Dust on the Horizon by Tricia Stringer

soft breaths of her husband. It frustrated her so, that he could fall asleep so easily and yet she who was so desperate for sleep could not. She’d taken a bigger draught of the tonic he’d brought her from the shop in Hawker. She didn’t use it often but it did ease her headaches on the days when they were bad. It had obviously done the trick and Joseph had been true to his word. He must have got up to Robert. She felt her breasts. They were soft, not full of milk for her baby.
    Then she remembered. Robert would no longer be her baby. She put a hand to her stomach. Already it was rounding. Soon enough there would be another baby. Nausea gnawed inside her and, in spite of her sleep, weariness overwhelmed her. How was she to manage?
    She gave a brief thought to her own mother but there would be no help there. Her parents had not been happy that she had fallen in love with a sheep herder, as they’d described Joseph. Her father had been the harbourmaster at Port Augusta and had planned for his daughter to marry someone he thought more worthy. Her parents had never made the long journey to Smith’s Ridge and now they were even further away at the port of Wallaroo.
    â€œYou’ve made your choice,” her father had said. “It will be a hard life. You’ll be sorry and there will be no turning back.”
    Now those words had come back to nest. She hadn’t stopped loving Joseph. He was a wonderful father, an attentive lover and yet she was just so tired. Clara rolled over and curled herself into a ball. Moisture seeped from her eyes. She wrapped her arms around herself and let the tears flow.

Seven
    Henry looked up at the tinkle of the bell over the door. A tall man entered, wearing a long-sleeved shirt and a soft leather vest in spite of the warm day. When he removed his hat he revealed a thick thatch of red hair.
    â€œGood day to you, sir,” Henry said. “How can I be of service?”
    â€œI heard you buy wool?”
    â€œI can do that on your behalf, Mr …?”
    â€œProsser, Ellis Prosser.”
    â€œHenry Wiltshire.” He thrust out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr Prosser.”
    Prosser clasped his hand in a vice-like grip then let it go. Henry tucked the hand behind his back and opened and closed his fingers. Prosser was too busy taking in his shop to notice.
    â€œYou have a property near here?”
    â€œA day’s ride, almost two with wagons.” Prosser’s gaze had been searching the shop, now he turned his dark brown eyes on Henry. “This new town with its train line is much closer than Port Augusta.”
    â€œAnd you have some wool you’d like me to sell for you?”
    â€œOnly off-cuts but I’ll have a new clip soon enough. If you get me a good deal I’ll bring my next bales of wool your way.”
    â€œOf course, Mr Prosser. I’m sure we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.” Henry moved back behind his counter. “Would you like to take tea? We can discuss our business in the parlour.”
    Prosser glanced towards the door. “I don’t have long.”
    â€œOf course. I will ask my wife to mind the shop while we conduct our business.” Henry pulled back the curtain. “Catherine.”
    Catherine’s reddened face looked round the door from the kitchen. “Yes dear.”
    â€œI have a guest. Make a pot of tea and then come through to mind the shop.”
    â€œYes, Henry.”
    He let the curtain fall back. Prosser was examining the row of leather belts. Henry had recently installed some hooks to better display them.
    â€œAre you in need of a belt, Mr Prosser?”
    The man turned. “No,” he said. “I’ve a man works for me who is more than capable of turning a hide into anything we need.”
    â€œYou’re most fortunate.” Henry lowered his gaze, annoyed to miss out on a possible sale. Some of these bush folk were very clever at