Now, as though to underscore the point, Claire stood up and tipped the remains of her coffee over the verandah railing on to the long-suffering roses.
The drought had been going forever and most of her garden was dead, but the roses persisted. Maybe it was their morning dose of caffeine that did it, she thought, with a smile.
She lifted her face and allowed the sun to bathe it. The air was already hot and dry, taking all the moisture. Summer was stretching into autumn and there was still no sign of a let-up. After five years of drought people were beginning to wonder if it would ever rain again. The town had been carting in water for months, and the reservoir was down to puddles. Unheard of in living memory.
Again, Claire narrowed her eyes at the view in front of her, and reminded herself she should take some photos for the Bugle — the local newspaper, and her employer. The homestead had not been visible like this since the valley was first flooded in 1910. Some years it had come close, but this was by far the most exposed it had ever been.
Every morning, sitting on her verandah, looking out over the reservoir, every morning watching the waters recede, as the homestead slowly revealed its secrets.
She’d begun to dread stepping out of her house. There was a curious sensation in her stomach, a tangled skein of fear and longing, that made no sense. And as the waters receded, the nightmares had definitely got worse.
Now it felt as if she were waiting. As if each passing day was another day ticked off on her way to … something.
But if she were waiting, she didn’t understand why.
Or maybe it was simply that she couldn’t remember.
The waiting seemed endless as the evening dragged on. All she wanted to do was go to bed and lie there, awaiting midnight. And then he made some excuse to come into her private parlour, eyes everywhere, threatening her by his very presence.
“You’re mine,” he said. “I don’t care what anyone else thinks, we both know the truth.”
“Go away.” And then, her voice shaking, “Please.”
He smiled then, knowing he had her measure. But he didn’t know about her plan, and thank God for it. Because if he knew then he’d stop her. She wouldn’t put any evil past him. And he’d already told her that if he couldn’t have her then no one could.
Work was much the same as it always was. Today it was Claire’s job to write up the sport section. It was Gabe’s newspaper now, but it used to be his grandfather’s, and everything was still done in the same old-fashioned way.
“Professional, as always,” Gabe said, when he read her piece. “Thank you, Claire.”
He allowed his gaze to rest on her a moment, blue and intent, and as usual Claire felt as if he could see much more than the tired circles under her eyes. Gabe was her saviour — he had found her bruised body and driven her to the hospital — and when she was well enough, he’d given her a job and helped her relearn the myriad details of life she’d forgotten. For a time she’d felt like a stranger in a strange land, surrounded by the terrifyingly unfamiliar.
“Will you come to dinner tonight?” she said, surprising herself.
He smiled. “I’d love to. Any special reason?”
Just to say thank you, she thought, but didn’t say it. Gabe didn’t want her gratitude, he’d told her often enough. What did he want then? Her love? She thought she might be in love with him but Claire knew that somewhere in her past love had been a threat to her life and she found it difficult to trust anyone. And Gabe didn’t pressure her in any way. He was willing to wait.
“Just because,” she said now, with a shrug, and left it at that.
During the afternoon she found time to visit the newspaper archives and look up the file on the old McEwen homestead. There was a photograph of the building as it used to be, before the valley was flooded to provide water for the town and district.
Claire stared at the tattered old photo and tried to imagine the house and land as it had been then. She closed her eyes — that was better. Now she could see long stretches of paddock, with horses running beside a wooden fence, and men gathered by pens where sheep were being rounded up by working dogs. A woman servant in an apron was carrying laundry in a basket, her dust boots peeping out from beneath her long drab skirts.
A door slammed.
A man came striding along the homestead verandah and down the steps. He was tall, with thick dark hair, and he was wearing a brown jacket and trousers, with boots up to his knees. The way he walked, with his head up and his back straight, the way he looked around him. Well, it was as if he owned the whole world.
It must be Niall McEwen. There was no one else it could be.
With a start Claire opened her eyes. She felt dizzy, her head woozy, light, as if she’d been asleep. She had been daydreaming, that was all, and yet the dream had been very real.
“The curse of a good imagination,” she told herself with a laugh.
She let her gaze drop once more to the old picture of the homestead. It would be good background for her own photo, and whatever story she could cobble together. And yet, niggling away in her mind, was the knowledge that that wasn’t the only reason she wanted to find out about Niall. There was something more. If only she could remember what it was.
“Do you remember how low the reservoir was four years ago?” Gabe waved his wine glass in the direction of the view below Claire’s house.
“Not this low, surely?”
“Almost. And then there was a thunderstorm, gallons of rain. It kept raining for weeks. We thought the drought had broken but it was only a brief respite.”
“I was in hospital then, Gabe.”
“Of course.” His gaze rested on her, calm, gentle. She felt safe with Gabe. “Has anything come back to you? Do you remember?”
Claire shook her head. “Sometimes I get a sense of. of dread.” She laughed, to lighten the word. “But nothing concrete.”
Gabe was silent a moment, and when he spoke again he’d moved on. “There was a bad drought in the 1930s. My grandfather was just a boy then, ten years old. He told me how he’d come down here to take a look at the old McEwen homestead, and then something very strange happened. He spotted a horse swimming across the reservoir. It reached dry land and shook itself and stood a moment, as if confused. He coaxed it with some sandwiches he’d brought with him and took it home. No one claimed it. He ended up keeping it.”
“Where had it come from then?”
Gabe shrugged. “Another odd thing. My grandfather swears that some of the old people alive then told him they remembered that horse. It belonged to Helen McEwen. And it disappeared the same night she did.”
Claire smiled. “A ghost horse then.”
“A time-travelling horse,” he retorted.
When it was time to go, she walked Gabe out to his car.
“I worry about you up here on your own,” he said, staring down at the homestead in the reservoir below.
“Why? I’m perfectly all right, Gabe.”
When he kissed her his lips brushed hers rather than her cheek, and before she knew it her arms were tight around his neck. The kiss deepened and if Gabe had let her she might have led him back into her house and her bed, but he drew away.
“I want you to be sure,” he said, his palms cupping her face, his eyes intent on hers. “I wish—”
But whatever he wished remained unspoken. Claire watched him drive away, feeling emotional and confused. If only she could remember her past. No wonder Gabe was cautious. What if she had six kids and a biker husband waiting somewhere? The thought made her smile despite herself, and then yawn.
Time to get some sleep before she rose early tomorrow morning to take some photographs of the homestead in the pre-dawn.