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 shewanted 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.
Helen waited until it was well after midnight before she began her escape. Her bag was packed, just a few things, and Moppet was sleeping on the end of her bed. The little dog looked up at her as she dressed, head tipped to one side, aware something was out of the ordinary. Helen knew she couldn’t leave Moppet behind.
“You must be very quiet,” she murmured against his warm body.
Her horse was waiting and quickly she readied the saddle and tied on her bag. Moppet was at her feet and she tucked the little dog under her arm. A moment later she was riding out into the starlit night, moving towards an uncertain future.
Claire climbed out of bed in the darkness, wondering whether her job was really worth it. She slipped into jeans and a loose, long-sleeved shirt. Her camera bag was ready, and she opened the door and was outside before she knew it. The world was silent, black and empty, and as she looked down on what was now a valley of baked bare earth, Claire experienced a shiver of unease.
Quashing it, she pulled on her gumboots – there were still muddy patches and debris to negotiate – and found her flashlight. Pointing the circle of bright light before her, Claire walked more jauntily down the gentle slope than she felt. The sun wasn’t up yet, but the scene was certainly creepy enough. It would make the perfect set for a horror movie.
The idea slid through her mind and away again. She let it go. No point in frightening herself any more than she had already. She slung her camera bag more securely over her shoulder and began to pick her way out towards the homestead.
The few patches of water between her and her destination were shallow, but there were obstacles like the old fence posts. Shetrudged towards the rise where the homestead stood. From her window each morning, the building had appeared small, a doll’s house. Now, the closer she got the larger it seemed. The more real.
