To Taste The Wine Page 31

  Another burst of gunshot took him to the window. The sound seemed to be coming from the lake, too close for the men to be hunting. He strode from the room and closed the door behind him, wishing he could close off the part of his life that was Chelsea just as easily.

  Tooley Joe was banging on the front door. “Mr. Tanner! Mr. Tanner!”

  “Come in!” Quaid shouted as he bounded down the stairs. “What the hell is going on out there?”

  It’s Mr. Kane from Bellefleur. He’s shooting at the sheep to keep them from what’s left of the lake water. He wants the water for his vines.”

  “What vines?” Quaid demanded. “He can’t have a leaf left in this drought, much less vines.”

  Tooley Joe shrugged. “He’s been making big trouble for the past two weeks. Jack Mundey gave up on your vines months ago, saving the water for the poor blasted sheep. Kane’s giving us a hard time of it.”

  Quaid’s eyes narrowed. “Has anyone been hurt?”

  “Just a few sheep killed, four or five. Kane shoots over their heads, driving them back to pasture.”

  “Get the men, Tooley Joe, and ride out behind me. I’ll put a stop to this right now.”

  Quaid rode the shoreline, his rifle clutched in one hand. The lake that bordered between Clonmerra and Bellefleur was not very large and had always been shallow. Now it was little more than a glorified mud puddle, the last green vegetation trying desperately for survival around the shrinking waterline. His horse reared at a sudden blast of shots, the poor docile sheep, sick-looking and thin, bleating their fear as they were driven back by the rain of bullets zinging amidst them.

  “One more shot in this direction will be your last,” Quaid shouted to be heard across the narrowest part of the lake.

  “Sez you and what army?” came the reply.

  “This is my shoreline and my sheep. You go back and tell Kane that Quaid Tanner is home, and he won’t be killing any more of my sheep or driving them back from what water is left.” For emphasis, he raised the rifle butt and fired three shots in rapid succession.

  The water was dangerously low, and if it didn’t rain soon, his animals would die. Kane was wasting it on his shriveled, lifeless vines. The man must be mad! It was then he spotted the clay pipe running from the water’s edge across the flat land. When Jack Mundey and his men arrived, Quaid ordered them to remove the pipes and haul them over to Clonmerra land. “Take every one of those damned pipes and haul them. Two more days of his futile irrigation and my sheep will die. Move fast, men, I don’t want war breaking out with you on his land. Tooley Joe, you herd the sheep back here and let them drink their fill.”

  “We heard there was rain to the north in Queensland,” Tooley Joe volunteered hopefully.

  “Not soon enough to do us any good. By the time it trickles down here, all the sheep will be dead, poor bastards. I’ve seen droughts before. Kane’s harvest is ruined and has been for months, but he’s a stubborn man. He’ll pump the last drop if we let him have his way. He was always too proud to raise sheep to offset the bad years, and now he’ll pay for it.”

  The irrigation pipes were stored in Quaid’s barns. By sundown he knew Harlow would be riding onto Clonmerra with his rifle in tow. As it turned out, he didn’t have to wait that long. Just before noon Harlow Kane appeared from the brush on Quaid’s side of the lake.

  “You removed my pipes. Who the hell do you think you are, Tanner? Turn over those pipes before I set the law on you.”

  “Don’t talk to me about the law, Kane. Tooley Joe tells me you’ve been killing off my sheep. I won’t stand for it, so don’t push me.”

  “I know nothing about your sheep. There’s water in that lake, and I want it for my vines.”

  “Your vines are dead, and all the water in Australia isn’t going to help them. You’ve lived through droughts before, and you’re not a stupid man; you want to ruin me because I helped Martha. I’m sorry for the way she left, but I’d do it again.”

  “Didn’t you leave something out of that little statement?” Harlow snarled.

  Quaid’s rifle was rock steady, but his trigger finger itched. His gaze was direct and dangerous, but the tone he used was insolent and goading. “You mean your son’s gambling debts? He does owe me a hefty chunk of money. Now that I think of it, it is time some member of the Kane clan began to pay off. When can I expect the first payment?”

  “I don’t know what trick you’ve got up your sleeve, Tanner, but my son does not gamble.”

  “Next you’ll tell me he doesn’t have anything to do with women, either. Franklin owes me over three thousand pounds; that’s sterling,” he added menacingly. “He’s had a two-year grace to repay it. Now that I’m back, this is the day of reckoning.”

  “You’re lying! Do you take me for a fool?”

  “Only if you’re fool enough to think I lie. Talk to John Abernathy. Franklin has a hefty debt to settle with your friend as well.”

  Harlow gasped, and his face became a rich shade of purple. “Stay away from my family, Tanner. Especially my wife! I know all about that little exchange you made, giving her money for Martha. A man doesn’t give a woman money for nothing, not a man like you, at any rate. I’m warning you: stay away from Chelsea and our daughter.”

  Quaid shifted in the saddle, the rifle coming up slowly, its muzzle pointed directly at Harlow’s heart. “There’s no reason for me to have anything to do with your family except perhaps to extend Mrs. Kane and Emma my good wishes.”

  “I wasn’t referring to Emma but to my youngest daughter, Gabrielle. My wife gave me a child last year,” Harlow told him, smirking.

  Quaid’s last defense crumbled. The rifle lowered to rest on his thigh. A child. Chelsea shared a child with this man. Harlow was watching him closely, baiting him, goading him, a superior smile cracking his face. “Give your wife my congratulations,” he said at last. “Now get off my land, Kane, and don’t come back, because I’d like nothing better than to put a bullet through your heart. As far as the lake, you can use the water but not with pipes. You want it, you’ll have to carry it. Shoot at my sheep and you’re dead. Now, get out of here!”

  The infernal red dust arrived at the house on Bellefleur before Harlow. Something was wrong, Chelsea thought. Tingari was right. It wasn’t even midday and Harlow never came back to the house until noon. She caressed Gaby’s soft, dark curls. It was so hot and the baby was suffering as much as anyone else from the heat. When Harlow went back to the fields she would give Gaby a bath, letting her play in the sacred water Harlow hoarded so stingily. Every drop had to go for the vines; he had issued the edict. Even Gabrielle’s bathwater had to be used several times before being carried out to vines that were already withered and dead. Even the cow had been replaced with a goat, which required much less water, and Gaby’s requirement for milk was thus filled with less digestible offerings. Always the vines, the damn vines. Lord, how she hated wine and anything to do with it, almost as much as she hated her husband.

  The servants were gone, sent away last year when the first harvest had failed. Chelsea was workworn and weary, doing what it had taken three women to do to keep Bellefleur running. Tingari, thank God, had stayed, and Chelsea knew it was the Aboriginal’s devotion to Gaby that had quelled her wanderlust. It seemed every ounce of her own energy went into maintaining Bellefleur, the wonderful dream that was to have given her security and luxury. Now she was even less than the servant she had once feared becoming. A servant at least had a choice of employer; Chelsea was married to her life.

  “Where’s Franklin?” Harlow demanded as he came up the steps to the veranda.

  “In the house. I heard him tell Emma there was nothing to do in the vineyards and he was leaving for Sydney. Is something wrong?”

  Harlow ignored her question and burst into the house. Chelsea picked Gaby up in her arms and took her to Tingari in the kitchen. She was coming through the dining room to follow Harlow when she heard his bellow of rage. “Franklin!” Chelsea’s hands wen
t to her throat, a gesture of fear.

  Franklin’s expression was belligerent as he bounded down the stairs in response to his father’s summons. Chelsea watched in horror as Harlow’s fist shot out, knocking Franklin to the floor.

  “You’re no better than that harlot sister of yours. You dare to betray me and jeopardize Bellefleur! Gamble with Tanner, will you!” Chelsea screamed as Harlow’s booted foot kicked directly into Franklin’s chest. “How much do you owe the bastard? And John Abernathy—making a fool of me in front of my friends, my own son!”

  The trickle of blood oozing from Franklin’s petulant mouth smeared when he tried to wipe it. He slid backward, afraid his father would kick him again. “I don’t remember. It wasn’t that much.”

  “I don’t want excuses. I want to know who you think you are to gamble with Bellefleur money. A debt is a debt. I’m not paying it, Franklin.”

  The young man turned belligerent. “I have no money. I have nothing but another day’s work in your vineyards. I’m sick of your penny-pinching, sick of everything going back into a dying vineyard. All you ever think of are the vines; none of us mean a damn thing to you. I’m not sorry,” he added defiantly. “I was trying to win enough to get myself out of this stinking hellhole.”

  “One more word out of you and I’ll whip you to within an inch of your life. I thought you were a man. You’re nothing but a sniveling coward!”

  This last exchange seemed to make Franklin wild. He scrambled to his feet, his eyes blazing hatred. “A man. I’m not a man! What do you call yourself? You let another man take your wife to bed and father her child. Does that make you a man, Father?” he asked contemptuously. “There’s no Kane in that child. Look at those flashing eyes and her coloring. She’s a Tanner—through and through. The only man around here is Quaid Tanner, if you want the truth. I’m getting the hell out of here. Take your spite and hatred out on someone else.”

  Chelsea ran back into the kitchen, not staying to watch Harlow’s attack on Franklin.

  “He knows, Tingari, he knows!”

  There was no need for an explanation; Tingari had also heard. She rose from the chair, put Gabrielle in Chelsea’s arms, and placed herself protectively in front of them.

  “Mitjitji not be scared. His ears are closed, his head is mixed.” She circled her forefinger at the side of her head. “Come to garden house, you will be safe. Trust Tingari.”

  Chelsea shivered in the hot sun as she hurried across the yard, little Gaby clinging tightly to her neck. “It was terrible, Tingari. Poor Franklin. He said he was leaving. Only Emma and Harlow are in the house now. How did Franklin know, Tingari? How?”

  “Eyes see what they want to see. Boss Kane did not want to see. Hatred for Boss Kane made Franklin want to look.”

  Gaby cried in her mother’s arms, and Chelsea soothed her by rubbing her cheek against the little girl’s head. Gaby was indeed undeniably Quaid’s child. Throughout her pregnancy Chelsea had feared Tingari was wrong and that the child would be Harlow’s after all. But no one who cared to look could deny the baby’s father; otherwise it was possible to believe Gaby’s dark hair came from Chelsea and her sparkling black eyes were only a few shades darker than her mother’s. Gaby was a perfect blending of her parentage.

  “Quaid is home,” Chelsea said tonelessly.

  “Tingari knows. He will help.”

  “Not this time,” Chelsea replied adamantly. “I won’t go to Quaid. I won’t make him answer for what I’ve done.”

  “It is time Tanner knows.”

  “No! No! I’ve brought him enough heartache. Swear to me, Tingari!”

  “To swear is to offend the mamu. But I understand.”

  It was less than a promise, but Chelsea knew it was the most she could extract from the Aboriginal.

  “Mitjitji’s heart speaks to Tanner,” Tingari intoned sadly.

  “Just the mention of his name and I fall to pieces inside. I yearn to see him, even if from a distance. I ache to touch him, if only in passing. My heart bleeds that he cannot know his daughter. He is a noble man, Tingari, and I cannot compromise him. I love him too much to enter his life again.”

  “If Tanner comes to Mitjitji?”

  “No magic, Tingari. We both have different lives now. If you interfere,” Chelsea warned sternly, “I will banish you from Bellefleur and from Gaby.”

  Tingari looked deeply into her mistress’s eyes and saw the truth.

  Chelsea deposited Gaby into Tingari’s arms. The child adored this black woman who so tenderly cared for her, and she went willingly. “Keep her in the garden house with you, Tingari. I’ll return to the main house. I have to face Harlow sooner or later, and the waiting and not knowing will kill me.”

  Tingari’s elegant hand fluttered over her head in a kind of blessing as Chelsea left for the house. She would go into the kitchen and prepare lunch as though nothing had happened. It would give her something to do while she waited. She set about her tasks, struggling to keep her mind on the work at hand, but her thoughts kept returning to Quaid. Where had he been these last two years? Had he come back now because of the drought? No, she mustn’t entertain these thoughts. Quaid was lost to her forever. Only Gaby remained now, a flesh-and-blood memory of her lost love.

  Gaby was such a joy, a treasure. The pregnancy and birth, however, were something Chelsea didn’t like to remember. Harlow had been as demanding as ever, coming into her room almost nightly, taking his release upon her forcefully, almost brutally at times. And then, after the baby was born, all social engagements had been curtailed, not that Chelsea had minded. The drought had taken its toll financially on most of the vineyards, and parties and soirees were luxuries of better times. With the servants dismissed and a baby, Chelsea had been busy from morning till night. Emma was no help to her; since Martha had gone, she’d become even more witless. She hardly ever stirred from her bed before noon, and her days were spent whining for her sister. She was useless about the house, and Chelsea had little patience for standing over her, directing the smallest chore, which she herself could have accomplished in one-quarter the time. Chelsea had long ago discarded any hope of becoming a friend to her. No, everything in Chelsea’s life was Gaby. The child was her life, for she had no other.

  Harlow was less than nothing to Chelsea. He equated his manhood with the success of his vineyard, and from the time of Gaby’s birth he had become impotent. Perhaps he suspected or had known all along that Gaby was not his own. Whatever the reason, he blamed Chelsea for the loss of his manhood, and she knew that in some bizarre way he also blamed her for the decline of his Bellefleur.

  Chelsea had learned to be honest with herself over the past two years. She hadn’t been the best wife in the world, but she had tried. She’d done as she was told, been considerate and as caring as she could be, and her efforts had gone unrewarded. There was no doubt that she came third in Harlow’s life: first was Bellefleur and second, the damn vines. She had tried to care for him, tried to be a decent wife, and she had failed. But she was not going to stop trying. It was her penance, and Bellefleur was her hell.

  Harlow stormed into the house just as Chelsea placed a napkin near his plate. His face was a ruddy-brown color, carefully controlled hatred spewed from his pale gray eyes; it was a look with which she’d become all too familiar. He glanced at the carefully set table with the bright yellow napkins and snowy-white cloth. The bread was fresh, soft and golden. The cold mutton had been cut into bite-sized pieces with all the fat trimmed off, just the way he liked it. There was cheese made from goat’s milk and a crystal glass of the claret he preferred. It took Chelsea only an instant to realize her efforts had been in vain. The glass was upset, cherry-colored wine spoiling the cloth, the mutton sailed across the room, and the soft cheese became a smear on the nearest wall. Fear gripped her as she clutched the back of the chair.

  “It’s all your fault! All of it! You sent my daughter away, and now you’ve driven my son from my house! I wish to God I’d never laid ey
es on you.” This last was said with deadly calm.

  “Harlow,” Chelsea said quietly, trying to reason with him, “Martha would have found a way to get to England even if I hadn’t helped her. She deserved a chance at life; I gave her that chance, and I’m not sorry. You’ve a grandchild in England! William was as good as his word—he married Martha.”

  “It was the way you did it, Chelsea.” Harlow held tightly to his control.

  “Because I sold a ring to Quaid Tanner? I owe the man nothing. Emma is terribly miserable here; she wants to go to Martha. You’ve denied her this. Why, Harlow? Why do you deny your own children happiness? And it was you who drove Franklin away, not I.”

  “I should have killed him. None of this would have happened were it not for you.”

  “I didn’t incur Franklin’s debts. I pity him. I heard him say he gambled in hopes of winning his way out of Bellefleur. What has he ever known except work? You never took him into partnership with you, you never promised him a future. I think Franklin saw his life being wasted, working his father’s land, feeding his father’s family, scraping and bowing to his father’s demands. I know he asked you for a portion of the land to work himself, but you wouldn’t allow it. He wanted to build a home, a place where he could bring a wife and raise children of his own, but you were so greedy for every inch of Bellefleur land you wouldn’t give it to him. You’re obsessed with Bellefleur to the point that you can’t see what you’ve done to your own children.”

  Shadows lurked within the depths of Harlow’s glowering eyes. Chelsea knew he hadn’t heard a word she’d said. He was building up to something, she could feel it in the close air around her. She drew in a deep breath, her knuckles whitening on the back of the chair. Gaby was next. Gaby was the crux of what was to come.

  Instead, Harlow lowered his head, his voice low and grieving. “The vines are dead.”