a paper in his hand. Frowning in concentration, he read the entries on the list.
On the right side of the page:
1. Ashley-Pitt's claim that Flanagan doesn't have a daughter. 2. Very secretive about her past. 3. Can cook very well; who taught her if her mother died young?
On the left side of the page:
1. Can use a six-shooter very well; obviously been trained by someone. 2. Very sincere and emotional about father's condition. 3. Her desperation was very real on her first night here.
He pulled a pencil out of his pocket and added another point to the same column:
4. Eyes are too clear and honest to hide a lie.
He tapped the page. There was something more. Finally he added a last line:
5. Elliott Marston loves Sam Flanagan - whoever she is.
For a long moment he stared down at the page. Then he stroked a large "X" through the points in the right-hand column.
"What are you reading?"
Marston started violently. The paper fell from his grip. He grabbed it and secured it into his vest pocket. "Nothing. Nothing important."
Sam dropped to the ground beside him. "That's a contradiction, isn't it?" She smiled and dropped her head back against the wagon wheel. "When do think we'll get to Fremantle?"
"If we push hard and don't have any problems, we should be there by the end of the day after tomorrow." He watched her narrowly from half-shut eyes. He'd been doing it for the entire trip.
She played with a thin leather string, first running it through, then winding it around, her fingers, then tugging it free again. The light from the cooking fire seemed to hold her mesmerized. She turned to him suddenly.
"When we get to town, I'd like to go see my family." It came out in a rush.
He assumed his most reassuring expression: benevolent but not quite avuncular. "Of course you do. It's been a long time." She relaxed and smiled happily. "We'll go together. I'd like to meet your father. He must be an extraordinary man."
Her eyes widened. She sat up, her back stiff and straight. "You can't!"
He stared. "Why not?"
"Uh, I mean," She blinked rapidly, waving her hands in midair between them, then clasping them to her chest. "that is, he's still sick. You don't want to be with a sick man."
"I want to meet your father." He scanned her face, looking for some clue that would explain this intense emotion. "I have something to ask him. And I think you know what it is." He reached for her closest hand.
"You can't!" She surged upright in one swift movement. Her hands were balled into fists now. "You don't understand. He'll get upset."
Marston scrambled to his feet, trying to grasp some part of the conversation before it fled out of his reach completely. "My dear, there's no need for this." He reached for her hands. "Tell me what's wrong -"
Sam reached past his hands and gripped the lapels of his jacket. She shook him slightly in her agitation. "My father is a very sick man. Sometimes he has.fantasies.about strangers."
"Do you mean he's delusional?" Marston reached up and took her hands; he doubted she was even aware of it. "We'll take a doctor with us. The best man in Fremantle. That should -"
"It's not something a doctor can treat." She shook her head firmly. "No, you'll have to stay away. I couldn't bear it if he thought -" Swallowing hard, she shook him again.
"Thought what?"
"That you were the man he's supposed to kill."
Or the oxen. Looking at them eating contentedly in the twilit gloom, no one would believe that anything could be worse than their appearance. Elliott Marston was wiser than that: he knew the importance of sitting upwind of them at all times.
He sat propped against the wagon wheel, with a paper in his hand. Frowning in concentration, he read the entries on the list.
On the right side of the page:
1. Ashley-Pitt's claim that Flanagan doesn't have a daughter. 2. Very secretive about her past. 3. Can cook very well; who taught her if her mother died young?
On the left side of the page:
1. Can use a six-shooter very well; obviously been trained by someone. 2. Very sincere and emotional about father's condition. 3. Her desperation was very real on her first night here.
He pulled a pencil out of his pocket and added another point to the same column:
4. Eyes are too clear and honest to hide a lie.
He tapped the page. There was something more. Finally he added a last line:
5. Elliott Marston loves Sam Flanagan - whoever she is.
For a long moment he stared down at the page. Then he stroked a large "X" through the points in the right-hand column.
"What are you reading?"
Marston started violently. The paper fell from his grip. He grabbed it and secured it into his vest pocket. "Nothing. Nothing important."
Sam dropped to the ground beside him. "That's a contradiction, isn't it?" She smiled and dropped her head back against the wagon wheel. "When do think we'll get to Fremantle?"
"If we push hard and don't have any problems, we should be there by the end of the day after tomorrow." He watched her narrowly from half-shut eyes. He'd been doing it for the entire trip.
She played with a thin leather string, first running it through, then winding it around, her fingers, then tugging it free again. The light from the cooking fire seemed to hold her mesmerized. She turned to him suddenly.
"When we get to town, I'd like to go see my family." It came out in a rush.
He assumed his most reassuring expression: benevolent but not quite avuncular. "Of course you do. It's been a long time." She relaxed and smiled happily. "We'll go together. I'd like to meet your father. He must be an extraordinary man."
Her eyes widened. She sat up, her back stiff and straight. "You can't!"
He stared. "Why not?"
"Uh, I mean," She blinked rapidly, waving her hands in midair between them, then clasping them to her chest. "that is, he's still sick. You don't want to be with a sick man."
"I want to meet your father." He scanned her face, looking for some clue that would explain this intense emotion. "I have something to ask him. And I think you know what it is." He reached for her closest hand.
"You can't!" She surged upright in one swift movement. Her hands were balled into fists now. "You don't understand. He'll get upset."
Marston scrambled to his feet, trying to grasp some part of the conversation before it fled out of his reach completely. "My dear, there's no need for this." He reached for her hands. "Tell me what's wrong -"
Sam reached past his hands and gripped the lapels of his jacket. She shook him slightly in her agitation. "My father is a very sick man. Sometimes he has.fantasies.about strangers."
"Do you mean he's delusional?" Marston reached up and took her hands; he doubted she was even aware of it. "We'll take a doctor with us. The best man in Fremantle. That should -"
"It's not something a doctor can treat." She shook her head firmly. "No, you'll have to stay away. I couldn't bear it if he thought -" Swallowing hard, she shook him again.
"Thought what?"
"That you were the man he's supposed to kill."