The Wild One

by Janet Gover

  Titles in the Coorah Creek series:

  Flight to Coorah Creek

  The Wild One

  Copyright © 2015 Janet Gover

  Published 2015 by Choc Lit Limited

  Penrose House, Crawley Drive, Camberley, Surrey GU15 2AB, UK

  www.choc-lit.com

  The right of Janet Gover to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying. In the UK such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London, W1P 9HE

  Epub ISBN 978-1-78189-242-8

  Mobi ISBN 978-1-78189-243-5

  For John

  Contents

  Coorah Creek series

  Title page

  Copyright information

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  About the Author

  More Choc Lit

  Introducing Choc Lit

  Preview - Flight to Coorah Creek

  Acknowledgements

  In researching this book, I read the stories of people caught up in the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan – both civilians and servicemen on both sides. I want to thank them for sharing their experiences and helping me to understand that the wounds we can’t see are often the hardest to heal.

  The issue of feral horses in Australia’s national parks is very real. Horses, camels, rabbits, foxes and other introduced animals do enormous damage to the landscape and native wildlife. Culling is one solution often used. It’s not an easy solution or a good one. Brumbies can and have been domesticated. I have ridden one. She was lovely. I wish more of her kind could find the sort of home she did.

  I would like to give special thanks to my friends Jean and Rachel – who always help me more then they know with both their knowledge and their love.

  Working with Choc Lit is a great joy. The editorial team is wonderful and the authors are the most supportive group of people I have ever met. Thank you all.

  Thanks also to the Choc Lit Tasting panel members – Emma M, Jennie A, Claire W, Betty, Liz R, Jane O, Liz W, Leanne F and Lucy M.

  Thanks to go to all the friends and family who continue to love me, despite my habit of disappearing inside my head to talk to people only I can see or hear.

  And most of all – thanks to my husband John, the only other person who sometimes seems to hear those characters whispering inside my head.

  Chapter One

  Dan Mitchell was sweating by the time he reached his vantage point, high on the side of the steep sandstone cliff. He lowered himself into the gap between two big rocks, where he had the clear view he needed. He laid his rucksack and rifle on the baked red earth and pulled out a bottle of water. He took a long swallow of the warm liquid, then settled himself comfortably to wait. He maintained the kind of immobility that only comes with rigorous training, very aware that even the slightest movement could jeopardise his mission. As he had done so many times before, in places half a world away, he tried to empty his thoughts of everything but the task he was facing.

  The sun was sinking rapidly now, but the day was still hot. A small breeze wafted through the gorge, rippling the water on the billabong below him. In the distance, a kookaburra laughed. At the water’s edge, a small mob of grey kangaroos raised their faces to the east, ears flicking back and forth. Listening. Waiting. The sun dropped lower, sending a shaft of golden light through the gorge, setting the deep red cliffs on fire. The silence was broken by a low rumbling sound. With a raucous cry, a crow launched itself into the air. The kangaroos bounded away, their tails high to balance the thrust of their powerful hind legs. The noise grew, echoing through the cutting, shattering the peace.

  The wild horses burst over the top of the rise. They swept down the gorge like a leaping, living wave. Black and brown coats rippled as muscles strained. Flashes of white glowed like molten silver in the dying light. As one, the brumbies raced towards the billabong, hard hooves hammering the dry ground until the very earth itself seemed to vibrate with the joy of their passing.

  Dan watched them, his sharp blue eyes narrowed against the sun’s glare.

  The lead mare tossed her head, scenting the sweet water. She slowed, bringing the rest of the herd to a halt. With much snorting and fighting for position, the first few mares waded into the billabong and began to drink. As they lifted their heads between mouthfuls, sunlight sparkled on drops of water falling like diamonds back into the quivering surface of the water.

  There were about forty horses of all ages milling about. Some of the mares had foals clinging close to their sides. The youngsters looked well grown and healthy, but none ventured too far from their mothers. Yearlings hovered on the outskirts of the herd.

  Dan was no expert, but to his eyes, the horses looked beautiful. Brumbies were supposed to be mean creatures, in-bred and ugly. Badly conformed and useless. But not these. These creatures were beautiful. Dan remembered a story told to him by an Iraqi child during his last tour of duty. The child explained that Allah had created the horse from the South Wind, saying ‘You shall be Lord of all animals and you shall fly without wings’. As he looked at the brumbies, Dan could believe the legend.

  This was not the first time he’d come to watch the horses, and he knew that one was still missing. Dan had still not seen the leader of the herd … the one responsible for the broad white blaze that ran crookedly down the faces of the foals and the yearlings. He searched the gorge, waiting. The stallion was always the last to enter.

  Something moved in the deep shadows where the sun no longer reached. Dan tensed, waiting. At last the stallion stepped forward into the sunlight. His hide glowed like a blood red ruby in the golden light. A blaze of white ran down his face, and over one nostril, almost as if an artist had slipped while applying paint. His thick mane wafted in the wind as he stood watching his harem at the water’s edge. The big horse tossed his head, scenting the wind. He was tall and well-muscled, with fine strong bones and an elegant head. He might run with brumbies, but somewhere in his not-too-distant past there was thoroughbred blood. He was as fine an example of his breed as Dan had
ever seen. Strong. Intelligent and alert. Fabulously alive.

  After surveying his domain for a few more seconds, the stallion turned towards the billabong. As he trotted past, the mares gave way to make a path for him. He waded into the water, but even as he drank, he remained alert for danger, constantly lifting his head to scent the wind.

  The sun was sinking lower now. The shadows in the gorge lengthening. When darkness came, it would drop quickly, like a cloak to cover the animals in the bottom of the gorge. It was now or never. Dan felt sweat break out on his forehead. His palms were slick with it and he wiped them quickly on the leg of his blue jeans before lifting his rifle to his shoulder. He relaxed into a stance as familiar as it was hateful to him. He looked down the long grey barrel, smelling the oil he’d used to clean the weapon just a few hours ago. He closed his eyes for an instant, knowing that image of the blood bay stallion would haunt him. The horses didn’t belong here. They damaged the park and threatened its native inhabitants. They had to go. He understood that. And orders were orders. But this was wrong. There must be another way.

  By the waterside, a young colt squealed – an excited, high-pitched sound that was almost human. Almost like the cry of a child. It was the cry of an innocent, from another time and place not so very different from this. When the same sun raised sweat on his brow, but his hands held another weapon. A time when very different brown eyes looked back at him through the sights of his rifle.

  ‘Take the shot. Damn you. Take it!’

  ‘But, sarge … the child …’

  ‘That’s an order, soldier. Take the shot!’

  Dan’s finger tightened on the trigger. He opened his eyes, squinting to get a clearer sight in the gathering dusk. The stallion turned its head to stare up at the side of the gorge. It was almost as if he knew Dan was there. The horse’s huge dark eyes seemed to look right back at him. Right through him. See him as he really was …

  ‘You’re a coward, Mitchell. You make me wanna puke.’

  The smell of spicy food cooking somewhere out of sight. Voices. The sound of an engine.

  ‘He’s gonna get away. Take the shot. Someone take the bloody shot!’

  The loud crack of a rifle close by.

  Screams. The smell of blood seeping into the hot desert sand …

  ‘Shit!’

  Dan’s finger tightened on the trigger. He wouldn’t miss. He was too good for that. He was cursed with an instinctive knowledge of distance and speed and wind. He knew how to send that small but lethal round unerringly to its target. He also knew how small a movement of the rifle barrel could send the shot wide.

  The sound of the gunshot cracked through the still air, followed by a ping as a bullet ricocheted off rock. The stallion flung up his head, rolling his eyes in alarm as he flung himself sideways. In an instant the mob was racing away, the thunder of the hooves louder than before. Nostrils flared as the smell of the cordite wafted down from the side of the gorge. The stallion was behind the mob, teeth flashing as he drove the mares to even greater speed.

  In less than a minute, they were gone. The echoes rumbled around the red cliffs for a few seconds, and then they too faded as the dust raised by the swift hooves settled back to earth. The gorge was empty and still. The sun dropped the last few inches, and darkness fell.

  Above the rocky outcrop, Dan’s rifle slipped slowly to the ground. His hands were shaking as he ran his fingers through his tousled red hair. As he had done so many times before, he closed his eyes against the suspicion of tears.

  Although he no longer wore a uniform, he knew a lot about orders. Orders that should be obeyed. Orders that shouldn’t. Orders that would haunt a man for his entire life.

  And now it was happening again.

  Chapter Two

  The town seemed to grow out of the shimmering sea of the heat haze. A few wooden buildings that would soon, hopefully, give way to something a bit bigger. With at least a petrol station and hotel. Quinn allowed herself a slow sigh. She flexed her fingers on the wheel and eased her stiff shoulders. She had been driving since early morning, and she was sick of it. Not that she disliked driving. Quite the reverse. She was happy behind the wheel of her customised Humvee. She loved the big former military vehicle, with its very non-military metallic gold paint and dark brown leather seats. The custom built lockers in the rear held all her belongings. It was more than a home away from home – it was her only home. The place she lived. But the big Hummer was kitted out for off-roading and she was sick of long straight flat roads.

  A sign flashed past as she eased off the accelerator. Coorah Creek. At last! Whoever coined the phrase ‘beyond the black stump’ must have been thinking of Coorah Creek. Driving to this tiny outback town in the far west of Queensland had taken two long days. The next stop on this road was Birdsville, the last outpost of civilisation before the great central Australian desert.

  She drove slowly through the ‘suburbs’ – a few blocks of family homes set on wooden stumps as most buildings were in this part of the outback. The houses were for the most part well kept, but lacked much in the way of lawns and gardens. That wasn’t surprising. This close to the desert there wasn’t enough water to spare for luxuries. The town, however, wasn’t as depressing as some she’d seen. There were signs of prosperity. The school looked well equipped and well attended. It even had a small swimming pool. The main street boasted a few shops, none of which were particularly flash, but all of which looked to be getting along all right. There was even a single red brick building overlooking a small patch of green lawn with a statue at the centre. That would be the town hall.

  She guessed the prosperity was due to the mine. While she was here she would have to see if she could get access to the big open cut uranium pit. Mines were always good subjects for her work. But she doubted they would let her in. Uranium mines generally were not fond of photographers.

  The Coorah Creek Hotel looked as if it had jumped from the pages of a travel book or from a postcard. Painted a pale cream, the building boasted a classic two storey design. Both storeys were completely encased with wide, shady verandas which were, in turn, edged with intricate wrought-iron railings. A set of wide wooden stairs led from the baked ground onto the veranda, and to a pair of double doors that were propped wide open. Every one of the big windows on the ground floor was also open. Obviously, the Coorah Creek Hotel did not have air-con. That was a shame. It was hot. Still, it did look clean and well-kept, for which Quinn was thankful. She had certainly stayed in much worse.

  A few cars were parked in front of the hotel, nose-in to the kerb. Most were four-wheel-drives or battered utes. All were covered with red dust. The Hummer fitted quite easily beside them. Quinn ran her hands through her short blonde hair, and then opened the car door. Before leaving the Hummer, she slung a rucksack over one shoulder and a big camera bag over the other. Not that Coorah Creek looked like a hot-bed of crime, but her laptop and her cameras were her whole life. Almost literally. She never left them behind.

  The long bar was dark after the brilliant sunlight outside. It was also surprisingly cool. Three large fans spun briskly overhead. Behind the bar, a grey-haired woman was polishing glasses. There were four men on bar stools and each turned to watch Quinn come in. That was not surprising. There wouldn’t be a lot of tall blonde strangers in this part of the world.

  ‘Hello.’ The grey-haired woman smiled broadly. ‘Welcome to Coorah Creek. Why don’t you pull up a stool? Can I get you something to drink? It’s hot enough to fry eggs out there and you look like you’ve come some distance. Of course, everyone who comes here has travelled a fair distance. We are a long way from pretty much anywhere here at the Creek.’

  ‘I’d like a beer, please.’ It wasn’t easy to get the order in. The woman barely stopped speaking long enough to take a breath.

  ‘One beer coming right up. Extra cold. I hope you’re happy with Fourex. It’s all we have. We’ve normally got Fosters as well. The keg’s here, but it’s not on tap yet.’
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  The beer looked good as it slid across the polished wood of the bar, leaving a damp trail to mark its passing. Condensation slid slowly down the glass.

  ‘You wouldn’t be Rachel Quinn, would you?’

  ‘People just call me Quinn.’ The answer was as swift as it was automatic. ‘I’ve got a room booked.’

  ‘I thought so. Pleased to meet you. I’m Trish Warren. I own this place. Well, with my husband Syd. He’s out back changing that Fosters keg.’

  ‘Nice to meet you.’ Quinn took a long pull of her beer, hoping that might discourage the woman from talking for just a few seconds. The beer was ice-cold and crisp as it washed away the dust of a long journey.

  ‘I’ve reserved you the biggest room,’ Trish Warren continued. ‘Your e-mail said you weren’t sure how long you would be staying, but that’s fine. We don’t have any other guests at the moment. We don’t get a lot of visitors.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘So, what brings you all the way out here?’ Trish asked, casting a meaningful glance at the rucksack and camera bag.

  Quinn paused for a few seconds before she spoke. It was clear she wasn’t getting away without paying her dues in conversation. She could understand that any stranger would be of interest in a town as remote as this one, but she spent so much time alone, conversation didn’t always come easily to her. ‘I’m a photographer. I thought there might be a few good shots to be had around here.’

  ‘A photographer! My. Isn’t that interesting! What sort of photographs?’

  ‘Mostly scenic shots. The outback. Rocks. Wildlife. That sort of thing.’

  ‘Like that guy … oh, what is his name? Does calendars and things. I bought one once. The problem with calendars is that when the year is over, they are just so much rubbish. But I kept this one because the photos were so lovely. ’

  ‘Steve Parrish?’ Quinn offered.

  ‘That’s him.’ Trish sounded triumphant. ‘Do you do stuff like that?’

  ‘Yes, a bit like that.’