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“You can barely what?” Percy asked quietly.
Albie swallowed. “My mother taught me to read,” he said quietly. “And I was six years old when she died. My father tried to pick up where she left, and old Mrs West tried, though she had no patience for children. And I tried to keep going with it, teaching myself. I would read my father’s papers at night, to try and improve, but I thought I’d have time... before I’d have to do this myself.” He pushed the books as if it were their fault. Then he raised his chin, defiant. “I can read enough to get by. To sign papers or order stock at the store. I can do basic sums to know the price...”
“But finance ledgers are hard,” Percy said gently.
“I can run this place. I can round up cattle and plant crops. I can keep horses and that out there”—he said, gesturing to the door—“is easy. But this...” He stacked the books neatly again. “This is not.”
“I can teach you,” Percy said. “To read. Properly, that is. And maths.” He shrugged. “Just between you and me. No one else has to know.”
Albie stared at him for a long beat. “You know how to read?”
Percy nodded. “I went to school.”
“School? A real school?”
He smiled sadly and nodded again. “I did.”
“Where did you come from? You said Kiama,” Albie said quietly. His eyes bored into Percy’s as if he was trying to put puzzle pieces together. “Or perhaps a better question is why did you leave?”
“Because...” Percy began, his stomach a tight knot. He wasn’t sure what he could say, or how to answer honestly but not give anything away. “I left for me.”
Robert burst through the door with barely a knock. “Albie, we got company.”
Company?
“Who is it?” he asked, going to the door to see for himself.
“Two men on horses,” Robert said.
Des came walking down the veranda, slower with his bad leg. “Looks like one of McAllister’s men.”
Albie seethed, his gaze narrowing.
Percy had heard the name McAllister in certain circles from his time in town. He was wealthy, powerful. When he spoke, men listened.
So this couldn’t possibly be good.
Percy saw the two men approach the house. They never got off their horses, so Albie stepped out onto the veranda. Robert stood by the window, watching, Des on the veranda beside Albie, and Percy stood in the doorway.
“Albie,” one of the men said. He pulled a letter from his coat pocket. “From Mr McAllister.”
Albie studied him for a minute before he took a step forward. Percy was quick to stop him, instead stepping off the veranda to retrieve the letter on Albie’s behalf.
The man’s smile wasn’t a friendly one.
The second man tipped his hat. “Des.”
“Williams,” Des replied flatly.
Albie crossed his arms. “I see you found yourself a new job.”
“No hard feelings,” Williams said, though the smug look on his face told Percy otherwise. He could guess that perhaps Williams was one of the men who’d walked out after Albie’s father’s funeral.
“No hard feelings at all,” Albie said coolly.
They turned their horses, hard on the reins, which Percy didn’t care for. And when they’d gone a few yards, Williams nodded to the cattle. “Good luck at the saleyards next week,” he said, and they both laughed as they trotted up the drive.
Albie seethed at their backs, and Percy handed him the letter.
