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  He ignored her, grunting as he shoved at her. Then, with a groan, he stiffened as he flooded into her, unaware her frantically swivelling hips were trying to move from under him, not with him. He fell on top of her, panting slightly, then rolled off her onto his back, satiated.

  ‘Fan-bloody-tastic.’ He turned to her with a grin, looking for the agreement and acknowledgement of mutual pleasure. But the girl lay rigid on her back, hands over her face, a tear trickling from under her fingers.

  ‘Was it that good?’ He pulled her hands away, then seeing her distraught face, flopped back on his pillow. ‘Oh struth, what’s up now?’

  The girl rolled on her side, breaking into noisy sobs.

  ‘Oh Christ!’ Colin sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. ‘Antonia, what’s the problem? Stop the bawling and talk to me. I’ll get you some water.’

  Colin went into the bathroom, splashed water on his face, swilling some in his mouth and spitting out the taste of stale red wine. He filled a glass with water and returned to the bed, where the slim dark-haired young woman was sitting up, dabbing at her face with the edge of the sheet.

  He sat beside her as she sipped the water, choking a little. He took the glass from her. ‘Now, why are you crying? You always bounce around and laugh after our sessions, what’s got into you?

  ‘You, caro mio,’ she answered in a tiny voice.

  ‘Now listen, petal, I told you at the start not to get involved with me. This is just for fun.’

  She shook her head. ‘No longer. Not for me. I love you, Colin.’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ he answered, covering his annoyance at the familiar scene about to be played out. It was a shame, but as soon as they got heavy, the fun was over and he had to move on to new sport. Damned nuisance too. Colin was impatient with the discreet and dangerous courting that was necessary. He liked it as it had been these few months. Swift and sexy liaisons on the understanding it was mutual fun and pleasure. He hated this bit, when they got clingy and demanding.

  He smoothed her hair. ‘You know we went into this with our eyes open, I don’t want to hurt you, baby. You’re so special to me . . .’

  She struck his hand away. ‘Don’t touch me! Tell me what you’re going to do!’ she demanded, her eyes blazing.

  What a little Italian firecracker she was. Colin felt himself getting aroused again as she glared at him. ‘Do? About what? I know what I’d like to do.’ He grinned and reached for one of her large brown nipples.

  ‘No! I mean what are you, me, us, going to do? About the baby I’m going to have?’

  ‘Oh shit!’ He glared back at her. ‘You stupid bitch, how did this happen? You told me you were on the pill.’

  She looked away and Colin grabbed her shoulders and swung her round to face him. ‘You lied, didn’t you? Didn’t you? All this time we’ve been taking risks?’

  He shook her and she nodded dumbly, murmuring, ‘I was careful . . . You knew there were times I couldn’t see you . . .’

  ‘Oh you dumb little bitch. I don’t need this. Listen, get dressed. We’re going to make a few phone calls right now.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked fearfully as Colin began to pull on his clothes.

  ‘I mean, we’re going to find a doctor and get this sorted out. I think I know someone who will . . .’

  ‘No! I cannot!’ She jumped up, holding the sheet protectively in front of her naked body. ‘I am Catholic. What if my family find out? I cannot do it!’

  ‘Don’t be bloody stupid! You can’t have it. I’m married, I can’t support you or it, and I don’t have the slightest intention of doing so anyway. And if your family do find out, you’ll be struck off the eligible bride list, honey bun.’

  At this the girl broke into wild sobs again and rushed into the bathroom, slamming the door and locking it. Colin waited, then went into the kitchen of the small apartment and made two cups of espresso. He went back and rapped on the door. ‘I’ve made coffee. Come out here and we’ll talk this through properly.’

  There was a muffled but negative response from behind the door. Colin shrugged and sat and sipped his coffee. After ten minutes he lost his temper. ‘Listen, Antonia, you come out here or I’m walking out the door and not coming back!’

  ‘I’ll tell your wife!’ she shouted at him.

  Angrily Colin tried to open the door. ‘You do that, and I’ll inform your father. And tell him I’m not the first and you have VD and it’s not my child because I’m sterile. Now get out here.’ He rattled the doorknob.

  ‘It is your baby. I was a virgin. You know that.’

  ‘Your word against mine, Antonia. Now get out here.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you deal with it.’ Colin kicked the door and turned on his heel. He left the apartment, slamming the front door, and hurried down the stairs. In the bright sunlight of the piazza he put on his dark glasses and headed for his car, pulling some loose lire from his pocket and tossing the coins at the scrawny boy hanging by the car door.

  He roared out of the square, scattering pigeons and pedestrians. What a mess. She’d come round and get matters taken care of, though he supposed he’d have to foot the bill. Could be tricky. He doubted she’d call Dina, but it was a threat that worried him. Still, he’d been damned lucky with his numerous other liaisons that this hadn’t happened before. There was a moment of male pride that he’d fathered a child. Too bad Dina didn’t want children.

  He’d better play it cool for a while once he’d sorted Antonia out. Oh well, it had been nice while it lasted.

  At the door to TR’s hospital room, Queenie turned to Tango. ‘Let me see him first, alone,’ she said. Tango hesitated then nodded, holding open the door for her.

  Queenie caught her breath at the sight of the man she loved, so immobilised. His leg was hooked up to a complicated arrangement of pulleys and wires; a drip fed into one arm, the other was in plaster. His head was bandaged and his face pale. Queenie stood by his bed, listening to his shallow breathing, afraid to touch him.

  In a small frightened voice choked with tears, she whispered, ‘Oh my darling, please don’t leave me. I can’t go on without you. After everything we’ve been through . . . We are so happy. I love you so much. I can’t bear to see you like this . . .’ Tears gushed down her face.

  Drawing a breath she went on fiercely, ‘I promise you, my darling, you’ll be all right. You must be.’ Swallowing hard, she rubbed her eyes and went to the door, struggling to regain her composure. Opening the door she stood to one side, saying, ‘Come in, Tango’.

  ‘Oh my god!’ Tango gasped when he saw his father. He hurried over to the bedside and pulled out a chair for his mother.

  Queenie sat close to TR and leaned towards his sickly wan face on the pillow. ‘TR darling, it’s Queenie. Can you hear me?’

  Not a flicker of movement or change of expression came from the figure in the bed.

  Tango glanced questioningly at the ward sister who had followed him into the room. ‘He’s not in a coma, is he? He will come out of this?’

  ‘He regained consciousness briefly. He is heavily sedated, but he is suffering bad concussion in addition to his other injuries.’

  ‘How bad are his injuries?’ asked Queenie in a small voice, not taking her eyes from TR’s face.

  ‘That’s for Doctor McConnell to say. He’s on his way. I’ll be back soon. Don’t try too hard to get a response from him. Often they know you’re here even if they don’t show it,’ said the starched sister kindly.

  For a long time Tango stood in silence by Queenie’s chair, his hand resting on her shoulder as she stroked TR’s hand. After a while the door opened softly and a doctor in a navy jacket, grey slacks and expensive French loafers came into the room. He was wearing a club tie and his silver moustache was neatly trimmed. He radiated expensive school, good background and specialist.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Hamilton. I’m Doctor McConnell.’ He shook hands with Queenie and Tango. ‘Let me fill you in.
We don’t know as yet the full extent of your husband’s injuries.’ Seeing Queenie’s arched eyebrows, he hastened to add, ‘We do know the immediate physical damage — what bones are broken and that there are no serious internal injuries. He might need surgery — his knee is badly crushed; but the longer-term effects are more worrying.’

  ‘What do you mean? He will be fully mobile eventually, won’t he?’ Queenie couldn’t keep the note of fear from her voice.

  ‘We hope so. The spinal tests are still a bit inconclusive. Fortunately there is no severing of the spinal cord, but the nerves and tendons to his right leg and arm are damaged. Then there is the possibility of slight brain damage.’

  Tango’s grip tightened on Queenie’s shoulder. ‘Slight?’

  ‘Yes. In cases like this there could be some speech loss, some memory loss or some impairment of another brain-related function. We won’t know for a little while. Be grateful he is alive and doesn’t look like being a paraplegic.’

  ‘Is there any good news?’ asked Tango tersely.

  ‘We’ll know more in a day or so. We’re still doing tests. But we have to wait for him to regain consciousness fully before we can complete them. I assume you’ll be staying on here in Brisbane?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then I’ll speak to you tomorrow.’ He gave a brief smile. ‘I’ll try and hurry the test results.’ The doctor nodded to them and left the room.

  A nurse entered on his heels with a clipboard. ‘I need some personal details if you wouldn’t mind, Mrs Hamilton.’

  ‘How about I find you a cup of tea,’ suggested Tango to Queenie.

  ‘There’s an urn by the nurses’ station at the end of the hall. Turn right,’ said the nurse, snapping her pen from its clip.

  Later, when the nurse had left, Tango looked at his mother. ‘Do you want to call Saskia or shall I do it?’

  ‘I’ll call.’ Queenie slowly got to her feet, looking once more at her beloved TR in the hospital bed, and wondered how she was going to find the words to tell her daughter that her adored stepfather was in hospital, clinging to life.

  Queenie tried to sound hopeful and positive, but Saskia was distraught when she heard the news.

  ‘I’ll come right away,’ she said, trying to hold back the tears.

  ‘Sas, I know you want to be here, but he’s being well taken care of. TR wouldn’t want you to miss any classes, not so close to your exams. I’m renting a unit for a few weeks, or however long I have to; as soon as you have a longish break from classes, come in to Brisbane. As soon as I have a phone number and address I’ll let you know. Tango is with me.’

  Queenie and Tango spent the night at Lennons Hotel where Queenie rang Millie and asked her to send in more clothes and personal items. ‘Put them on the train, Millie. Tango can pick them up from the station here. Is everything okay at Tingulla?’

  ‘Don’t you fret about anything here, luv. Jim and me got everything under control. Snowy and Ernie and Ruthie all send their best to the boss. How is he?’

  ‘He looks dreadful. But we won’t know about long-term effects for a while. It’s so frustrating.’

  ‘He’ll pull through, Queenie luv. You stick by him and don’t worry ‘bout anything here.’ To Queenie these supportive words meant a lot. Millie, the Aboriginal housekeeper who had been a mother figure to her, ran Tingulla like a steamtrain. Jim Nicholson, her white husband, the mechanic and general hand at Tingulla, was a staunch ally too, and had helped Queenie through some rough times. Jim and Millie had been her family ever since she was a young woman and both her parents had died.

  Millie hung up the phone and shook a fist at the kitchen ceiling. ‘Listen big fella up there, you fix TR up.’ Fiercely she rubbed her fists in her teary eyes; after all they’d been through no god could put Queenie and TR through any more hell.

  Hour after hour Queenie sat by TR’s bedside, talking to him, stroking his face, holding his hand, pouring all her love into his broken body as he slipped in and out of consciousness. While she was desperately concerned about his physical injuries, her greatest dread was that TR might have suffered some brain damage. She kept comforting him, talking to him, willing him to hear her in the hope her words might trigger some response.

  On the evening of the second day she stood by the bedroom window, gazing out over the hospital gardens as the sun sank low on the horizon.

  ‘And do you remember, darling, the brumby round-up? And the storm? We lost the brumbies but found each other, didn’t we? That was the first time you made love to me. My first time ever and never for one moment since then have I stopped loving you, TR. You are my life . . .’ Tears ran down her cheeks and her voice choked so she could no longer speak. She brushed them quickly away, drew a deep breath and continued talking.

  She didn’t hear the nurse come in behind her. The nurse, hearing her words, started crying too, and silently left the room, putting down the tray with thermometer and blood pressure belt on it to search quickly for a tissue to blow her nose.

  There had been little change in TR’s condition and despite the outpouring of support from friends, Queenie felt utterly alone. A small article had appeared in the Brisbane Courier Mail stating that ‘Former rodeo star turned successful horse breeder TR Hamilton has suffered a bad riding accident and is in a critical condition in Brisbane’s Royal Hospital. The extent of his injuries is unknown . . .’

  As the news spread, a flood of well-wishers and old friends had contacted Queenie. Dingo McPherson rang from Perth and Queenie quickly filled him in.

  ‘You got the best doctors looking after him?’ demanded Dingo.

  ‘I think so. McConnell is supposed to be one of the best. The problem is we can do so little. TR has to rally somehow. It’s dreadful to see him just lying there . . . so out of it.’

  ‘Keep talking to him. You have to get through to him somehow. You want me to come over?’

  ‘Not yet, Dingo. Thank you. I’ll let you know if there’s anything you can do.’

  ‘Anything. Promise?’

  ‘I know I can always count on you, Dingo. You’re a darling. Take care.’

  Queenie knew whatever she asked Dingo he’d do without question. Elderly as he was, Dingo was still a formidable ball of energy and drive. Over the years he’d helped her in all sorts of ways with advice and moral support. Theirs was a friendship that was a blend of youth and age, of respect for each other’s skills and their love of horses and the bush. How well she remembered the night they’d ridden in the McPherson Endurance Ride the year Dingo had won it, with Queenie and TR hot on his heels. That had been the last year of the race. Dingo had moved back to the west and started a series of new projects.

  Old Alf, who still ran his laid-back resort on Neptune Island in the Whitsunday Passage, had rung. ‘So what do you need, Queenie?’

  ‘Just your prayers at this stage, thanks, Alf. Maybe later we’ll come and recuperate on Neptune.’

  Queenie’s oldest friend, Sarah, whose family the Quinns had the property next door to Tingulla, had called from Sydney where she lived with her husband John Maxwell and children Tim and Pauline. ‘Queenie . . . I hope you’re not blaming yourself in any way for TR’s accident. I know you, and just because you were down here with me at the time is no reason to start thinking you shouldn’t have left Tingulla.’

  ‘Oh, Sarah, I can’t help it.’ Queenie was grateful to be able to share her feelings of guilt and unhappiness with her best friend. ‘I just can’t stop wondering . . . if I hadn’t been away this might never have happened. Sarah, I just can’t bear it . . . seeing him like this. What if . . .’

  ‘Stop it, Queenie!’ retorted Sarah sharply. ‘No “what ifs”. Don’t even think such thoughts. Just keep willing him well. It’s probably going to be a long haul, but you’ll both get there. Never stop thinking that, Queenie.’

  To everyone who knew Queenie and TR this tragedy was heartbreaking. Their love was a rare and beautiful thing. If two people deserved to be happy, the
y did; surely fate couldn’t conspire against them again.

  But it had, and Queenie knew that despite all the kind wishes, no one could help her now. No one, not even Tango who had sat with her through the long hours, could ease the pain she was feeling. A wave of intense helplessness overcame her. Queenie was used to being in control of a situation, of taking action to solve a crisis. Here she could do nothing but wait. Suddenly she gave in to her despair and frustration, desperate racking sobs shaking her body as she rested her head on the edge of TR’s bed where he lay motionless, heedless of her tears.

  Saskia arrived the next day in a flurry of nervous activity. Devastated by the news of the accident, she had rushed to Brisbane as quickly as her exams would allow.

  Her initial shock at seeing TR had turned into frustration at his unchanging condition. As she made her way down the hospital corridor to his room, she tried to get her anger under control. But when she entered to find Tango standing by a silent and still unmoving TR, she could bear it no longer.

  ‘Now listen to me, TR, this isn’t fair. You can’t do this to us. Come back to us and get better; stop hanging around like some wet rag. Come on, TR, damn you, come back.’ Angry tears sparked in her eyes and Tango reached over and took her hand.

  ‘Take it easy, Sas. Getting mad won’t help,’ he said gently.

  ‘Why not? What else can we do?’

  Tango shrugged and said quietly, ‘I’d give him my legs if it’d help him’.

  Saskia melted and rushed to embrace Tango — she knew he idolised TR as much as she did. ‘Oh, you poor thing, Tango, I know how much you love him. I’m sorry. I just wish we could help both of them through this.’

  Queenie came softly into the room and reached out to put her arms around her children. ‘You are, my darlings, you are.’

  The three of them clung together and Saskia was first to straighten up and glance at the bed. She let out a gasp. ‘Ooh, look.’

  TR’s eyes were open. He looked slightly dazed. He blinked and looked at the three adoring faces bending over him.