Page 48 of Stockman's Sandstorm

Ash narrowed his eyes at the van, taking away Mason and Harper. He ground his teeth, unable to explain the strong urge to chase after them, to tell them to be safe, to make Harper promise to come back.

He scrubbed his hand roughly over his face. This wasn’t happening. He was not getting attached to any of them.

He had to remember Harper was only here on a holiday, because she lived and worked on the other side of the world. She was only here temporarily, just like Mason.

Yet, his eyes followed the van’s dusty trail. Bree would bring them back. Right?

‘Why would someone like Bree have a baby seat in her van?’ Cap asked.

‘Who cares. Bree’s coming and that’s all that matters, boys.’ Ryder tossed back the last of his coffee, swapping his empty coffee mug for his hat. ‘Let’s go, we’ve got a muster to prepare for.’

Twenty-one

‘Can we take a baby to the pub?’ Harper asked Bree, pushing Mason’s pram through the front doors of the Elsie Creek Hotel.

‘Why not? It’s a good place for lunch.’

Harper removed her sunglasses, as the aroma of assorted hoppy ales greeted her. Expecting wall-to-wall cowboys leaning over the bar, with its brass rail and glass door fridges, she was surprised at how empty the large room was, with only a few men leaning against the bar.

‘Where is everyone?’

‘It is a weekday, and it is working hours.’

‘Are we staying long? I get hassled here.’ Oh, how Harper missed the days of assistants and grouchy security guys who’d stop anyone hassling her with one look. But then she was too busy working or staring at her phone to notice or care.

But not today, when her own phone had over two hundred messages waiting for her. She’d switched it off and hid it at the bottom of her bag. She felt like Ash, hiding from her responsibilities.

But she was on holidays, too. And this was her first chance at seeing the town with a local, where Bree knew everyone and all the best places. It was so good to be out amongst civilisation again.

‘This is also for work. I have cattle brands to deliver.’ Bree tapped at the long heavy rods wrapped in bubble wrap. Each one, clearly labelled, and secured to the top of Mason’s pram. ‘Stay here, I’ll get you some wine as a pre-lunch drink.’ Bree hoisted the long metal rolls over her shoulder and approached the bar. She spoke with the mean-looking barmaid wearing a leather vest, with arms covered in ink. She looked like someone who’d manage an outlaw bikers’ bar, not an outback pub frequented by cowboys.

Bree soon returned with a glass of wine in one hand and a beer in the other. ‘This is for you.’

‘Thank you.’ She took the wineglass as Bree unlocked the pram’s brake and effortlessly steered it across the room.

‘So, you weld brands that they stick onto cows? Like a tattoo designer?’

Bree laughed. Not a giggle but a head back, riotous laugh that had everyone stopping to stare, even little Mason peeked out from behind his pram’s canopy to smile.

‘What did I say?’ Harper shrugged her shoulders high.

‘I’m a blacksmith. I shape and bend hot metals into a design that represents a station or a farmer’s family name, which they then slap onto the rump of their livestock.’

‘And you deliver these tools of torture to the pub?’ Harper couldn’t keep her face straight, not with Bree still laughing at her.

‘You could say that. The pub is like the stock exchange.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Sure, it is.’ Again, Bree shared that evil laugh. ‘We all deal with livestock. It’s also central to where the stockmen deliver their cattle stock to the train station across the road where the stock inspectors and stock agents do their thing. And then when they’re all done, they’ll toddle across the train tracks, to grace this bar with their presence. Where they all partake in an icy cold beverage on a hot day, to wash away the stockyard’s dust from their teeth. Only to pause in their gossipy tall tales to listen to the mighty sounds of that big ol’ train chugging their cattle off to the stock market.’

‘Are you making that up?’

Bree winked at her. ‘I’ve ordered takeaway for dinner, because I’m not cooking tonight and you don’t cook, which means you’ll have time for a riding lesson.’

‘I can ride, but it’s been a while.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Where do I get clothes?’

‘Not the designer labels you’d wear, blossom. I don’t even think they’d stock those brands in the Northern Territory.’

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