It was hot, too hot. The glare of the sun made Sam squint. She fanned herself with Charlie’s hat. Its broad-brimmed protection hadn’t been enough, and a deep flush of heat warned that her nose and cheeks would be painfully red and sunburned by morning. Why hadn’t she bothered with sunscreen? Back home, she wouldn’t even walk down the street without following her mother’s carefully prescribed skin-care regime. Yet out here in the bush? In the sun, with the flies and the dust and the heat? Out here, it didn’t seem important.
At least the heat took her mind off Drew. She had no idea what had happened between them. Last night they’d been – well, she’d been – she didn’t really know, but she’d been ready to do just about anything for him. And now, while Drew wasn’t cold, he was treating her with a certain distance. If only she had someone to talk to about it. Maybe Charlie could help? On second thoughts, maybe not. Sam had the feeling there was history between Drew and Charlie, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know what it was.
She turned back to the horses. Eleven brumbies in all. Jarrang, six mares, three yearlings and the foal. Most were bays, very cob in type, with lightly feathered legs and lots of white markings. Superior height and conformation set Jarrang and the young grey well and truly apart from the rest. The pair were in top condition. From a distance they’d all looked well, with shiny summer coats and fat bellies. But on closer inspection, the others weren’t so good. Skinny necks, prominent ribs, jutting hip bones. Their fat bellies were more indicative of pregnancy or a load of worms than anything else. Bushy had dispelled Sam’s romantic notions about brumbies. Bugger of a life, especially for a mare. Pregnant, back to back, when you’re no more than a baby yourself. There’s droughts and freezing winters. Parasites. Wild dogs take foals. Injury’s a death sentence. To top it off, them brumby-runner fellas are out to get you.
Sam came from a world where horses lived in pine-lined loose boxes and sheltered day yards. They ate nutritionally balanced pellet and grain mixes, wore satin hoods and rugs, and travelled in padded floats, with bandaged legs and sheepskin boots. An image of Pharaoh came to mind. What would he make of this harsh, magnificent place?
Sweat dripped from her nose. It was so hot that even the ants had gone to ground. Defeated by the sun, she sought out the shade of the hut’s little verandah. The plastic water bottle in her saddlebag was warm, its contents unappetising. The creek presented a far more inviting option. Sam checked her phone. Hours yet before Drew returned with the truck.
She slipped from her shirt and jeans, and left them on the porch. Dressed only in her bra, panties and riding boots, Sam made her way to the creek. Giant tree-fern fronds filtered the light here in this cool haven from the dust and flies. Soon her boots lay discarded on the bank. Smooth pebbles and damp river sand lodged between her toes. The stream, when it hit her feet, was painfully cold. She let out an involuntary squeal. Hard to believe that the heat of the air and the ice of the water could exist in such delicious proximity. Soon she was numb to her knees, her thighs, her sensitive waist. Fallen logs, woven together, had created a natural dam. When she stood in the deepest part of the creek, the water reached her breasts. The cool sensation on her nipples made her think of Drew; of his hands, and the charge that had spread through her body at his touch. Enough of that, she told herself.
Sam paused midstream. The trick was not to imagine the biting creatures that Drew had so kindly alerted her to: the water bugs and yabbies; the snakes. But the creek was as clear as glass, transparent as the water in her swimming pool at home. Surely she’d spot any danger? Sam ducked down and let her hair fan out on the water. Heaven. She could linger in this shady sanctuary forever.
It was then she saw it. The striped, bronze reptilian head, barely wider than its dark copper body. It slid from the bracken towards the creek, forked tongue flicking in and out, tasting the air. Tasting her? Keep still, wasn’t that the advice? She hardly dared to breathe. The snake stopped, frozen like Sam herself, the pair locked in a deadly stand-off. An intricate pattern of pale cream scales striped its gleaming length. The creature had been handpainted by a grand master. Was she safe in the water? She didn’t know, didn’t know enough about snakes, didn’t know enough about living in the bush. She should be in Le Midi, relaxing at her grandmother’s elegant villa in Provence. It was such a safe place, filled with history and art. She tried to imagine it – no yarding of untamed horses, no confusing romantic notions, no snakes.
But her imagination reached no further than Brumby’s Run. The idea of this wilderness had consumed earlier images of gentler places. Her calves ached, yet her thighs were numb. For how long could she stand so still? She guessed the patient reptile could outwait her. They stared at each other. Its eyes were twin yellow globes. They blazed with a sort of fire, beautiful and mesmerising. Like being lost staring into flames. She understood how helpless the snake’s prey might feel, caught in that hypnotic gaze.
Was that an engine? Surely Drew couldn’t be back with the truck yet. Or had fright made her lose all track of time? Sam wanted to call out, to scream for help. But that might antagonise the snake. It lay wound in elegant coils on the bank, still intent upon her, to judge by its stare. The sound of the motor grew louder and louder, then stopped. Perhaps she should make a run for it? Or should she just stay still, and wait for Drew to come and find her? The snake raised its head. Sam let out an involuntary scream. It flared its neck a fraction, looked left, looked right, then slid into the pool. Barely breaking the surface tension, it glided towards her in a serpentine pattern, the first quarter of its metre-long body rearing from the water.
A figure appeared at the periphery of her vision. ‘Don’t move,’ said an unfamiliar male voice. Even more surprising was that the voice had a German accent. Sam couldn’t have moved even if she’d wanted to, frozen as she was, legs dead from cold, with the snake closing in. If she took her eyes off it for even a second, she knew it would strike.
‘Don’t scare her. She won’t hurt you if you stay still.’ Who was that? And how the hell did he know? The snake lowered its head so the full length of its bronze body sailed on the surface.
Only centimetres away now, it paused. ‘Hold your nerve,’ said the voice. The snake reached out with infinite slowness. Sam willed herself to stone, felt the fleeting tickle of a forked tongue on her goose-fleshed arm. She flinched, and the snake vanished into the reeds. Sam remembered to breathe again, relief flooding her body and leaving her limp with shock.
A man dressed in khaki stood on the bank. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, slim and athletic-looking, with close-cropped blond hair and serious grey eyes. ‘You’ve had a close encounter with Austrelaps ramsayi. Gravid, I’d guess, by her girth. A rare privilege.’
Sam staggered from the pool, all too conscious that she wore only underwear. Her nipples pushed, embarrassingly erect, against the translucent wet cotton of her bra. She wrapped her arms around her chest, convulsed all over with violent shivers. ‘So it wasn’t dangerous?’ she asked, teeth chattering from more than cold.
‘On the contrary,’ said the man. His tone was clipped and formal, such a contrast to the usual Aussie country drawl. ‘Alpine copperheads are extremely dangerous. Quite capable of inflicting fatal bites.’
‘Then why did you say it wouldn’t hurt me?’ she asked, incredulous.
‘I didn’t think it would,’ he answered calmly. ‘They’re shy, not usually aggressive. Bites are uncommon.’
‘Uncommon?’ repeated Sam. She’d meant the word to drip with sarcasm, but the stranger either misunderstood or deliberately overlooked her intent.
‘Yes, quite uncommon. Even on land, a snake can only strike a distance of half its body length. A snake in water does not have a solid surface to thrust against, so its striking ability while swimming is quite limited. You were probably in no danger.’
She wanted to scream, to shout at this idiot whose only advice during an encounter with a deadly snake was not to scare it. But confronting a strange man while so scantily clad was not ideal. ‘Do you mind if I get dressed?’
‘Of course not. That would seem prudent.’
Jesus, he really was Mr Literal. The afternoon heat swiftly chased away the chill from her frozen legs. She hurried back, grabbed her clothes and dressed in the privacy of the hut. Why she should be so modest about putting clothes back on was a mystery to her.
‘Whose horses?’ he asked when she emerged.
Sam didn’t answer. She wasn’t quite sure who they actually belonged to, and, anyway, shouldn’t she be the one asking the questions here?
‘Who exactly are you?’ she demanded.
The man extended his arm. ‘Balleroo park ranger Karl Richter, at your service.’ She shook his hand, which was smooth with a gentle grip. ‘These are feral horses, then?’
She didn’t like the way he said feral horses. The term stripped them of their dignity. ‘They’re brumbies, with a few saddle horses amongst them.’
The man looked suddenly stern. ‘I suppose you know that a permit is required to remove feral horses from the park?’
She shrugged. ‘Sorry, I don’t know anything about that. You’ll have to talk to Drew Chandler.’
‘Chandler,’ said the ranger, rolling the name around on his tongue. ‘Owns Kilmarnock Station, right?’
Sam nodded. ‘Drew and his dad Bill do, yes.’
‘This area is not part of the grazing trial,’ said Karl. ‘Cattle have been roaming illegally here for weeks. Once I identify their owner, somebody’s in a lot of trouble.’ He frowned. ‘I’m new and don’t know the locals yet, but I’ve been briefed that either the Chandlers or the Kellys are the most likely culprits. Your surname isn’t Chandler, is it? Or Kelly, perhaps?’
Sam didn’t know what to say, mind spinning through the possible responses, weighing them up. Karl was new, didn’t know folk – that’s what he’d said. She could take advantage of that ignorance. ‘My name’s Samantha Carmichael and I live in Melbourne,’ she said. ‘I’m just visiting Currajong.’
Karl gave her a searching look, then walked over to the yards and peered through the rails at Chiquita. Jarrang took offence. The stallion laid his ears flat back and, accompanied by a series of ferocious snorts, thundered to the fence. The ranger leapt back. Something in his manner told Sam that Karl knew nothing about horses. ‘Christ almighty, you could have warned me.’
‘Like you warned me about your deadly snake?’ asked Sam.
Karl laughed. ‘Touché, Miss Carmichael. I suppose that vicious brute is one of the brumbies?’
Sam ignored his stupid comment. All this talk of permits had her worried. Had Drew run this round-up by the book or not? Could Karl confiscate the mob if the paperwork wasn’t in order? What would happen to the horses then? ‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘That’s Jarrang. He’s mine, along with the baldie-faced bay. And the golden chestnut mare belongs to the Chandlers.’ Karl looked around vaguely. It was obvious that he couldn’t identify the particular horses by reference to their coat colours. And anybody with any horse sense would guess Jarrang was no stock horse. Karl didn’t have a clue. Sam almost claimed the grey filly as well, but Drew had been so insistent that she must go with the others.
The ranger approached the yards again, wary this time. ‘That’s ten ferals then. I’ll be checking someone holds a valid licence to remove them. Don’t misunderstand me, you’re doing a good job here. There’s a plan to eliminate wild horses from the park completely. Management’s even considering an aerial cull.’
‘What?’ said Sam, with a growing sense of horror. ‘You don’t mean shoot them?
Karl nodded. ‘It’s a crazy idea, if you ask me,’ he said. ‘A public-relations disaster. But one way or another, the brumbies have to go.’ Jarrang reared. Carl backed off with such haste that he stumbled over a grassy tussock and almost fell. ‘Well,’ he said, regaining his balance. ‘If you see Bill Chandler or Mary Kelly, let them know I want a word.’ He handed Sam his card. ‘Now you’re dressed, you have a pocket to put it in. How very convenient.’ What a nerve. ‘Well, it’s been a pleasure to meet you, Miss Carmichael. You look quite fetching in your underwear, by the way.’ She wanted to slap him. Instead she just watched him climb into his jeep and head off in a cloud of dust.
The scorching sun was already sinking low in the western sky before the truck bumped back up the road. Sam’s heart lifted at the sight of it. Drew’s face grinned at her from the cab. He’d brought a hamper of choice sandwiches and pastries prepared by Mai, which Sam wolfed down, along with a bottle of warm lemonade.
They loaded Tambo first, then Chiquita. ‘How are we going to do this?’ asked Sam, pointing to the stallion, who was climbing the rails.
‘Why don’t you just let him go?’ suggested Drew. ‘Save yourself a world of trouble.’ Sam shook her head. She told Drew of Karl’s visit, and of the proposal to cull all the brumbies. She left out the bit about the snake, and being caught in her undies. ‘I heard they’d hired a new ranger,’ he said. ‘The last bloke was a lazy so-and-so, never gave us any trouble.’
‘This one seems keen,’ said Sam.
‘That’s a bugger then. Okay, let’s get Jarrang loaded. We can’t have him being used for target practice, now can we?’ Sam was prepared for a long and difficult fight to get the stallion on the truck. But Jarrang ascended the ramp with surprising alacrity, and began to preen Chiquita’s neck. ‘He’d follow that mare anywhere,’ said Drew. ‘And remember, Jarrang was hand-raised. He doesn’t have the same fear or respect for all things human as a normal, wild-born brumby does.’
Tambo took advantage of Chiquita’s close proximity to sniff her flanks, then her tail. He tilted his head up and curled his lip, savouring the mare’s scent. The stock crate rattled and shook as a jealous Jarrang made a concerted effort to attack him through the steel partition. Tambo snapped back.
‘Tambo’s a gelding,’ said Sam. ‘Why’s he interested in Chiquita?’
Drew double-checked the tailgate. ‘He can dream, can’t he?’ said Drew with a grin.
‘Will those two fight then,’ asked Sam, ‘when I get them home?’
‘Probably,’ said Drew. ‘Although Jarrang won’t be so full of himself without his mares. They’ll have nothing to argue about.’
An orange sunset streaked the sky by the time they unloaded the horses at Brumby’s Run. The air was still oppressively hot. What Sam wouldn’t do for air conditioning … Drew helped her settle Jarrang and Tambo in adjoining yards. Then he reloaded Chiquita. ‘Time to say goodbye to your girlfriend.’ The stallion reared. Drew climbed into the cab of the truck and set off down the track. Chiquita and Jarrang exchanged frantic neighs until the truck was out of earshot. Then, just as Drew had predicted, the buckskin fell quiet. More than that, he was positively lounging – head low, ears relaxed, resting a back foot. No male posturing at all.
Tambo boldly touched his nose to Jarrang’s. With rivalries apparently forgotten, the stallion pricked his ears in polite acknowledgement, then resumed his nap. Sam burst out laughing, in spite of her exhaustion and headache and sunburn. For some unaccountable reason, she was reminded of New Year’s Eve. Maybe men were like that too? Only at each other’s throats when you added a girl to the mix? Perhaps Spike and Drew would have behaved like old mates as well, if they’d met down the pub that night, instead of in Sam’s kitchen.