Drew chained Bess up by the back door. ‘Bit far for you, girl,’ he said, fondling her ears and offering her a lamb shank. The dog whined and gave the bone a half-hearted lick. Poor compensation for missing a day on the range.
They’d made a perfunctory exchange of gifts that morning – him, Mai and Dad. It was a dismal scene. Mai had escaped afterwards to spend the day with relatives in Wodonga. Bill was off to Christmas lunch at neighbouring Brigalow Station. He’d expected Drew to tag along. ‘It’s a fine thing,’ Bill grumbled after Drew told him, ‘when your own children can’t be bothered with you on Christmas.’ Drew had excused himself from the breakfast table, his appetite suddenly gone.
Sam was towelling her hair dry by the water tank when he arrived, Tambo by her side. Singlet top, denim shorts showing off long, shapely legs. Pale legs. Her complexion was like alabaster, her arms, her graceful neck. All white. Drew tried to recall Charlie’s nut-brown tan, and failed. Even Sam’s voice didn’t sound so different this morning. He was getting used to this gorgeous new Charlie. ‘Merry Christmas,’ said Drew, swinging from the saddle. Well, well, well. Very nice. She’d lit right up at the sight of him.
‘Merry Christmas!’ called Sam, and came running. But she hurried straight past him. It seemed his horse was the attraction. ‘What’s her name?’ she asked, stroking the mare’s nose.
‘Chiquita.’
Sam ran her hand appreciatively down her shoulder. ‘Quarter horse?’
Drew nodded. ‘Dad’s a fan.’ He combed a burr from Chiquita’s mane with his fingers. ‘I don’t go along with him there. Give me a stock horse every time.’ The mare stamped her foot, as if she disagreed with him. ‘Charlie used to back me up on that one. To hear her tell it, quarter horses were tantamount to treason. Un-Australian, she used to say they were.’
Sam gave him a strange look. ‘Charlie’s not dead.’
‘So you said.’
‘Then perhaps you could stop referring to her in the past tense.’
‘Did I?’ He tied Chiquita to the fence. ‘Have you had breakfast?’
‘I didn’t feel like stale Froot Loops without milk,’ she said. ‘You?’
‘I had a dingo’s breakfast.’
‘What’s that?’ she asked.
‘A yawn, a piss and a good look around.’ Sam made a face at him as an impatient Tambo shoved her in the back with his nose. ‘He’s keen to get going,’ said Drew. ‘Been shut up in that dust bowl of a paddock for too long.’
Sam looked doubtfully at the gelding’s scrawny frame. ‘Do you think he’s up to it?’
‘My oath,’ said Drew. ‘A brumby like him’ll run all day on a sniff of feed.’
‘He’s not shod.’
‘His feet are neat and hard, he won’t be needing shoes – not out here in the bush.’
Sam looked doubtful. ‘If you say so,’ she said. ‘Give me a minute to change.’
‘Righto.’
Ten minutes later she emerged looking like a magazine model, wearing jodhpurs, an ivory shirt and gleaming boots, and carrying a stock saddle. Drew whistled in admiration. She sure was something to see.
Beneath the hint of a blush she looked a little lost. ‘I found this inside,’ she said, heaving the saddle onto a rail. ‘Is it Tambo’s? Will it do, Drew, do you think?’
He nodded, liking the way his name sounded on her tongue. ‘Want some help?’ She had the surcingle back to front, and the breastplate upside down. ‘Thought you knew about horses,’ he teased. ‘Or do you just dress the part?’
Sam put her hands on her hips. ‘I’ve never used this kind of saddle. I use a straight-flapped dressage one back home.’ She frowned. ‘Or at least I used to, when I still had a horse to ride.’
Drew came over, deftly fitted the surcingle and breastplate, then slapped the pommel. ‘This here’s a handmade Tony Gifford Jubilee Poley,’ he said. ‘Specially made for campdrafting. The flap’s shorter than usual, cut a little more forward. You can shorten up your stirrups and get your leg right on the horse.’ He pointed to the kneepad. ‘See this angle? Your thigh fits snugly, but you can still get up out of the saddle. Charlie won this little beauty at the King of the Mountains festival last year. It’s the town’s annual big bash.’
‘I’m very honoured to use it, then,’ she said, and pulled a black riding helmet from a bag at her feet. Jesus. She’d cop a serve if anybody around here saw her wearing that. Still, she might need it. Tambo had a cold back. Sam strapped on the helmet and mounted. The horse took off, pigrooting down the driveway. She rode well, sitting out the half-hearted bucking display with ease.
Drew swung into the saddle, and they headed up the hill at a brisk canter. When they came to the dam paddock, Drew reined his horse in. ‘Tambo’s a champion at opening gates. Just push him forward, use your legs.’ Sam did as he said, leant forward and unlatched the gate. ‘Now back up, swing his quarters around. No, hang onto the gate. Back up again, and there, you’re done.’ Sam’s horse stood facing him on the other side of the closed gate.
Sam grinned. ‘Tambo just executed a perfect turn on the forehand.’
‘A what?’
‘A turn on the forehand. The basis of all lateral work in dressage. The horse’s inside leg steps under his body. It encourages correct engagement.’
‘What, like this?’ Drew moved Chiquita up to the gate, performed the same deft manoeuvre, and joined Sam on the other side of the gate.
‘Just like that,’ said Sam, smiling. ‘Charlie warned me that Tambo would seem green compared to the horses I’m used to.’ She leant forward and patted his neck. ‘I must remember to tell her it’s not true.’ They started up the hill, walking fast on a loose rein, without breaking into a jog. ‘You know what we’re doing now?’
‘As far as I can tell, nothing,’ said Drew.
‘We’re doing an extended walk. “The horse covers as much ground as possible without haste, and without losing the regularity of his steps,”’ she recited. ‘“The rider allows the horse to stretch out his head and neck without losing contact with the mouth.”’
‘Tambo’s a good walker, I’ll give you that,’ said Drew, mystified. ‘But we’re still just bloody walking.’
‘There’s walking, and then there’s walking,’ said Sam. ‘Look.’ She turned around and pointed to their hoof prints on the dusty track. ‘In the extended walk, the hind feet touch the ground clearly in front of the footprints of the forefeet.’ He nodded. It was as she said. Sam forged on uphill, a smug smile on her face. Lesson one. With this girl, straightforward things could quickly get complicated. It certainly made things interesting.
The sun rose ever higher into a sky of flawless blue. Drew and Sam followed the track upstream by a winding creek. It had been a wet summer so far, and grassy clearings opened up around each bend. Three grey Forester kangaroos stood like statues, before bounding away at the riders’ approach. Sam cantered forward, then lost them in the forest of peppermint gums.
‘Did you see that?’
‘Roos,’ said Drew. ‘So what?’ A small mob of fat Herefords, red and white, calves and cows, raised their heads from the tall grass then trotted away from the riders. Tambo pricked up his ears and sidled sideways, impatient with the bit.
‘They’re just how I imagined them,’ said Sam. ‘I thought you said Brumby’s Run was short of feed?’
‘Those cows are in good nick, I’ll give you that,’ said Drew. He swatted a stinging fly from his arm. ‘Trouble is, they’re not yours. They’re Dad’s. He leases these creek flats. It’ll be a different story higher up.’
The track led upwards through a ragged thicket of tea-tree to a rusted gate. In sharp contrast to the lush country they’d just ridden through, the land beyond the gate was starved-looking, bare of grass. Poor grey clay showed between patches of woody scrub. Even unpalatable stringybarks told the tale of hungry stock – their trunks chewed and ragged, some ringbarked completely.
A sorry herd of black baldies picked their way across the barren hillside. The rotting carcasses of a cow and a calf stank out the air. Drew frowned. He trotted up the hill to take a closer look at the herd. The cattle were no more than skin and bone.
‘They’re starving,’ said Sam, staring open-mouthed at the walking skeletons.
Drew sized up the herd. ‘Get behind them,’ he said. ‘We’re going to push the mob further up the hill.’
Sam did as he asked, a distressed look on her face, and the herd made its faltering way towards the ridge top. It was painful to watch. Drew rested them frequently, allowing the weakened cattle time to catch their breaths. It was more than an hour before they saw the northern boundary fence, the fence that separated Kelly land from Balleroo National Park. In stark contrast to Brumby’s Run, the park was overflowing with feed – sunburned seed heads swaying above a green carpet of summer grasses. A bare strip ran the length of the fence, where famished stock had pushed their heads through, wrapping hungry tongues around each precious leaf or blade of grass within reach. It was a sorry sight.
Drew swung forward at a canter, scouting the boundary, searching for something. There, by that patch of black cypress pine – a crude bush gate, just wire and droppers, fastened to a tree with baling twine. Drew slashed the hay band, dragged the gate wide and urged Sam to help press the stock through. The starving animals rushed the opening, bellowing low, propping a few metres into the park and snatching at the grass with desperate urgency.
‘Won’t they run away?’ asked Sam.
‘Run?’ Drew snorted. ‘Take a look at them.’ They sat on their horses and watched the cows for a while. ‘We’ll move them to your lower paddocks once Dad gets his cattle out. In the meantime, they could use a good feed, don’t you think?’ Sam nodded, open-mouthed, still staring at the skeletal beasts. ‘Come on,’ said Drew. ‘Let’s pick up the rest of them.’
That morning, Sam got a crash course in mustering. She was a dead-set natural. Of course, it helped that she was riding a top stock horse. Tambo could have just about done the job on his own. But not all the cattle were as poor as that first lot. More than once, Drew wished he’d brought his stockwhip. His dad said riding out without your whip was as bad as riding out without your pants. One mob of more lively cows really gave them a run for their money. Tambo may have been thin, but he was keen as mustard, enthusiastically running down each breaking beast and swinging it hard back to the herd. At first, Sam sat straight in her saddle, glued to it, body swaying in graceful time with Tambo’s props and turns. Sexy? Yes. Gorgeous? Undoubtedly. But perhaps not the best seat for running rough stock through the bush.
Drew reined left, gathered a cow and a young calf from their tea-tree hide, and steered them towards the herd. Sam galloped Tambo across the facing gully. That was better. Her legs had slid forward into the traditional stockman position. Lying flat over Tambo’s wither, she drew level with a beast and expertly shouldered it back into the mob, like she’d done it all her life – just as Charlie would have done.
He cantered over. ‘We’ll make a cowgirl out of you yet.’
Sam’s face shone with excitement and triumph. She leaned forward and stroked the horse’s neck. Her breasts swung down a fraction, changing the contours of her buttoned shirt in a fascinating way, sending a shiver of desire right through him. Watch it, boy, he told himself.
‘It was all Tambo,’ she said, but he could tell she didn’t mean it. There was pride behind her words, a small conceit. He nodded approval and urged his mare after the mob, guiding them uphill towards a second gate in the boundary fence.
By noon, maybe fifty cows and calves were feasting on the national-park side of the fence. It was good to see the hungry beasts filling their bellies at last, but there were so few of them. How many were there meant to be? Whatever the number, they’d been left to fend for themselves for far too long. Guilt made him shift uneasily in the saddle. How could he have known that the Kellys would just take off like that, without a word of where they were going or when they’d be back? He watched Sam follow an inquisitive calf up the faint, rocky track. She knew where her sister was – knew, but for some reason wouldn’t tell him. It was most mysterious.
Drew trotted after Sam. ‘Come on,’ he called. ‘I’ll show you something.’ He took the lead, winding his way through the stringybark and tea-tree, pushing his mare up the stony slope. The muffled thud of Tambo’s unshod hoofs sounded close behind him. The approaching horses flushed out a bold daytime fox, sleek and fat as butter. It darted downhill.
‘Foxes and dingos will be having a field day,’ said Drew. ‘There’s good pickings for scavengers on Brumby’s.’ He reined Chiquita in, regretting his words as soon as they were uttered. The path widened, and the horses walked two abreast. Sam didn’t look at him, staring straight ahead between Tambo’s pricked ears. ‘I’ll tell you something you don’t know about foxes,’ he said.
‘How about I tell you something you don’t know about them instead?’ said Sam. ‘Where are there more foxes, do you think? Per square kilometre, I mean. Here? Or in Melbourne?’
‘Here, I suppose,’ he said. ‘They’re bloody everywhere. What would a self-respecting fox be doing in town anyway?’
‘Wrong. Urban environments are full of garbage. Highly beneficial for foxes. Towns support population densities up to ten times greater than rural areas.’
‘Is that so?’ said Drew. ‘Well, since you’re such an expert, perhaps you can explain this. Out bush a while back, I saw this pretty little vixen tearing bark off a tree with her teeth. Should have shot her, I suppose, but instead I just watched, quiet-like, so as not to scare her. She carried a mouthful of bark down to the creek and backed into the water, until all I could see was her black nose and the strips of bark between her teeth. She stayed stock-still for a few minutes, then dropped the bark and let it drift off downstream. Then she jumped onto the bank, gave herself a bit of a shake and trotted off, happy as Larry.’
‘That’s the strangest thing,’ said Sam. ‘I can’t imagine why a fox would behave in such an odd way.’
‘Thought a smart girl like you could figure something like that out,’ he said.
She cracked a smile, the kind that set a bloke dreaming. ‘Do you know?’
Drew nodded. ‘That little fox was getting rid of fleas. See, as she backs into the creek, they jump forward, to get out of the water. Eventually they all jump onto the piece of bark between her teeth, and she lets it float off, so the fleas get a chance for a bit of whitewater rafting.’
‘No.’ Sam laughed. ‘I don’t believe that for a minute.’
Drew tipped his hat. ‘True story.’ Then he cantered off, with Sam chasing close behind. Their path intersected with the old stock route, used in years gone by to bring the mountain cattle home. Almost there. An ancient hut appeared through a curtain of gum leaves. It had a rusted tin roof, a corrugated-iron rainwater tank, with a tumbledown chimney at one end and a rough porch at the other. ‘Dead Man’s Hut,’ said Drew. A creek bubbled from beneath rocks nearby, spilling past the ramshackle building into a chain of blue pools.
Sam and Drew tethered their horses to a rail of the bush timber yard. Sam loosened Tambo’s girth, then pulled the saddle off altogether. ‘It’s hot,’ she said. ‘Might take him for a swim.’
Now that was a tantalising prospect. She sat down on a split-log bench beneath the rusted iron porch. Drew hesitated for just a moment before unsaddling his own horse. How could he resist? He pulled a water bottle from the saddlebag and sat down close beside her.
‘Drink?’ She took a swig. Water trickled down her neck and delicate cleavage. His groin ached at the brief pressure of her thigh against his.
‘Why’s it called Dead Man’s Hut?’ she asked him.
‘You don’t want to know.’
‘It looks right out of The Man From Snowy River,’ said Sam in a delighted voice. ‘And I’m Sigrid Thornton!’ She ran her fingers along the warm grain of the timber seat. ‘I’m rebellious and romantic.’ And sexy and beautiful, thought Drew. Don’t forget beautiful. He had a mind to say it out loud.
Sam jumped up and struggled with the rusty lock on the door. Drew pressed close to her warm body, reached around her, pulled the bolt back and pushed open the door. Inside was a rickety bunk with worn horsehair mattresses, a dusty table and a blackened hearth. A bridle, green with age, hung on a nail, and a few rusted tins of bully beef stood along a splintered plank. Drew saw no romance in the gloomy interior – he saw only isolation and loneliness.
‘Imagine living up here, waking up to that,’ said Sam, pointing down the valley, past the ridge of candle bark and wattle, to the rolling pastured hills below. A glittering stream meandered through the river flats in great loops. The sun caught it, and transformed the winding watercourse into a chain of shining silver crescents. ‘Well?’ asked Sam.
‘It’s nice,’ he admitted, feeling foolish. It wasn’t his custom to reflect on the scenery.
‘Nice?’ scoffed Sam. ‘It’s more than nice! It’s stunning.’ She heaved a great sigh. ‘You are so lucky to live here.’
Lucky? This place was home, and he loved it, but he’d never thought of himself as lucky to be here. Quite the contrary. It was duty that bound him to these mountains. His two older sisters were long gone, drawn to Sydney like moths to a lamp, building careers, hunting for husbands, escaping the tyranny of their critical father. Even his mother had gone. Last year she’d ostensibly left to visit her plugged-in Sydney daughters. She’d never come back. A long-distance divorce, and his father hadn’t seemed to flinch.
And him? Well, his heart wasn’t in the cattle business. Horses were his passion. Especially Australian stock horses, a beautiful breed of tough, intelligent animals exemplified by the Walers – the station-bred horses turned war horses, renowned as the finest cavalry mounts in the world. Drew’s dream was to build up a quality herd of studbook mares, purchase a stallion or two with Abbey blood-lines, and found his own stock-horse strain. A strain with particular emphasis on temperament, to suit a wide range of riders of varying abilities. He wanted to run treks into the spectacular countryside adjoining Kilmarnock, to showcase the versatility and kind nature of his horses. Drew had bought Clancy as a colt for just such a purpose – the foundation stallion for his future herd.
Bill, however, had no patience for his son’s ideas. Kilmarnock is a cattle station, always has been and always will be, he’d said. Drew had come home one day to find Clancy gelded. I won’t have any ill-bred stallion running around, harassing my mares. And that was that. Things at home would be run Bill’s way, or no way at all. Plenty of times, Drew had wanted to chuck it in. Station hands talked about the money to be made in the mines out west. But paternal expectation is a powerful thing, and Drew was the only son … There was just so much a man could take, though, and Drew’s patience was wearing thin.
Sam removed her helmet, looked at him and smiled. ‘Don’t you ever take off that cowboy hat?’
He shrugged one shoulder. Truth was, he rarely did. ‘It’s not a cowboy hat. It’s a stockman’s hat.’ His dad was the cowboy-hat fan. Big and black, ten-gallon style, with a high crown, a pencil-rolled brim and a studded, buckled band – a Yankee wanker’s hat.
‘It looks like a cowboy hat.’ Sam reached up, snatched it from his head and tossed it onto the grass. She laughed, and bent to the ground to retrieve it. Her dark hair parted at the nape. He wanted to kiss the pale skin of her neck.
‘How pretty.’ She picked up the curled crescent of a gum leaf. A small green frog sat in its centre, no more than three centimetres long. Contrasting black stripes extended from its nostrils, over its eyes and head like a costume mask. Its back was striped a stylish emerald and brown. Tiny discs decorated its digits and webbed toes. Sam jumped as a surprisingly loud series of low whistling notes burst from the tiny amphibian. ‘Do you know what species it is?’
‘Of course.’ Drew leaned in close for a better look, close enough to feel the light heat of Sam’s body, and to catch a scent of her perfume; strange and exotic and marvellous. ‘It’s a species of frog.’
Sam laughed. ‘I bet Charlie would know.’
‘I bet she would, at that.’ It had been the first mention of Charlie for a while. ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’ asked Drew suddenly. ‘Back in … back wherever you came from?’
‘No.’
Hallelujah. Her reply was swift, bold and unequivocal. ‘Come on,’ he said, taking her free hand in his, and pulling her to her feet. ‘Your sister would never forgive us if we let anything happen to that frog.’ He didn’t let go of her hand as he led her to the ferny creek behind the hut. Truth was, he didn’t want to ever let it go.
‘Goodbye, Mr Frog,’ said Sam, and set it free. The little creature paddled away to a clump of reeds, and sat watching them.
‘You’re left-handed,’ said Drew. ‘Like Charlie.’
‘Of course,’ said Sam. ‘We’re identical – physically, anyway.’
It was just too intriguing. She looked at him with those tawny eyes of hers, like tiger eyes, and the desire to touch her overwhelmed his caution. On an impulse he spread his arms in invitation, and willed her to him. It worked. She moved into his embrace like it was the most natural thing in the world, her body soft and warm in his arms. He folded her in, lowering his head to her lovely mouth for a kiss. But her response was stiff, uncertain. Resistant. Then it dawned. Perhaps she hadn’t done this before? After all, this girl was no Charlie. She had class. You wouldn’t find her behind the chutes at a rodeo, beneath some hot-shot bull rider. His kiss turned from ardent and probing, to tentative and tender. He drew back and Sam pressed in against him, her eyes holding his.
‘I’ve never met anybody like you before,’ he said softly.
‘Of course you have,’ Sam said, smiling. ‘What about my sister?’
Drew shook his head. ‘Charlie’s not like you. She’s feral – crazy even.’
Sam pulled away and gave him a penetrating look. ‘She doesn’t seem crazy to me.’
‘Well, she is – and she likes rodeo cowboys way too much.’ Why were they talking about Charlie? He wanted to talk about Sam. ‘Why didn’t she ever mention you?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Sam. ‘Why didn’t she ever mention you?’
‘She didn’t?’
‘No. But she mentioned your dad. He’s a complete bastard, apparently.’
Chiquita whinnied loudly. Drew and Sam looked around to where she and Tambo were tethered beside the yard. The chestnut mare stood to attention, head high, ears pricked towards the gully. It was then they heard it. A close, trumpeting neigh. Chiquita shivered in her skin, pawed the ground and raised her tail.
A buckskin horse emerged from the stringybark trees. He marched with arched neck and a bold, high-stepping gait, right up to the restive mare. Could it be Jarrang? Chiquita reared and squealed; the high, insistent squeal of a mare in season. Drew leapt up and darted for her head. Too late.
The brumby stallion laid his ears flat back as Chiquita’s reins snapped. His head snaked to her flank, biting hard. Drew yelled and tried to force himself between the horses. The buckskin lunged straight at him, all bared teeth, slashing hoofs and wild, rolling eyes. The bugger. Drew ducked beneath the rail, and watched as the stallion half drove, half cajoled his mare across the clearing. The pair disappeared at a gallop into the trees. Tambo neighed and danced at the end of his reins.
‘Fuck!’ Drew glanced at Sam, standing wide-eyed by the yard. Then he swung bareback onto Tambo and took off after Chiquita.
The horses headed straight up the hill. The buckskin knew what he was doing. He kept to the trees, staying between Drew and the mare, lashing out with both hind feet whenever Drew came too close. It was all Drew could do to keep pace with him. When they reached the ridge’s rocky spine, Chiquita faltered. It was a precipitous place, and treacherous underfoot. She swung back around into the open. Drew rode at right angles to intercept her, pushing Tambo into her shoulder and grabbing her trailing reins. The buckskin wheeled, but Drew had hold of her now. He spun Tambo around, drew his horses to a halt and faced the stallion. Drew was certain. This was Jarrang, Charlie’s orphan foal, all grown up.
Jarrang retreated in a series of small, defiant rears, right back to the escarpment. Tambo and Chiquita stood with heaving sides, but the brumby stallion seemed unfazed by the uphill gallop. He’d matured into a striking horse, about fifteen hands, with the deep chest, short back and good length of rein so typical of early Walers. The type of horse that might even impress Drew’s father – if his father didn’t know Jarrang was a brumby, that was. What Drew needed was a rope. Jarrang reared again and boxed the air, as if reading Drew’s mind. Drew leaned down to stroke Chiquita’s damp neck. ‘Come on, girl. Let’s get you home.’
They turned to go. The buckskin screamed in anger. In a surprise move he thundered back and shot past so close that Drew could have touched him. Chiquita rose high on her hind legs, and Drew impulsively wound her reins around his hand. Bad move. Tambo leapt forward. Chiquita hung back and wrenched Drew to the ground. Even then, he didn’t drop the reins, but Jarrang was determined to have his mare. He galloped straight for Drew, forcing him to dive for cover. The stallion urged Chiquita on with a nip to her wither. With a dreadful, sinking feeling, Drew watched the horses scramble up the scree and vanish behind a rocky overhang.
For a moment he feared he’d lose Tambo as well, but the bay seemed to understand the stallion would not welcome a gelding for company. Tambo stopped short at the base of the stony slope and played hard to get for a few precious minutes, before allowing Drew to mount. There was no point giving chase. Those horses were long gone. Drew spat on the ground in disgust, and headed back to the hut. His dad would be furious. Merry Christmas, indeed.