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Authors: Candice Proctor
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convict once, but he'd gained his pardon long ago and now lived in one of the huts that straggled out in a line beyond the yard and housed the workers whose sentences had expired, or who had at least earned their tickets-of-leave. There were even a few workers who'd come free, but not many. For all its natural beauty and gentle climate, Tasmania had a bad reputation in Britain; those with a choice normally went elsewhere.
He'd been perched on a stool on his front stoop when she found him, playing his worn old Irish bagpipes, his arm pumping, his fingers flying. He had his eyes closed, lost in the sad wail of the pipes. He looked smaller than she remembered him. Smaller and older, his white hair thinner, the features of his face sunken and blurred by the ravages of the years. She felt a wrenching wave of sadness sweep through her. Then he opened his eyes and saw her. The pipes stopped abruptly. "So, you've come to see me, have you?"
She paused at the base of the rickety wooden steps, her head falling back as she smiled up at him. "Did you think I wouldn't?"
"Sure then, I knew the Miss Jessie who left here two years ago would come. But people change."
She climbed the steps to balance on the porch railing, the light blue fine wool of her skirt flaring out around her. "I haven't."
He didn't say anything to that. Turning with a studied care that spoke of arthritic old bones, he laid the bagpipes on the rough, weather-warped table beside him and slanted a look of pure amusement up at her. "That's some horse you bought, that Finnegan's Luck."
"Huh." She wrapped both hands around the railing at her sides and leaned back, the way she'd done as a child. "Go ahead and say it. I was a green fool to let myself be tricked into buying a horse with that kind of vice."
"Could be vice. Could just be a bad habit." Tom shrugged. "That young Irishman your brother's taken into the stables, now, he thinks it's habit."
Jessie looked up sharply. She hadn't known about Warrick moving Lucas Gallagher to stables' work. Oh, not daft, Mr. Gallagher, she thought wryly. Not daft at all. Aloud, she said, "And what does he know about it, anyway?"
She was aware of Tom's watery blue gaze fixed on her, hard. He might be old, but he was very, very wise. "More than most, I'd say. He's even got an idea or two about how to fix it."
She looked away, toward the paddocks where the estate's riding horses were put out to graze. She didn't want to talk about that man, with his angry eyes and lean, graceful body. "I took a look at Cimmeria this morning," Jessie said, deliberately shifting the subject. "You've taken good care of her."
"Aye. Yer mare's in fine fettle. I've had Charlie exercising her, getting her back in shape for you." Stretching out his hand, Tom picked up a pen knife and a half-whittled block of wood from the edge of the table. "And will ye be ridin' her tomorrow?" he asked in studied casualness, all his attention seemingly focused on the wood turning slowly between his hand and the blade. "Out to Shipwreck Cove?"
"No. Mother insists I rest for a few weeks." She hopped off the railing and went to stand at the edge of the porch, looking out over the broad, slow-moving River Daymond that curled around the estate's outbuildings. "How is she, Tom?" she asked quietly, without turning around. This time, they both knew Jessie wasn't talking about her horse.
He knew all of her secrets, Old Tom. How could he not, when he'd ridden faithfully behind her wherever she went, for as long as she could remember? And the woman Jessie visited out on the headlands beyond Shipwreck Cove was her deepest and most dangerous secret.
"She's missed you, sure enough," said Tom. "It gets lonely out there sometimes, with only the sounds of the waves on the rocks and the ghosts of the cove's wrecks for company."
Jessie swallowed hard. "I couldn't even write to her. I was too afraid Mother would find out. No one minds their own business on this island."
"Aye. We've a
He'd been perched on a stool on his front stoop when she found him, playing his worn old Irish bagpipes, his arm pumping, his fingers flying. He had his eyes closed, lost in the sad wail of the pipes. He looked smaller than she remembered him. Smaller and older, his white hair thinner, the features of his face sunken and blurred by the ravages of the years. She felt a wrenching wave of sadness sweep through her. Then he opened his eyes and saw her. The pipes stopped abruptly. "So, you've come to see me, have you?"
She paused at the base of the rickety wooden steps, her head falling back as she smiled up at him. "Did you think I wouldn't?"
"Sure then, I knew the Miss Jessie who left here two years ago would come. But people change."
She climbed the steps to balance on the porch railing, the light blue fine wool of her skirt flaring out around her. "I haven't."
He didn't say anything to that. Turning with a studied care that spoke of arthritic old bones, he laid the bagpipes on the rough, weather-warped table beside him and slanted a look of pure amusement up at her. "That's some horse you bought, that Finnegan's Luck."
"Huh." She wrapped both hands around the railing at her sides and leaned back, the way she'd done as a child. "Go ahead and say it. I was a green fool to let myself be tricked into buying a horse with that kind of vice."
"Could be vice. Could just be a bad habit." Tom shrugged. "That young Irishman your brother's taken into the stables, now, he thinks it's habit."
Jessie looked up sharply. She hadn't known about Warrick moving Lucas Gallagher to stables' work. Oh, not daft, Mr. Gallagher, she thought wryly. Not daft at all. Aloud, she said, "And what does he know about it, anyway?"
She was aware of Tom's watery blue gaze fixed on her, hard. He might be old, but he was very, very wise. "More than most, I'd say. He's even got an idea or two about how to fix it."
She looked away, toward the paddocks where the estate's riding horses were put out to graze. She didn't want to talk about that man, with his angry eyes and lean, graceful body. "I took a look at Cimmeria this morning," Jessie said, deliberately shifting the subject. "You've taken good care of her."
"Aye. Yer mare's in fine fettle. I've had Charlie exercising her, getting her back in shape for you." Stretching out his hand, Tom picked up a pen knife and a half-whittled block of wood from the edge of the table. "And will ye be ridin' her tomorrow?" he asked in studied casualness, all his attention seemingly focused on the wood turning slowly between his hand and the blade. "Out to Shipwreck Cove?"
"No. Mother insists I rest for a few weeks." She hopped off the railing and went to stand at the edge of the porch, looking out over the broad, slow-moving River Daymond that curled around the estate's outbuildings. "How is she, Tom?" she asked quietly, without turning around. This time, they both knew Jessie wasn't talking about her horse.
He knew all of her secrets, Old Tom. How could he not, when he'd ridden faithfully behind her wherever she went, for as long as she could remember? And the woman Jessie visited out on the headlands beyond Shipwreck Cove was her deepest and most dangerous secret.
"She's missed you, sure enough," said Tom. "It gets lonely out there sometimes, with only the sounds of the waves on the rocks and the ghosts of the cove's wrecks for company."
Jessie swallowed hard. "I couldn't even write to her. I was too afraid Mother would find out. No one minds their own business on this island."
"Aye. We've a
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