Dust Off the Bones

by Paul Howarth

Genres: Action & Adventure; Historical Fiction; Literary Fiction

Synopsis

Death follows young Tommy McBride everywhere. Five years ago his family was murdered, and now a freak accident sends him fleeing into the wilderness of the Australian outback with a man lying dead in his wake. But Tommy is haunted by even worse – as children, he and his brother Billy witnessed the state-sanctioned massacre of the Kurrong people by the ruthless Native Police Inspector Noone, and they haven't seen each other since. When an official enquiry is launched into the massacre, the successful life that Billy has built for himself comes under threat. He sets off in search of his long lost brother, but isn't the only one on Tommy's trail – Inspector Noone is looking for him too, and will do anything to stop the truth coming to light.

Release date: June 8, 2021

Publisher: Harper

Print pages: 336

Sample

1885

Central Queensland, Australia

They stood on the bank of the desert crater, staring down into hell. Trampled humpies, scattered possessions, discarded weapons, severed limbs, all bogged in a churn of crimson mud; the camp had become a slaughter yard. One of the men wept openly. The other vomited on the ground. Not two days ago they had been here, in this crater, welcomed by the Kurrong people, attempting to preach to them, sharing a meal. Now that same entire community lay heaped in an enormous pyre: a knot of mangled bodies, popping, crackling, peeling as they burned. A thick smoke column rising. A smell both men would carry to their graves.

After four days’ nonstop riding over a wasteland of sun-scorched scrub they reached the settled colony in the east, and the single-street outpost of Bewley perched on its frontier. Desperate and disheveled they tore into town, slid from their saddles, and scrambled along a narrow path to the courthouse, bursting through the black-tarred double doors into the cool flagstone lobby beyond.

“An outrage! A most terrible outrage!”

From his desk by the wall, the clerk looked up at the piebald-faced white man, fair skin bleached and blotted by the sun, and a properly dressed native like none they got round here. “Help you?” he called, and startled, the white man spun.

“There’s been an outrage in the desert. A hundred killed! More!”

A guard wandered out from the cell block and crossed the lobby to where they stood, glaring at them, cocking and uncocking his revolver with his thumb, but before he could speak, a side door opened and out barreled Police Magistrate MacIntyre, barking, “Donnaghy, get that darkie out of here, or else throw him in the cells.”

The accent was thick Scots. The guard smiled, clicked his tongue, tossed his head toward the doors. Nobody moved. The guard cocked the revolver again, but the white man said, “Matthew, please,” and reluctantly he went outside, Donnaghy following a few paces behind.

“Well now,” Magistrate MacIntyre said, “what do we have here?”

“There’s been an outrage in—”

“Yes, yes, I heard all that. What I mean is: who the hell are you?”

“Reverend Francis Bean, sir. That is Matthew.”

“Ah, missionaries.”

“Yes we are.”

“I don’t suppose you’d thank me for a whiskey then?”

Reverend Bean cast about the lobby. “Perhaps just some water, if I may.”

The magistrate steered him toward the office. “Come through here and I’ll find you some. Let’s you and me have a little talk.”

They sat on either side of a rosewood writing desk, MacIntyre cupping his chin in his hand, Reverend Bean fidgeting in his 

chair. Wiping his hands on his trousers, picking at his shirt hem; he’d soaked his chest with water, gulping it down. MacIntyre waited, expressionless, slumped over the desk, as falteringly Reverend Bean began recounting all that had happened, all they had seen: the horror of the crater, the posse they’d encountered the day before, the tall man who’d been leading them, the one calling himself Noone.

“And how are you so sure,” MacIntyre asked finally, once Reverend Bean was done, “that this group of men you claim you met were Native Police?”

“The officer admitted as much himself.”

“I see.” With great effort the magistrate shifted his bulk and heaved himself upright. “And did Inspector Noone tell you the nature of his work out there, I wonder?”

“He had two young white boys with him. There’d been a murder, he said.”

“Exactly. Three innocents, butchered by savages in their own home. Those poor McBride brothers lost their parents, their little sister, their whole family just about. Meaning it now falls on Inspector Noone to find the culprits and bring them before the law. You don’t object to justice being done in the colony, do you, Reverend Bean?”

“They can’t all have been suspects, surely. There were women and children in that camp. It was obviously preplanned.”

“Obvious to who? You? Yet you didn’t try to stop them, or warn the Kurrong?”

Reverend Bean was aghast. “But, I couldn’t have . . .”

“You did nothing. Ran away, in fact. Do I have that right?”

“There were far too many of them. We were unarmed!”

MacIntyre only shrugged.

“You don’t understand. The things Noone threatened me with . . .”

“Are nothing compared to what he’ll do if he learns you’ve been in here telling tales. Noone is not a man to be trifled with.Not if you value your life.”

Reverend Bean had turned ashen. He looked suddenly unwell. Steeling himself, he said, “There is only one authority I answer to, and it is not Inspector Noone.”

“Well then, make your statement. But I promise you, he will find you, and when he does no god will be able to protect you then.”

The magistrate reached for one of the pens in a double holder on his desk, dipped it in the inkwell, and held it poised over his writing pad. His bushy eyebrow lifted, watching the reverend writhe, as a drop of black ink slid slowly along the gully, hung from the nib in a teardrop, then spattered on the pad.

“Forgive me Lord, I haven’t the strength,” Reverend Bean whispered,jumping to his feet and scurrying for the door. As his footsteps receded over the lobby flagstones, MacIntyre speared his pen into its holder and flopped back in his chair.

“If it’s spiritual guidance you’re in need of,” the magistrate called after him, laughing, “there’s a church at the end of the street!”

Outside, Matthew was sheltering in the shade of the courthouse wall. He hurried over, asked what had happened; Reverend Bean only blinked into the glare.

“Father? What did he say?”

“He’ll take care of it now, Matthew.” His voice distant, detached.

“Take care how?”

“We’ve done our duty. It’s no longer our concern.”

Matthew glanced at the courthouse doors. “And you believe him?”

“We have no choice. He is a man of the law, after all.”

“So were them others what did it!”

“I know that,” Reverend Bean said sadly. “Yes, I know they were.”

They rode out of Bewley later that afternoon, heading for Mulumba, as had once been their original plan. They were washed now, and clean-shaven, and had provisions in their saddlebags; the reverend had bought a pint of rum. They were no longer talking. Hardly a word between them since. When they passed the little church at the far end of town, Matthew blessed himself dutifully and muttered a short prayer, while in sight of the cross above the doorway, Reverend Bean turned his back on the building, and hung his head in shame.

Chapter 1 

Billy McBride

The heaving bar of the Bewley Hotel erupted at the sight of the wall-eyed musician shuffling out from behind the curtain screen, the drinkers whistling and catcalling and rising from their chairs, hurling whatever was at hand, as the young man laden with all manner of pipes and gongs parped and jangled his way to the center of the stage. Through spectacles as thick as bottle ends he gazed out at the crowd, missiles sailing by him, or in some cases finding their mark, then put his lips to the mouth organ, blew a tentative note, and by pumping a foot pedal struck a beat on his drum. He wore it like a backpack, a giant bass with FRANKIE’S TRAVELING DANCE BAND stenciled in black lettering on the dirty cream skin, one of many musical contraptions he was scaffolded in. Next came a puff on the kazoo, a ridiculous birdlike honking that drew roars of derision from the crowd. They’d been expecting Theresa and her tassels. Her name was on the chalkboard outside. Instead they’d got this strange little man wearing clackers and cowbells, clutching a ukulele, a hand-horn strapped to his knee. They heckled him all the harder. Despite everything, Frankie began to play.

From a table near the doors, farthest from the stage, Billy McBride sipped his whiskey and watched the performance steadily unravel. A chair was thrown at Frankie, glass smashed on the floor; someone had Horace, the hotelier, by his collar, demanding he get Theresa out here now. Regardless, the kid was really going for it, playing for his life so it seemed: cheeks puffing, eyes bulging, flapping his elbows and knees. A bloke took his shirt off and jumped up onstage, began imitating Theresa, fondling himself and calling her name. Frankie stalled and the man shook him. Frankie rattled like a box of spoons. “Play, you little bastard, I’m dancing!” the man yelled, to cheers from the crowd. Billy smirked and saw off his drink, rose to his feet, and started walking. He had to get the kid out of here. Only one way this would end.

Pushing his way to the stage, jostling between the men—one took exception and turned with his fist raised, only to realize who he’d be swinging at and apologetically lower it again. Billy moved past him, bounded up the stage steps, and briefly the barroom fell still. He spoke with the shirtless man, a hand on his shoulder, and obediently he rejoined the crowd. There was booing. Someone shouted for Billy to leave it alone. But now Billy had Frankie by the arm and was steering him off the stage, the drinkers reluctantly parting, a similar reluctance in Frankie too, Billy noticed, like this was a calling he couldn’t leave. Billy could almost imagine him, tramping from town to town, maybe after years of watching his father perform this selfsame sorry act. Then one day the old man keels over and the act becomes Frankie’s to perform, playing street corners for coppers, these 

dead-end drinking halls, desperately trying to better his father’s legacy, or build one of his own.

Well, that much felt familiar. Billy could relate to that at least.

Out the door they stumbled, onto the lamplit verandah, down the steps to the dark dirt road. The crowd surged after them, and still Frankie was resisting—Billy had half a mind to let him go, see what became of him then. On a night just like this he’d once seen a hair cream salesman nearly mated with a dog, only for the dog to save them both by fighting harder than the man. That was what Frankie had in store for him, if he didn’t get out of town.

The musician lost his footing coming down the steps, tripped and, unbalanced by his instruments, fell and landed facefirst in the dust. That brightened the mood a little. Laughter from the men spilling outside. Stuck on their cattle stations, or mustering the lonely bush, what they needed was entertainment, preferably from Theresa, but you couldn’t be too choosy out here. Billy hooked Frankie by the arm then when he was partway up let him go again, to great guffaws from the crowd. Billy smiled at them. The men now egging him on. Frankie was up to his hands and knees, his bass drum wobbling—Billy gave him a kick up the backside.

“Get up,” he whispered. “Get out of here. Run.”

Frankie climbed to his feet and stood there dumbly, pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. He squinted longingly at the hotel but Billy took hold of the drum and spun him around facing east.

“I said run, you bastard! Run!”

Another kick up the backside, harder this time, and Frankie began edging away. Billy let him get so far then set off after  

him, kicking him down the road, the crowd howling as the pair disappeared into the darkness at the edge of town, only the white drum skin visible, swinging back and forth, accompanied by an occasional clash of cymbals or the honk of a knee horn.

Billy returned to a grand ovation. He wasn’t short of a drink all night.

*  *  *

Sunlight glinted in the brass fittings and upturned glasses strewn over the tables and bar, smoke and dust hanging in thick swirls. Birds chirruped outside. A carriage clattered by. Slumped in a wooden chair, Billy opened a single eyelid and squinted at the wreckage of the room. Snoring bodies on the tables, in the chairs, on the floor. Someone farted. Billy tried to move.His throat burned like hellfire and both his hands were numb. He struggled upright and glanced out of the window and wondered what had happened to his horse. Could have sworn he’d left Buck outside by the water trough, but he’d not been there when Billy had chased off that musician last night. He cupped his face with his hands and groaned into the darkness, caught the stale and deathly blowback of his breath.

“Morning.”

Horace wandered through from a back room, carrying a mop and bucket; unshaven, his bald head glistening, white shirt unbuttoned to his chest. He set down his things, fetched a towel and a tray, and began clearing those tables he could get to, gathering up the glasses, wiping the surfaces down.

“What time is it?” Billy croaked.

“Seven.”

“In the morning?”

“What d’you reckon?”

Billy dragged himself to standing, clutching the chair-back for support. “Some night in here last night,” he said.

“There’s water behind the bar if you want it.”

“How about some breakfast n’all?”

“Don’t bloody push it. I should be charging you lot lodging as it is.”

Billy made it to the bar, flung himself against the counter, and clung on. When he had his balance he reached over and found a water pitcher, filled a glass and downed it, filled the glass again.

“Better?” Horace asked, walking over, the tray clinking in his hands.

“Getting there.”

Horace unloaded the tray, watching Billy sidelong, picking his moment to speak. He had known the McBride family for years now—the father had been a touchy bugger too before he died. Now Billy had taken his place in the town and at the bar, came down from the station most rest days, and usually ended up like this. Not that Horace could blame him. The shit that young man had been through would have broken most anyone else.

“Ask you something?” Horace said.

Billy lowered his glass and looked at him. “If you want.”

“Why’d you save the hide of that music man last night?”

“Saved you, more like—they’d have tore this place to the ground.”

“Come off it, Billy. You didn’t know him from somewhere?”

“Where the hell would I know him from? Where’d you even find him?”

Horace shrugged. “Wandered in asking if he could play. I’d have sent him packing but Theresa’s got a fever from the clap.”

“You should have changed the chalkboard then.”

“You reckon? And get nobody in?”

“Mate,” Billy said, shaking his head, “where else are we going to go?”

Horace waited to see if he’d speak again, then when he didn’t said, “Suit yourself,” and went back to the tables with his tray. Billy sipped his water and watched him in the long mirror, then paused and cleared his throat.

“Reminded me a bit of my brother,” he said.

In the Drover’s Rest roadhouse he ate a plate of sausage and eggs, with fried potatoes, bread and butter, and coffee as black as tar, then set about finding his missing horse. Buck had once been his father’s, a chestnut-colored brumby he’d caught and tamed, and Billy would have been sorry to lose him, though he doubted he’d got too far. He walked along the main street, returning greetings as they came: Saturday morning, but already people were at it, happy and eager to start the day. Billy didn’t know how they could stand it, this little town, their little lives. If he could have left by now he would have. Had the choice ever been his.

He found the horse in the livery stables. Jones the stableman had spotted Buck wandering and brought him inside for the night: “I fed him and brushed him for you, made sure he slept. Ride all day if he has to. No worries about that.”

Billy pulled a handful of coins from his pocket. “What do I owe you?”

“Oh, no charge for you Billy-lad. Not with all what you done.”

Grimly Billy looked at him. He swallowed, bit down hard. Grinning stupidly, Jones folded his hands into the bib of his overalls and shook his outsize head. Billy dropped the coins back into his pocket. “Appreciate it,” he said.

A half mile out of town the native camps began: once a small smattering of 

humpies now almost a township in its own right. Makeshift tents and woven gunyahs, piles of salvaged scrap, people living among it, hundreds now it seemed, drifting out of the bush and settling here, arse-to-cheek with the town. They watched him pass, pausing in their chores, children breaking off their games; Billy couldn’t stand to look at them. He rested his hand on the butt of his revolver, kept his head down, and rode through open scrub country toward Broken Ridge cattle station, his home for the last five years. Really there was nowhere else out here. The drought had taken it all. Little family-run smallholdings like Glendale, his father’s old place, that had one by one folded or been abandoned or been swallowed by Broken Ridge. Families that for generations had tended the same patch of land had fled east without hardly a fight, and now lived in cities working in shops or on building sites or instead tended tiny hobby-farms, milking every morning, shearing the wool off a dozen dumb sheep.

Softcocks, in Billy’s view. Should have stayed and ridden it out.

In his hut on the workers’ compound, he stripped off his clothes and lay on the bed and slept off last night’s excess, then woke feeling fresher but slicked in a thin film of sweat. Early afternoon now, the hut burning up: Billy washed himself with soap and dressed in a clean shirt and slacks. He shaved in the little mirror, careful around his beard, and combed his dark hair, though only barely, the two had never really got along. His father’s sad eyes staring back at him. The lump where his brother Tommy had once broken his nose. Handsome, they generally called him, though he looked a long way older than his twenty-one years.

The broad track led straight up the hillside through a moat of barren scrub and linked the compound with the main Broken Ridge homestead. A grand white colonial mansion house with a wraparound verandah propped on wooden stilts, perching on the hillside beneath the towering sandstone escarpment that gave the station its name, overlooking its landholding, or as much as could be seen from here. The Broken Ridge empire stretched for thousands of square miles: excepting Bewley itself and those few ruined smallholdings still gamely hanging on, in one way or another almost the entire district was Sullivan land.

At the bottom of the steps Billy dismounted and stood waiting for the native stableboy to fetch his horse. The stables were up behind the house, across a clearing; the boy was slumped on a stool outside the door. Billy whistled for him. The boy glanced up and swiped away flies, then rose and slouched into the barn. Billy stood raging. Insolent little fuck. When it became clear the boy wasn’t going to return he tied Buck tight to the balustrades and left him there, in the hope he would shit on the steps.

There were voices on the verandah. Billy reached the top of the stairs and found two men sitting at an outside table, voile curtains billowing behind them through the open French doors. One Billy already knew: Wilson Drummond, Katherine’s father, the man who’d first traded her to John Sullivan when she was only eighteen, then shot out here like a rat into a grain store when he’d heard the squatter had died, heirless, giving his daughter first claim on all he owned. The other man he didn’t recognize. Younger, with floppy fair hair and a smooth city face; Billy could guess exactly what he 

was about. This would be the third such show-pony Drummond had dragged out here and tried to stud, wooed with the promise of riches and land. But then they saw what that fortune would require of them, the work, the heat, the dust, the flies, not to mention the woman they’d be marrying, who could be just as ungovernable as her land when she put her mind to it, and none had stuck it yet.

Their conversation stalled when they noticed him. Wilson Drummond set down his wineglass and stood, saying, “Billy, my boy, good to see you. Though it’s not the best time, I’m afraid.”

He’d never spoken so warmly to Billy before. “It’s Katherine I’m here for,” he replied. “She inside?”

Drummond glanced anxiously at the city boy, who was watching Billy while he drank. “Charles,” Drummond said, “this is Billy McBride, the young man I was telling you about—his family had that little run to the south there. Tragic circumstances, obviously, but we’re glad to still have him on board. I’m sure you’ll find him very useful, being a local lad and all. Billy, this is Charles Sinclair, Katherine’s fiancé.”

He took his time about standing. Dabbed his lips with a napkin, folded it, set it aside, making Billy wait. Finally he ambled over with his hand outstretched, and Billy couldn’t think of a way to not: he shook the hand forcefully, found it soft and damp and feminine, an urge to wipe off his own once they were done.

“A pleasure,” Sinclair said. “Wilson speaks very highly of you.”

“Is that right?”

Sinclair laughed, turned to the view of the hillside and the pastures far beyond. “Quite the country you have out here. I had no idea what to expect.”

“It’s not for everyone,” Billy said.

“Well, I’m very much looking forward to becoming acquainted with it. Wilson tells me we owe you quite the debt. All this land and not a native to trouble us—almost sounds too good to be true!”

Billy glanced to the west, to the distant shadow of the ranges, to all that lay beyond, as Wilson Drummond said, “I was telling him about how you saw off those myalls after what happened with your family.”

“That ain’t none of his business. None of yours, neither.”

A silence hung between them. Drummond said, “No, I suppose not.”

“Anyway,” Billy said, “we still do have it. Glendale, it’s still ours.”

“Sorry?”

“You said we used to have a run south of here. We still do. It’s my land.”

Drummond hummed doubtfully. “It’s not quite that simple, Billy.”

“How’s that now?”

“Well, your father’s lease ended when he was killed, sadly, meaning the land reverts to the agent, who holds it on my behalf. I’ve been through it all with the lawyers. Getting the estate ready for Charles.”

Billy looked between them. His jaw creased. “On your behalf now, is it?”

“On behalf of the station, then.”

“Which last I checked belongs to a Sullivan, which you ain’t.”

“It amounts to the same thing.”

“It amounts to illegal dummying, did your lawyers tell you that? Only reason that agent’s there in the first place is to get around the Land Acts. John told me how things work round here—I know exactly where I bloody well stand.”

He marched away along the verandah, heard Charles Sinclair let out another laugh. Turning in through the front door, he brushed past the waiting houseboy, knocking him against the wall, then strode along the carpeted hallway and into the vast whitewashed atrium around which the house revolved. A broad staircase swept up to a balcony landing, the ceiling vaulted into the roof space high above, while the white-paneled ground-floor walls were inset with matching white-paneled doors, identifiable only by their little brass knobs. Billy made for the one tucked under the staircase, composed himself, knocked, and cracked it ajar.

The room that had once been John Sullivan’s parlor was now the office from which his young widow ran the estate. Working at the same desk her husband had been shot over, sitting in the same chair in which he’d bled out, Katherine looked up when Billy entered, and smiled. Framed in sunlight from the window behind her, her dark ringlets tumbling, her eyes dark also, and very bright. She set down her pen in the groove and folded her hands on the desk, her bare forearms tanned golden brown. She was wearing a yellow blouse with blue and white trim, and just the very sight of her caught in Billy’s chest.

“Mr. McBride,” she said playfully, “I’m certainly surprised to see you.”

Billy stepped forward, closed the door. “I just met your new fiancé outside.”

“Oh? And what did you make of him?”

“I’m sure you’ll be very happy the pair of you.”

“I’m glad you approve.”

“I never said I approved.”

“You don’t think he’s suitable?”

“I think he’s suitable for slapping in his smug city mouth.”

She spluttered laughter. “The idea had crossed my mind too.”

“Probably best coming from you then.”

“We haven’t quite got to that stage yet.”

“Well, I’d hurry up about it. Looks like he’s settling in.”

“The man’s only been here a few days.”

“I’d have slapped the bastard the minute he first walked up them steps.”

Amused, she leaned back in her chair. The leather gently creaked. She had redecorated the room since her husband’s days, taken down the wall-mounted trophies, repapered in cool pastel shades. But the two wingback chairs were still there, angled in front of the desk. Billy hovered between them, fidgeting his hands.

“So then,” Katherine said with mock formality, “aside from disparaging my fiancé, was there another reason for this interruption? Anything else I can do for you? Anything on your mind?”

“Aye, there is actually.”

Her eyes flinched at his sincerity, but she continued, “Well, I’m sure it’s very important, since you’re all dressed up for the occasion. If I’m not mistaken you might even have acquainted your hair with a comb.”

Billy looked at his getup. “I’d been working, so . . .”

“I’m honored. You want to tell me what this is all about?”

“Maybe after?” he said timidly, hopefully; Katherine caught the implication and the tremble in his voice, and she was up and moving, their little dance over, hurrying around the desk in a rustle of skirts, grabbing him and kissing him, pulling him against her openmouthed. Gasping, they parted, such desire in her eyes. Trailing his hand she went to the 

door, locked it, kissed him again. She gathered her skirts to her waist and leaned back against the desk, and they fucked then, frantically, silently, as had become their way.

It was over quickly, never lasted long, stolen moments all they had. They staggered apart and righted themselves, Billy fastening his trousers, Katherine pulling up her underwear, shrugging down her skirts, both suddenly bashful; if anything, Billy was worse. This thing between them had been at her instigation from the outset; he had never been the one in charge. Katherine laughed shyly. Billy smiled and looked away. She stepped close and he held her, kissed the top of her head.

“I missed you,” she said into his chest. “Where have you been?”

“Working. Same as always.”

“It’s been weeks, Billy.”

“I come up too often as it is.”

“You don’t come up often enough.”

“The men’ll start suspecting. Probably already do.”

“I don’t care. Do you?”

Billy didn’t answer.

“If I made you head stockman you could come up as often as you liked.”

“Headman? The bloody boy won’t even stable my horse!”

“He’s difficult that one. Young.”

“They’re all difficult.”

“It wouldn’t be the house staff you’d be in charge of.”

“I’ve told you, I don’t want it.”

“You know what the men think of you. You’re the best one for the job.”

“They don’t know nothing about me. Anyhow, Joe’s all right.”

“You’ve never liked him.”

“He’s too soft is his problem. That old cripple Morris has to go.”

“The one with the knee?”

“Mm-hm.”

“I heard he has nowhere else.”

“Nobody has anywhere else.”

“Oh, you’re a coldhearted man, Billy McBride.”

“Is that what you think of me now?”

“Well, it’s some way of courting, asking me to throw a cripple out on his ear.”

“Courting, are we? I thought you was engaged?”

“When anyone bothers to ask my opinion on the matter, they’ll soon find out that I’m not.”

She stepped away, unlocked the door, and Billy sat in one of the leather wingbacks, watching her move around the room. She fixed them both a whiskey, dropped a slice of lemon in each, a new fashion she’d picked up somewhere that Billy didn’t care for at all. Besides, he’d had enough whiskey last night.

He took the drink anyway, thanked her; Katherine sat down opposite, smiled, and took a sip. “Seemed like you might really have something to tell me?”

“Aye, there’s something.” Turning the tumbler back and forth in his hands.

“Come on then, let’s have it out.”

He swallowed hard and looked at her. “It’s time I went back to Glendale, made a proper go of the run. The paddocks are up, all it’s waiting on’s a mob, and there’s a sale at the Lawton cattle yards the week after next.”

She was watching him evenly. Another sip of her drink. “And you plan on living down there?”

“It’s not far.”

“No, it’s not. But you’re ready for that? The house?”

“It’s only a house.”

“Seems like you’ve made your mind up.”

“You know it’s just something I have to do.”

“On your own, though?”

“I’ll still get up to see you whenever I can.”

“Whenever you can. So, I’m not to have any part in this venture?”

“Well, that’s what we need to talk about: the terms.”

Katherine inhaled and slow-blinked. “Not as a business partner, Billy, for goodness’ sake. You can have whatever you need. Men, cattle, horses . . . John ruined your family, it’s the least you deserve. What I’m asking is—”

“Not all of us he didn’t. I’m still around.”

“What I’m asking is, where do I fit in these plans?”

Billy shifted in the wingback. “Like I said, I’ll get up when I can.”

“Well, lucky me.”

“What, then? What do you want? Aren’t you getting married anyhow?”

“You know I’m not.”

Katherine put her glass on a side table and came to kneel by Billy’s chair. She laid a hand on his arm. “Look, I know what it means to you, turning Glendale around. But is that all you want from life? Is there really nothing else?”

Billy didn’t answer her. Staring into his drink.

“I can’t hold them off forever, Billy. The crows have been circling this place since John died. I’ll need a husband eventually. It shouldn’t matter but it does.”

“So hitch yourself to that plank out there, if it bothers you so much.”

“And wouldn’t that bother you?”

“’Course it bloody would.”

Her hand slid free. She backed away and perched on the edge of her chair again. 

“Do something about it, then. You could run the two stations as one.”

Already he was shaking his head. “I need to get Glendale going on its own.”

“Why? Because your father couldn’t? What does that prove?”

“That’s just how it is.”

“And how long will all this take?”

He shrugged. “Couple of years, maybe. Depends on the rains.”

“A couple of years, Billy?”

“I’m not asking you to wait.”

“So what are you asking?”

“Like you said: cattle, supplies, I might need—”

“Have you even been listening to a word I’ve said?”

“—a proper deed, I reckon. Your old man’s out there now saying the land ain’t even mine!”

Billy’s anger withered under her gaze. A wall clock counted the silence until 

eventually Katherine stirred and said, “Well, at least now I know where I stand with you: a means to a bloody deed.”

“Don’t be like that now. ...