It was Sam’s first picnic race day. The quiet, almost deserted race-course where she worked each day with Bushy and the brumbies had been transformed into a vibrant festival of colour and crowds. She looked warily around, keeping her hat pulled down firmly over her eyes. Such a public outing was fraught with risk. Which identity was she supposed to claim?
‘Here you go,’ said Drew. ‘One roast-beef roll and a Coke.’
It had been three weeks since New Year’s Eve, and there’d been a certain tension between them. Sam had no idea what to do about it. The odd glance, the odd brush of the hand or leg told her that the story wasn’t over. And yet Drew remained attentive and helpful, but that was all. Sam was utterly bewildered. Had she done something to cause him to back off?
In his father’s absence, Drew had organised the removal of Kilmarnock cattle from Brumby’s Run. They’d spent the weekend before mustering the Kelly herd home, watching the cows and calves reclaim the rich pastures and shady creek flats that belonged to them. He’d cut out the bulls, trucked them to the Wodonga livestock exchange and returned with a cheque made out to M Kelly. Sam had proudly deposited it into Mary’s account the next morning. The rush of pleasure and pride provoked by that achievement was in no way proportionate to the small sum involved.
To say thanks, Sam had cooked dinner for Drew. If she was honest with herself, she’d hoped for a repeat of New Year’s Eve, minus the interruption. She’d found instructions for doing a Sunday roast in a dusty cookbook, and had spent an afternoon struggling to understand the mysteries of Mary’s ancient oven. The bottom rack seemed barely to warm food at all. The top rack burned everything to cinders. With a great deal of trial and error, she’d turned out a passable meal, with all the trimmings. Drew had been full of praise, devoured several helpings, then finished off the tiny tub of toffee ice-cream that barely fitted in her miniscule freezer. He’d complimented her on dessert as if she’d made it herself. Afterwards they’d played poker for matchsticks, and drunk cider until midnight. And still nothing.
She’d been weak with anticipation when, at the end of the evening, Drew had finally gathered her into his arms by the door. But a brief, almost perfunctory kiss on the lips was all that followed. Then he was gone, into the bright night. She’d wandered across to visit Tambo and Jarrang, her mind in turmoil. The stallion had half-reared at her approach, a levade equal in elegance to any performed at the Spanish Riding School in Vienna. The moon’s orb loomed low on the horizon. Stars pricked the roof of the sky, dazzling in their brilliance, and a warm wind played through the trees. It had been a night tailor-made for romance. Wasted.
‘Watch this,’ said Drew, dragging her thoughts back to the present. He pointed to a sheep-dog display going on in the arena. Sam surreptitiously studied his handsome face in profile. What on earth was she doing wrong?
‘Let’s eat lunch in the stands,’ she suggested. Sam loved the Federation timber and cast-iron grandstand, so full of old-world bush charm. Together they climbed the wooden stairs beneath the broad verandah, and wove their way through the throng to a space near the top. ‘Now,’ said Sam, as she gazed across the track to the forested mountainside beyond. ‘Can we go through the plan one more time?’
‘There’s not much to it,’ said Drew, downing half a hot dog in one bite. ‘We meet the bloke before the auction and make an offer. Don’t worry, I’ll suss out the auctioneer on the price first.’
‘When do I get to see these horses I’m supposed to be buying?’ asked Sam.
‘The truck from Gidgee isn’t here yet. But like I said,’ Drew swallowed the other half of the hot dog, ‘I’ve already checked them out.’ Sam couldn’t quite believe it. In the space of a month she’d be going from completely horseless to buying ten in one fell swoop.
Charlie had loved the idea of setting up a trail-riding business. ‘Fantastic,’ she’d said. ‘I know every inch of Balleroo. We could do a ride to Maroong Mountain, with the best view in Victoria. And Bluff Falls could be another. What about platypus-watching in Snake Creek? Or brumby-spotting? Maybe an eco ride, visiting endangered alpine bogs.’
Sam was encouraged to hear the strength and enthusiasm in her sister’s voice. But she couldn’t help wondering how practical the plan really was. When would Charlie, realistically, be fit enough to conduct these rides? She’d need a lot of help, and for an extended period. You couldn’t run such an operation by yourself. There were costs too, for insurance and registration fees. Permits to ride in the national park. So many rules and regulations to comply with. Would they need to provide food for clients? What about toilets? First aid? Riding equipment? And the most important question of all: what would happen when Sam took up her university course in Melbourne in a month’s time? The prospect of leaving Brumby’s Run, of leaving Drew, was gut-wrenching.
Drew had dismissed Sam’s fears out of hand. ‘You can count on me,’ he’d said. ‘Tom’s got Kilmarnock running like clockwork. It’s so much easier with Dad away. He makes such a big production of everything. I reckon Tom will manage fine without me for a bit.’
‘For a bit?’ she’d said. ‘We’re going to need help for more than a bit.’ But that wasn’t true. It wouldn’t be we. Soon it would be Charlie alone who’d need Drew’s help.
‘For longer then,’ Drew had responded. ‘Let’s just concentrate on getting our hands on those horses.’ Sam’s imagination took flight. Drew and Charlie, working side by side, building up the business. Riding the wild slopes of Balleroo without her. Sam suddenly lost her appetite. ‘You’ve got a bit of gravy on you,’ said Drew. He reached out his hand, dabbing gently at her chin with a paper serviette. Sam shivered, but just as soon as his hand touched her skin it was gone again.
Drew turned away to hide his frustration. It was maddening. He’d simply reached out to wipe Sam’s chin, and had almost wiped away his resolve instead. His resolve not to fall for her. The moment he’d touched her, Drew knew he was in trouble. It had taken all his determination to keep his distance from Sam over these past weeks. Sam hadn’t made it easy. She’d been giving him every come-on signal in the book. The flick of her head, the intense eye contact, the half-smile that promised something good, something wonderful. It took a monumental effort to resist. Then Drew thought back to New Year’s Eve and it was suddenly easy.
That night, when Spike had shown up. The night when Drew had remembered why he didn’t want to mess with the Kelly girls – or the Carmichael girls, or whatever they were called. Not again, mate, he’d told himself. He’d seen it too many times before, the way girls looked at that puffed-up narcissist. He’d seen it with Charlie. It was the same way Sam had looked at Spike that evening. He’d been about to take her to bed, and next thing she’s making goo-goo eyes at Captain Fantastic. And then there was the knowledge that Sam was hiding something from him – like the real reason she was at Brumby’s Run, and where exactly her sister and mother might be. It was enough to make a bloke seriously gun-shy.
A piercing double whistle blasted him right out of his reverie. Speak of the devil. Spike bounded up the grandstand, two stairs at a time, a broad grin on his stupid face. Drew groaned. He’d thought Spike was still safely away on the rodeo circuit.
‘You two kids having fun?’ Spike punched him lightly in the arm. Drew gave him a sour smile, his hand clenching into a fist.
‘Hear you’re after Terry Mitchell’s horses,’ said Spike. ‘What’s up with that?’ Sam opened her mouth to speak, but Drew’s black expression must have warned her off. Spike sat and lit a cigarette with maddening patience. ‘Don’t all talk at once.’ The cold shoulder didn’t seem to worry him one bit. Spike seemed perfectly happy just to sit and stare at Sam.
‘Those horses are for Brumby’s Run,’ said Sam at last. ‘We’re thinking of branching out into trail rides.’
‘We?’ asked Spike. ‘You’re a we now? I do so hope you’re talking business partners only.’ A loudspeaker announced the next race, the Currajong Ladies’ Bracelet. Spike blew a series of expert smoke rings. ‘And it doesn’t hurt that four of Terry’s mares are registered stock horses, now does it?’ Spike moved closer to Sam. She crossed her legs as he lowered his voice and stage-whispered in her ear. ‘Drew wanted an Aussie stock-horse stud for Christmas, but Daddy wouldn’t buy him one.’ He tapped the side of his nose with his fore-finger. ‘Looks like you’re going to be Santa Claus instead.’
‘Fuck off, Spike,’ said Drew roughly, and pulled Sam to her feet. ‘Or better still, we will.’ He bustled her down the steps, out into the throng, and over to a grassy spectator mound. Time to change the subject. ‘See there?’ said Drew, pointing to where transports were pulling up at the stock pens behind the racecourse. ‘Our horses have arrived.’
The Mitchell horses milled about in the yard. Six mares: two chestnuts, two creamies, a brown and a black. Two solid taffy geldings with flaxen manes and tails, and a pair of skewbald ponies with the longest blond forelocks and eyelashes Sam had ever seen. ‘They’re all gorgeous,’ she said to Drew, pleasantly surprised. The label of ‘trail horse’ had conjured up an image of worn-out riding-school hacks. One of the ponies came up to the rails and explored Sam’s outstretched hand with its warm, whiffling muzzle.
‘Knew you’d like them,’ said Drew. He was looking pretty smug. ‘Those two mares in the corner?’ He pointed to the pair of classy chestnuts with white stars. ‘They’re in foal to Condamine Joe. That horse is a legend, and he carries a double Abbey cross in his pedigree.’
To judge by the excitement on his face, this was something very special indeed. However, Spike’s words still echoed disturbingly in her ear. ‘What use will broodmares be in a trail-riding operation?’ she asked. Drew wasn’t listening. Instead he was up and over the rail, talking to a stout elderly man in a blue singlet. Why hadn’t they thought this through more carefully? She didn’t even know by what name she should introduce herself.
Sam climbed over the fence, and with an apologetic smile to the man pulled Drew aside. ‘Who does he think I am?’ she whispered.
‘Does it matter?’ asked Drew.
‘Of course it matters. I’m not committing fraud by signing my sister’s name on any transfer papers.’ Sam could hear the rising irritation in her voice. ‘And what about the cost? What’s he asking?’
‘You won’t believe this,’ said Drew, glancing around as if somebody might be eavesdropping. ‘Three thousand bucks for the lot, including all their gear. The sentimental old codger has a mind to keep the string together.’
Sam did some quick thinking. It would leave her with next to no savings, but she couldn’t argue with that price. And Bushy paid her a modest wage in cash each week. If it came to the worst, she could always ask her father for more money. Equine buying and selling certainly was a different proposition back home in Melbourne. Trials, guarantees, insurance, exhaustive vet checks. That would have been the deal when Andrew bought Pharaoh. But here in Currajong, she was contemplating buying ten horses without ever having seen them ridden. A pig in a poke, as Bushy would say. All she had was Drew’s vague assurance that he’d ‘checked them out’. It was madness.
Sam looked from the lovely herd to Drew’s expectant face, and then back to the herd. She imagined the horses grazing in the paddocks of Brumby’s Run. She imagined Jarrang’s excitement when he laid eyes on those pretty mares. She drew a huge breath and nodded. ‘Let’s do it.’
Terry Mitchell looked hopeful. ‘We have a deal then? Good on yer. You’ll never find a finer string at the price. Just promise me they’ll get a good home.’
‘Of course,’ Sam reassured him. ‘Will you take a cheque?’ She was half-afraid that Mary’s reputation had preceded her. But Terry just nodded and smiled expansively. She wrote out the cheque, then took possession of the sheaf of transfer papers and service certificates. Sam signed her name as Samantha Carmichael. But Terry didn’t bat an eyelid, and continued to happily call her Charlie.
One of the friendly ponies laid its head on Terry’s arm. He hugged its neck, burying his face in its bushy mane. Was this tough-looking man crying? ‘You be good then, Topsy.’ He turned to go, his face crumpled and red.
‘Wait,’ said Sam. She could see how much these horses meant to the man. ‘You can’t leave yet. Not before I know a bit about each of them.’ She dug around in her bag for a pen and a notepad.
A grin cracked Terry’s face. ‘Well, you’ve met Topsy, and that,’ he said, pointing to the matching skewbald pony, ‘is his mate Turvy.’ For half an hour, Sam listened to Terry chat about his horses, talking about them like they were his best friends. ‘Those cream mares, they’re wild-caught brumbies. Quietest, most well-mannered horses you could find. And see that liver chestnut by the trough? That’s Flicka. She’s due in the middle of March. It’s her first foal, so she’ll bear extra watching. And Jet,’ he called to the black mare, who disengaged herself from the others and walked straight to him. ‘Jet here,’ he said, stroking her cheek, ‘Jet loves to be at the front of the ride. She’ll jog and fuss otherwise, so you may as well let her have her own way.’
Sam carefully recorded all that he told her. When he was finally ready to leave, he shook Sam’s hand, an expression of immense gratitude on his face. ‘You treat ’em right and they’ll do the same to you. I reckon they couldn’t be in safer hands.’ The old man hobbled from the yard without a backwards glance.
‘That was a good thing you did,’ said Drew.
‘It was practical, that’s all,’ said Sam. ‘How else would I know that Ruby only stands for the farrier if she gets liquorice?’ Drew’s laugh lit up his handsome face, and Sam’s misgivings fell away. Everything would be okay. She and Drew would work it out, and make he trail-riding operation a success. His enthusiasm for the deal was infectious. ‘Come on,’ he said, giving Topsy a final scratch behind the ears. ‘The auction’s about to start.’
A stand was set up in front of the campdrafting ring where the feature sale was to be held. The sign above it read National Brumby Association. Sam browsed the posters and other paraphernalia on display. ‘There’s a brumby studbook?’ she asked the round woman behind the trestle-table counter. ‘I had no idea.’
The woman nodded. ‘Established in 2007 to promote the Australian Heritage Brumby as a recognised breed.’ She introduced herself as Margot and handed Sam a brochure. The Australian Brumby Horse Register, read Sam, brings to owners the formalisation of the Brumby as a unique breed. It will help to preserve the bloodlines and the heritage of this unique animal, which has developed through natural selection in the wild for more than a century.
‘Do you have a particular interest in brumbies?’ asked Margot. ‘Or perhaps you own one?’
Sam considered the question. Two months ago, she barely knew what a brumby was. She knew nothing of the world of wild horses. But now? She’d spent the month working with over forty of them. She supposed that counted as a special interest. Did she own one? When she thought about it, she actually owned more than one. There was Tambo. Technically Charlie’s, but as good as hers. And Jarrang? She smiled to herself. Could anybody really own Jarrang? Then there were Terry Mitchell’s creamy brumby mares. Her creamy brumby mares now. She even had the transfer papers in the name of Samantha Carmichael to prove it. After what had happened with Pharaoh, that was a very reassuring thing. And what about Phoenix? Sam had decided some time ago that, sooner or later, the golden colt would be hers. And then there was that graceful grey from Jarrang’s mob – she wanted her too. ‘Yes,’ she answered at last. ‘Yes to both questions.’
‘You’ll want to join then,’ said Margot, handing her a membership form. ‘And register your horse.’ A registration form landed in her hand. Sam must have looked unsure, for Margot went into a promotional spiel worthy of the finest infomercial host. ‘The National Brumby Association welcomes all authentic brumbies to the register, and welcomes anyone interested in preserving our brumby heritage to become a member. All horses that can be verified as coming from a wild herd are eligible. Progeny from authenticated brumbies can also join, and there’s an appendix register for part-bred brumbies.’ She paused for breath. ‘If your brumby isn’t registered, please consider joining.’
What could she say to that? Apart from, ‘Can I have some more registration forms please?’ Margot beamed. The loudspeaker announced the sale was about to begin. ‘Come and see me afterwards if you’ve got any questions,’ said Margot. Sam thanked her and went to find Drew.
Drew and Sam sat on one of the giant hay bales surrounding the campdrafting arena. The auctioneer knocked down the last of Bushy’s horses to a local family, and the pretty yearling pranced from the ring. There’d been a surprisingly strong demand for the ground-broken young brumbies, even from interstate. Sam would miss working with them, and was very glad Bushy had held Phoenix over. There was no way she could have afforded to buy the colt now, not after paying for the Mitchell string.
‘Want a beer?’ asked Drew.
Sam nodded. He jumped down and wandered off towards the bar. The loudspeaker crackled back to life: ‘Next we offer a yarding of ten wild brumbies, captured three weeks ago straight off Maroong Mountain.’ It was Jarrang’s mob. She looked around for Drew. He wouldn’t want to miss this.
Sam felt the weight of somebody scaling the bale behind her, then two hands covered her eyes. She yelped. ‘Drew, so help me …!’ But it wasn’t Drew. It was Spike.
‘Disappointed?’ he asked, flashing a winning smile.
‘Annoyed is more like it,’ Sam said. ‘Now shush. I want to see what happens.’ The elegant grey mare trotted into the ring. No – it was more like she floated in. Sam had seen that graceful gait before. She racked her brain to think where it had been. The national dressage championships, Sydney Equestrian Centre, Horsley Park. A charismatic dappled stallion, the first Andalusian she’d ever seen in the flesh, performing the passage – a high-school movement consisting of an elevated and extremely powerful trot. How was it that this brumby mare, straight off the mountain, moved with the same degree of collection and impulsion as had that exotic stallion from Spain? It was just like she was dancing on air. An appreciative murmur rose from the crowd, and the bidding commenced.
Ryan, the young welfare officer from the Brumby Coalition, made a bid. Sam did sums in her head for the umpteenth time. She couldn’t possibly afford to buy again today. No matter. If the mare fell to Ryan, she could be in charge of its basic education anyway. Plenty of time to save up, for the mare and for Phoenix as well. Now a rough-looking man to her left raised the bid. Sam peered around Spike, looking for Drew. Her shoulder inadvertently pressed against the bull rider’s, and he responded with a subtle pressure of his own. Sam moved away a fraction.
Ryan raised the offer and the other bidder followed suit. A stray kelpie suddenly slipped between the rails and darted for the mare’s heels. She exploded in a frenzy of bucking, hurling herself skywards with stiffened legs, spinning like a whirling dervish. The crowd cheered as she turned on the red dog and pursued him from the ring with flattened ears and bared teeth.
‘Wayne won’t let her go now,’ said Spike, leaning close.
‘Who’s Wayne?’ she asked.
Spike pointed at the rough man to her left. ‘Wayne Clarke from Clarke and Sons. Rodeo contractors. That mare? She’s got a mean buck.’
Sam’s heart fell. Ryan had to buy her. The magnificent mare had to stay at the racecourse, safe with Bushy, safe with her. She couldn’t go to some rodeo. Drew would help. Sam stood up and looked over the crowd milling below the stand. She spotted Drew wending his way back with drinks in hand. Sam waved both arms in the air, managed to get his attention. But all he did was smile and wave in reply. Sam jumped up and down, screamed his name. People nearby glared in her direction but Sam didn’t care.
‘Hurry up!’ Couldn’t he hear the auctioneer’s voice over the loudspeaker? ‘Wayne Clarke can see the potential in this young brumby as a bucking horse. He normally gets what he wants, and he wants this grey brumby. Do I hear a raise?’ Sam already knew the answer; knew that Ryan was on a tight budget and couldn’t compete with the cashed-up contractor.
The penny must have dropped with Drew. Too late, he came sprinting towards the stand. A brief scattering of applause, and the mare was knocked down to Wayne Clarke.
Sam sank back down onto the bench and buried her head in her hands.
‘Not to worry, Princess,’ said Spike. ‘A good bucking animal’s worth its weight in gold to those guys. I’ve seen horses get a lot worse treatment in show-jumping rings. And don’t even get me started on jumps races.’ He moved sideways to let Drew through, then moved back before Drew was properly past, jostling him.
Drew shoved him back, his face darkening. ‘Don’t tell me Wayne got his hands on that grey?’ He handed Sam the beer. She took the can and nodded dumbly.
‘I tried to tell her the horse’ll be okay …’ Spike started.
‘Shut up, Spike.’ Drew took Sam’s hand, tugged her from her seat and out of the stand.
‘Sorry, Sam. But that bloke really rubs me the wrong way.’ Drew took a swig of beer. ‘And I’m sorry about that mare.’ He took off his hat and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. ‘I should have been here, should have bid on her myself. They usually leave the best horses til last. But for once, even though it kills me to admit it, I have to agree with Spike. Those rodeo blokes do the right thing by their stock.’
Sam couldn’t agree. To her, rodeos were blatant exhibitions of animal abuse that had no more place in a civilised society than cock-fighting or bear-baiting. It made her sick to the stomach, thinking of that lovely filly being forced to buck, a strap cinched tight around her sensitive flanks. And to think that she’d been involved in the filly’s capture, that she was responsible for delivering her from a life of freedom to one of torment.
The auctioneer announced the next entry. The bay brumby with the inquisitive dun foal trotted into the ring. Sam turned to watch. Thank God Ryan was back in full swing. Bushy stood beside him as he bid against a thin man in a baseball cap. After the mother and foal were knocked down to him, Ryan spotted Sam by the rails and he and Bushy came over to say hello. Another horse entered the arena, an older roan mare this time. ‘You’d better get back over there,’ said Sam. ‘The next brumby’s out.’
Ryan made a show of turning his pants pockets inside out. ‘I’m done for the day,’ he said. ‘It’s a shame I lost the grey filly. What a beauty.’
‘Drew says she’ll be okay,’ said Sam doubtfully. ‘So does Spike.’ She was trying to convince herself as much as Ryan.
Bushy looked grave. ‘Normally I’d agree with them fellas,’ he said. ‘But there’s something about that horse.’ He shook his head. ‘I reckon rodeo will turn that one bad.’ Nobody spoke for a bit, depressed by Bushy’s gloomy prediction.
‘On a brighter note,’ said Ryan, ‘you guys will have six new ones to work with on Monday.’
‘Only six?’ asked Sam. ‘What will happen to the rest?’ She pointed to the roan brumby, standing alert and uncertain in the middle of the arena. ‘What will happen to her?’
‘We can’t save them all,’ said Ryan, and he turned away.
His words gave her a chill. When the sale was over, Sam returned to Margot at the stall.
‘What got you into this brumby thing?’ asked Sam.
‘I suppose the original inspiration was an author, Elyne Mitchell. Like so many other girls of my generation, I was raised on the Silver Brumby books. When my husband and I bought our first brumbies, the meat truck pulled up behind us. They took the ones that we didn’t take. I was horrified by that.’
Sam looked over at the chain-smoking man with the baseball cap who had just bought the nervous roan mare, and an awful realisation hit her. Mr Baseball Cap was the knackery man.