everyone.’ For Luke this was a wondrous concept.
‘We would all play here by the crick, sit by our small fires and sing our songs.’
Luke drew a line in the sand with his forefinger. ‘You were lucky.’
‘And you?’ She pointed at him, her brown eyes enticing an answer.
His people were the ones that considered themselves civilised. ‘The same.’
‘After a short time,’ Margaret continued, ‘the women teach the girls how to gather food. We collect grass seeds, dig for the plants that live under cover of the ground, and capture scurrying creatures. Then we marry and wait for our own spirit children.’ Margaret dropped her eyes.
Luke wanted to stay in the warm cocoon of her company. There was a sense of familiarity with her, a wholeness that transcended the boundary between them. She would have to stay here while he went droving once more, however maybe on his return she could join him. He considered the dangers. They would find themselves the unwelcome recipients of taunts and abuse. It would be a hard life for Margaret. He took her slim hands between his, palmed them between his own.
‘They will come looking for me soon,’ Margaret whispered.
‘Who?’ Luke scanned the creek bank in both directions.
Her eyes misted, turned glassy. ‘The man I am promised to.’ Margaret looked at him meaningfully.
A series of images flickered through Luke’s brain. A girl with long dark hair meeting Mungo in the paddock, the same girl promised to an elder, the sullen kitchen maid Martha. ‘You’re not –’ Luke stood abruptly. ‘You’re Mungo’s woman?’ The girl’s wet hair curled messily over her shoulder. ‘Why did you do this? Mungo’s my friend.’
‘I’m not promised to Mungo,’ she almost spat the name, and then sidled nearer to him. ‘If I lie down with you, the son of the Boss, then mebbe they let me be. I can cook for you,’ she stoked up the campfire with a few branches. ‘I’m a good cook.’
‘No,’ Luke said strongly. He ran his fingers through his hair, remembering Mungo’s words by the creek. His friend had decided to leave Wangallon to be with this woman. Had he not told her of his plans? He moved around the campfire, placing the burning timber between them. ‘You have to leave. Mungo will be looking for you.’
Margaret scowled. ‘Mungo has gone with the fox; the white father.’ She spat the words out.
Claire arrived on horseback moments later in a flurry of flying dirt. ‘Luke, where have you been?’ Angus rode with her. She didn’t wait to be assisted down, freeing her feet from the stirrup she dropped to the ground, her long skirts dragging in the sand of the creek bank as she regained her balance. She frowned at Margaret.
‘What are you doing here? Get back to the homestead kitchen.’
Margaret winced at the harsh words and looked to Luke.
At her glance, Claire saw a dark hallway, a dark-haired girl entering her husband’s bedroom. ‘Get out of my sight!’ she screamed. ‘Don’t ever come back to my home, ever.’
Margaret skirted the campfire and took off along the creek, sand spurting out from under her feet.
‘Your father is near death, you must go to him, Luke,’ Claire gasped.
Luke whistled for Joseph. ‘What on earth are you talking about, Claire?’
Angus spoke in a garbled voice. ‘At the big river. He went under, Luke,’ he gulped. ‘I didn’t see him come up. They took cattle, Crawford’s.’
‘Be damned, that man,’ Luke grabbed his hat.
Willy appeared out of the bush, breathless and sweaty. ‘I know a short cut. Boxer showed me.’ He looked from Angus to Luke. It was obvious the boy had been running after Claire and Angus.
Luke rushed to where his saddle sat near the lean-to as Joseph trotted up the creek bank. ‘You should take your mother home, Angus.’ He tightened the girth strap. The boy looked ill and Claire little better.
‘Never,’ the boy answered.
‘He’s ridden half the night,’ Claire argued, patting the dappled mare her son rode.
‘He’s my father,’ Angus replied.
‘Where’s your horse, Willy?’ Luke asked. He didn’t trust Angus being much good to him. The boy looked done in.
Claire dismounted. ‘You can take mine.’
Luke placed his rifle in its holster on the saddle, took his waterbag and stuffed the remains of the half-eaten damper in his saddlebag. He looked about the camp; it was a sorry place seen through her eyes. ‘Sorry, Claire.’ It only took a moment in her presence to be reminded of his love for her. ‘I am sorry,’ he hesitated, ‘for everything.’
‘Go,’ she replied