Outback Sunset (12 page)

Bren brought a saddle out of the saddle room and put it on Runaway. The horse pawed the ground and neighed. She hadn’t been ridden for a while. Curtis squinted against the sunlight as he looked at the frisky Runaway. He’d not seen his sister-in-law ride and as she was going to accompany them on a
muster being done on the station’s southern quadrant, the last thing he wanted was an accident.

‘You sure Vanessa can ride okay?’ he asked, ‘Runaway’s not known for her gentle nature.’

‘Nova reckons she can handle her. Vanessa rode her up to the Aboriginal camp last week.’

Curtis made a snorting sound. ‘That’s a short ride, three hours tops. You think she can sit in a saddle all day long?’

‘Nova says she’ll be fine. Vanessa’s tougher than she looks. I thought you’d have realised that by now.’ Bren studied his brother over Runaway’s rump for several seconds. ‘Look at what she’s learned. She can refuel the engine that runs the generator and fix the fanbelt when it loosens and the motor cuts out. Nova’s shown her how to fix pumps at bore water outlets when they clog up with mud and roots, and she’s learning how to keep the station’s books up to date as well as the records on the breeding program.’ He stared challengingly at Curtis. ‘Bro, when are you going to give her some credit for what she’s achieved?’

Curtis took note of the muscle twitching along his brother’s jawline, a sure sign that Bren’s short fuse temper was on the rise. ‘Okay.’ He lifted his hands in defeat. ‘I admit it, she’s scrubbed up better than I thought she would.’

Bren’s mouth widened in a grin, as if he knew that was a reasonable concession. ‘Good. That wasn’t too hard, was it?’ He tightened the saddle’s girth strap, adjusted the bridle and reins. ‘Would you go and give Nova and Vanessa a hurry up. Reg’s riding and Warren’s in the support truck. They have a half hour’s start on us.’

Ten minutes later, with a jaundiced gaze, Curtis watched Vanessa mount Runaway, and she did it with the ease that came from years of practice. As soon as she settled into the saddle, she flicked the reins and cantered off after Bren who was flying across the bottom paddock. She knew how to ride, he acknowledged sourly as he and Nova followed. Oddly, it irked him to see that she was accomplished in that regard but then, his lips compressed together with annoyance … why should it?

She was making a fair fist of life at Amaroo too, better than his ex-wife had. Everyone seemed to admire her, not only for her looks which were exceptional, but for her nature, her pleasantness and her intellect. She picked up things quickly, and she had a good memory too. He should be happy for Bren. He was, but he couldn’t take to her, couldn’t drop the barriers, or the feeling that deep down this, her life at Amaroo was just another role to her and for actors, all roles came to an end one day, didn’t they?

Nova had warned Vanessa that mustering, cutting out the weaners then branding and castrating them was hot, dirty work, and her tutor hadn’t been wrong. They had been riding the mob, several hundred head, towards a small gorge which, because of its shape made a good holding yard, for what seemed hours. Vanessa had red dust in her hair, her eyes, in every pore of her body, she was sure of that. Astride Runaway, she sat atop a small knoll watching Bren, Curtis, Reg and Warren, the part-Aboriginal stockman, separate the cattle into
three groups. Mature bulls and cows, weaners and calves, which were destined to be branded and most of the males, castrated.

Vanessa could see that it was hard, back-breaking work but those doing it made it look easy. No one appeared to hurry, but the separating got done with a minimum of effort because everyone knew it was important to conserve as much energy as possible, because the day was going to be long and arduous. She looked up at a cloud-swept sky and then down at a vehicle being driven by Warrem. It carried their food, water and swags and was some distance away from the cattle so they wouldn’t get spooked. They’d be eating and sleeping out tonight, her first experience at sleeping under the stars.

She watched Bren and his dog, Kimbo, herd three strays back to the mob and admired the ease with which her husband did the job, whistling and yelling commands to the dog, and occasionally cracking his stockwhip. If Kerri could see Bren now, see his expertise, ran the thought through her head. See her too, all sweaty and dishevelled. Her agent wouldn’t believe her eyes. Her client, the darling of London’s West End, was far removed from her usual well-coiffed, made-up self.

As Vanessa watched the milling herd, clouds of dust sprang up as Reg raced ahead of the cattle to reach down and open one of the roughly made gates. Because she lacked experience Vanessa had been delegated to the position of observer, allowed to watch the action from a safe distance. Even so, she was gaining some understanding of what Bren, Curtis and the others did on a regular basis —
pitting their skills and will against a mob of undisciplined animals in one of the harshest environments on earth. Their sense of achievement must be extraordinary and, suddenly, she was humbled by what she was seeing. Each person did what they had to do without expecting praise, or reward.

One day, not this year but maybe the next, she would be experienced enough to do what Reg and Bren were doing. That thought excited her more than hearing the applause of two thousand fans in a theatre.

After lunch, which consisted of thick slabs of homemade bread, sliced roast beef and pickles, plus fresh fruit, washed down with billy tea, the work continued. Lunch, she learned, was always light because of the heavy workload that didn’t let up until sunset.

There wasn’t much of a physical nature that Vanessa could do, other than watch the proceedings, but she helped to control the gate that sent the male weaners single file into a smaller holding area where they were leg-roped and branded. Watching was bad enough and the smell of burnt animal hair soon mingled with the smell of cattle, dust and honest sweat. Grudgingly and silently, she admired their teamwork. All were old hands at the tasks and knew, without having to be told, what had to be done. Nova, by far the smallest physically, worked as hard as the men, impressing Vanessa with her stamina.

When she saw Curtis castrate the first young male Brahman, she was unprepared for the shock of it.
‘Oh, that’s so cruel,’ slipped out, over the protesting calf’s bellow, before she could stop herself.

Curtis, who’d deftly applied a rubber band around the calf’s testicles and twisted it several times, looked up from the task, his expression puzzled. ‘It’s not as cruel as cutting them off then cauterising the wound with a hot iron. With this method, after a few weeks the balls just fall off. Castrating males not suitable for the breeding program is a widely accepted practice. It makes them less aggressive and more inclined to fatten up, too.’

As she listened to Curtis’s explanation, her gaze turned towards Bren, who was getting the next animal ready. ‘Still, it must hurt, mustn’t it?’

Curtis answered for his brother. ‘Vets say the discomfort is minimal, compared to the other method. They hardly feel a thing.’

Vanessa’s expression became sceptical. ‘Oh, really! Then why do they bellow? What you’ve said is hard to believe, Curtis. They feel pain like us, they bleed like us. I’m sure that if the same thing was done to a man he wouldn’t say, “I hardly felt a thing”.’

Bren burst out laughing. He undid the leg ropes on the weaner and shooed him off. ‘Reckon she has you there, Curtis.’ He crossed his legs and held his crotch for a moment. ‘The mere thought of castration makes me feel bloody crook in the nether regions.’

Annoyed that Vanessa had got the better of him, Curtis’s response to her was brusque. ‘I’m sorry if it offends your sensitivities, but that’s the way it is. If it
makes you queasy, why don’t you go and help Warren set up camp? We’ll need wood for a fire to cook dinner too.’

‘That’s a good idea, hon, and Warren could do with a hand,’ Bren intervened smoothly in an attempt to diffuse the tension between Curtis and his wife.

‘Sure.’ Though her tone was agreeable she resented being summarily dismissed so she delivered a withering stare at Curtis before he stomped off to rope another unfortunate male calf. She turned on her heel and walked away from Bren, Curtis and the cattle.

The steak and sausages barbecued over an open fire with jacketed potatoes rolled in aluminium foil and cooked in the embers together with damper freshly made by Warren, smelled and tasted so good. Warren produced half a dozen cans of beer, still reasonably cool, from the bottom of the cooler, to eat with the meal.

Twilight soon gave way to nightfall which was relieved around their stock camp by the fire and a single tilly lamp. Six swags had been rolled out around the fire in preparation for an early night but after the billy tea and biscuits were consumed, everyone sat back when Reg produced a battered harmonica from his saddlebag and began to play.

‘Give us a song, Nova,’ Bren requested. He was sitting beside Vanessa, an arm casually draped around her shoulders. ‘Our Nova’s got a passable voice, you know.’

‘Passable?’ Reg stopped playing. ‘She’s bloody good, mate, and you know it.’ He glanced towards
his daughter and his rugged, lined features — he was not a handsome man by any stretch of the imagination, having a broken nose, a receding hairline, bushy eyebrows and a thin, crooked mouth — broke into a grin, ‘She could win the best new talent award at any country music festival if she put her mind to it.’

‘Go on, do that Peter Allen tune,
Tenterfield Saddler
, I like that one,’ Warren encouraged. He picked up two sticks close to the fire and as Reg played the opening notes on the harmonica, struck them against each other to the beat of the music.

Leaning against a boulder, her hands tucked into the pockets of her jeans, Nova began to sing.

‘That was wonderful.’ As everyone clapped after the song ended, Vanessa said, ‘You’re very good. Why aren’t you doing something with that voice of yours?’

‘She does. Reg says she sings in the shower all the time,’ Bren teased, and chuckled when Nova poked out her tongue at him.

‘I mean something professional.’

‘I’d have to go east. That’s where the top country and western singers live and perform,’ Nova said. ‘I’d rather stay at Amaroo.’

‘But you’re so talented,’ Vanessa persisted, dismayed by Nova’s apparent lack of ambition. ‘Some people would kill for a voice like yours.’

Nova shrugged, ‘One day I will, maybe.’

Vanessa watched Nova’s gaze rest on Curtis for several moments before coming back to her with a smile. The significance of the younger woman’s glance sank in and instantly she berated herself for
not picking up on it sooner. She, who was supposed to be good at observing people! Nova was romantically interested in Curtis. Of course. Many of the things she had noted — how Nova defended him, that she’d danced with him at the reception, that she sang his praises to her — made sense now. Nova had a huge crush on Vanessa’s brother-in-law.

Reg began to play a tune everyone knew and the solo singing turned into a general sing-a-long for an hour or so, until Bren suggested they hit their bed rolls because tomorrow was also going to be a busy day.

‘Once the branding’s done, we’ll herd the mob towards Gumbledon Creek for a drink then lead them to the western plains. There’s better feed there at this time of the year.’

Vanessa did her best to stifle a moan. Her muscles were stiff and reacting from a day in the saddle. She crawled into her bedding. A layer of compacted foam was her mattress and underneath, the ground was rock hard. She didn’t want to think about how sore she would be by the time they returned to the homestead; she would not give Curtis the pleasure he would derive from seeing her saddle sore. Still, soreness aside, she had enjoyed the day. There had been a lot of hard riding and she had learned a good deal. Even the debate with Curtis about the castrating had been a valuable lesson, with Bren explaining later, when they had a moment alone, that the method used really was the most effective and a relatively pain-free way of accomplishing the deed.

That made her think about the two poddy calves back at the homestead. She had christened them
Fergus and Andy. Poor little things. She would have to make sure she wasn’t around when Curtis did the deed on them! Yawning, and with a last look at the black sky above with its millions upon millions of stars, she settled into her swag, certain she wouldn’t fall asleep for ages. In less than five minutes she was sound asleep.

Bren woke her with a kiss, her favourite way of waking up.

‘I’ve planned for us to spend the whole day together. No work, no other people, just us,’ he whispered as he drew her into his arms.

‘Without Curtis’s approval?’ she said slyly. The last muster before the wet came was about to start, and some of the stock had to be herded to a pick-up point for the road train to take it to Derby for export to the Middle East.

‘To hell with Curtis and his workaholic ways,’ he said, criticising his brother good-naturedly. ‘I’m the boss and today is ours to do with as we please.’

And they did …

It took an hour and a half of steady riding, past the old quarry, past an aborted gold-mining attempt by Bren’s grandfather, then along a narrow trail that wended across a plain and through a valley of knee-high spiky, yellow spear grass, slowly climbing towards the gorge. A trickle of sweat pooled in the depression at the base of Vanessa’s throat, filled then slid down between her breasts. She ignored the discomfort of the heat because she was enthralled by the scenery.

They entered the gorge which, Bren had told her, wasn’t a gorge in the strictest sense of the word. It was more like two steep rocky hills with a fifteen to twenty metre wide space in between. Vanessa was astonished by the change in the flora; even the earth beneath their horses hooves was a different colour and texture. Bleached by aeons of flooding during the wet, it wasn’t the fine red soil she was used to but a yellowish-white in colour. Spindly gums — she didn’t know what they were called — clung for dear life to crevices in the rock and a mixture of shrubs, reminiscent of tea trees, plus tall palms and clusters of what she’d been told were ancient cycads, gave the gorge a spectacular, primordial look.