Ella. Virginia Taylor

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ The thud of his heart beat against her chest. With his head, he indicated his drenched and chastened dog sitting on the bank. “Girl.”

      “Your dog.” Numbly, she eased her stranglehold of his neck. Stepping back, she huddled in her own arms. She couldn’t cling to a man she didn’t know, a man who stood tall, wide-shouldered, and sternly handsome, gazing at her with concern. “What are you doing here?”

      He flicked back his soaked hair. “This is the direct path to the homestead. I took a swim in the river to freshen up before supper.”

      “You can swim?”

      His wet blue shirt clung to his manly chest. She quickly averted her gaze.

      “I would have been a very brave man to pull you out of the billabong if I couldn’t.”

      Hearing the lightness of his tone, she set her quivering jaw. “Your stupid dog almost drowned me. That wretched animal shouldn’t be roaming free, as I...” Suddenly aware of her skirts hitched over her crinoline, she shook the drenched black fabric to her ankles, shamed by the display of the cage and most of her wet underwear. Mortified that more than her fear showed, she hauled in a shuddering breath. “I’m sure I can have you arrested for trespass and willful destruction,” she muttered, wanting to weep.

      He stepped back, his expression amused. “Destruction? I don’t suppose you noticed I saved your life.”

      “After your dog attacked me.” Pushing back the curtain of hair dripping over her nose, she began to shiver, a reaction she couldn’t control. “I thought she was a bunyip.”

      “A bunyip?” He raised his eyebrows at Girl, who shook off a halo of water droplets, stretched full length, and grinned at him. “A mythical monster?”

      She glanced at the hills, backlit by the endless blue sky. “If a jet-black, hairy creature attacked you in a billabong, you might believe in mythical monsters, too.” She swiped her wet sleeve under her nose.

      “You weren’t expecting Girl. So you have an excuse.”

      Her mind clutching at this justification for her craven behavior, she stared at her lily-white toes. “Nevertheless, please make sure you pen that dog this time.” She kept her tone firm, hoping to reclaim a modicum of dignity.

      With his long fingers, he lifted the front of his shirt, finally masking his chest. “She never leaves my side.”

      “However, she did leave your side, moments ago, to spring at me.” Ella made contact with his eyes and lost her breath again.

      “You gave her such a fright that she won’t again.”

      “I gave her a fright?”

      “She has expectations of being caught when she leaps. She didn’t expect to sink her ship. Now, since you have fully regained your feet, I will take my leave.” He turned and collected his leather hat from the grass.

      Glancing quickly at her bodice, she breathed with relief when she saw the black fabric had remained rigid and opaque. If not her dignity or her feet, at least she had maintained the upper part of her wardrobe.

      He jammed his hat on his head, gave a courteous nod, and walked away. Bedraggled and humiliated, she watched him stride off, square-shouldered and lean-hipped, with his jaunty dog trotting at his heel.

      Chapter 2

      Just after dawn, Ella lit the fire beneath the copper and rammed in the dirty laundry. With Rose, she cooked the shearers’ breakfast of mutton chops, bread, and gravy.

      Ever since she had dripped back to the homestead before supper last night, her thoughts had rarely strayed from the shearer, Cal. But for him she might have drowned. However, if he hadn’t ignored her orders about the dog, she might have waded up to her knees in the water and gone back today to sit in the shallows. Within weeks, she might have been swimming in the river, like him. But, why? Soon she would live in the city and have no rivers to cross.

      An hour of laundering refocused her mind, and she finally poled out a single load, glad she didn’t need to cope with the shearers’ clothing yet. The men could reek to the high heavens for all she cared as long as she could have respite from endless boiling, stirring, wringing, and transporting to and from the line and the ironing pile. She stood back, her reddened hands on her hips, waiting for the load to cool enough to put through the wringer.

      “Where on earth did you find that dreadful gown you’re wearing?” Rose said behind her.

      Ella spun around, her body concealing the drying frame. “In the bottom of my tallboy.” She glanced down at the tight, faded floral she wore. “I had it set aside for a patchwork quilt but I decided to give it a second life as my gardening gown first.”

      “You should be wearing mourning. What would people say?”

      She swallowed. “I don’t have another mourning gown, Rose. That’s why I wore the gray skirt last night. The last black garment I owned has been ruined.” Shifting aside, she indicated the gown that had been drenched in the billabong, hanging rusty and wrinkled over the frame.

      Rose put her fingers to her forehead. “Not again. I thought you would have learned from last time that you can’t boil cheap black cotton.”

      “I forgot.” Not for the world would she tell Rose she had almost drowned. Rose would not understand her sister’s need to prove herself. Nothing fazed Rose.

      Rose gave a sympathetic nod. “I’ve made the bread. And the shearers will want their luncheon any minute. Alf said ‘twelve on the dot.’ If I’m to be ready on time, I’ll need help with the serving.” She had already changed into a looped black silk morning gown, another of those given to her by her doting godmother. “I told Vi she could ride until luncheon, and then she would have to study. I thought that’s what you would have wanted.” She gave a wry lift of her shoulders.

      “If you could help me with the mangle, I can be with you sooner.”

      Rose eyed the steaming snarls. “Leave your wash to cool.” She left.

      Ella followed, hoping Rose meant that when the load cooled she would help.

      “Yesterday, when I was talking to Cal”—Ella hesitated while Rose opened the kitchen door—“the new shearer, he said—”

      “Nothing that would interest me at this moment, dear. Could you slice the mutton, please? I’ll get the cheese and pickles.”

      “He said—”

      “You know better than to engage in idle conversation with shearers.” Rose inclined her head, a faint smile on her lips.

      “I do know, but I was speaking to him about the wool.” Ella rubbed her forehead.

      “You shouldn’t speak to him at all.” Rose calmly emptied a jar of pickled onions into a blue bowl. “You know what shearers are. You’ll only encourage him.”

      “There would be no point in me encouraging him,” Ella said, her voice thin with frustration. “He’s a shearer, a seasonal worker who wouldn’t have two pennies to rub together for three quarters of the year. He’s no use СКАЧАТЬ