Heather Garside, Australian outback novels

Extract from The Cornstalk

If the food was unappealing, she was agreeably surprised at the improvement in Kavanagh's appearance today. He almost looked presentable. He'd obviously washed last night, exchanging the dirty clothes for clean ones, and he'd also shaved, leaving only the side-whiskers that extended to the line of his jaw. His features without the stubble were surprisingly attractive--thin, brown and strong, with a light dusting of freckles.

There were crow's feet at the corners of his green eyes, a legacy of the Queensland sun along with the freckles on his nose. The lines seemed premature in one so young, but added character and charm to a smile that was quick and engaging. She supposed he would set hearts fluttering amongst girls of a certain class.

She gave herself a mental shake, wondering why she was even looking at him. Strapping he may be, in his striped Crimean shirt and stockman's moleskins, but the gulf that separated them was wider than she could begin to imagine. He wasn't the sort of company she was accustomed to keeping, and she would do well to remember it.

In spite of this resolution she found by the end of the meal that they were talking companionably, mostly about cattle and horses. Divine, who had left the resting cattle to eat with them, stared sullenly into his pannikin and uttered not a single word, returning to his vigil as soon as he'd finished his meal. As he rode off Louise commented on the condition of the herd, and Kavanagh nodded, taking a pipe from his pocket and tamping tobacco into the bowl.

"They were better than I expected, seein' how dry it is around Springsure. And I've nursed them along pretty well." He held a burning stick from the fire to his pipe and puffed vigorously, looking at her through narrowed eyes. "Talkin' of Springsure, who were you governess for there?"

The question took Louise off balance. She paused a moment to gather her wits before improvising hastily. "A Mr. and Mrs. Jones. Do you know them?"

"What's his first name?"

"George." Heavens, these names were imaginative.

"No, don't think I've met him. Where do they live?"

"In the main street." This had to be safe enough, since there had to be a main street, although she possessed not the slightest knowledge of Springsure and its layout. "Next to the hotel."

He looked at her. "There's three hotels, you know."

His tone was indulgent, as if he thought her a little stupid and she flushed, stung into recklessness. "I'm talking about the Grand," she retorted defiantly. With any luck there could be a Grand Hotel--there seemed to be one in almost every town in the colony. If not, that was just too bad. Who did he think he was, asking so many questions?

He was staring at her with a strange expression on his face. "There are three hotels in Springsure," he repeated softly. "The Commercial, the Springsure, and the Shearer's Arms." He paused, watching her keenly as he drew on his pipe. "I don't think you've ever been there in your life!"

She turned away in confusion, aware of her high colour. She said nothing, and after a moment he asked deliberately, "Where the hell did you come from, then?"

"Gainsford," she retorted, with some dignity. "Not that it's any of your business." Thank God the boy had returned to the cattle. Suddenly it had occurred to her that Kavanagh was likely to know the Greenwoods at Banana, since he lived in the same district. He may as well be told the same story as they, which was only part of the truth after all. "I was acting as governess for the Barclay family, of Sherborne. Have you heard of James Barclay?"

He nodded, regarding her with lively curiosity. "What's the idea of this yarn about Springsure, then? And why on earth didn't you go back through Westwood? Surely James Barclay's not the sort of bloke to let a girl go traipsin' about by herself with bugger-all idea of where she's even goin'?"

He stopped and cleared his throat. "I beg your pardon. Excuse the language."

His interrogation, coupled with that unpleasant word, was becoming offensive. His lack of respect was mortifying, but she was a fool to have encouraged him in the first instance. "I would prefer not to discuss this, Mr. Kavanagh. I asked you to escort me to Banana. That is all you need to know."

He stared at her, his expression challenging. It appeared he wasn't easily intimidated. "Did they throw you out, or somethin'?"

She glared at him, though she could feel the heat rising to her cheeks. "No, they did not! For your information, the Barclays weren't aware that I was leaving!"

On reflection, that information would have been better kept to herself. Kavanagh looked at her suspiciously, his eyes very keen and hard. Perhaps he suspected her of being caught out in some misdemeanour, such as stealing--which wasn't so very far from the truth--or...

His eyes dropped to her stomach, so fleetingly she could almost have imagined it. But it was enough to make her remember the maid who'd left Banyandah after becoming entangled with Charles.

She jumped to her feet, all burning humiliation, gathering the remains of her meal. Some of the cattle were drifting off to graze, which gave her a good excuse not to linger. Kavanagh began to pack the food and Louise went to her horse, looking about for a possible mounting block. Then she realized he was there beside her, holding out his hand for her foot. She wanted to brush him away, but there was no suitable log or stump in sight, so she was forced to subject herself to his touch.

As he hoisted her into the saddle he asked, "How'd you come by the horse, then? That's Barclay's brand on the near shoulder, isn't it? 6JB?"

"I bought him," she said shortly, wishing she could swing into the saddle like a man. "I paid ten pounds for him, which is a sight more than he's worth, too."

"From Barclay? Why would he sell you a horse if he wasn't a party to you leavin' in such a hurry?"

She settled her right leg around the horn of the saddle and arranged the skirt of her habit before turning to face him, looking down at him with all the arrogance she could muster. She resented these impertinent questions, and it irked her that under normal circumstances he, a mere stockman, wouldn't have dared to cross-examine her so. "Would you believe that Mr. Barclay had no idea he was selling him?" she asked coldly.

There was a pause while he comprehended that. Then he burst out laughing. "By Jove, that's rich! Looks like I'd better keep a good eye on my gear when you leave, or I might be missin' half of it!" The greenish eyes were alight with mischief. "Was it your light fingers got you into trouble with the Barclays, then?"