“I’ll look it out,” he said casually.
Helen’s body was one long ache where she’d landed on the ground when he pulled her from the horse. She opened her mouth to scream but he was already on her, hand covering her face, dragging her towards the barn. She kicked and struggled, but then he raised his fist and struck her hard on the jaw, and everything went dark. When she came around she was lying on the ground just inside the barn, her head throbbing and her vision woozy.
Was he gone?
But no, even as the hopeful thought entered her head she heard his steps as he made his preparations. Helen knew she was going to die and anger and regret filled her. A single foolish mistake had brought her to this violent end.
“Niall . . .” she groaned.
He laughed. “Too late to be sorry,” he mocked. “Far too late for that.”
Claire had an assignment with a local farm-machinery supplier, taking details for a paid promotion. Afterwards, on a whim, she drove out to the town cemetery, where the gravestones spoke of past joys and sorrows, good times and bad.
The iron gate clanged shut behind her. Heat shimmered from the ground and the smell of eucalyptus filled her nostrils and cleared her head. High among the drooping leaves a bird rustled and then flew off with a slow, lazy flapping of its wings.
The McEwen graves were in the older, pioneer section. Her gaze slid over Niall’s grandparents and parents, but there was no stone for Niall. Wherever he’d died it wasn’t here. There was nothing for Helen, either.
It would be impossible to bury someone whose body had never been found, but there could be a memorial with her name and a brief rehash of the circumstances of her disappearance.
No body, no memorial and no way to put Helen to rest.
The heat was getting worse, the air so still and hot Claire found it difficult to breathe. Still no hint of rain. Sometimes Claire wondered if it was ever going to rain again. Drought, with its accompanying water restrictions and daily worries and irritations, had become a way of life. Nothing stirred, nothing moved, and yet there was that sense of watching.
Hastily Claire turned back.
It was late by the time she began to transfer her photos on to her computer. They were good, especially those where the homestead sat lonely within its moat, the water reflecting the first dawn light. Claire began to set aside the ones she thought would make a good front page for the newspaper, turning her full attention to each new shot.
One of them puzzled her until she realized that the camera must have gone off when she fell over. A dark, confusing shot, with a partial view of the front of the homestead, some of the sky, and the gleam of light on the water. All shadows and angles.
She was about to move on when something else caught her eye. Reaching for the zoom button, she leaned closer to the computer screen. Her heart seemed to stop.
There was a face, barely visible within the gloom of the doorway. Had there been a door? Claire didn’t remember. The face was only half a face, the gleam of an eye, the shine of cheek and lips, but it was a face. Surely she could not be mistaken?
No, she wasn’t. Something or someone had been there. Watching her. She hadn’t been alone out there after all! Some stranger had been waiting, observing her, hiding from her. Then the voice; theword “Helen” had been spoken by a real man and not a ghostly presence?
She felt relief fight through her fear. Claire peered more closely at the photo, but it was impossible to accurately make out the features in the dark and light smudges that mingled to make up the man’s face. She could show Gabe, see if he recognized anything about the man, but Gabe was protective enough. If he thought she was in any sort of danger he’d be here, babysitting her. Better if she kept it to herself, at least until she knew what she was dealing with.
It was probably nothing to worry about.
Helen could hear Moppet barking. A warm wet tongue woke her from her half-conscious state. She murmured reassurance, but when she tried to take the little dog in her arms she found her ankles and wrists were bound with cord. The barn door was closed, too, and it was dark inside.
At least she was still alive. For now.
Moppet barked again and she tried to hush him, discovering that her mouth was also bound with some sort of cloth gag.
Helen wriggled on to her back, wincing, and sat up. He’d tied her hands in front of her and it only took a moment for her to find a pitchfork among the bales of hay. She rubbed the cord against the prongs until they frayed enough for her to break them. Even so, her skin was raw and bleeding. Hurriedly she removed the gag and then the cord about her ankles, then staggered to her feet.
Moppet ran to the back wall and Helen followed, realizing there was a gap in the boards, half hidden behind a barrel. The little dog darted through and Helen began to follow, ignoring the stabbing pain behind her eyes and the queasiness in her stomach.
Behind her the barn door opened.
Angus had once been a big man but age had bowed and shrunk him down into something less formidable. Angus ran a small museum in an old house in the main street.
Claire knew she should be working but she still had that squirmy feeling in her stomach and she needed distraction. It was more than that, though. The idea of solving the mystery of Helen and Niall had taken hold of her. It wouldn’t restore her own lost self, but it would help. It would give her the self-confidence she needed to tell Gabe she was in love with him.
“Do you have any photos of Niall McEwen’s homestead?”
“I do have a few photos. Why do you want to see them, Claire?”
