a joke it was way off, but Clay Cunningham held his ground, quite unmoved. ‘You haven’t changed one little bit, have you, Harper?’ he said with unruffled calm. ‘Lightning Boy was a parting gift from a good friend of mine. A beauty, isn’t he? He could run the race over.’
‘Like to give it another go?’ Scott challenged with an open lick of hostility.
‘Any time—when your horse is less spent.’ Clay Cunningham gently waved the silver cup aloft to another roar of applause.
Bruce McNevin, a concerned observer to all this, fearing a confrontation, moved quickly onto the dais to address the crowd. Even youngsters draped over the railings managed to fall silent. They were used to hearing from Mr. McNevin who was to say a few words then hand over the prize money of $20,000 dollars, well above the reward offered by other bush committees.
Her father was a handsome man, Carrie thought proudly. A man in his prime. He had a full head of dark hair, good regular features, a bony Celtic nose, a strong clean jawline and well defined cheekbones. He was always immaculately if very conservatively dressed. Bruce McNevin was definitely a ‘tweedy’ man.
While her father spoke Carrie stood not altogether happily within the half circle of Scott’s distinctly proprietorial arm. She was acutely aware of the anger and dented pride he was fighting to hold in. Scott wasn’t a good loser. Carrie didn’t know why but it was apparent he had taken an active dislike to Clay Cunningham.
Now Clay Cunningham, cheque in hand, made a response to her father that proved such a mix of modesty, confidence and dry humour that time and again his little speech was punctuated by appreciative bursts of laughter and applause. The crowd was still excited and the winner’s speech couldn’t have been more designed to please. The race goers had come to witness a good race and the Cup winner—a newcomer—had well and truly delivered. Not that anyone could really call him a newcomer. Heavens, he was a Cunningham! Cunningham was a name everyone knew. There was even a chance he might be able to save what was left of that once proud historic station, Jimboorie, though it would take a Herculean effort and a bottomless well of money.
‘Who the hell does he think he is?’ Scott muttered in Carrie’s ear, unable to credit the man ‘little Jimmy’ Cunningham, the urchin, had become. ‘And what’s with the posh voice?’
‘He is a Cunningham, Scott,’ Carrie felt obliged to point out. ‘It’s written all over him. And it may very well be he did get a good education.’
Scott snorted like an angry bull. ‘His father left here without a dime. Everyone knows that. Angus Cunningham might have sheltered them to spite the rest of his family but he couldn’t have paid his nephew anything in the way of wages. Reece Cunningham cut himself off from his own family when he married that little tramp.’
‘You know nothing about her, Scott.’ Carrie pulled away from him as discreetly as she could. ‘My mother says there was no proof whatsoever to any of the cruel stories that were circulated about her by the Cunninghams and the Campbells. Remember Clay’s father was expected to marry Elizabeth Campbell or Campbell-Moore as she is today.’
‘But the fool of a man didn’t,’ Scott retorted, staring down at her with a mixture of hurt and displeasure. ‘Whose side are you on anyway?’
She turned away from the glare in his eyes. ‘The side of fair mindedness, Scott. Now you’ll have to excuse me. Mamma wants me for more photographs.’
‘Go to her by all means.’ Scott bowed slightly. ‘I just hope Cunningham doesn’t plan on showing up tonight.’
His voice was iron hard.
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