Heart of the Country by Tricia Stringer

arrived in Adelaide. If only she hadn’t been attacked he might have been tempted to … Septimus shrugged his shoulders and got back to sorting the last of his bottles. She was nothing to him now but a saleable item. He would make good money to add to the stack he had already then go back to Adelaide for more goods – alone.
    That night, while he swallowed her appetising soup, Septimus once again studied Harriet. She sat on the other side of the fire, her head bowed over her own bowl of soup. Now that he actually looked at her carefully there was definitely something different about her besides the clean dress. Then he took in her hair. It shone in the firelight, falling in thick bunches around her face and flowing over her bare shoulders, left exposed by the low-cut bodice.
    â€œDid you bathe today, Harriet?”
    She lifted her head. He noted the gleam in her eyes but her face remained expressionless.
    â€œYes.” She went back to her soup.
    â€œI have a brush in my trunk. It was my mother’s.” The lie rolled off his tongue so easily he could almost believe the trunk and contents were his own. “You can use it if you’d like.”
    Harriet didn’t look up. She put her bowl down and reached her hands towards the fire. “Thank you,” she said.
    â€œI think there’s a shawl in there as well.” He took a branch from the fire, strode over and stuck it in the ground to throw some light on the trunks. He opened the larger one. He’d removed from it anything he’d thought he could sell in the bush but there were a few things he’d kept. The shawl was soft, made of deep green wool in a large triangular shape. Clean and serviceable, it still smelt a little of the rose petals that had been in its folds when he first unpacked it. Harriet was still sitting with her hands stretched to the flames.
    â€œHere,” he said. “You can keep them.”
    She stood up, took the shawl and, with great care, drew it around her shoulders, leaving him to stand still holding the brush. The shawl covered her pale shoulders and the paisley dress. Harriet was not tall but she stood straight, shoulders back. She looked so much older than her years. Septimus tossed the brush beside the log she’d vacated and spun away. He returned to his side of the fire, where he drew out a recently acquired pocket knife and began to whittle at a stick.
    In between the sounds of the knife on the wood he heard the soft rustle of her clothes.
    â€œI saw a mob of kangaroos today.”
    Septimus lifted his eyes. She had kept to the bargain and not spoken but to answer his questions. This was the first sentence he’d heard her speak since their uneasy alliance began. She was watching him as she pulled the brush through her hair. He went back to his whittling.
    â€œWe don’t have any meat left,” she said. “I thought you might be able to shoot one.”
    He threw the stick into the fire and rose to his feet. “Don’t mistake my generosity for anything else, Harriet,” he growled. “Keep your trap shut.”
    She pursed her lips but held his gaze, still using long, slow strokes to tug the brush through her hair.
    Her apparent lack of fear was infuriating and her silence, even though he demanded it, exasperated him. He covered the space to where she stood in a quick movement, grabbed a handful of her hair with one hand, yanked back her head and laid the knife across her exposed neck with the other.
    â€œI could still do you in,” he snarled.
    â€œYes,” she whispered and he saw the tremble of her pulse just below the surface of her pale skin. Perhaps she wasn’t as tough as she made out. That gave him some satisfaction, although really it no longer mattered. The next afternoon he’d be rid of her.
    He pushed her away. She stumbled close to the fire.
    â€œGo to bed, Harriet,” he said. “Tomorrow you can brush your hair again,