Sam fussed about in Brumby’s kitchen, rearranging scones on the plate, pretending to be busy. Charlie got off the phone, her face ashen.
‘He wants to meet me.’ She looked so unsure, like a scared rabbit. She looked about twelve.
‘What do you want?’ asked Sam.
‘I haven’t a clue,’ said Charlie. ‘Part of me hates him – a big part.’ Sam nodded. She felt the same way. ‘But part of me is dying of curiosity. You know our father. I want that chance.’
It had been a week since Faith had dropped her bombshell. Sam was as bewildered as Charlie. Dad was flying home. He was sorry, he said. Wanted to make amends. Wanted his wife back. Wanted to make it right again. For his daughters, for Faith, for Mary … but how to atone for a lifetime of deceit? Sam’s own brief charade paled beside her father’s cruel folly.
Drew and Bill walked in, voices raised. ‘Abbey’s a bloody good bloodline,’ said Bill. ‘I’ll give you that, but that brumby business?’ He snorted. ‘You need your head read.’
‘We’ve got two top stallions, Dad, with bookings already for next year’s stud season. And Sam’s dressage-training a first-cross Andalusian–brumby mare, caught straight from the park. Reckons she’ll get her to Grand Prix standard without any trouble at all.’ He helped himself to a scone. ‘Remember when El Soldado lost that imported mare a few years back?’
Bill nodded. ‘Don was ropeable. Wasn’t she some special strain? Carpathian, I think he said. He paid a fortune for that mare.’
‘Carthusian,’ said Drew. ‘And that lost Carthusian was the dam of Sam’s mare. Don’s been out to confirm it – and get this, he offered to buy her. Imagine that. Don Campbell, wanting to buy a brumby. Not a bad foundation mare to start out with, eh?’
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ grumbled Bill.
‘Come up to the yards and see for yourself then,’ said Drew. ‘We’ll keep the new colt here at Brumby’s Run, though.’ He gave his father a friendly punch. ‘You’re not gelding this one, Dad.’
That night, a storm raged over the mountain. Sam couldn’t sleep. She slipped from bed without waking Drew, wrapped herself in the fluffy bathrobe that was a present from her mother, and tiptoed down the hall. She could hear Charlie’s steady breathing as she passed her bedroom, Bess’s soft snoring in her basket by the fire.
Sam pushed open the back door and stood until she had her night eyes. Things began to take shape in the gloom. Condor squawked from his perch on the verandah, ruffled his feathers and tucked his head back beneath his wing. The wind roared through the treetops. Shadows shifted and shook. Lightning cracked and lit up the scene for just an instant, giving Sam a snapshot of the sheds and yards and the wild dark forest beyond.
When Sam slipped off her robe, it felt like she was shedding more than her clothes. She walked naked into the rain. This was hers – all this power and beauty and terror. This was her home. The pain of loneliness was a vague memory that seemed to belong to somebody else. And as she whispered a small prayer to the spirit of Maroong Mountain, something told her that she need never be alone again.