He considered it. “I don’t know. Sometimes life suddenly takes a different course ... something or someone comes into your everyday world, and you look back and wonder vaguely what life was like before. You realize it was rather stale, dull ... a certain subconscious lack of something ...”
The hazel eyes met hers squarely. All of a sudden Sarah couldn’t hold that look, it was too probing, too personal. She mustn’t read meanings into anything Grant Alexander said. None of his utterances were likely to hold the things she wished they might hold.
She looked down, slackened the grip of her knees.
“I’m going to have sore legs. Russetty’s hide isn’t exactly satin-smooth.”
The skin was reddened, chapped. Grant idly ran a hand over the inner side of the knee nearest him.
“Better put some lotion on when you go in. Come one down. I’ll rub Russetty down for you. And Mrs. Mac said to tell Rory to tell you to come home for breakfast. She’s cut into a new side of bacon, and it’s super, and she’s doing kidneys too.”
He put his hand under her bare foot. She swung down easily enough and could have done it without help at all.
Grant said “Ah!” in a tone of satisfaction.
Sarah looked up inquiringly.
“Without shoes on you appear much more manageable, Sarah Isbister. You are rather tall for a woman. So, now that you appear at slight disadvantage, I’m going to tell you I don’t want you to take on that nursing position. I don’t think you realize how heavy it will be. I may wish Uncle Duncan hadn’t saddled me with a partner, but I’ve got to confess you do your bit.”
He looked at her expectantly, confident that the effect of the glorious morning would have softened Sarah.
She said carelessly, “My lack of inches doesn’t affect my stubbornness, Grant. I shall do exactly as I please. And let me hear no more about getting me a hack. I want to be no further in your debt. It weighs me down as it is. I must go and change. Good morning, partner.”
She turned away, maddeningly casual, leaping lightly from tuft to tuft of the uneven, springy turf of the paddock till she reached the low stone wall about the cottage, put a hand on it, vaulted effortlessly over, and was lost to his view.
Grant Alexander shrugged his shoulders and led Russetty away.
They had almost finished breakfast when the news came through on the radio that once more a killer dog had struck at the sheep of the surrounding countryside. Thus far Challowsford had not suffered, though they had all been on edge over it. There was no chance of the local flocks being herded in at night, their numbers were too great and the area too immense.
“At the meeting last night, we decided we would have to take turns in watching, with guns,” Grant said. “The radio folk are co-operating, and warning everybody where the dog has last attacked. Might be more than one dog—a killer usually leads others astray, then they begin to hunt in packs.”
Pauline said, eyes wide, “But... but you wouldn’t shoot it, Grant, would you?”
Grant looked stern. “I would, Pauline.”
Her lip trembled. “But—but couldn’t you just th-thrash it? I—I—you see, the dog doesn’t know it’s doing wrong ... it—it might be a dog somebody loves ... and it’s not its fault.”
“You can’t cure them, Pauline. That’s the pity of it. And you daren’t risk it. I don’t like it any more than you do, but I’d shoot without hesitating.”
Pauline got up and rushed from the room. They all looked troubled.
“It’s a devilish business at best,” said Grant savagely. “I only hope it’s a stray. It hurts like the devil to kill a dog you’ve loved.”
And he left the room too.
The next few days weren’t all happy. Pauline lost interest in everything. Everywhere you went the talk centred on the killer. The devastation was ghastly.
It was at another breakfast that they had word the killer had struck on Challowsford. Wiremu had been out riding around the sheep. They heard him tearing hell for leather up to the homestead.
He came in, looked at Grant, said, “He’s reached here, boss. Up in Smoky Gully. At least thirty, mostly lambs. Horrible mess.” Wiremu gulped. “They—they aren’t all dead ... I—I ought to have finished them. I—balked it.”
Grant’s face was rather white. He stood up. “It’s all right, Bill, that’s up to me.” He went across to the dresser, slipped a knife in his belt.
As he was going out of the door he hesitated, turned back.
Pauline’s eyes were like saucers.
“You’re coming with me, Pauline.”
Sarah stiff led her protests. What was Grant trying to do?
Every vestige of color left Pauline’s face. Grant added gently, “Not to see me kill them. I’ll send you away for that, Paul. But to see the havoc a killer dog can do. You’ll get the thing in right perspective then.” He looked across at Sarah. “If it’s all right with you, Sarah?”
Sarah said, feeling sick herself, “You’re quite right, Grant. You have my approval. Pauline’s got to learn to be just as well as merciful.”
As Pauline walked out, unprotesting, with Grant, her hand in his, Sarah was swept with the knowledge of how like Roderick Rendall he was. The same discipline, the same deep feelings, the same air of irrevocably committing himself to a task he hated.
It was half an hour later that they heard the shot, a single shot that reverberated around the hills. Sarah, washing dishes, paused with her hands in the water. Mrs. Mac, busy in the laundry, came to the verandah, looking in the direction of the shot.
“It’s all right, Sarah,” she said. “Grant wouldn’t destroy the dog in front of Pauline. Maybe he’s had a pot-shot at a rabbit, though there are precious few left here now, thanks be.”
When they heard the returning riders they went to the gate. Pauline and Grant came in slowly, it was evident that their joy in the beautiful morning had been spoiled, yet about them both was an air of quiet satisfaction.
They dismounted, turned their horses loose. Wiremu and Ben and Rory emerged from the milking sheds, questions in their eyes.
Grant went to speak, hesitated, looked at Pauline.
“We got him,” she said simply. “Grant showed me the lambs. He put them out of their misery very quickly. Then we rode on. Over past the Cleft, I saw him.”
Grant said, “I would have missed him.. Pauline pointed him out. He was a stray, thank goodness.” He turned to her. “Now, Pauline, you and Rory get on your ponies, and go over and tell the Grangers.”
The phone would have done equally well, but Sarah realized that Grant wanted to keep Pauline busy.
When the children had gone, Grant said, “You can be quite proud of that young sister of yours, Sarah She needn’t have pointed out the dog. But when she saw the lambs, she recognized that suffering like that—quite apart from the financial loss—couldn’t be allowed to go on. When I saw him, a fair mark on the skyline above the Cleft, and near enough to see the blood on his coat, I said, ‘Eight ... now right about wheel, Pauline, and make for the house.’ She said, very sturdily, ‘No, Grant. Fire now or you’ll miss him. I can take it.’ ”
The others walked back to their work. Sarah, and Grant were left alone.
Sarah looked up. “Thank you, Grant. It took a man to handle that. I’m very grateful to you.” And she walked away.
February came in hot and sultry. The red clover was in full bloom in the paddocks sloping away from the cottage. Sarah loved to give the children and herself their evening meal with the kitchen windows flung wide to the fragrant air. In the dry flower-beds autumn crocuses lifted their lavender pink chalices, delphiniums and larkspur and hollyhocks grew tall against the walls, and everywhere rioted the roses.
Pauline’s pullets came early into the lay, and she went about hoping that it wouldn’t mean they’d lay madly for a month or two, then go into a neck moult.
The children went back to school, and Sarah started her part-time work, and with it regained some of her confidence. It was so good to feel appreciated, needed. She was aware that Grant often watched her with a puzzled air. Sarah built no hopes upon it; it would be foolish to do so, with Elaine Thomason’s visit so near.
Mrs. Mac seemed complacent. She had an embarrassing knack of speaking her thoughts aloud. Sarah realized Mrs. Mac knew that the tension between herself and her partner had lessened.
“It’s nothing but a pity you were so fair. Not that it’s no’ bonny, and the lad probably kens that as well as I do, but menfolk are so set in their ideas, and just because that first lass o’ his was a blonde and turned out such a little baggage, he lumps all blondes as minxes. Och, I’ve no patience with him. He ought to have realized you’re not a femme fatale.” (Mrs. Mac’s pronunciation made Sarah inwardly giggle) “but just really a plain sensible body like myself, done up in an extra special-like wrapper! Men! But no need to worry, just bide your time, and you’ll disarm him.”
Sarah looked alarmed. “Mrs. Mac ... don’t! I’ve no wish to disarm him. He and I are completely incompatible ... I mean ...”
Mrs. Mac said dryly, “I ken fine what you mean ... and I can read between the lines too. We’ll leave it at that.” In turn she broke off abruptly as she heard Grant’s step on the verandah.