The deep lines on Wally’s face had collapsed into one another as he laughed, but the old man quickly sobered when he saw Nate’s fixed expression. ‘Nope. But what’s with the no-women policy, McGregor? You knocked back that girl, Jasmine, last week at the bar in Alice, and now you’re getting all prissy over the govie.’
Nate kept his horse walking towards the stables – a corrugated iron shed held up with Mulga posts. It was an amazing tree, the Mulga. The white ants didn’t touch the stuff. He decided he could take a lesson from that.
Wally plodded up from behind. His horse was his own and the gelding was an ambler, a great walker, whereas Nate’s plant horses left a lot to be desired. That’s one thing he wouldn’t miss here on Mount Elizabeth when he finally left. The crappy horseflesh.
‘So?’ prompted Wally.
‘Yeah, well, I’m just sick of having a new woman in my bed every –’
‘Aha,’ interrupted Wal. ‘Wondered how long it’d take you.’
‘Take me to do what?’
Wally pulled his horse into the hitching rail outside the stables. Slid off the old gelding’s back in one swift movement and started to unhitch the girth.
‘Wally?’ He hated it when the old man talked in riddles. It reminded Nate of his father, Alex. As if he wanted to be reminded about him! Especially after what that old fool had gone and done now.
‘Wally! You can’t just put a line out there like that and not explain what the fuck you mean!’
‘Can’t I?’ Wally carried his saddle into the shade of the shed. ‘Last I heard I could do what I liked. I’m grown up too and old enough, although lookin’ at me teeth you mightn’t say that.’ He gave another gummy grin as he walked back out into the burning sun.
‘C’mon,’ said Nate, still sitting on his horse, peering down at the other bloke. ‘What took me so long to do what?’
Wally Price sighed and pushed his battered Akubra sideways to scratch his bald head. ‘I’m just saying that there comes a time in your life when ya decide to either choose a woman for keeps or be alone.’ The old man pulled his hat back down tight across his forehead. ‘Me? I chose the woman. The woman I chose then wanted another bloke, someone with more dosh than me. So then I figured on finding another one, but that took too much effort. All them flowers, teas and shit. I couldn’t be fucked. So here I am, thirty years on, single and, well, reasonably happy. I got a roof over me head, three meals a day, work to do and a bit of cash at the end of the week to piss up against the wall. What more do I want, I ask you?’
The man fixed Nate with another gummy smile. ‘But you? Well, you’re different. You need a woman. A good one, mind you, and I think you’ve just made the right choice.’
‘What? Danielle?!’
‘Fuck no! Not her.’ Wally almost looked aghast, which was saying something. His expressions usually only shifted from mild surprise to a grin. ‘She’s a baby. You gunna wait until you get the right one, a good one, and then you’ll settle down on that fancy property of your dad’s up in them hills and have billy lids until your dick falls off.’
‘Hardly,’ said Nate, with a laugh. ‘I’m rather attached to my appendage.’
‘Yeah, well, that’s if you can find it,’ said Wally.
Nate was off his horse and had the old man in a headlock, scruffing him before Wally could say ‘Here comes the boss.’
‘McGregor! Let him go.’ Ferris Van Over walked up to the two men. ‘You finished yarding those steers?’
Nate released Wally and grabbed his hat from the dirt where it had fallen. ‘Yes, sir.’ One did not call Mr Van Over ‘Ferris’. Usually he was a fly-in, fly-out boss, lived in Brisbane most of the time. But recently, for some reason, he’d decided it was time his children had a taste of rural life. The fellas suspected the oldest kid, a sly little bugger, had got into some kind of trouble in town.
Nate belted his hat against the hitching rail to dust off the worst of the grunge and slapped it back on his head. ‘What would you like us to do now, boss?’
‘Take a break. The road train will be here at six tonight. I want those cattle loaded and out of here.’
‘Yes, Mr Van Over.’ This came from Wally. He was looking anywhere but at the big boss. He obviously hated being caught doing the wrong thing and Van Over wasn’t a Territorian – if he was he’d take skylarking in the vein that it was meant. The station owner was too city for that.
‘Nate and me’ll make sure those decks are loaded,’ said Wally. His tone was one step short of grovelling; Nate guessed that came from the man’s recently professed need for security. Mount Elizabeth was Wally’s home, a roof over his head plus board and keep. And it was all right for Nate. He could just head south back down to the mountains of East Gippsland if he had to. Regardless of what his old man had said in the past, he wasn’t the type of bloke to turn his son away. Especially when said son was the heir apparent.
‘Where’s Trumby?’ snapped Van Over.
Wally took up the challenge. ‘Gone to town, boss. We needed more fencing materials.’
Nate waited to see if Wally was going to mention the head stockman was also trying to find his missus and patch up a fight they’d had the previous night. Living remote was tough on relationships.
But Wally didn’t. He stayed silent, protecting the man they both liked and spent most of their time working for. Until recently Ferris Van Over had only appeared every month or so, flying in for a few days and then going again, leaving the station in the hands of Trumby Laws. Ferris had little idea of what was going on apart from the bottom line of the balance sheets.
‘Send him over to me when he gets back. You two go take a break … And, McGregor?’
‘Yes, Mr Van Over?’
‘Stay the hell away from my niece. She’s not for the likes of you.’
‘Bu–’ Nate felt something come hard down on his toes. Wally’s size-twelve boot.
‘I’ll see he behaves himself, boss,’ said Wal, nodding, not looking at Nate.
Ferris Van Over gave them both a hard glare.
Nate lifted his chin and stared right back. Arrogant bastard. Van Over was just like his father. He didn’t know who his crew were or where they came from. He didn’t care just so long as the work got done. It was all about money. And it didn’t matter that his niece was raring to go. The family obviously thought she was in the same league as Mother Teresa.
Van Over went to walk off, slinging words over his shoulder as he left, ‘Be back at those yards by six.’
‘Yes, sir,’ muttered Nathaniel under his breath.
Van Over halted mid-step, went to turn, then obviously thought better of it and kept stalking away.
Chapter 4
They moved onto McCauley’s Hill on the day of the wedding – the wedding of Tamara McCauley and Travis Hunter, to be precise. Her new landlords.
An entrance gate flashed past with the name ‘Montmorency Downs’ chipped into the stone faceplate on the entranceway pillars. With her window wound down so she could enjoy the fresh air, Jodie could hear music and laughter coming from the huge marquee placed in the paddock beside the old country homestead set back from the road. The sounds of revelry were rolling across the green pastures in snatches, slips of noise on an otherwise quiet landscape. Well, quiet except for the gentle snoring of her daughter, slumped in the seat on the other side of the LandCruiser ute. Milly had crashed not ten kilometres out of Narree and Jodie didn’t blame her. This was the last load of all their worldly belongings and the packing, the trips to the new house and subsequent unpacking had taken their toll. Jodie heartily wished she was Milly, snoozing in the warm afternoon sun.
It had been a rugged few weeks. First the accident. Then the packing up of her late father’s home, a huge job in itself. Robert Ashton had been a hoarder in his latter years and it had taken ages to go through his stuff. Mue had been wonderful, helping as much as her busy work schedule would allow. Mue was part-time housekeeper for Alex McGregor and for Tammy McCauley, an
d spent time helping at the local nursing home, where Jodie did some of her shifts. When you ran three jobs it was hard to get some time out. But she’d found it for Jodie and Milly.
Not so Alex. Jodie had barely seen him of late. He’d called around to Mue’s a few times after the accident but then there had been some council disaster, a cut-back in funding from the State government, and Alex had been away in Melbourne lobbying for the area’s money to be reinstated. She couldn’t begrudge him that. The shire council was responsible for the wellbeing of close to forty-five thousand people. She, Jodie, was only one of them.
Anyway, it was fine. She was used to dealing with stuff on her own.
She glanced back over her shoulder across the paddocks at the white tent, flapping gently in the breeze, and idly wondered what it would be like to be Tamara McCauley, born with a silver spoon in her mouth. Although from what she’d heard on the bush telegraph at work, Tammy had had to fight to retain her land. A bit like Jodie had had to fight most of her life to hold on to what she had. Her life. Her child. Herself.
Weddings always did that to her. They were a reminder of all those hopes she’d once had herself. Hopes that were shattered when her cowboy had decided to ride on out, leaving her with nothing other than a fretful baby and a fistful of splintered dreams. That had been someplace west of Augathella. She’d made her way to Charleville, a single mother with no qualifications. Got an afternoon shift at the pub, a day-care lady for her child, and tried to work out what to do next. It hadn’t been the best time of her life, that was for sure. In fact, she had hit rock bottom there for a while, until things had slowly taken a turn for the better.
Jodie guided the ute down Hope’s Road and through the low-level crossing, then swung right at the T-intersection. Not long now and they’d be at their new house. Home. She rolled that beautiful word and all its comforting connotations around in her mouth, let the endorphins it created seep from the pores of her skin. Finally they’d have a place to call home. A place where they could be together. Mother and daughter. Not at the beck and call of others, like the elderly in the nursing home in Narree where she worked. Not at the decree of officialdom, like the solicitors and bankers working on sorting out her dad’s estate. Nor subject to the whims and voracious appetite of the cancer that had slowly consumed him.
Finally peace, tranquillity and a life for themselves on McCauley’s Hill.
She turned the ute into their new driveway, checking in the rear-view mirror to make sure the horse float behind was still with her. A useless act really as the loss of Parnie’s weight would have been more than noticeable if the trailer had decided to part with the ute. But then, knowing her recent luck, it paid to be sure.
She could see the shadow of the gelding’s head through the Perspex window and was reassured. Hopefully he was having a chat to Milly’s pony, Buggsy, telling the little 12-hand mare to settle and not be afraid, that Jodie had it all in hand.
Jodie choked back a half laugh at that thought as she braked to a stop. Her? Have it all in hand? If there ever was a time when she wished she could go back to being a child and be cared for by two loving parents, it would be now.
When had she become the parent? The one who was supposed to know what to do, where to go, how to support two human mouths, two horses, a dog and the latest addition … Jodie looked down at the box on the seat between her and her daughter. Two bulbous, unblinking eyes glared back. Milly was always picking up stray bits and pieces and this ugly frog was the latest in the long line of misfits and orphans who’d made their way to the Ashtons’ door. What the heck were they going to feed the thing? ‘Ribbit!’ the frog croaked. Maybe there were some Frenchmen serving at the wedding who liked frog’s legs? The local backpackers’ place was full of Europeans earning a dollar from casual work.
‘He’s here to stay, Mum, so don’t get that look in your eye.’ Her daughter was awake and had an eyebrow cocked while a little grin played around the edges of her cute bow-shaped lips. At seven years old, she knew her mother better than anyone else alive.
‘What look?’ Jodie tried her best to sound indignant. And failed. Her mouth gave her away. She could even feel her own dimples starting to dance on her cheeks. Damn it. The child was just too intuitive for her own good.
‘His name is Ribbit and you need to be nice to him,’ stated Milly. ‘He might make all your wishes come true when I turn him into a handsome prince.’
Jodie rolled her eyes and tried not to laugh. ‘You have to kiss him to do that, Milly.’
‘I do?’ Her daughter looked horrified. ‘Since when?’
‘Since the Grimm brothers or Hans Christian Andersen or whoever made up that fairytale said so.’
Jodie could almost see the gears of her daughter’s brain grinding as Milly looked down at the frog.
‘Ribbit!’ it croaked.
Milly glanced back at her mother. ‘What’s say we leave him down here then? Behind us, near the creek that runs to the crossing? He won’t like it up there on that dry hill.’ She nodded towards the roof of the old miner’s shack they could see just above them.
‘Great idea,’ said Jodie, trying her best not to sound triumphant.
Milly glared at her mother with suspicion. ‘Are you pleased?’
‘For the frog,’ said Jodie hurriedly. ‘Nothing to do with me.’ She tried her best to act like it didn’t matter one iota to her whether they ejected the horrible disgusting amphibian from the ute.
Milly twisted her lips and seemed to consider the frog a moment more. She then bailed out of the vehicle, her short legs hitting the ground before she turned and dragged the frog in its box towards herself. ‘You sure about that kissing thing?’
Jodie nodded. ‘Sure I’m sure.’
‘Pinky promise?’ said her daughter, raising a little finger and pushing her hand across the seat at Jodie.
‘Pinky promise,’ said her mother, raising her own little finger and linking it with her daughter’s, secretly thanking whoever the hell wrote that fairytale for the kissing twist.
‘Well then,’ said Milly, taking back her hand and pulling the box into her arms, ‘I’ll only be a minute. Don’t go away.’
Jodie’s heart twisted in her chest. As if she would ever leave her. Since the campdrafting accident Milly had become very clingy, and who could blame her for that? Milly’s father, Rhys, had gone riding out of their lives and off into the wild blue yonder six years before, when she was only a baby. Then her grandpa had gone. A reluctant departure to heaven for sure, but gone all the same. And her grandmother, Jodie’s mother, didn’t care. Bribie Island and all its retirement glamour were far too interesting to leave to spend time with a mere granddaughter. Or a daughter, for that matter. In a nutshell, the word ‘Gone’ had become the story of their lives. It was just the two of them now.
Jodie watched in the side rear-view mirror as Milly’s denim-clad bum moved quickly away from the ute, back towards the other side of the gravel track, through the gateway they’d just entered and across the dozy tarred road. The little girl disappeared as she dropped to the ground and was swallowed by tall slivers of mustard weed and fronds of scotch thistle. Jodie pictured her squatting in the patch of grass among the weeds, her freckled face scrunched with concentration as she carefully emptied the box by the side of the creek. Jodie could just hear the sound of tinkling water, as the stream swished over flattened river rocks.
She was a wild thing, that little daughter. A will-o’-the-wisp of boundless energy, an adventurous spirit filled with buckets of naive love. A lot like a younger Jodie. And this was the thing that scared her the most. How could she keep Milly protected from the darker side of the world? How could she provide her with the security – financial, yes, but more importantly emotional – she needed to grow into a confident and well-rounded woman?
Jodie took her eyes from the rear-view mirror and glanced up towards the solid corrugated iron glinting in the afternoon sun. The walls of the shack were now also shining like th
ey were saying, Come hither. Come and make this your home. Jodie sighed. She knew up there the view of the Great Dividing Range was incredible. She also knew the house was now decorated, in part, with their own stuff. The patchwork quilts she’d made over the years were gracing walls, couches and beds, making the cold space warm and comforting.
And even though it was his wedding day, Travis Hunter had said he’d light the old combustion stove and get the water pumping through the water jacket so it would be hot for a shower. For that she was so grateful. The man had stood at the door of the shack on the previous Sunday while she’d been unpacking, looking for all the world like he’d prefer to be anywhere else. Apparently the old bloke who’d lived there before her had been Travis’s best mate. He was dead now. Gone for twelve months, they’d said at the nursing home. Old Joe had been Tamara McCauley’s great-uncle. Tamara, or Tammy as she’d asked Jodie to call her the day she’d handed over the key, still hadn’t been up to the shack. She’d left the clearing out of the old man’s stuff to her fiancé, Travis. He, for all his gruffness, had nearly broken down when faced with the prospect of moving it all into the shed.
Taking pity on the man, and also because she didn’t have much decent furniture to call her own, Jodie had suggested she take the shack furnished. To leave most of the big stuff there. She’d thought for a minute Travis was going to kiss her and had taken a step back. He was a handsome kind of bloke but he was taken, like most of the good blokes in the world. Plus she didn’t really go for the strong silent type and he was silent most of the time. Not like his son, Billy. That child talked non-stop and he’d become Milly’s best mate within the first ten minutes of meeting. Jodie shook her head. The trouble those two were going to get up to probably wasn’t worth thinking about. Two wild children on a wild hill. But God bless the pair of them. Let them be kids for a time. Adulthood, and all its troubles, would come soon enough.
Mountain Ash Page 3