Friday already, and Drew still hadn’t been back. Each day after work as she tidied the yard, or washed the windows, or cleared out the hayshed, Sam listened for the sound of his wheels on the drive. At night she lay in Mary’s bed and wondered if Drew was wondering about her. How did these things work? She’d regretted her harsh words just as soon as they were out, but it seemed the damage had been done. It had been a stupid idea to discuss the lease with Drew in the first place. He was Bill’s son, after all. She’d given Charlie a solemn oath to get Brumby’s Run back. But if Bill found out Mary didn’t want it back, he’d never move his stock.
Sam stroked Tambo’s nose as she fed him a carrot. ‘Well, boy, it looks like it’ll be just you and me seeing in the new year together.’ Sam’s first week of working for Bushy had passed much too quickly. Each morning she rose at the clear light of dawn, and made coffee and instant porridge on a portable butane cooker she’d bought from the produce store in town. ‘No point trying to put that on the account,’ the man had told her. ‘Your mum’s three months late on payments as it is.’
‘No worries, George.’ She’d learned his name from Bushy, who, oddly enough, didn’t seem to turn a hair when she asked him such questions. What’s the butcher’s name, Bushy? I forgot. Where’s Duffer Lane? Who can I get lucerne hay from?
‘Can I have a copy of that overdue account please?’ she’d asked George. He’d narrowed his eyes and complied. ‘I’ll fix that up for you now, if you like?’ Sam had said, to his obvious surprise and pleasure. She’d done the same all over town, paying off accounts at the grocer, the butcher, the service station. Who’d have thought that you could buy petrol on account? But Mary had managed it.
‘You and your mum must have come into a bit of money, then?’ said Harry at the service station, as he checked her oil and water. It was a remark she had heard all too often this past week. The towns-folk’s curiosity about Charlie and her changed circumstances made her wary to talk. Sam avoided people as much as possible. It wasn’t hard. She loved her work, and she loved being home at Brumby’s Run, cleaning up the house or weeding the garden in preparation for Mary and Charlie’s return. She was far too busy to feel lonely.
Every day after breakfast, Sam washed the dishes outside at the tank, tossed Tambo a few biscuits of hay and headed for the race-course. The historic course at Currajong doubled as the show-grounds. It was picture-perfect, nestled as it was at the edge of the forest, on the outskirts of town. There were usually a few trainers and gallopers on the track when she arrived. She’d learned to slip into the jockeys’ rooms – grab a quick shower and leave her phone charging, hidden behind a bench – before joining Bushy for a cup of tea and hot, buttered raisin toast before they started the day’s work.
Close to forty brumbies stood in the stockyards: weanlings, year-lings, two-year-olds and a few mature mares. These horses, along with many others, had been trapped high in the range as part of a concerted federal push to remove them from national parks. Most went for slaughter, but a rescue organisation, the Brumby Coalition, had selected the most promising young brumbies for rehoming. A wealthy sponsor had engaged Bushy to assess the horses, and to teach them a few basic ground manners, prior to their auction at the picnic race day in a month’s time. Ryan, a serious, bespectacled young man from the organisation, visited occasionally to ensure the youngsters were progressing well. They had lessons in leading, tying up and standing quietly for grooming; lessons in picking up feet for the farrier, and loading into floats. All the essentials for any self-respecting horse. Sam had soon found her favourites amongst them: the greedy taffy gelding with the walleye, who seemed determined to eat her hair; the sweet chestnut filly who tried so hard to please. And then, of course, there was Phoenix.
Bushy had assigned the palomino colt to her as a personal project. It was a relief to know Phoenix wouldn’t go through the sales next month, along with all the other brumbies. ‘You started him,’ said Bushy, lips clinging to the inevitable roll-your-own. ‘Now you better finish him.’ Each morning he coached her. Working with the colt generated in Sam a fierce, possessive pride, akin to that first thrill of working with Pharoah. Sometimes she felt disloyal, as the pain of losing Pharoah lost some of its bite.
Phoenix raised his head and nickered at her approach. ‘Hello, gorgeous,’ she said. ‘Was that a welcome for me, or for this bucket of feed?’ Sam slipped into the yard beside him. The colt nosed the fingers of her extended hand, snuffling low. She reached out and buried her hand in his snowy mane, stroking his neck, his nose. The strength of their connection was palpable. Phoenix lowered his head, blinking evenly as she emptied chaff and oats into the old tyre feeder. Long pale lashes framed his big amber eyes. She liked how his ears swivelled independently of each other, simultaneously keeping track of her and any movement outside the yard. Tracing the muscular definition of his graceful neck, she admired the range of colours in his sleek summer coat. Silver, blond and chestnut – combining to create the illusion of spun silk. She couldn’t wait for the day she would ride him.
Sam picked up a comb and tamed his mane, no longer a tangle of knots and twigs. Instead it tapered neatly down his neck, like a fashion accessory, designed to lift and float, to add beauty and symmetry to his outline.
Grabbing a handful of hay, she wove a wisp. Fingers flew in practised precision. She could almost have been back at the stables in Melbourne, about to put Pharoah through his paces. Caught in this pleasant dream she leaned back, and thumped the wisp down on the colt’s neck.
Phoenix exploded in a flailing flurry of hoofs, climbing the air. Sam ducked under the rail as he tore to the far side of the yard and stood watching her, all rolling eyes and stamping forefeet.
‘What the hell did you do there?’
Bushy’s voice. A cold nose nuzzled the back of her hand. Bess? She turned to see Bushy shaking his head, with Drew grinning beside him. Sam showed Bushy the wisp and tried to explain. ‘It’s a massage pad made by plaiting hay. You slap it along a horse’s neck, shoulders and rump to tone his muscles.’
‘Well, that’s a damn fool idea,’ said Bushy. ‘He ain’t no tame city pony. You belt him with that, he’ll more than likely belt you back.’
‘I wasn’t belting him!’ protested Sam.
‘Sure seemed like it to me.’ Bushy indicated the outraged colt. ‘And to him too, by the looks of it.’ He picked the wisp up off the dusty ground and grunted. ‘Waste of good hay.’ Phoenix snorted in loud agreement. ‘You get that fella back and groom him up proper.’ With that, Bushy walked off in disgust.
Drew shuffled his feet and tipped his hat forward a little. He was trying unsuccessfully to hide the broad smile on his face. ‘Morning.’
Why did he have to be here, of all people? To see her dressed down like a foolish schoolgirl. Still, in spite of her embarrassment, she was glad to see him. ‘Good morning,’ said Sam, and went to retrieve the fractious colt.
Drew eyed Phoenix approvingly. ‘He’s a nice sort.’
‘Come to check up on me?’ she asked. At least he’d stopped smiling – almost.
‘Dad sent me over with a couple of two-year-olds for Bushy to break. You did know he works for Dad too, didn’t you?’
Sam spun around. Phoenix half reared at her swift movement, as if he thought she might give him another thumping. ‘Well, of course I didn’t,’ she said in a loud stage whisper, looking around to make sure Bushy was out of earshot. ‘How was I supposed to know that?’
Drew shrugged. Whose side was he really on? If Bushy worked for Bill, and she worked for Bushy, then it meant she was indirectly working for Bill herself. It was an unsettling thought. Phoenix decided Sam’s fit of madness had passed, and returned to his feed bin at a high-stepping trot. He sent her flying with a cross toss of his head, and she landed seat first in the dust. Drew helped her up, holding her hand a little longer than necessary. A sudden panic gripped her. She had to do something or say something, right now, to show him she was still interested. She couldn’t bear for the moment to be lost.
‘I’m sorry about the other night, Drew. You were right about Mary,’ said Sam. ‘She does mean to renew the lease. It’s Charlie who doesn’t want to.’ Don’t forget to send the contract to me, will you, sweetheart? It’s very important, Mary had said before Sam left. I’ll post the signed documents back for you to give to Bill. But Sam hadn’t given them to Bill. Instead, she’d burned them on the barbecue.
‘No worries.’ Drew trailed a hand idly along the fence. He looked thoughtful, as if he was trying to make up his mind about something. It felt like he was trailing his fingers up and down her spine. ‘I’m having a shot at catching Chiquita tomorrow,’ he said at last. ‘Going to run the brumbies into the yards up at Dead Man’s Hut.’ He drew a line in the dust with his boot. ‘Sure could use some help.’
‘Really?’ asked Sam. ‘You mean me?’ He nodded. Drew leaned against the top rail and watched two horses go round the track. ‘Dad won’t be causing you any problems for a while. He came off his bike yesterday and smashed his leg up. Nasty stuff. It’ll lay him up for ages’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Sam, although she wasn’t. She had no sympathy for Bill. She must have sounded as false as she felt, because Drew shook his head and held up his hand.
‘I never agreed with him leasing your land in the first place. Fact is, nobody will make a decent go of Brumby’s until our cattle are gone. Dad knows that.’
Phoenix was watching the gallopers too. Nerves twitched beneath his satin coat.
‘It’s New Year’s Eve,’ Sam said, ‘and the lease ends today. I sent your dad a text last night. Told him to move them out by tomorrow, or I will.’ It had been an empty threat. Her beginner’s mustering skills would never stretch to moving hundreds of cattle by herself.
Drew raised his brows. ‘Then I suppose you’ll be needing some help.’ This was too perfect. Without thinking, Sam threw her arms around Drew’s neck in a swift, grateful hug.
Phoenix approached the rails, allowing Drew to stroke his muzzle. The colt reached over, snatched the hat from his head and cantered off, thrashing it from side to side like a terrier shakes a rat. ‘Cheeky bugger,’ said Drew with a laugh. Sam ducked into the yard, played a short game of tug of war, then came back with the hat, complete with teeth marks. Drew looked at it ruefully. ‘It’s had a hell of a hiding.’ He shook it a few times. ‘You know, Dad’s old school. Can’t abide texts. You should hear him. If something’s worth knowing, it’s worth saying. He could go forever without checking his phone. You sure you sent it?’ Sam nodded. ‘I reckon that’s fair notice then.’ Drew slapped the hat back onto his head. ‘Tell you what, I’ll make sure he gets the message – after we’ve moved the cattle, that is.’
‘Deal,’ she said, smiling. Why had she ever doubted him?
‘Let me take you out tonight,’ he said. ‘There’s a few parties on.’
For a moment Sam was tempted. A night out with Drew was more than she’d hoped for. But then reality set in. ‘Do you really think that’s a good idea? Who would I go as? Myself, or Charlie? I might be able to fool the traders in town, but I’d never fool friends, people I’m supposed to know.’
‘Why are you pretending to be Charlie, anyway?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t set out to,’ she said. ‘I just went along with everybody. It was so much easier than having to explain.’
‘In the short term, maybe. But not in the long run.’ Drew gave her a knowing sideways glance. ‘I think it’s more than that. I think you’re enjoying yourself.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Sam. ‘You think I enjoy having to watch every word? Enjoy not even being able to go out on New Year’s Eve, in case I give myself away?’
‘Yep,’ said Drew, with an infuriating smile. ‘Admit it. It’s exciting, isn’t it? Fooling everybody? There’s the thrill of not being found out, of living a double life. It’s like being undercover, or a spy or something. My guess is your old life was kind of tame.’
Why did he always have to do that? Call her out, embarrass her just when things were going well? Still, she’d learned her lesson. No more hasty words this time. She wanted Drew to help muster the cattle out, didn’t she? So she mustn’t put him off. But a nagging internal voice challenged her to be honest with herself. Sam examined the dusty ground for answers. Who was she kidding? She wanted a lot more than that. Bushy appeared from around the corner, halters in hand. ‘Hey, Drew. You going to stand yakking to Charlie all day, or come help unload those horses?’
‘I’ll be over later with that generator,’ Drew said in a low voice. ‘We’ll see in the new year together, eh? I’ve got some ideas you might be interested in.’ She nodded, feeling her flesh goosebump in anticipation.
‘Come on, fella,’ called Bushy. ‘Any slower, you’d be in reverse.’
Drew tipped his hat to her, a delightfully old-fashioned gesture. ‘Til tonight, m’lady.’
Sam waved goodbye to Bushy. ‘See you next year,’ he said, and laughed at his own joke. For once, Sam was leaving work on time. All week she’d stayed long past knock-off. There was always plenty to do and see. She might give a nervous yearling some extra handling, or head over to watch the thoroughbreds on their evening gallops. Not tonight, though.
As Sam reached the car her phone beeped. It was a message from Faith. She hadn’t forgiven her mother for Pharoah, not by a long shot. How could she? How could she ever pardon such a base betrayal? She’d sent Faith a brief text on Christmas Day, but that was all. By contrast, Faith had bombarded her with phone calls. When they went unanswered, Faith wrote text messages as long as her arm. These missives were full of apologies. Good, so they should be … but the apologies were weak and laden with excuses. Sam read her mother’s latest offering. I’m sorry, Samantha. It was wicked of me to sell Pharoah. Faith should have stopped right there. Sam could have almost accepted a simple, heartfelt admission of guilt. But you were always so busy with Charlene, she continued foolishly. So busy with Charlene, and that Mary woman. You certainly had no time for me. You had no time for Pharoah. You’d absolutely deserted us, Samantha. I honestly thought the horse would be better off with Wolf. Sam deleted the message.
These sorts of stupid, selfish rationalisations had only served to harden Sam’s heart. ‘Get Pharoah back,’ Sam had said bluntly on the one and only occasion she’d answered Faith’s call. ‘Then we’ll talk.’ Faith responded with a message avalanche, detailing the extraordinary lengths she’d gone to, trying to do just that. But apparently Wolf wouldn’t budge. He’s set on a berth in the Olympic squad, and he thinks Pharoah is the horse to get him there. It’s such a compliment to your training, Samantha.
That was true. A wonderful compliment with a poison arrow at its heart. So her family communications had been confined to Dad and Mamie. She’d spoken to her father a couple of times, and he’d been surprisingly supportive. He’d asked after Charlie, and had even been solicitous about Mary. He’d promised to give her a generous monthly allowance while she was in Currajong. But he still refused to discuss the adoption. That talk would have to wait until they stood face to face.
Sam stopped for supplies at the little Currajong supermarket on the way home. It wasn’t a supermarket in the normal sense of the word at all. No endless gleaming aisles and self-checkout lanes. It was a traditional general store, doubling as the post office. Its old-world charm would have been more appealing if Sam didn’t have to always be so careful. Every time she went to town, every time somebody looked at her with recognition in their eyes … every time somebody called her Charlie, Sam’s heart was thumping in her throat.
‘What are you up to tonight, Charlie?’ asked Marjorie, the kindly middle-aged woman at the checkout. Sam had learned her name from the tag on her ample bosom.
‘Staying home,’ she said.
‘That doesn’t sound much like you. Is your mother back?’
‘Not yet. She’s still working in Melbourne.’ This was her new line. She hoped the idea of Mary working didn’t sound too preposterous, and it helped explain where the money had come from to pay off the bills. The money that had actually come from Sam’s own dwindling bank account.
Sam wandered down one aisle and back up the other. She bought cheese, a jar of olives and another of sun-dried tomatoes. A tub of French-onion dip. Crackers. Some cherries and grapes. There wasn’t much vegetarian fare on offer, but a diet of barbecued meat had begun to pall. She walked out with her purchases and felt the first plop of fat summer rain. To the east, dark clouds boiled higher and higher, warning of an approaching storm. Looked like they’d be eating inside tonight. On an impulse, Sam dashed back inside. Braving Marjorie’s curious stare, she bought a box of tea-light candles, a pair of wine glasses and a bag of ice. Then she headed for home, nervous anticipation churning her stomach. Sam thought of her sister, still languishing at the hospital in Melbourne. She would have to call later in the evening to cheer Charlie up and wish her a happy new year.
Everything was ready for Drew’s arrival. The formerly filthy kitchen smelt of lavender, and shone with shabby chic. Sam placed the last marigold into the jug-cum-vase that adorned the tiny table. An old sky-blue curtain, washed and line-dried, stood in for a regular table-cloth. The antipasto platter spilled over with sweet cherry tomatoes, and looked suitably festive. A jam jar of billy buttons and silver snow daisies sat on the sill. Sam peered past it to see Drew pull up and lift Bess from the tray of his ute. Finally! She dashed outside, heedless of the pouring rain, or of seeming too eager.
‘Hello.’ Sam raised her voice above the noise of rolling thunder. ‘Why do you always lift Bess down? She must weigh a tonne.’
‘She’s got a bung leg,’ he said. The massive dog ran over and buried her wet nose affectionately between Sam’s knees. Drew heaved something that looked like a motor off the tray. The power of him showed in his upper arms, as they strained with the load. Drew stashed it on the narrow verandah, then squatted down to make an adjustment. His sodden shirt was translucent, the colour of flesh. The crouch accentuated the length of his back and the strength of his thighs. Sam knelt down beside him, shivering. The motor thing must be the generator. Heat radiated through his wet clothes. He smelt of horses, earth and saddle leather. She moved closer until their bodies touched. Sam almost regretted that candlelight might not be the only light tonight.
Drew dashed back to the cab and emerged with a white paper parcel and a bottle of wine. Fish and chips and champagne. Bess shook herself in a rainbow of spray. The pair ran inside laughing, leaving soggy Bess complaining on the porch.
‘It’s the cleanest I’ve ever seen this kitchen,’ Drew said, an expression of wonder on his face. Sam just smiled, suddenly shy. Drew looked her coolly up and down, and she felt her pulse quicken. ‘Will I set up the generator?’ he asked.
‘Let’s eat first.’ Dusk was gathering around them, reaching dark fingers through the window. Time for the candles. Her arm stretched for the matchbox on the table.
‘Allow me.’ Drew covered her hand with his own, and extracted the box from her curled palm. Round the kitchen he went, lighting the tea lights one by one, until the room was bathed in a soft, romantic glow. The act seemed imbued with special significance. It was a ritual, and he the high priest.
Drew pursed his lips and blew out the match. Seconds ticked by. She waited with bated breath. Then his arms were round her, sure and hard. Drew lowered his mouth to hers, and she parted her lips to taste him. The kiss was so sensuous and slow that Sam wished it might never end. Was this love? This dizzy warmth, this flush of desire, this feeling that her body knew exactly what it was doing?
Drew pulled away first. ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘That was a bombshell kiss.’ He reached up to gently run his knuckles down her cheek. ‘You don’t know your own strength. Or was it beginner’s luck?’
‘All beginners need to practise,’ she said, and tugged him back to her, amazed by her own boldness.
Bess ruined the mood. The dog’s determined scratching had finally paid off, and she burst into the kitchen through the flimsy screen door. Bess and Drew dived as one for the parcel of fish and chips on the table, and he rescued it just in time. The aroma of wet dog replaced the fragrance of lavender. ‘Bad dog!’ said Sam, but her tone was not scolding. She sank to her knees and hugged the happy hound.
Drew laughed. ‘Yeah, that’s the way to tell her off.’ He reached for Bess’s collar.
‘Let her stay,’ said Sam. ‘It’s her New Year’s Eve too.’ Bess barked in approval.
‘I thought three was a crowd?’ said Drew, but Bess was already following Sam to the fridge, smiling and waving her whip-like tail.
‘Does she like bacon?’
Bess whined in assent and swallowed two rashers in one gulp, before Drew’s withering stare sent her slinking into the corner. Bess squeezed behind a bucket designed to catch drips from the leaky roof. Then the giant dog curled up tight as if she hoped she might become invisible.
‘Come on. Let’s eat,’ said Drew, ‘before she cons you into feeding her our dinner as well as our breakfast.’ Sam gave him a searching look. Breakfast? Was that a statement of intent, a circuitous request? An offer?
Drew didn’t appear to appreciate the significance of his remark. He went about dividing the portions of battered flake, the steamed dim sims. He made two mounds of lukewarm soggy chips. Sam poured the sparkling wine into the new glasses and proposed a toast to the new year. They each took a sip.
‘I’ve got another one,’ Drew said. ‘To us.’
He leant across and kissed her again.
The last thing she felt like doing now was eating. Nonetheless Sam tried a chip. It wasn’t until the food hit her palate that she realised how hungry she really was. Fresh air and hard work had piqued her appetite. The chip was warm and creamy on the inside. Salty. Yummy. The fish tasted even more delectable. A search of the pantry turned up a bottle of white vinegar and some soy sauce for the dim sims. It was quite simply the most delicious meal of her life.
Drew topped up her glass. ‘So what’s the plan?’
‘Plan?’ What exactly was he asking her? ‘For tomorrow? Is that what you mean?’
‘I meant your long-term plan. The big picture.’
‘I … don’t suppose I have one,’ she answered.
‘Are you staying on?’
Did he want her to, was that it? Was he asking her to stay? ‘Maybe,’ she said, and didn’t mention the Commerce degree awaiting her in Melbourne.
‘When will Charlie be back?’
This wasn’t what she’d expected, an inquisition. It caught her off guard. ‘A couple of months … when she’s well.’
‘So she’s sick?’ Damn, there was no denying it now. The implication of her words had been plain. Sam nodded miserably. Her first real slip. ‘Where’s the shame in that?’ asked Drew, sounding puzzled. ‘Why all the secrecy?’
‘Charlie doesn’t want people feeling sorry for her.’ Sam was just making it worse. The charm of the evening was fast evaporating. She was stuffing it all up. ‘I’m sorry. I’d rather not talk about my sister.’
But Drew wasn’t about to let it drop. ‘That’s Charlie for you. Too much pride in one direction, not enough in another.’
Sam experienced a tight twinge of envy. She hated to hear Drew talking about Charlie with such easy familiarity. Talking like he knew Charlie better than she did. Confirming all she’d missed, these past eighteen years. And she hated to think of Charlie, alone with Drew so many times. A sharp gust of wind blew out the tea lights on the table, and the marigolds had closed their bright petals. ‘Exactly how well do you know my sister?’ she asked.
‘Charlie and I go way, way back,’ said Drew. That was the wrong answer. A loud clap of thunder made Sam jump. Bess whined in fear and came to lay her head in Sam’s lap. ‘I’ve got an idea to run past you,’ said Drew. ‘A way to make a living from this place, until you can afford to restock.’ A business proposition, now? What was this evening really about? She poured herself the last of the wine. What she wanted most was a big tub of chocolate ice-cream and a spoon.
‘Trail rides,’ said Drew. She rewarded him with a blank look. ‘Trail rides,’ he repeated, as if she hadn’t heard him the first time. ‘There’s a string of ten horses and ponies going at Gidgee. The bloke’s been keen to sell them for a while, with no luck. He plans to put them through the Currajong horse sale. I’ll bet if you made him an offer, you’d get the lot for a song.’
‘Why would I want to do that, exactly?’ She half expected him to say trail rides for a third time.
‘Hang on,’ said Drew. He disappeared outside and returned with dripping hair and a sixpack of beer. The romantic mood was fast disappearing. ‘Want one?’ Sam shook her head. Clearly Drew did not intend for this to be a dry argument. ‘Your mum will be skint when she gets back, that’s a given,’ he said. Sam hesitated, then nodded. ‘She relies on Dad’s lease fees, and not much else. Without them, she’ll need some sort of replacement income.’
‘What about the cattle? Can’t she just sell some?’ asked Sam. ‘Isn’t that how it works?’
Drew snorted and shook his head. ‘There’s maybe fifty head, all skin and bone. It’ll be six months before those calves are fit for sale, and you can’t put cows that poor straight back in calf.’ Drew stood up and began to pace around. ‘Want to know what I’d do?’ Perhaps she’d have that beer after all. ‘I’d cull the bulls and chopper cows. Wean the calves. Winter down any cows you want to keep. Then buy new bulls and restock slowly. Problem is, it all takes money. That’s where the trail rides come in.’
‘Chopper cows?’ asked Sam.
‘Old, sick, infertile. Bad mothers. Cows that have twins and can’t raise them both. Cows that don’t have a calf each year.’
‘And what? They’re killed?’
A draught extinguished more candles, casting Drew into shadow. ‘Well … yes,’ he said. ‘There’s no retirement home for cows.’
‘No, I suppose not.’ Bad mothers. There was no equivalent penalty for bad mothers in the human world. Absurdly, Sam imagined Mary and Faith as cows. Would they qualify as choppers? Forfeit their lives for terrible parenting? It was unfair to kill a cow because she couldn’t get pregnant. Faith couldn’t get pregnant. Mary couldn’t raise both twins. Sam’s head swam with conflicting emotions. It hadn’t occurred to her that she might be required to make decisions about the practical operation of Brumby’s Run.
‘I want to keep all the cows for the time being,’ she said. ‘Give them another chance.’
Drew’s expression grew soft. ‘We’ve a way to go before we make a farmer out of you. Tell you what, you keep the cows. But you’ll have to cull the bulls. That herd is inbred enough as it is.’
‘Deal,’ said Sam.
Drew pulled her to him. ‘What is this?’ he asked, with the hint of a smile. ‘Feminism for cows?’
‘Maybe.’ She certainly didn’t have the heart to steal their calves away, and then send those poor, starved creatures to be slaughtered. Not yet, not after all they’d endured. She pictured the black cows wandering lush paddocks in spring, growing fat, new calves gambolling at their feet. ‘Maybe I’m just not cut out for the cattle business.’ The idea of running trail rides certainly seemed a far gentler way to earn a crust.
‘You’re a hypocrite, Sam. You know that, don’t you?’ said Drew. He threw an olive in the air and caught it in his mouth. ‘I didn’t see you turn your nose up at my steaks.’
It was true, of course. ‘You’re right, I do eat meat. Only free-range though, no intensive pork or chicken. No grain-fed beef. It’s not the death of an animal that I object to, as long as it’s humane. We all have to die sometime. My problem is with a life of suffering.’ She cracked open the beer. ‘I don’t think I’d normally have a problem with selling cattle. Those ones of your dad’s – they looked completely content. Death isn’t so bad, is it? Not after a happy life.’ It mattered that he understood her. ‘Our cows have suffered so much,’ she said. ‘I want them to have some happiness.’
Drew relit a candle. ‘Fair enough,’ he said, with a decisive nod. ‘We’ll have them knee-deep in clover, literally. Dad’s been saving your eastern flats for winter feed. All sown down to rye and clover. We’ll move the poorer cows in there and they’ll be happy as free-range pigs in mud,’ he said, ‘I guarantee it.’
Enough with the talk. Wasn’t he ever going to kiss her again? On an impulse Sam laid her hand on his chest, feeling the firm muscles beneath. She slipped her fingers between a button, felt the warmth of his skin, the beat of his heart. He fixed her with his eyes intense with desire, and one by one undid her own buttons, big fingers fumbling a little. She smiled encouragement, the blood rushing in her ears. He leant in close, landing a flurry of whispery little kisses, all around her face and neck. Now his tongue was in her ear, his hands running over her bra, the swell of her breasts, pausing on a hardening nipple, stroking her sensitive belly. Sam’s legs went weak, and her skin burned beneath his touch. A delicious feeling swelled deep between her thighs, a sensation of exquisite sweetness. She sighed as his hands encircled her waist.
With a loud whoosh, the storm sent a whipping surge of wind through the kitchen, extinguishing every candle. The sudden darkness was complete. So was the silence. ‘Come to bed,’ whispered Drew, taking hold of her hand. She quivered with the anticipation of his touch in the dark.
But as Drew urged Sam to her feet, the dull throb of a motor sounded in the distance. Gradually the noise grew louder and louder. A car was coming, its headlights visible now through the window, brightening the room enough for Sam to find the torch in the cutlery drawer. She hurriedly buttoned up her shirt as Bess launched herself out the back door baying like the Hound of the Baskervilles, with Drew hot on her heels. Sam checked the time on her phone. Ten to twelve. Friends of Charlie’s, maybe, come to ring in the new year? Should she hide? Too late. She heard a heavy thud outside, and shrank back from a shadowy male form that loomed in the door. Not Drew. Taller and fair-haired, but with the same thin-hipped, broad-shouldered silhouette.
Torchlight lit the man’s face, making it ghostly, like a Halloween mask. Sam shivered in spite of the warm night air, fumbling for matches. She lit a candle while the stranger watched. He looked puzzlingly familiar. Had she seen him in town, perhaps? Sam felt sure she’d have remembered a face so striking.
There was a mathematical formula for beauty, or so she’d read. The golden mean. The divine proportion. Something about the distance between mouth and nose, the width of the lips, the height of the cheek. In this man’s handsome face, the formula was made flesh. His blue eyes held her own with a disturbing intensity, supremely confident, a little arrogant, like those of a young lion. Currajong certainly knew how to grow good-looking men.
‘Chaz,’ he said. ‘Long time no see.’
She had it. The poster cowboy. Drew pushed in past him. ‘Hey, man,’ said the cowboy, extending his hands with palms upheld. ‘It was an accident.’
‘What was an accident?’ asked Sam.
‘The bastard tripped me.’ In the faint candlelight she could see that mud caked the front of Drew’s body and smudged his nose.
The cowboy surveyed the candle-filled kitchen with the manner of a man who’d been drinking, but was not yet drunk. ‘Very romantic.’ He flicked the useless light switch and clicked his tongue. ‘Or did your mum just not pay the bill?’
Drew shouldered the stranger. ‘Get out, Spike.’
‘I’d say that’s Charlie’s call, wouldn’t you?’ He had the kind of eyes that ran up and down a woman’s body like a searchlight. Drew waited, looking expectantly at Sam – waiting for her to back him up.
Yes,’ she said at last. There was a simmering tension between the two men that she couldn’t read. ‘Would you go, please?’
Spike pricked up his ears. ‘Since when did you start bunging on a voice, Chaz?’ He came closer, examining her with curious eyes. It was like a physical touch. She felt vulnerable, exposed, but deliciously so. It was no use, she couldn’t fool him.
‘You’ve confused me for my sister,’ she said, hearing her voice falter. ‘I’m Samantha. Charlie is away.’ Now for the disbelief, the doubt, the astonishment. Comprehension was the last thing she expected, but there it was, plain on his face.
‘My mistake.’ He spoke in a low, modulated tone, at times a half-drawl. No two ways about it, Spike’s voice was very sexy – and it wasn’t just his voice.
‘Completely understandable,’ she said. ‘Charlie and I are identical twins.’
Spike shot Drew a look. ‘Man, what a beautiful dream.’ Drew sprang forward, and Sam instinctively moved between the two men.
‘You’re not going to kick me out, are you, Samantha?’ Spike checked his phone. ‘Not at five minutes to midnight, in the rain, on fucking New Year’s Eve?’ He took off his hat and put it on the table, as if it might anchor him in the room.
‘That’s exactly what she’s going to do,’ said Drew. He rammed the hat back onto Spike’s head and gave him a helpful push. ‘Piss off.’
‘Okay, okay,’ said Spike. ‘No need to shove.’ He removed his hat, inspected its shape, and replaced it with a flourish. ‘If you want, Samantha, I’ll come over tomorrow, set that generator up for you. No point just having it sit there for clumsy folk to trip over, now is it?’
‘Will you just fuck off?’ snarled Drew. Bess growled in low agreement.
‘Drew?’ said Sam in puzzlement.
Spike gave Sam a dazzling smile. ‘Do me and yourself a favour, will you, sweetness? Dump this clown.’
Then he was gone. The headlights retreated down the hill, and the tiny kitchen was theirs once again. But the mood was spoiled, the air heavy with Drew’s anger.
‘You don’t like him?’ asked Sam.
Drew shook his head. ‘Spike’s a jerk.’ He arched his back, hands clasped on his head. ‘You told him your name. Why him?’
Sam shrugged. ‘He already knew I wasn’t Charlie.’ She checked the time. Five past. ‘Happy New Year.’
‘Happy New Year.’ A single candle flickered on the table. Sam tried her best to suppress a yawn, suddenly overcome with fatigue.
‘You’re tired,’ said Drew. He gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek. ‘See you first thing in the morning, then.’
She nodded, crushed. If only Spike hadn’t arrived. Now everything was somehow changed.
He whistled Bess and the pair disappeared out the door, braving the storm.
Sam swapped the half-full bucket beneath the leak for an empty one. The anticlimax was almost unbearable What had she done wrong?
She tipped the water into the sink and washed up the few dishes, mind still too busy for sleep. She wiped down the benches, covered the remainder of the cheese platter with cling wrap and put it on ice in the esky. Lightning lit up the sky, the trees outside the window. It lit up Tambo’s dark form in the yard above the house.
For the first time since being at Brumby’s Run, Sam was lonely. She picked up the candle and headed for the bedroom, replaying every detail of the evening over and over in her mind. She thought of Drew, and then of Spike – of the overt hostility between them. What was it, she wondered, that they weren’t telling her? It was only in the wee small hours, as she finally drifted off to sleep, that she remembered she hadn’t rung Charlie.