Page 68 of Stockman's Sandstorm

He nudged his horse forward, but waited for Harper to join him. They rode side by side down the path, the rock of the saddle effortlessly putting Mason to sleep.

Mason might not remember today, but one day when he’s older Ash would love to bring the boy back. They’d swim in the falls, go camping, and tell stories around the campfire under the stars, and create their own rock art, by painting directions to never get lost in the Stoneys. This place was close to heaven. No, this was better—it was a stockman’s paradise.

Wait. Was he planning a future with the boy?

But then another thought hammered up his spine, making him shift in his saddle as if fighting a case of fiery indigestion.

How much water was the mine going to take? And how big of an impact would it have on Wombat Flats, where various waterfalls flowed along the escarpment?

‘Hey, Harper? Have you heard about the new mine moving in next door?’

Harper shrugged, as they rode along the trail towards the valley floor. ‘I know something has upset you guys, but no one’s told me the entire story. Besides, it’s none of my business.’

‘But it’s mine. Even if I don’t fully understand it myself.’ He paused to rub the back of his neck.

‘Why? What’s going on?’ Even though she had a habit of looking down her nose at things, she didn’t tease or judge him.

When he’d spoken to her about gamifying the station, her honesty had been refreshing. Although, at times he struggled to talk to her without his hormones getting in the way, he now had the perfect topic, that was far too close to home.

‘Well, we got this letter …’ With his hand tenderly holding Mason’s head as the boy slept heavily against his chest, he spoke freely with Harper, who listened and asked good questions.

Looking at Wombat Flats, it worried him that the new mine would infringe on this place, on the rest of their home. Especially when the Station Hand had told him that no cattle station had ever won against the might of the mining companies getting what they wanted—which was their water.

Twenty-eight

‘Yep, I reckon this spot is good enough to swing a billy.’ Charlie climbed off his sturdy stockhorse. ‘Welcome to Dinner Camp Tree, you mob.’

‘What did Charlie say?’ Harper felt foolish asking Ash to interpret Charlie’s terminology. ‘I get that dinner camp is the name of the tree …’ The tree was an old and large eucalyptus tree with a salmon pink trunk and wide leafy canopy. Below its shade was a scattering of thick tree logs that formed a circle, around a circle of stones set for a campfire. ‘… but the billy bit?’

‘A billy is a tin with a handle and a lid, like a pot,’ explained Ash, while climbing off his horse. ‘Bushmen use it to make billy tea. And a billy tea isn’t a billy tea unless it’s done on the coals of a campfire.’

‘What kind of tea leaves do they use?’

‘Black tea leaves and freshly boiled water. Some add eucalyptus leaves for flavour or sugarbag honey. I don’t mind it with lemon myrtle myself.’

‘And the swinging bit?’

Ash grinned at her. ‘Not the modern term for swingers. Get that out of your mind.’

‘I wasn’t.’ But her cheeks got hot. She climbed down from her saddle to save face. But it only had Ash laughing as he held Mason strapped to his chest like a handbag.

‘The reason they swing the billy is to force the leaves to the bottom. It makes it easier to pour, and it helps with the infusion process. I’m sure Charlie will show you in the morning. It’s one of those things that is disappearing.’

‘Because of a tea strainer?’

‘No. I reckon the old bushies made a show of the billy tea, the same way the Japanese have their tea ceremonies, turning it into an art form. When an old stockman makes you a billy tea, you carve out time in your day to just sit and sip your tea while admiring the outdoors. I think it’s a tradition someone like you should create for yourself.’ Ash gently tapped her arm.

She grinned like a schoolgirl, even twirling a lock of her hair around her fingers. ‘A tea ceremony.’

‘It’s got to be better than drinking cold coffee because you’re too busy to ever see a sunset.’

He had her there.

Ash pointed to the scenery. ‘Where do you want to pitch your tent?’

‘I have a tent?’

‘The only tent.’

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