WEEKS LATER, Luke lay in his bed with his arms over his face. Harry’s snore, jagged and erratic, vibrated along the hallway, reaching his room and rattling at the door. Luke hated the snoring. No matter how many times he told himself it was just Harry, that sound made the walls close in on him. Memories of other foster homes came crashing into his head. He rolled onto his side, pulling a thin cotton sheet over his bare shoulder. He covered his head with his arms again and tried to think of something better.
But it didn’t work. Another snore ripped through the night, choked and raspy.
Luke didn’t know what was going to happen once Harry’s old lungs finally gave out. All he knew was that there would be some big changes, but no one had talked about what those changes might be. To do so would be premature, disrespectful. Until now, everyone had carried on as usual. Harry had faded more and more into the background while Luke and Lawson had tried to keep the property running for him.
Everything will work out. Harry won’t let anything bad happen to me.
Luke closed his eyes and tried to sleep again, but his legs wouldn’t stay still. Eventually, he pushed the sheet off and sat up. It was a hot night and he wore only a pair of shorts. He peered out the window, then gently slid it open and swung his legs over the sill. Outside, crickets chirruped. A horse snorted softly down at the stables. Biyanga: he recognised the deep, throaty tone of a stallion.
On the mossy pavers of the courtyard lay a carpet of decomposing flowers from a big old jacaranda tree. Annie and Harry had afternoon tea under that tree in the summer months. It was their special place. Luke had seen them kissing on more than one occasion, just a bit of a peck, but it was still all lovey-dovey, which was kind of gross. They were so . . . old. Too old for that sort of carryon, anyway.
He heard one last snore as he closed the window and padded across the courtyard. He came to the back wall of the stables and slipped through the small door leading into the building.
The stable aisle was cool and dark. Biyanga sniffed at the air and gave a low rumbling greeting as Luke walked softly along the concrete towards Legsy’s stall. Other horses shuffled through the thick wood shavings, their joints clicking quietly. They peered over the stable doors with curious faces.
Luke held out his hand and found Legsy’s muzzle. It was cool and whiskery and nipped lazily at his empty hand. ‘Hey,’ he whispered and ran his hand over the colt’s warm, satiny neck. Legsy ran his muzzle up over Luke’s shoulder and sniffed at his hair. It gave him goosebumps and brought a smile to his face. Legsy was one of the first horses he had ever gentled; they were best of buddies. He wore a red rug, the prize they had won together at the last campdraft. ‘Did I wake you up?’ Luke mumbled. ‘Lucky fella, at least you can sleep.’
He walked to the feedroom, pulled the door across and slid into the blackness. Groping his way to the back wall, he found a pile of horse rugs in the corner. He pulled them up in armfuls, carried them out into the aisle and tossed them on the ground. Then he flopped down into them and breathed in the salty horse sweat, the earthy dried mud, the lucerne and pine. A tiny breeze ran along the cool concrete and over his bare shoulder. The steady munch of a horse chewing hay, the shift of hooves over the soft wood shavings, the faint whistle of Legsy’s breathing rocked him gently into sleep.
A clatter of horseshoes on concrete jolted Luke into the new day. Biyanga called loud throaty whinnies and banged at his stable door with his front hoof. Legsy squealed excitedly. Luke pulled himself out of the pile of horse rugs and cursed himself for sleeping in. It was hot already and a pulsing headache thudded against his skull.
Grace Arnold, Harry’s thirteen-year-old niece, sat on a grey horse wearing old jeans, a singlet and black helmet. Although she was a slob, a tomboy, a loudmouth and general pain in the butt, she was about the bravest girl rider Luke had ever met. She would get on anything. The horse she sat on now looked young and gangly – probably a breaker, judging by the big old poley saddle she was sitting in, and the way it shifted about nervously, scraping its metal shoes over the slippery concrete.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked. ‘Did you sleep there?’
‘What does it look like?’ Luke got to his feet and began bundling up the rugs.
‘No need to be snappy,’ said Grace, slipping off the horse and tethering it.
Luke knew he shouldn’t be short with her, but his head was pounding. He carried the rugs into the feedroom. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, as he pushed past her, but not before he caught her eyes running over his broken, lumpy ribs. He usually kept them well hidden.
‘Why did you sleep down here?’ Grace asked again. ‘Is there a sick horse or something?’
‘Legs was a bit colicky,’ he lied. ‘Can you feed up?’ He stalked off to get some breakfast. It was Sunday – his day off.
Back at the house, he didn’t bother showering. Standing with the fridge door open, he skulled the last of the juice and chucked the empty carton in the bin. He scoffed ten honey-smothered Weet-Bix, two more than comfortably fit in his stomach, and went to his room to get changed. He could hear Harry wheezing from the end of the hallway as he pulled a T-shirt over his head. It didn’t sound as if the oxygen tank was doing him much good.
He probably wouldn’t see the old man until lunchtime. That was the only time Luke saw him now: after the horses were fed and worked, and all the odd jobs were done. Annie rarely left Harry’s side. She sat next to his bed, adjusting the tanks, fiddling about with the sheets and bringing him cups of tea which he never drank. Around midday, Luke usually went in there and gave him a morning report on the horses. The last couple of days, though, Harry had seemed uninterested.
Luke decided to quickly pop his head in and see if he was feeling any better this morning. He’d missed the old man’s gruff humour and reassuring manner, even though they never really talked about much – just horses, mostly. He knocked quietly on the door.
A voice mumbled.
Luke pushed the door open and saw Harry pulling himself upright onto the side of the bed, facing out the window.
‘That you, Lawson?’
‘It’s Luke,’ he said, walking around to where the old man could see him. ‘Just wanted to see if you were feeling any better today.’ He sat in the chair that had been strategically placed for visitors.
‘Bloody freezing,’ said Harry. ‘Pass me my jumper, will you?’
Luke helped him to sling it around his shoulders, noting how hot he felt himself. After a short silence, Harry spoke again. ‘Can you put Bunyip in the paddock where I can see him?’
‘Bunyip?’ Luke questioned. Bunyip was Harry’s first horse – he had died years ago. ‘Don’t you mean Biyanga?’
‘Yeah, yeah, the stallion,’ Harry corrected himself.
‘He’s just finishing his feed, then I’ll put him out.’
Harry stared at the window. Outside, his property stretched over acres of riverfront land, patched into paddocks, sloping gently down to the water. But Harry didn’t seem to see past the glass. ‘Gonna see old Bunyip again soon,’ he mumbled.
He’d been saying this for days and it seemed to make him feel better, so Luke went along with it. ‘Gonna pull some big scores on that old fella, hey, Harry,’ he said, trying to sound cheerful. ‘Sounds like a pretty sharp horse.’
‘The best,’ mumbled Harry. He hacked out a horrible wheezing cough and reached for a hanky. ‘I want to ask you a big favour,’ he whispered.
‘Anything,’ said Luke. ‘You name it.’
‘Ride the stallion for me,’ said Harry. ‘Right up the front. When they . . . you know. It’d mean a real lot to me.’
‘Biyanga?’
Harry nodded and wheezed into his hanky again.
‘Don’t you want Lawson to?’
Lawson was Harry’s only blood son. Surely he would lead the procession. He would ride Harry’s good horse.
‘No, I want you to ride him,’ said Harry.
‘Me?’ Luke clarified again. Maybe Harry meant Ryan. Ryan was his stepson, Annie’s boy. ‘As in Luke?’
‘I know who you are,’ grumbled Harry.
‘Won’t the others mind?’ Being fostered, Luke always considered himself to be at the bottom of the pecking order.
‘I already told them what I want.’ Harry sounded short.
Luke’s breath caught in his throat as he thought of what Harry’s funeral might be like. He hadn’t let himself think about it up until now. None of it seemed quite real. ‘Yeah, yeah, absolutely. I’d be . . . honoured.’ Talking about this was weird. It was wrong.
Harry nodded. ‘Better rest now.’
Luke helped him back down onto the pillow and the old man shut his eyes. ‘I’ll get Annie,’ Luke told him.
Harry nodded again without speaking, his face tight with pain.
Luke passed Lawson on the way out of the bedroom. He didn’t mean to push past him, but he had to get out of there before he was swallowed up and drowned. Outside the room, he leaned against the closed door, taking a moment to get himself together. This was it. It was really happening. He was going to lose Harry.
Inside the room, he could hear Harry and Lawson talking.
‘Yeah, whatever, the foster kid can ride him,’ he heard Lawson say. ‘Have you sorted out his arrangements?’
Luke strained to hear Harry’s answer. He only caught a wheezy mumble.
‘Jesus, Harry.’ Lawson sounded annoyed.
There was another wheezy mumble.
‘Well, did you tell him that?’
Tell me what?
‘Oh, so I have to tell him? I’ve told you, if you want to bring in every stray kid you find, you can sort it all out. I don’t want a whole lot of caseworkers and child safety officers going through every inch of my life. You know what’ll happen if you leave all that to me.’
Dread seeped, warm and sickly, through Luke’s body.
‘Don’t let them take me back, Harry,’ he whispered. ‘Please don’t do that to me. This is my home now.’