Brumbies, Sam had come to understand, were different from other horses in a few fundamental respects. Bushy said it was because they were raised the way horses were meant to be raised, in a herd dynamic, within a settled social structure of equine law and order. Foals stayed with their mothers for a year or more, learning brumby lore, growing up with a firm sense of their own place in the world. ‘Those poor little tame horses, I feel downright sorry for them fellas,’ said Bushy. ‘All that early weaning, and not enough mothering – it’s a crime.’ Sam had learned about attachment disorder in humans. About how the strength of the parent–baby bond affected the emotional health of the child, right through to adulthood. Perhaps it was the same for horses? Perhaps it was the same for her.
A lot of the pampered mounts she’d known back at the Melbourne stables were terribly temperamental – flighty or bossy, or downright vicious. By contrast, the wild-caught brumbies were extraordinarily grounded and level-headed. They swiftly embraced their positions in the new pecking order. Bushy taught her how to tune in to this natural aptitude, how to show leadership but never domination, how to earn the animals’ respect. Brumbies treated this way, even high-spirited colts like Phoenix, displayed a touching innocence and willingness to trust. They bonded closely to humans in a way rarely achieved by domestic horses.
Sam rode Phoenix once more around the yard. He was a dream ride: intelligent, spirited and responsive. Pure fire and air. Bushy stood beside the rails, observing the pair with his usual critical eye. ‘That’ll do,’ he said, and Sam brought the colt to a halt. Bushy ran a hand down Phoenix’s foreleg and grunted approval. ‘You be here by six o’clock sharp tomorrow.’ Sam nodded. Tomorrow was the first day of the annual Currajong Festival. It was exciting to be helping with the brumby demonstrations. ‘They’re trucking in a dozen new horses for the Brumby Catch,’ said Bushy. ‘I’ve got a fella coming both days to lend us a hand.’
She dismounted and rubbed the colt’s golden neck. ‘Do you think he’s ready?’
‘My oath,’ said Bushy. ‘He’s a smart youngster, that one.’
Sam kissed Phoenix on the nose and the colt tossed his head at her impertinence. ‘Did you say somebody’s helping us out tomorrow?’
‘Yep. I reckon you already know him. Spike Morgan.’
‘Why do we need help?’ she said, trying not to squirm. ‘What’s wrong with me?’
‘There ain’t nothing wrong with you, girl. You got a hell of a gift with them brumbies.’
‘Then why do you want Spike?’
Bushy climbed through the sliprails and took the colt’s reins. ‘There’s a couple of long days ahead of us,’ he said simply. ‘I could use a top horseman.’ For some unaccountable reason he chuckled. ‘Go home, Charlie,’ he said, and with that he led Phoenix from the yard.
Sam rummaged through the pantry for something to eat. She opened a tin of spaghetti and ate it standing up, cold from the can. She threw the empty tin into the sink and dragged herself back outside. There were still so many jobs to do, after she’d already worked a full day at the racecourse. Normally she didn’t mind. Normally she willingly launched into the feeding and watering: admiring Jarrang’s arrogant displays, laughing at Topsy and Turvy’s antics, fussing over the pregnant mares.
Evenings used to be her favourite time. When the sun sank low behind the mountain, she’d wash her hands and cook a simple meal. An omelette or a chicken breast, with fresh salad greens and sweet cherry tomatoes picked from Mary’s overgrown garden. She’d fill up a glass from the jug of tank water in the fridge. It was the sweetest, purest water she’d ever tasted – once the wrigglers were strained out, of course. Then she’d eat at the table under the peppercorn tree, sharing her meal with Condor and the occasional bold currawong.
Or Drew would come around and barbecue some steaks. She stopped herself from smiling at the recollection. Ever since that dreadful phone call with Charlie, Drew’s absence in the evenings was like a physical ache. It left her empty, hollowed out. But there was no getting around it. Drew had betrayed Charlie, and by extension Sam herself. He’d admitted it, and hadn’t even have the good grace to be ashamed. This was an unfathomable, unbearable fact, and the implications were clear. It meant the death of their relationship. What did Drew think about her pulling back from him? She’d never explained herself. Most probably he’d figured out the unsavoury truth for himself. How could he have slept with her when he was going out with Charlie? It was a bastard act. It would have been easier if she could have made a clean break of it, excised Drew from her life. But the truth was, she was still bound to him in so many ways. Without his help, there could be no future trail-riding business. She couldn’t do it alone. Her impulsive purchase of the Mitchell string would turn into one huge folly, a white elephant, a financial albatross around all their necks. She tried to imagine what Mary might say, returning home with a sick daughter to face no lease income, and the added cost of a dozen extra horses to feed.
Sam gulped down a glass of water, headed for the haystack and heaved a bale onto the rusted wheelbarrow. She looked miserably at its flat tyre, then staggered up the hill towards the dam paddock, casting Drew firmly from her mind. She had more pressing problems. Like how on earth she was going to manage things tomorrow, with Bushy calling her Charlie, and Spike calling her Sam? What a mess she’d made of things. Why the hell had she allowed people to believe she was Charlie in the first place? She was an idiot, plain and simple.
Sam tossed biscuits of hay over the fence at regular intervals, and watched the two ponies boss all the bigger horses out of the way. She turned and trundled back down to the hayshed for a second bale. If only she could get Charlie’s voice out of her head. That’s my life, not yours! Drew had accused her of much the same thing. Accused her of being seduced by the adventure of living a double life – of living Charlie’s life. Was he right?
Sam hurled the bale onto the wheelbarrow with such force that it tipped over. She could agonise over motives, or she could concentrate on coming up with a plan to fix things. Because like it or not, she was living in a house of cards, and tomorrow was tumbledown day. Then and there, she made a resolution to put things straight, no matter what the cost. Because the truth was, Charlie didn’t know the half of it. If her sister was upset now, how would she react to the news that Sam had been impersonating her all over town, however innocently it had begun? Sam grimaced. It didn’t bear thinking about.
As Sam hauled the hay back into the barrow, she heard a car pull up in the drive. Please no, not Drew. She couldn’t bear the prospect of all those I told you so’s. What right did Drew have to be so sanctimonious?’ His deception had been far more deliberate, and far more cruel.
‘Charlie? Sam? Jesus Christ, which one are you, darlin’?’ Spike strolled around the corner, lithe and languorous, like a well-fed tiger.
Sam let out a great, relieved sigh. Spike was one of the few people in Currajong with whom she’d been honest, right from the start. And what was better, he didn’t seem to be the type to moralise. ‘I’m Sam!’ she yelled. ‘Samantha Carmichael. Any resemblance to Charlene Kelly is purely coincidental.’
‘That’s not what I hear,’ said Spike. He smiled seductively. ‘Shove over.’ Tossing the bale to the ground, he wheeled the empty barrow down to his truck and inflated the tyre using a portable air compressor he kept in the tray. ‘How’s that?’ he asked. Sam nodded approval. The wheelbarrow now moved with ease.
‘Allow me, Princess,’ said Spike, marching the hay up the hill. ‘I heard Charlie bought Terry Mitchell’s horses,’ he said, as they fed out the second bale. ‘Drew’s idea?’
‘I did,’ she said, in compliance with her new policy of full disclosure. ‘I bought them and I signed my real name, but Terry kept on calling me Charlie and I didn’t correct the mistake. So shoot me.’ She heard the defiant note in her voice. Why was she angry with Spike? None of this was his fault. ‘I’ve left a great many misunderstandings uncorrected,’ she said, trying to sound more contrite.
Spike whistled, smooth and low. ‘So I figured.’ He cast his eyes over her and the horses. ‘Not a bad-looking bunch,’ he said. ‘Now you’ve got them, what in fuck’s name are you gonna do with them?’
Sam ignored the question. ‘I gather we’ll be working together tomorrow,’ she said.
Spike nodded his head, an amused glint in his intense blue eyes. Sam had never seen eyes quite like them before. The colour of corn-flowers, with a luminous quality that made you feel like an animal transfixed by headlights. Electric blue. Bedroom blue.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, and crossed his heart. ‘I won’t give the game away.’
She held up her palm. ‘No, I’m coming clean about everything tomorrow. I’ll explain to Bushy, and anybody else who wants to hear, who I am, and how things got so out of hand.’
‘That’d be a real shame,’ said Spike. ‘Folks around town are fans of the new Charlie,’ he said. ‘She’s polite, friendly, reliable. She pays her debts. There’s been quite a turnaround in public opinion.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘I wonder if they’ll like Charlie’s sister as much. Especially when they find out she’s been playing them for fools.’
Sam was stunned. She hadn’t thought this through. Of course people would feel tricked – betrayed, even. She didn’t want that. She liked the people of Currajong, and apparently they liked her. Marjorie at the general store had popped a few extra rolls and a jar of homemade blackberry jam into Sam’s order last week. ‘I always make too much anyway,’ she’d said, laughing, dismissing Sam’s protests. And there’d been two extra bags of oats in the delivery from the produce store. When she’d told George he’d simply said, ‘Don’t worry about it. Just keep on doing a good job with those brumbies. I’ve got a soft spot for the mad buggers.’ Harry at the service station had repaired a punctured tyre, then refused payment. ‘In appreciation for fixing that account up, love. And for giving my little bloke a lift when he missed the bus on Tuesday.’ Dozens of little kindnesses, adding up to a community-wide spirit of acceptance. For the very first time, Sam felt like she really belonged somewhere. It was something precious, something to be protected and treasured, not deliberately cast aside.
Things had been so perfect. Her time in Currajong, in spite of all the difficulties, had been quite simply the happiest time of her life. Free of Mum and all her dreadful expectations. Free of the pressures of school. Living in the true knowledge of who she really was, and where she came from. Perversely, it felt more authentic being Charlie than it had ever felt being herself. Resentment rippled out across the pond of her thoughts. Resentment for her mother, her father, for Mary. And there was no point denying it. A swelling wave of resentment against her sister. Charlie had accused her of stealing a life. What if it was the other way round? What if Charlie had stolen hers? Maybe she was the one who’d been meant to grow up in this beautiful place. Maybe Charlie had been supposed to live with Faith. And because of some stupid mistake when they were babies, they’d been switched. Currajong, Brumby’s Run, the horses … Drew. Maybe they were all really meant to belong to her?
‘I’ll help you finish your chores,’ said Spike. ‘Then I’ll take you for a slap-up meal at the pub.’ The matter was apparently settled. Sam hadn’t eaten in town before. She’d not wanted to raise suspicions. But anger made her bold – reckless, even. She wanted to step out with this gorgeous cowboy, wanted to talk and laugh and drink, to socialise. She wanted to have some fun, without always wondering if she’d give the game away. Tonight she’d be whoever the hell she wanted to be. And for one honest, shameful moment Sam wished that Charlie might never come home.