Men In Uniform: Taken By The Soldier. Jo Leigh
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She looked up at the bleak shadows turning his green eyes stormy. ‘No. There must be something we can—’
‘Leave her with me. It’s kinder this way.’
He was nearly as grey as the roo, now. It dawned on her what he was going to do. Her heart clenched. ‘No, you can’t…’
Dark eyes turned on her. ‘I’m trained to kill, Romy. It’s what I do best. Now will you please go back to the car?’
Torn between wanting to stay with him while he did the unthinkable and knowing she wouldn’t be able to watch, she shuffled to his side. Just being closer to him made things that tiny bit better.
‘Romy.’ His voice softened but his bleak gaze appealed. ‘Every second you’re stubborn is a second longer this animal is suffering.’
She dipped her head and turned away, shamed. As she did, a tragic hiss came from behind her. She and Clint both looked at the roo, where nature had finally taken care of its own.
In the pause between heartbeats, all signs of life vanished.
Her tears turned to relief. For the kangaroo and for Clint, who seemed so stoically resigned to killing it. She glanced down at the animal and watched the slight movements of its abdomen settling into death.
‘Romy—’ urgency filled Clint’s voice ‘—in the tray of the ute is my old training sweater. Can you grab it, please?’
He knelt in front of the dead roo and she hurried to find what he’d asked for. As she crossed to the vehicle, she noticed a set of tracks in the earth—disturbance where they’d skidded and then driven on again around the roo. She glanced at the ute’s tyres. Wrong profile. She grabbed her mobile phone as she reached into the ute for Clint’s old sweater.
He was hunched over the kangaroo’s corpse when she returned and she passed him the sweater, unable to look at the unseeing eyes. As soon as her hands were free, she turned back to the tire tracks, flipped open her phone and took a photograph of the distinctive tread marks, focusing determinedly on finding out who’d been here just before them. Somebody with expensive tires had been in the park this evening. At speed, judging by the distance from impact to where the roo lay.
Careless yahoos.
‘Romy, can you help me?’
She closed the notepad and turned carefully towards Clint, unsure exactly what he was asking for. What she saw nearly floored her. He extracted a tiny, damp, furred bundle from the pouch of the stricken kangaroo. A joey. That was what she’d seen moving so slightly in the mother’s body. He tucked it immediately into the warmth of the sweater and used the sleeves to tie around Romy’s neck like a sling.
She stood quietly, staring in amazement at the large, confused eyes which blinked at her from the deep folds of fabric. The joey immediately sought the warmth of her body, settling in the makeshift pouch and pressing harder against her heartbeat. Clint leaned in close, reaching behind to fashion a knot from the stretched sleeves. In moments it was done and she found herself a surrogate mother to the tiniest life she’d ever held.
Her gaze drifted up and found Clint’s. From death to life in a heartbeat. Her energy shifted from mourning the dead kangaroo to the survival of her tiny joey. His own eyes burned with focus, as though the opportunity to save a life consumed him.
‘Climb in. There’s a carer about an hour away. We’ll take her there.’
‘Her?’
‘Look at her eyes—they’re enormous like yours.’ His regard burned into her for the briefest of moments, the barest suggestion of the simmering, molten man behind the tough exterior. It was enough to make Romy’s mouth dry.
First feeling safe. Now going pasty mouthed. What the hell was coming over her?
As Clint dragged the dead roo’s carcass gently to the side of the track, she climbed in the front seat of the ute and secured the tiny life form more firmly against her body. She wasn’t too concerned about its ability to breathe. A woollen sweater would have to be easier than the thick damp cover of a flesh pouch.
She patted the mobile phone in her pocket to make sure it was still there and then turned to Clint.
‘Drive.’
WITHOUT the little life pressed against her chest, Romy felt strangely cold.
They’d interrupted the carer sitting to dinner with her family but on seeing their precious bundle the whole family kicked into action, apparently well used to the arrival of pouch-age survivors of roo strikes. Before Romy and Clint left, the carer’s husband took a moment to introduce some other young kangaroos, all raised by their family, all survivors of road accidents. Seeing them so healthy and grown was the only reason Romy was willing to leave her tiny charge in their very good hands. Otherwise, she was going to ask for a crash course in marsupial raising and take the baby home again.
Clint had to shepherd her with his body away from the joey as it settled in a lamb’s-wool pouch in the arms of the carer, hungrily slurping rescue formula from a baby’s bottle. There was nothing more they could do, but she’d been strangely reluctant to go. It was stupid, but it felt like their joey—hers and Clint’s.
All the more reason to leave it behind, she thought now, staring out into the thick darkness of the forest as they drove. The last thing she needed was additional reasons to feel connected to a self-confessed hermit. And an ex-military one at that. She sighed.
‘People suck.’ Given they were the first real words she’d uttered in the forty-minute return trip, they held some weight.
Clint turned to look at her, his eyes glowing in the light coming off the dash. ‘Can’t disagree with that. Why particularly?’
‘That roo was just minding her own business, getting her baby somewhere safe for the night, and…wham!’ They weren’t called roo bars for nothing. Most country vehicles had them. Great for protecting the fronts of cars, not so great for the hapless roos they connected with.
‘We saved one life tonight. That’s something.’
She sighed deeply. ‘Doesn’t feel like enough.’
His voice dropped to husky. ‘You have a soft centre, Romy Carvell.’
She snorted. ‘Yeah, I’m a regular Turkish delight.’
His lips twisted as he returned to watching the road. ‘Maybe you have to have seen the loss of life to appreciate saving one.’
Romy glanced at him. ‘Maybe so. I’ve never had anyone close to me die. Not that I remember.’
He glanced at her. ‘Grandparents?’
‘Nope. Gone pre-me.’
‘Parents?’
‘Mum died having me. Dad’s still around.’ Somewhere.
‘Consider yourself lucky, then.’
‘You’ve seen a fair bit of death.’ Not a question.
‘Seen it.’ He took his eyes off the road for longer to stare at her. ‘Been it.’
She chuckled. ‘Now I’m imagining you getting around in a hooded cape with a sickle.’
‘It felt like it some days.’
Her voice softened. ‘It would take a lot of saved kangaroos to offset that, I would imagine.’
He thought about that. ‘Not so many. Death is a process. Life is a miracle. Saving even one means something.’
They passed through the WildSprings entry statement and Romy instinctively glanced around for any signs of trouble. Hard habit