by Ariel Tachna
The boy shrugged. “It happens, but not usually three at once. Mr. Armstrong was all put out about it.”
That explained Macklin’s temper. “I’m Caine,” he said, offering his hand.
“I know who you are,” the kid said, shaking it. “Everybody’s buzzing with news of the blow-in. I’m Jason. My dad’s one of the mechanics.”
“Nice to meet you, Jason,” Caine said. “Thanks for taking pity on me.”
“It’s not pity,” Jason replied. “I want to hear about America. I love the way Yanks talk.”
Caine chuckled. His nationality might be a strike against him with the adults, but maybe he could use it to his advantage with the kids. “Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll answer all your questions about America if you’ll answer my questions about the outback.”
“Really? My dad said you wouldn’t have time for all my questions and I shouldn’t bother you and really?”
“Really,” Caine promised, “as long as you return the favor.”
“Deal,” Jason said. “Finish your tucker so I can show you around.”
Caine finished the meal, leaving his plate with the others but stopping to thank Kami for the food. Kami waved him away with a dishtowel. When they were outside, Jason whistled softly and a black, gray, and white dog came trotting up. “This is Polly. She’s an Australian shepherd. She’s still too young to work with the sheep, but she’s learning.”
“May I pet her?” Caine asked, stretching his hand out for Polly to sniff.
The dog sniffed at his fingers, then looked at Jason, obviously waiting for his approval. Jason nodded and gestured her forward with his hand. That was the signal she had been waiting for, because she slid her head beneath Caine’s hand and rested her jowl against his thigh. “She likes you. She’s a good judge of people.”
Caine smiled at Jason and knelt down to scratch Polly’s ears a little more. Jason had said she was young, but she wasn’t a small dog by any means. Her shoulder was nearly mid-thigh on him. “I’m glad to know I passed her test.” He had a feeling there would be a lot of tests over the subsequent few months.
“So tell me about the station,” Caine asked, looking up at Jason. “Were you born here?”
“No, I was born in Melbourne,” Jason said, “but I came here when I was two. Dad lost his job in Melbourne and hired on here. Mum helps Kami out with the baking sometimes, when he’ll let another person in his kitchen, and she helps with some of the cleaning in the bunkhouses. The jillaroos are okay, but some of the jackaroos don’t take care of anything unless you make them.” Jason leaned forward conspiratorially. “They don’t get invited back next summer and have to go work for Mr. Taylor instead, but don’t tell Mr. Armstrong I said that. He doesn’t want people saying bad stuff about Taylor Peak even if it’s true.”
“It’ll be our secret,” Caine promised, but it wasn’t news to him. Even without anyone saying anything, he had seen the difference between the two stations, and that was without the benefit of any knowledge about what might be going on beneath the surface. “So I’ve seen the main house, but that’s the only building I’ve been in yet. Think I could get a tour?”
“Sure,” Jason said. “Come on, Polly.”
Polly moved obediently to Jason’s side. “That’s the bunkhouse for the girls,” Jason said with a wave of his hand toward the other side of the valley. “I’m not allowed to go over there without Mum. I think she’s afraid I’ll see something I shouldn’t. Like I care about girls. I’d rather teach Polly about sheep. Where are you from in America?”
“I’m from Cincinnati originally,” Caine said as they walked down the gravel road toward the collection of buildings at the far end of the valley, “but I lived in Philadelphia b-b-before I came here.”
“I’ve never heard of Cincinnati,” Jason said, “but Philadelphia, that’s American Revolution stuff, right?”
“It is,” Caine agreed. “The Continental Congress, the Liberty Bell, the first presidential residence, although that’s no longer standing, but they have this display where you can see what the floor plan was. It was really small by modern standards. So what are those buildings?” He pointed to a series of low-roofed sheds.
“Those are the pens we use for shearing and breeding and anything else we need to confine the sheep for,” Jason explained. “They’re empty right now. Dad says now that Mr. Armstrong is back with you, we’ll start breeding in a few days.”
“Why wait for me?” Caine asked. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Dad said it was in case you decided to sell the station out from under us,” Jason replied. “If you did, there was no reason to breed the ewes because they might all be going to slaughter anyway. If you didn’t, waiting a few days wouldn’t hurt.”
Caine turned to face Jason, bending a little so he could look the boy directly in the eyes. “I d-d-don’t know what the future will bring, but I p-p-promise I will n-never sell the station out from under everyone. If it ever happens, it will be b-b-because everyone agrees it’s what has to happen.”
“You stutter when you get nervous or serious or stuff, don’t you?” Jason asked.
“Yes,” Caine said, not entirely sure how he felt about Jason’s lack of reaction to his declaration.
“No worries, mate,” Jason said. “It doesn’t bother me.”
Caine felt a surge of ridiculous relief at hearing Jason’s casual acceptance. He doubted everyone would be as understanding, but with his new friend, he wouldn’t have to worry about feeling self-conscious if he stuttered a bit. “Can we go inside them?”
“They stink,” Jason said, “but we can go in.”
Caine followed Jason across the slightly uneven ground and up the rise to the closest of the pens. The kid was right about the smell, but Caine figured he’d better learn to live with it. He was a sheep farmer now, and that meant dealing with the mess. “So how does it work?” he asked when they stepped inside and he could see the various smaller enclosures within the larger building.
“Breeding or shearing?” Jason asked.
“Breeding,” Caine said. “That’s what I’ll have to deal with first.”
“Breeding’s easy,” Jason said. “Bring the ewes in when they go into heat, leave them here with a ram for a few days, and then switch them out for the next batch. If it doesn’t take this cycle, try again next time. Shearing is the hard work.”
“I’ve seen pictures of shearing,” Caine said. “I’m not looking forward to that.”
“I like it,” Jason insisted. “It’s the start of the new season when all the new jackaroos come, and we have a big barbie when it’s done. It’s a regular holiday around here when the last sheep leaves the pen.”
“Jason, your mother’s looking for you.”
Caine and Jason turned to see Macklin silhouetted against the door to the sheep pen. “I’m sorry you had to come looking for me, Mr. Armstrong,” Jason said, his awe of the foreman clear in his voice. “I was just showing Caine—that is, Mr. Neiheisel—around a bit.”
“I told you to call me Caine,” Caine said, speaking to Jason but making sure his voice was loud enough to carry to Macklin. He didn’t want Jason getting in trouble for something Caine had allowed. “I don’t mind.”
“Thank you, Caine,” Jason said. “I’ll see you tomorrow after I finish my schoolwork. I have history tomorrow.”
“Good luck with that,” Caine replied. “If you have to do economics, I can help you with that, but I was never very good at history.”
Jason hurried out of the building, leaving Caine and Macklin alone. “He seems like a good kid.”
“Yes, he is,” Macklin agreed. He didn’t seem in any hurry to leave, so Caine joined him at the door. “Economics?”
“I studied b-business in college,” Caine explained, the sudden surge of attraction he felt this close to Macklin tying his tongue. “For all the g-g-good it did me.”
“You never know when it might come in useful,” Macklin said, startin
g toward the collection of small houses near the large bunkhouse. Caine wondered what brought about the sudden improvement in Macklin’s attitude, but he decided not to question his good fortune. He’d take the cordiality when he could get it.
Caine fell in step beside him, not wanting the conversation to end. “Jason mentioned something about some dead animals. Do we need to be worried?”
“Don’t know yet,” Macklin said. “We couldn’t tell what happened to them.”
“What might have happened to them?” Caine asked. “Disease, old age, some kind of predator? Something else?”
“It probably wasn’t disease or old age,” Macklin said. “We cull the flock in the spring and autumn and only keep the healthy ewes. Once they reach a certain age, they don’t breed well and their wool loses its luster, neither of which is profitable for us. One sheep might have broken a leg in a hole or succumbed to a snakebite, although that’s rarer, but not three in the same pasture in the same day. By the time the men found them, they were pretty picked over by feral dogs and crows, so we couldn’t tell if a predator got them.”
They reached one of the smaller houses, and Macklin stepped up onto the veranda. “Do you want a beer?”
“Sure,” Caine said, stepping onto the veranda as well. Macklin’s mercurial moods confused him, but since the foreman seemed willing to talk, Caine went along with it. A beer might even make the man positively garrulous. “It’s a nice evening. We could sit out here and drink it, and you could tell me what we need to do next as far as the sheep are concerned. I may not be able to help, but I really do want to know what’s going on.”
“I’ve got Tooheys and Carlton Cold,” Macklin offered. “Have a seat.”
“Tooheys is fine,” Caine said, taking a seat on one of the two carved wooden chairs. While Macklin disappeared inside, Caine ran his hand along the grain of the wood, marveling at how smooth it was except where the knots still stuck out. He was surprised how comfortable it was for something so rustic.
“Cheers,” Macklin said, handing Caine his beer and tapping the bottles together.
“Cheers,” Caine replied, taking a sip of the beer. “So what do we do about the sheep you found?”
“There’s nothing to do,” Macklin said. “We buried the carcasses because there wasn’t anything else to do with them.”
“So if a predator got them, what’s the next step?” Caine asked.
“It depends on what the predator was,” Macklin said. “Eagles usually don’t bother the full-grown sheep, but a pair of dingoes might. If that’s the case, we increase the number of men and dogs out with the sheep and hope to scare them off. If it’s feral pigs, we go hunting and have pork to tide us through winter.”
“And if it was something else?” Caine asked.
“There isn’t really anything else,” Macklin said. “We’ve got our share of nasties in Australia—snakes and crocs and spiders and the like—but the crocs aren’t around here, and the snakes don’t bother the sheep because the sheep are too big to eat. I’d planned to give the flocks another couple of weeks before I brought them in closer for the winter to save our grass as long as possible, but if something is out there hunting sheep, we may not have a choice.”
“If you have to bring them down early, what does that mean for the station?” Caine asked. “Do we have to supplement their feed over the winter?”
“We always have to supplement some,” Macklin said, “but we try to keep it to a minimum. Hay gets expensive and more years than not, we run close to the line as it is. Adding extra weeks to that could put us in the red. Not exactly the impression I wanted to give your mum the first quarter after she took over.”
“Don’t worry about my mother,” Caine said. “She doesn’t have a head for business. If we tell her everything is going fine with the station, she’ll accept that.”
“That doesn’t help when we can’t pay the bills,” Macklin reminded him.
“I’m not saying that,” Caine insisted. “I’m saying we can look at expenses and income and take a longer view than one quarter. I’ve got a degree in business. I know how to juggle these kinds of things. If we need to spend a little extra money now in order to make more money later, I’m not going to freak about a balance on the credit card. Or however you pay for things.”
“If you’re in this for the money, you may as well go home now,” Macklin said sharply. “Lang Downs isn’t some honey pot you can skim cash from all the time if you expect to keep it running more than a year or two.”
Caine’s eyes widened in surprise at the return of Macklin’s temper. He hadn’t intended his comment the way Macklin had taken it, but apparently money was a touchy subject, and his neutral statement had come across as critical. “As long as I can scrape together enough money for a weekend in Sydney once a year, I’ll have what I need,” Caine said. “Mom didn’t expect to inherit Lang Downs, so she isn’t expecting any income from it for her own retirement either. I want to continue my uncle’s legacy, maybe improve on it if there are ways to do that, but I want to honor him either way.”
“That’s what I want as well,” Macklin said, his voice softening enough to give Caine hope they could have this conversation without it ending in a shouting match.
“So what are the sources of income for the station?” Caine asked. If he understood that, he could maybe figure out the rest.
“Lamb and wool,” Macklin replied. “We sell the ram lambs and the ewe lambs we don’t keep to replenish our own stock after they’re weaned, usually in December, and we sell the wool in September.”
“Do you sell lamb or mutton at other times of the year?” Caine asked. “I mean, I realize lamb is a very specific designation as far as the age of the animal, but there’s year-round demand, so there has to be a way to meet that.”
“We don’t butcher here on the station unless it’s for our own use,” Macklin said. “Given how remote we are, we sell the stock to holding companies that handle all that, including housing the animals until it’s time for slaughter.”
Caine filed that away for future consideration. He would have to look into costs, but if they could take out the middleman, they might be able to earn some extra cash. “So how many lambs do we keep, and how many do we sell each year?”
“It varies depending on the winter and how many are born in the spring,” Macklin said evasively.
“Okay, how many did we keep and sell last year?” Caine pressed.
“It was a bit of a rough year,” Macklin said defensively, “even without Michael’s death. The winter was hard, and we lost more lambs and ewes than usual to the weather, so we didn’t sell as many in the spring.”
“Macklin, I’m not questioning your decisions,” Caine said gently. “I’m just trying to get a picture of the station. How bad is it?”
Macklin waited for so long to answer that Caine had decided he wouldn’t. “If we have a good breeding season and a mild winter, we’ll make it up next spring with extra lambs and plenty of wool, but if we have another winter like last winter, we’ll have to start dipping into the reserves.”
“Is there a mortgage on the property, or did Uncle Michael own it free and clear?” Caine asked.
“He owned it as far as I know,” Macklin replied. “Why?”
“Because the station itself is huge in terms of collateral,” Caine explained. “We could get a loan against the value of the station if we had to, not that I think it will come to that. Or we could look into some other ways to earn extra cash. Ecotourism or something like that. Give the tourist a real outback experience instead of the ones they get closer to Sydney.”
“We’re a working station, not some hobby farm,” Macklin protested.
“My point exactly,” Caine said. “We could provide the authentic experience other places can’t.”
Macklin didn’t look convinced. “I think I’d rather wait until we have no other choice.”
“And maybe that isn’t the right option,” Caine agreed, “but ther
e may well be options Uncle Michael never considered. I just want us to keep an open mind to new possibilities.”
Eight
CAINE SPENT the next several weeks going over the ledgers for the station, trying to get a better idea of the real financial and business situation. He hadn’t used the skills he’d learned in college in the mail room at Comcast, but he hadn’t forgotten everything either, and his personal interest in the success of the station gave him the motivation to work through the things that were outside his experience. He kept a running list of questions for Macklin. He had expected more resistance, given how reluctant Macklin had been to discuss the situation when it first came up, but the days ended peacefully on Macklin’s veranda, drinking a beer and discussing Caine’s questions and his understanding of the business side of the station. Caine chose to believe his obvious interest in the situation and his determination to keep Uncle Michael’s legacy intact swayed Macklin’s opinion in his favor.
“I’m not a legal expert,” Caine said a month later, when he finally felt like he had a picture of the station as a whole, “or an expert on sheep for that matter, but I’m pretty sure we qualify, or come close to qualifying, as an organic station. It might mean some time and expense to establish that up front, but if we can get that certification, we can charge a premium for the lambs and maybe even for the wool.”
“What would that entail?” Macklin asked warily.
“Here are the regulations,” Caine said, handing Macklin the sheaf of papers he’d printed off the Internet. “I marked the ones I wasn’t sure about, but from what I could tell, we already do a lot of it. We’d have to make sure to buy organic hay if we don’t grow it ourselves. We’d have to make sure we’re dealing with disease issues the way they want us to, but most of that—free range access, no pesticides, sufficient space when housed, natural breeding—is stuff we do already. It’s a three-year process from pre-conversion to Grade A organic, but there are certain things that can take less time than that, and benefits that can accrue even as we go through the certification process.”