A Changing Land (28 page)

‘How would it help him?' Claire countered softly.

‘Look around you, Claire. After Hamish passes, someone is needed to safeguard the property until Angus comes of age.'

Claire couldn't respond immediately. For as long as she had known Hamish, Wangallon came first, before everything.

Luke snorted. ‘He cares for his own ambition.'

‘That's not true.' Claire walked steadily towards him, took his rough, sun-dried hands in hers. ‘It's not his fault that your mother and brothers died,' she soothed. ‘As for your inheritance, there must be some good reason why –' She stopped mid-sentence as his hand stroked her cheek. He was very close to her. No man had come closer except her husband. His hand moved to the nape of her neck. His fingers plied the soft skin. Claire, vitally aware of the need to break free, found herself looking into violet eyes of her husband's making. It was there, that steely resolve. The unflinching look of a man who knew what he wanted. Claire's breath caught in her chest. It was not land, money or power that he wanted; at least, not at this moment. Hamish had taught her how to decipher the difference.

‘You are his redemption, Claire. You have chosen to see only goodness in the world.' Instinctively his arm encircled her waist. ‘Perhaps it is because you were so young when you first came to Wangallon. Or perhaps you feel obliged to him.' He was oblivious to the sharp escape of her breath as he bent his head and kissed her.

This is wrong
her mind screamed.
You forget yourself, stop
. Yet she couldn't, not when her arms were pinned so tightly. Eventually she rested her hands against the firmness of his chest and extric
ated herself from his embrace. Her lungs could barely gather in enough air to speak and she was aware of tears falling to moisten her cheeks, of her lips numbed by pressure and of something far more dangerous, a wanting. She backed away from him.

Luke held out his hand and then let it slowly drop. ‘Tell me this, if not for my father –'

‘If not for your father,' Claire found herself barely able to draw breath, ‘if not for your father, neither of us would be standing here today.' She placed her shaking palm against her stomach. ‘Heavens, Luke, what have we done?'

He watched her collapse into one of the wicker chairs, her slim form heaving as tears consumed her. He waited some minutes, unable to decide as to the best course of action. The boundary between them that had been broken would never be crossed again, for he could not stand to see such pain on Claire's face. Luke looked out towards the garden at the gravel road that led him to and away from this woman whom he had loved since his teenage years. He could not have her, perhaps now he did not want her. For like his own father, Claire burdened him with pain and he was angry for it.

‘My mother was still very much alive when my father decided to become your secret benefactor. I often wonder what he would have done if Rose had not died prematurely.'

Claire looked up from where she sobbed quietly, smoothed the folds of her skirt and wiped carefully at her eyes. ‘What?' They both knew the words did not have to be repeated. The insinuation was clear.

‘It's my penance to care for the woman who supplanted my mother.'

With shaking hands Claire removed the tortoiseshell comb from her hair and sat it on the wicker table. If her imaginings had remained just that, she could have gone on. She could have swallowed her pride and somehow set out along the new path Hamish had defined for her. However, she had gone against the
natural order of things and in doing so realised that there could be another love beyond husband and wife, beyond right and wrong. Claire straightened her shoulders and walked indoors. The structure of her life was crumbling and she had not the materials to rebuild it.

Luke retrieved his grandmother's letter from where it had fluttered to the scratched floorboards. He folded it carefully, his fingers patiently creasing it into a diminishing square. Finally he shoved it securely into the pocket of his moleskins. He looked out at the trees shimmering in the haze, at the pale lifeless grass swaying meditatively, and experienced the sharp bite of anger that only frustration could create. Removing a plug of tobacco from his pocket, he plied the wad into the semblance of a cigarette, used his thumbs to roll it into a slip of paper and lit it with a flinty match, drawing back heavily. Luke wanted to hit something, hit it so hard that it smashed into a million pieces. The cigarette flared and then calmed itself into a thin stream of smoke. Beside him on the table sat the tortoiseshell comb, his monument to stupidity. He touched the fine prongs, lifted it to his nose and sniffed at the scent of her. Then he let it fall from his fingers to clatter on the wooden boards. Margaret appeared soundlessly and began to gather the discarded newspaper and mail. She looked apologetically at Luke. ‘Mr Gordon wants the mail.' ‘My father's here?' Luke asked, his eyes flicking towards the study window.

Margaret saw the comb lying on the floorboards, picked it up and held it out to him.

‘Mrs Gordon does not want it anymore.' Luke folded her fingers over it. ‘Take it.' The girl bit her bottom lip. ‘Take it,' he said harshly.

Margaret held the comb close to her chest. ‘Thank you, Luke.'

He was reminded of soft rain as she padded, barefooted, away from him, the mail under one arm, the comb clutched to her chest.

The Dash 8 aircraft flew low across the countryside. Sarah studied the landscape as they crossed kilometres of green crops, areas being tilled by large tractors pulling wide machinery, and hundreds of cattle and sheep. There were also open bore drains crisscrossing the country, feeding water across the land, dams and tree-shaded waterways. She pressed her head against the window, mesmerised by a mob of kangaroos bounding off into the bush as they approached the airstrip. The animals left a trail of dust that puffed up into balls of dirt. They skirted past trees, reached a fence line and halted in their progress just long enough to squeeze beneath the wires, then they zigzagged across a paddock before finally disappearing from sight into a clump of trees.

Leaning back in her seat, Sarah squeezed her eyes tightly shut and pictured Wangallon; imagined circling above the sprawling homestead with its large garden. There was the vegetable plot, the remains of the property's ancient orchard and a number of
outbuildings, large machinery and worksheds, the jackeroo's cottage. Further away sat the stables with their original bark and timber interior walls and adjoining horse yards. When she opened her eyes again the plane had landed.

She hurried through the one-room terminal, collected her bag and was one of the first passengers to reach the car park. There was a meeting organised with Jim Macken in three days and Sarah desperately wanted to see Anthony. She'd missed him despite their disagreement and she needed to sit down with him, smooth things over and decide what the best option was. The three men currently in her life all favoured paying out her half-brother and saw benefit in a development of some sort. Maybe it was time to stop fighting everyone.

‘So you're back?' Anthony was sitting quietly at the table having an early lunch. Sarah shut the back door and dropped her bag. Pleased to be finally home, the excitement drained at his tone.

‘Hi.'

‘Have you eaten?' His back remained turned towards her.

She'd been ready to swoop on him with a hug. ‘No, but I'll get something.' Somehow Sarah didn't think Anthony was going to make it for her. She busied herself carving a few slices of meat from the leg of mutton on the sink and then buttered the white bread that was almost past eating. ‘It's good to be home.' Sarah added meat and tomato sauce.

‘Nice of you to call and let me know you were coming.' He didn't look up from his sandwich.

Sarah took a bite. The meat was tough and the bread hard. ‘What happened to your hand?' The knuckles on his right hand were strapped and a ghastly blue-green bruise spread out from under the narrow taping.

Anthony lifted his hand and turned it slowly, as if only just discovering he was injured. ‘Smacked it in the yards.'

‘Oh.' She took another bite. ‘Well, I visited Dad.' The moistened dough clung to her gums and she ran her tongue across her teeth to free the sodden clumps. ‘Mum died.' She rubbed her eyes, surprised that after so many years she felt so sad.

‘I'm sorry.'

‘It's for the best.' Sarah left the remaining sandwich on her plate. ‘She was pretty sick at the end. It's hard to reconcile the person in the hospital bed with the woman who used to stand in the West Wangallon kitchen ordering me about.'

‘Some people are just different, I guess.'

‘Everyone seems to think we should pay out Jim.'

‘Well, it looks like my opinion didn't count for much.'

‘Maybe you should have listened to mine, or at least asked it. It cuts both ways, Anthony.'

Anthony wet his finger and dabbed at the crumbs on his plate. Sarah knew it was a waste of time trying to discuss Jim or the development at the moment. ‘How's everything going?' There were dirty plates and coffee mugs on the sink and a trail of sugar ants tracking their way towards the toaster.

‘Ask Matt.'

‘I'm asking you.'

Anthony lifted his plate and carried it to the sink. Their eyes met briefly. ‘I'm not much interested.'

Sarah swallowed the remains of the bread and mutton. ‘What do you mean you're not much interested?' Tension fizzed between them. ‘Well?'

‘As I said, ask Matt. Your precious stockman has taken to giving me advice in your absence. Bloody hide of him.' Anthony squeezed his thumb and forefinger together. ‘He's this close to getting booted off the property.'

Sarah gasped. ‘What? You can't fire Matt.'

‘Why the hell not?'

‘Because.'

Anthony shook his head. ‘Not good enough. He seems to be swinging on your grandfather's coat-tails. I had to remind him that the bloody old master and commander had kicked the bucket.'

What was she going to do now? She could hardly reveal Matt's role on the property without acknowledging she'd kept it a secret from Anthony, and he wouldn't give a squat if she argued that the terms of Matt's employment were part of her grandfather's will. ‘You two aren't getting on?' she asked.

‘Let's just say that we're not cogging too well. Matt's down at the yards about to weigh the steers. Now you're here you can give him a hand.'

Slightly miffed by the abruptness of his tone, Sarah covered the mutton in plastic wrap and gathered the bread, meat and butter in her arms. ‘You coming?'

Anthony picked up the newspaper from the kitchen table. ‘Now why the hell would you need me?'

Sarah walked through the side gate of the cattle yards. Bullet greeted her with an excited yelp and she ruffled his coat. ‘Good to see you too.'

Bullet gave a low whine.

‘I'll tell you all about it later. Now you stay here boy,' she cautioned. Bullet slid beneath the bottom steel railing and took up his front seat position between Whisky, Moses and Rust. They were itching to get into the yards although they were trained sufficiently to know that unless they were called by name, the cattle yards were off limits. Sarah marvelled at the dogs' resolve. Climbing over the rails into the next yard, she waved as she approached Matt and Jack. They were standing at an aluminium
table, checking the digital readout on the monitor attached to the portable scales. If Matt was surprised by her unexpected return, he didn't show it. Nor did he mention Anthony's absence.

‘G'day Sarah. Nice day for it.'

‘Tops,' Sarah answered. There was a biting southerly ripping into their faces.

Jack reattached the leads to the battery. ‘Hi Sarah. Is that better, Matt?'

Sarah looked over Matt's shoulder. ‘Hi Jack.' The monitor showed minus five. ‘It's out 5 kgs,' Matt answered. ‘How much do you weigh, Sarah? Jack here put on 3 kgs from the two meat pies he scoffed down.'

‘About 62 plus a stale mutton and tomato sauce sandwich.'

‘Tasty,' Jack grinned.

Matt cleared the monitor to zero, walked over to the race and opened the side panel. On the ground inside sat the heavy metal scales. ‘Hop on.'

Once she was standing in the centre of the scales Matt checked the monitor. ‘Spot on 62 kgs. Seems to be weighing okay now. Do you want to do the pencilling, Sarah?'

‘Sure.' Sarah slammed shut the side gate and cleared the monitor to zero again, looking down at the clipboard on the dusty table. There were forty-four steers already weighed, a handful of which were bordering on being a bit low for the feedlots specifications. KA International's current market was for milk to two tooth steers weighing between 400 and 510 kilograms a head. ‘What do you think, Matt? Knock out the ones under 415 kgs?'

Matt finished rolling a cigarette and lit it. ‘Reckon so. I've banged the tails of anything below 415 kg so far. There are a few that are poor. A couple of mad buggers and the rest are just bad doers. I spoke to Edward Truss this morning. He's happy to book in another road train load at the same price in ten days' time if you're interested.'

‘I'm interested if the cents per kilogram go up.'

‘Same price.' Matt took a healthy drag on his cigarette and gave a rare look that Sarah knew was his excuse for a smile. ‘Won't do any better in this market. Anything that's not sold over the next few weeks can be left till late spring. It's a pity we can't hang onto all of them, but if it doesn't rain we won't get the turn off from the oats.'

‘Sounds like a plan,' Sarah answered, although she would try and bargain with Edward anyway.

‘Well let's get to it. Truss will be here this afternoon to have a look.'

Sarah could barely push the reset button on the monitor her hands were so cold, however twenty minutes later she was in her shirtsleeves, harbouring a cold sweat. Jack spent the afternoon in the forcing yard pushing the steers into the race. Once the race was full and the sliding gate was pushed up hard behind them, it was Sarah's turn to prod the next beast onto the scales. Another sliding gate was pushed behind the scales and the beast was contained just long enough to be weighed.

‘480 kgs,' Sarah called, writing the weight down.

‘Righto,' Matt answered. He opened the sliding gate at the front wide enough for the steer to stick his head through, then slammed it shut before lifting the head bail under the steer's chin to keep his head up. The beast snorted, grunted and sprayed Matt with mucus as his mouth was prised open for his teeth to be checked. ‘He's a baby,' Matt called. ‘Milk tooth.'

Sarah put a tick beside the weight, wrote
milk
in the corresponding column while Matt read out the steer's ear-tag number, which was also written down. She waited until the beast had been set free to join those steers already processed, then reset the monitor and prodded the next animal up the race.

By the time Edward Truss arrived a little after 3 pm they were nearly finished.

‘Sarah, Matt, Jack.' They all shook hands.

Edward Truss was a short skinny man with knock-knees and teeth on him like a Moreton Bay shark. He was also known for his penchant for size 16-plus women. It was a strange phenomenon, yet women loved him. He had already meandered through three marriages, two de facto relationships and a string of one-nighters, most of which were consummated in Brisbane. In that regard he was quite fussy and rarely paraded his affections locally.
Don't shit in your own backyard,
had been his advice on first meeting Jack. Ever since, Matt made a point of leaving a roll of toilet paper on the top step leading into the jackeroo's cottage if word got out that Jack was playing up.

‘What have you got for me then?' Edward scrambled up atop the railings and looked down at the processed steers. ‘Nice even line. What are the weights like?'

Sarah scanned the clipboard. ‘418 to 515.'

‘That heavy fella can go in. He'll lose those extra 8 kgs in the yards overnight. The trip up in the road train will fix any kgs left over.' He climbed down the yard slowly. ‘Matt told you about my offer?'

‘Sounds good,' commented Sarah. ‘I'll have to check the competition though, Edward.'

Edward scratched the back of his hand. His sunspots were giving him curry today. He glanced at Matt. ‘You won't find better.'

‘The rural news is talking up cattle prices,' Sarah continued. ‘And as you said they're a fairly good line and there's another four hundred of similar weight ready to go within the next fortnight.'

He narrowed his eyes, pulled out his red notebook and pencilled a few calculations. ‘Four hundred you say?'

‘Give or take.' She fiddled with the monitor, made a show of checking the leads. ‘By October there'll be more coming up.'

Edward scratched his groin, walked over to the processed steers and took another look. ‘The spring mob will be on oats?'

Matt nodded. ‘These early ones are not quite finished to ensure we've got enough oats for the rest.' He turned to Sarah. ‘He won't like to miss out on anything,' Matt whispered.

Sarah rolled her eyes at Jack. There were only fifteen head left to put through but the cattle needed to be walked back to their paddock and she figured the men had been out in the cold long enough already.