Race Girl

by Leigh Hutton

  Tully glanced down the hill to the far corner of their property, where in previous wet seasons a creek had run from the mountains, through the valley, over a causeway and into the Westons’ land. She remembered skipping rocks across the creek as a child when her mother had taken her down there with the horses. She hadn’t seen it running since the devastating floods fours years before, but she still hoped like hell this summer would bring some decent rain.

  At the gate for the back paddock, Tully’s arms shook with the effort of unhooking the loop of barbed wire. She pushed her bike through, then strained again to do the tight gate back up behind her. A few Hereford heifers got up from lying on their bony sides, spooked and ran off back down towards the homestead. A big grey kangaroo stood just inside the tree line, watching her. Tully watched him back for a few moments, before starting up the Yamaha – a sound he turned an ear towards, but which didn’t cause him to bound away.

  Up across the last of the cleared land, past their top dam and a square patch fenced off from the animals lay the Athens family graveyard, where headstones for Tully’s mother, grandfather, grandmother and great-great grandmother stood, sunken into the land.

  Tully stopped the bike, resting it on its side-stand near the gate to the graveyard, before climbing in through the bottom gap in the wire. She pulled the frangipanis she’d picked earlier from her back pocket and laid them on each of the graves, stopping to study the inscription on her mother’s headstone. Tully was relieved to see that the sun hadn’t weathered it beyond recognition, as it had to many of the others:

  Dahlia Anne Athens, a splendid horsewoman, an exceptional jockey. Loving wife and mother. Taken too young, forever with the angels . . . watching over her loved ones.

  Tully dropped a kiss on her mother’s grave, ran a hand over the cold black stone. ‘Wish you were coming riding with me, Mum,’ she whispered, her heart stinging with the familiar ache of loneliness.

  She made sure to check the wire around the graveyard before heading back to her bike, firing it up and roosting off into the deep bush of the surrounding mountain range.

  Along the track now, and Tully was engulfed in green. She breathed in the mind-clearing scent from the eucalypts, enjoying the sound of whip birds echoing like an orchestra through the bush. Let her eyes drift up to the rays of light breaking in through the canopy of leaves. She smiled at the towering, resilient gums, budding with new fluorescent leaves despite the lack of nourishment. Shifted up into fourth gear, roosting along the four-wheel-drive track, her eyes darting from the track in front of her to the barbed wire fence running up the steepest country above and to her right.

  Tully twisted the throttle hard coming out of a tight corner, spraying rocks out behind the sturdy four-stroke bike. She grinned, for a moment insanely happy, really getting into the rhythm of riding, and taking off up the hill to where their fence-line and boundary drifted parallel to the track to run the length of the top ridge.

  She shrieked when she came up fast on a fat python, long enough to stretch all the way across the trail. Swerved left, lifting her feet up off the pegs like she was in the jockeying position. The snake raised its head, just as she snuck between it and the sheer cliff on the outside edge of the trail. Tully grinned at the racing of her heart – the adrenaline, the excitement, twisting the throttle harder up the next rise. The heat of the impending summer didn’t exist when she was racing along on the bike, the wind whipping at her skin, making her feel alive, just like riding Greg. It’s been too long since I was up here . . .

  Tully was about to hang right to follow their fence-line to the end of the top ridge, when she heard another bike approaching fast from the opposite side of the mountain. Who…? She pulled off the track at the first opportunity, veering along a little-used forest road, ducking her head to avoid the sharp branches of lantana growing across the trail. She rode straight at the bright light at the end of the road – her heart thumping after what had been such a euphoric ride. It’d be just my luck to run into cranky old Mr. Geortzen! she thought, turning the throttle harder. He was one of the local ‘eccentrics’ who despised the horse racing industry, smelled like BO and loved to rant about his ‘superior’ animals, the llamas, which, according to him, Tully’s family were ‘crazy’ for not getting into.

  A strong breeze met Tully’s cheeks, cooler than she’d felt since winter. She smiled and skidded to a stop at what felt like the edge of the world, swung off her helmet and hung it over the handlebars, leant her bike on its side stand and jogged out to the edge of the cliff, onto a wide mossy rock that protruded into the sky.

  Strands of hair blew free from her braid and the view made her gasp – Tully couldn’t believe she’d never been down this track before. She could see straight down their valley, her farm so tiny from this height, the Westons’ gleaming racehorse city even more imposing. Beyond were the houses of Beaudesert, then acres and acres of patchwork paddocks and farms stretching all the way to a ring of suburbs around the hazy peaks of Brisbane’s tallest buildings. In the far distance, Tully could just make out the faint blue line of the sea.

  When she heard the sound of the bike coming closer, Tully glanced back over her shoulder, turning and running for hers. Whoever it was had followed her, was closing in . . .

  Tully had her helmet on and was hitting the start button when the figure came into focus. Her breath caught in her throat as she recognised who it was, riding the flashiest, most ridiculous quad bike she’d ever seen. Tully would recognise those dark chocolate eyes anywhere.

  5

  Turning For Home

  ‘What are you doing up here?!’ Tully said, shaking her head in annoyance at Brandon Weston.

  He eased to a stop just behind her, killed the engine of his chrome-wheeled quad – complete with cup holders and plush backrests for rider and passenger – and pulled off his helmet.

  ‘You’ve crossed into our land—if the guys catch you up here, you could get shot!’

  Brandon’s face broke into a grin and he slung his helmet over the handlebars, running a hand through his unruly hair, his eyes meeting hers. He was dressed more like a Weston today, not the carefree cowboy she’d met on the road.

  Standing in front of him now, Tully realised how tall Brandon was. She guessed he was nearly a foot taller than her modest five three, sturdy and buff in his footy shorts, new Blundstones and a white Weston Park polo shirt, the collar turned up. She glanced away quickly, shoving her hands into the pockets of her grubby jean shorts, heat creeping up her neck.

  ‘I’ve been hoping to run into you again,’ Brandon said. ‘How’s your knee?’ There was a teasing tone to his surprisingly deep, gravelly voice and Tully spun to raise an eyebrow at him, her mind ticking over at an infuriatingly slow rate. Then she remembered her fall on the verandah steps, the night she’d recognised the boy she’d raced on the road as the son of her father’s fiercest rival, and a new anger inside her flared, her hands finding her hips. ‘Fine,’ she said, shifting her weight onto one leg – battle stance.

  Brandon took a step forward and crossed his arms across his solid chest, his eyes boring down into hers and lips twisting into an amused smile.

  Tully’s eyes shot to the dirt and she kicked at the shale with the toe of her scuffed, tattered boots. Crap, crap, CRAP. Heat took over her cheeks, sweat stung at her forehead and the back of her neck. She wished she could just disappear – she knew she looked like a grub in her faded, baggy Athens Racing polo shirt, ripped shorts and sweat-matted braid dangling from helmet hair. No way to look around a guy like him! ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude,’ she said, chewing on her bottom lip and pushing her hands into her pockets. ‘I just . . .’ wouldn’t want my dad to shoot you . . . She thought, then chided herself. Huh? You can’t think that about Brandon Weston! ‘Um—’

  ‘No worries,’ Brandon said. ‘I couldn’t remember where our boundary was, and I heard a bike. I’m glad it was you.’

  Tully’s face really caught fire. She swatted at
an imaginary fly, hiding her face with her hand a fraction longer than she was sure was cool, then turned right away. Her heart thumped painfully, her hands suddenly clammy and shaking. OMG, Tully Athens! And, forcing a quick breath. What the hell is wrong with you?!!

  ‘I was stoked to get out for a ride,’ Brandon said, leaning back against his quad. ‘Been cooped up in the city for far too long . . .’ His eyes slide down her body, and hers went wide, her heart thudding like a jackhammer. ‘You look a bit nervous,’ he said casually, his gaze hovering on her torso as he reached for the breather hose of his quad bike, rolling it between his fingers. ‘You need to relax, breathe a little. It would help your riding a lot.’

  Um, what?! Tully thought, rocking back on the heels of her Blundstones. Her hands shot back to her hips. Did he really just insult my riding?!

  ‘Come over sometime,’ Brandon continued, ‘I could chuck you on a few of my dad’s horses; give you a go.’

  Tully’s mouth fell open and she stared up at Brandon, blinking more than once. He is the son of Pearce Weston, she reminded herself, not just the hottest guy who’s ever talked to you . . . and then she came up for air. This guy might be hot, but he’s also a wanker!

  ‘Well, I might have to, eh?’ she said sarcastically, her body swelling and filling with heat. ‘Could I ride Diva, Brandon—’ Her voice was rising, but she didn’t care to stop it— ‘Or Gally, if I come over to your house, huh?!’

  Brandon shook his head slowly, his eyes locking on hers. ‘It’s just business, Tully—surely you understand that? Nothing personal.’

  ‘It’s personal to us!’ Her eyes narrowed against his gaze, then she spun and hurried back to her bike. ‘Just leave us alone, Brandon!’ she said, before pulling on her helmet, starting up her Yamaha and roosting past him, back onto the trail.

  Tully’s body tingled, on fire, her stomach twisted into a painful knot, her heart jumping and skipping like an oated-up thoroughbred on race day. She blinked through the sweat, gritting her teeth against the tears of anger and frustration and uncertainty. Ripped through the lantana, out onto the main trail, shifting up as she headed for home.

  Tully knew she was in trouble. She wanted to hate Brandon Weston. She should hate Brandon Weston, but how could she maintain the rage when her heart and her soul were singing with this new sensation of excitement and curiosity?

  OMG, Tully Athens! she screamed at herself, blipping the throttle to get her front tyre up and over an exposed tree root, then getting back hard on the gas. What is going on with you . . . and why in the world are you so incredibly CRAP at talking to guys?!!!

  She rode the forest road faster than ever, recklessly making her way back down the mountain – at least a gear higher than usual everywhere, slipping the clutch and revving it wildly, braking hard into the corners, accelerating with a trail of rocks and dirt roosting out behind her. She hoped she’d latched the gates securely as she passed – the barbed wire was so tight, it was tough even when her hands were working properly.

  Tully rode straight for the machinery shed, parked the bike in the dark dusty far corner and hauled off her helmet. She wiped her eyes, forcing deep breaths to ease the panic. Her eyes stung like crazy from the sweat, dirt and a few little black flies – she hadn’t taken the time to put her goggles on to ride home.

  Mum should be here to help with this stuff! Tully thought desperately, picturing how amazing it would feel to sprint over to the stables and spill everything. Her mum would have known how to explain what she was feeling. Her mum would have known how to handle all the bombs dropped on Tully in the last few days. How to handle her father and the farm . . . and Brandon. Turn all their problems around.

  Her father and Bucko looked up from under the hood of the farm ute, greasy rags and spanners in hand. ‘How’s the fence, Tull?’ her dad asked.

  ‘Fine!’ she said, hurrying past, out the door of the shed into the burning sun. Tully whistled for Bear as she rushed for the house, thinking how much she would love to skip school and spend the day with her horses wrapped in their reassuring aura of sturdiness and peace and calm.

  6

  Hello Summer

  Tully doodled in her notebook at the back of Maths, her final class of Year 10, drawing circles around and around until her pen broke through the paper. She’d already gotten the go-ahead from Moe to work full-time over the summer, starting Monday. All of her wage thus far had been going into feed for Greg and Frangipani, food for Bear Dog, herself and often her father and his dogs, her phone and saving for a ute. But even full-time wouldn’t make a dent in running their property and racing outfit. There had to be a way to get the farm back to turning a profit, and Tully was determined to find it.

  Greg had felt wonderful when she was out on him, his legs were strong and she hadn’t noticed any hints of the torn suspensory ligament that had ended his career when he was just four years old. He’d never been fast enough to win, but he was eager to please and loved to run, finishing in the money a few times. Maybe I could get him back in shape, Tully thought. So we have another going horse on the track? She was all too aware of Weston’s offer, and their time was running out.

  Tully grabbed lunch with Tam at the cafe in the main street of town as a special treat for their last day of classes. The girls happily devoured delicious sausage rolls and a huge serve of hot chips with tomato sauce and chicken salt, before heading back to school for the breakup assembly, where they sat at the back of the sports centre and got to chatting about Avalon Downs.

  Tam had already been speaking with her parents about the Athens’ predicament and had a few ideas. Tully felt a warm breeze of hope her as she spoke with Tam as they sat in the lineup of kids at the back of the building. But when conversation shifted to ‘the boy’ and Tam asked if Tully had seen him again, Tully shook her head, doing her best to keep a blank face and shrug casually, as if she’d moved on and it wouldn’t affect her in the least if ‘the boy’ walked into the room right now. She knew she was faking it, having to grit her teeth against a wave of emotions, swallowing them back down into the pit of her stomach: the anger, the frustration and the fear of what exactly it was that she might be feeling for Brandon Weston. Common sense told her to leave it alone: it was all too embarrassing and would never lead to anything good anyway.

  Mercifully, Tam’s phone beeped, claiming her full attention and taking the heat off Tully. Tully took a steadying breath, leaning her head back against the wall of the covered sports area, letting the noises of the chattering students and the teacher on the microphone filter through her mind. She told herself firmly that Brandon Weston was most likely a wanker, and most definitely out of her league. And besides, she had more pressing matters to deal with, like how she was going to save her father, her farm and her dream of becoming a jockey – just like she and her mother had always planned.

  After assembly the girls headed back to the English room for an end of year party, where their teachers shook each of their hands and handed them a congratulatory piece of paper with balloons on it, their names scrawled in blue pen and a message about how great their futures were going to be when they returned after the holidays in eight weeks’ time to complete their final two years of schooling. Some of Tully’s classmates wouldn’t be coming back, taking up the option to end high school in Year 10 and go into trades. Tully hadn’t decided what she was doing come January – everything in her life had seemed to stop when her mother died. They’d always talked about Tully leaving school early to start a jockey apprenticeship as her mother had when she was sixteen, but Tully knew her father would never let that happen now. And considering she hadn’t even been able to ride properly at home, she’d have no chance of surviving a trial at the track. She knew if she was ever to pursue a career on horseback, she needed to get back out on Greg and work to re-build her confidence and regain her nerve, but how could she with her dad hiding in the house and the farm slipping away from them?

  Tully sighed and shoved the certificate into her ba
ckpack. She smiled quickly at her teachers, then parted ways with Tam and threaded her headphones in, letting Taylor wash over her as she hurried to work.

  ★

  ‘Diamond Someday’s having a beautiful run,’ said the race caller as Tully rushed through the kitchen the next morning, into the back sleep out to get ready for the dawning day – the first official day of summer. She had collected a surprise haul of four eggs from the old hens in the last few days, and hoped making a surprise omelet for them would help improve her father’s mood. He had been in bed when she got home from work last night, and she was relieved to hear he was up this morning, in front of the telly by the sounds of it. She was ready to talk business.

  Tully slipped on her Blundstones and walked lightly across the worn, uneven floorboards, down the hallway, her eyes taking a minute to adjust to the dark lounge room in the middle of the house. Her father was slumped in his chair, a bottle in his hand, watching recorded footage of Diva’s last win with him as trainer, at Toowoomba’s historic Weetwood meet over a year ago. Tully knew from checking the Racing Queensland website on her phone earlier that Diva would be racing for Weston for the first time at Doomben today. She’d expected to see her father tuned into the racing channel to see Diva run, and that would’ve only been after he’d overseen the morning feed, checked the horses and let Grace know who to ride out and in what manner. They did still have Rosie to get ready for the Beaudesert races next Saturday. I guess he’s skipping work again this morning, she thought, a fist of dread tightening in the pit of her stomach. Her father sunk lower in his chair, taking a swig from his bottle.