CHAPTER 43
Tom paced the floorboards that lined the managers’ quarters, the crevices between the new wood still filled with sawdust. He stopped at the window for the hundredth time. “Think he knows?”
“Hard to say.” James held an empty boot between his thighs, rubbed the leather with wax.
“Been back for hours,” Tom continued. “Would have come down by now if he knew, right?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “What d’you think he’ll do if he knows we ain’t the guys?”
“Throw us out,” James said calmly as he squared a soft cloth and spread the grease over the boot’s creased tongue.
“Christ.” Tom scratched his head. “He’ll be pissed. Looks the type.” He turned to James. “What should we do? Tell him first?”
“Out of our hands.” James buffed the lines near the sole and around the eyelets. “If he knows, he knows. We’ll find out soon enough.”
“But Christ, James! Six thousand dollars! Be sick till my grave if we lose this job.” Tom paced back and forth, his mouth twitching.
James picked up his other boot and threw it at Tom’s back.
“Ouch!”
“You’re putting a hole in the floor. Clean up your boots,” James directed. “Least we can try and look halfway decent when he fires us.”
“Aren’t you worried at all?”
James stopped buffing. “We can run this place, Tom. I’m hoping this guy knows it.” He handed Tom the tin of lanolin. “Either way, we’ll have our answer soon.” He glanced at their bags slouched near the door. “Wouldn’t go unpacking, though.”
Tom picked up a boot, set it on the table, raised and lowered the heel without paying attention to the movement. “Did you catch a glimpse of his wife?” Tom grinned.
“No,” James said, disinterested.
“Only saw the back of her.” Tom’s face softened with a wide smile. “Bet she’s a looker.”
James chuckled. “What happened to your vow of celibacy?”
“Just lookin’.” Tom raised his hands innocently. “Man goes crazy staring at nothin’ but a sheep’s arse.” He sweated under his Akubra hat, stood and nearly knocked the chair over. “Can’t take the waitin’ no more. Let’s go take our lumps.”
Outside the quarters, the homestead was quiet. The sun warmed the right sides of their faces while the left sides stayed cool with morning air.
“Here he comes.” Tom pushed up his sleeves, stared past James to the house, his jaw set. “G’day, Alex!” he called out, shuffling like he needed to use the loo. “How was the trip?”
Alex sauntered up the wide drive, his hands resting easily in his trouser pockets. He wore a light tan suit, white shirt and blue tie knotted thickly at the stiff collar. “Fine.” The man looked around, smiled under the sun. “Gorgeous day, eh?”
Tom relaxed, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.
“How were things here?” Alex asked.
“We made a map of the property, assessed the best feeding areas for the stock,” James told him. “Wrote down the numbers, list of supplies you’ll want to stock, shearing schedule, number of men needed. Should cover it.”
Alex nodded with pleasure. “Good. I’m impressed.” Then he leaned back, loosened his tie. “Not bad for a couple of farm boys.”
Tom lowered his head and closed his eyes. James did not flinch, stared out to the distance as if he hadn’t heard a sound.
“Didn’t take more than a few calls to figure it out.” Alex winked. “Nice try, though.”
James turned to him, met his eyes square. “Never lied to you. Not once.”
“True.” Alex furrowed his brow and thought about this for a second. “Of course, you didn’t try and set it straight, either.”
James remembered his promise to Mrs. Shelby. “We can run this place.”
“I’m not arguing with you,” Alex said. “But there are men much more qualified begging for work.” He narrowed his eyes in challenge. “Give me a reason why I should keep you.”
James gazed intently around the land, at the house, at the barn, and settled his eyes on the horse ring. “Said you needed to bring someone in to train the horses.”
Alex studied James’s deep look with amusement. “That’s right.”
“I can do it.”
“Is that so?” Alex laughed then. “You know horses?”
“Yes.”
Alex rubbed his chin, enjoying himself greatly. “You a bettin’ man, James?”
“No.”
“Hmmm. Don’t drink, don’t smoke, don’t gamble.” His face opened in mock wonderment. “You’re a man without a vice!” Alex clapped his hands then, rubbed them exultantly. “All right, since you’re not a betting man, how about a challenge?”
James watched him narrowly, straddled his legs. “What do you have in mind?”
“You get on top of that stallion”—Alex pointed at the black body in the ring—“and stay on him for one minute, you got the job.”
Tom gave up, slouched his shoulders. “We’ll grab our stuff an’ get going.” But James was already bent under the top fence beam, easing into the arena.
Along the rough-hewn wood, Alex leaned his elbows and pulled out his cigarette case. He opened the tin, pounded the tobacco and lit the match, then sucked in deeply through a smile. “Hope you know how to fix a broken rib.”
In the ring, the black stallion stood alone, raised and lowered his front hooves as James approached. The horse flared his nostrils and snorted, but James paid him no mind, walked past him to the more sedate mare, rubbed her shoulder and nose.
Alex folded his arms, covered his grin with one hand, cleared his throat. “Ummm, Mr. O’Reilly?” His eyebrows pointed arrogantly. “The stallion’s the black one—behind you.”
James ignored Alex and pulled the brown mare closer, stepped back until the stallion was right behind his head, the breath hot and angry in his hair. James reached into a feedbag and fed the mare from his hand. The stallion pushed James in the back with his nose. James talked to the mare with soothing words and shoulder scratches.
The stallion, rearing like an obstinate child, stepped forward and pushed James’s elbow, spilling feed along the ground. James brought up another handful and, with his back turned, held up his palm. The stallion smelled the oats, huffed, stepped back and then forward, took a nibble.
Slow and easy as a spring breeze, James brought his hand around to the onyx mane. The horse balked. James turned away. The stallion came up again, then recoiled. And they played this game for several rounds until gradually and nearly imperceptibly James’s hand moved across the thick muscled neck and rested on the mighty shoulders.
James did not give a hint of threat or impatience as he flowed around the horse. The stallion quieted but stretched eyes to watch him, showing the whites at the corners. Then, with one hand to the horse’s neck and another to the twitching back, James closed his eyes, held his breath and in one hard jump swung himself onto the long spine. The stallion reared and James squeezed his thighs and knees hard against the ribs, held to the neck with every muscle in his hands. The horse sprinted furiously to the other end of the ring, jumped over the high fence.
A cloud of dust erupted under the horse’s hooves. James buried his face in the thrashing mane, his hands white with his grip and his ears deaf with the angry pounding. Pulling every ounce of strength into his thighs until they locked hard and tight as steel, he held on—held on for the job, for the Shelbys, for Tom. And the gallop went on, blasted through trees, the limbs ripping his shirt and lashing his arms. The horse veered, splashed over creeks, splattering his face and body with mud, his inner thighs burning as they slipped over the wet hair.
Finally, after miles of terrain, the horse’s breathing labored and the slick, bulging muscles twitched, began to slow. Guardedly, James raised his head off the stallion’s mane and adjusted his numb jaw, his neck cracking with the turn. He released the pressure from his knees and his thighs trembled with the slack; his joints throbbed with the rush of restricted blood.
The horse trotted now and James stroked the subdued head, patted the great neck. Deep red gorges surrounded them, the sun hitting directly on the walls, blazing the stones blood orange. Stately tuart trees and red box gums stretched high, their trunks majestic and solid, the limbs flowering only at the peaks.
With a tired knee, James steered the horse to the creek and let him drink. James’s own mouth was dirty and parched, but he didn’t dare get off; he wouldn’t have the strength to remount. When the horse was sated, they left the gorge behind and traced the hoofprints back to the lost station.
The homestead emerged as a pale dot in the landscape, grew with each tempered step. A crowd had formed at the arena. Workmen put down hammers, stood to watch the sweaty, lathered horse and the mound of dust that rode him. Tom took off his hat and waved, worked hard to calm his lips.
Alex offered James a hand as he dismounted, held him up as his legs buckled. James gripped his knees, coughed the dust from his mouth. “So”—he raised one eye—“we got the job?”
Alex slapped him heartily on the back. “You got the job.”