Page 33 of Stockman's Showdown

‘Smells like the kid is back from the muster.’ Charlie grabbed his trusty tin mug and thermos from the back of the old bull catcher.

‘They must have finished that muster in record time.’ Carrying the esky and water cooler, Ryder followed Charlie down the concrete path lit by a row of solar-powered bollard lights.

‘Bree doesn’t muck around when she’s head stockwoman. Come on, you must be hungry.’ Charlie’s bandy-legged swagger was heavy, reflecting how tired they both were as they passed the silent blacksmith shop on their right. The stables stood on their left with the grand view of the lush paddock, called Drover’s Rest, that lay between them.

Through the wrought-iron gate, they entered the complex vegetable garden, with its crazy paved rock paths that led to the back of the stone cottage’s entertainment area, which was lit up with outdoor fairy lights.

Ryder had been lucky enough to score an invitation to their Saturday pizza nights, twice. On those nights, the large pizza oven was ablaze, with Charlie using a long paddle to tend the pizzas, in between stoking its flames like a blacksmith’s furnace.

Ryder had heard Bree call that pizza oven Charlie’s outdoor oven, and some mornings the aroma of baking bread reached them all the way at the farmhouse to torture them.

It’s where they found Bree working with a sizzling cast-iron frypan in the outdoor kitchen, with the large table set for dinner. ‘Beer or gin?’

‘Beer.’ Ryder was grateful for the offer.

She handed them both an ice-cold beer.

Ryder thirstily chugged the bitter-tasting ale. It was just what he needed after a long day.

‘Got enough tucker for the boss man, kid?’

‘The boss, no. For Ryder, sure. Do you eat fish? Got some fresh barra.’

Ryder nodded. He’d gladly eat anything she cooked. ‘I hear you guys go fishing in the mornings.’

‘You betcha. That’s when we’re checking our cherabin pots in the Scary Forest, that’s got some red claw, too. But this time of the year, them freshwater crustaceans like to burrow under for abit. In a few months we’ll have feasts again.’ Charlie washed his hands at the outdoor sink.

By the time Ryder had washed and dried his hands, Bree had dished out plates of baked sweet potato, a fresh garden salad and thick barramundi steaks coated in garlic butter with a basket of fresh crusty bread. It was a struggle to stop salivating.

‘Dig in, we deserve it.’ Charlie sat at the head of the table. Bree was on his left, with Ryder opposite her.

As the outdoor widescreen played in the background, dinner conversation was light, as Charlie explained to Bree what had happened with the police. ‘… And I’ve asked Ryder to take a gander at the murder file.’

‘Why?’ Bree delicately placed her cutlery down on her empty plate, to sip from her glass of gin.

‘Because I don’t believe my brother is a murderer. Harry just never had it in him.’

‘Have you read his letter yet?’

‘Nah, I was waiting for you, kid.’ Charlie dropped his cutlery onto his plate, then dragged the envelope out of his pocket. It was dirty and bent from Charlie staring at it all day, but he’d never opened it. ‘The coppers would have wanted it for evidence, so we didn’t tell ‘em about it, not until we’ve read it first.’

Fully satiated, having cleaned up his second serving of food, Ryder went to move. ‘I should go.’

‘Nah, stay, son.’ Charlie held Ryder’s shoulder. ‘It might help you if you’re gonna look at the murder file.’

‘Do you have the murder file?’ Bree narrowed her green eyes at Ryder.

‘Marcus is emailing me a copy. And no, I will not show you the pictures.’

‘I don’t want to see them.’ Bree screwed her nose up. ‘I may seem cold and callous, but I don’t get any macabre kick out of peeking at photos of dead people, thank you.’

‘Did I say you were?’ Ryder grumbled back at her.

‘Says the—'

‘Play nice, kid.’ Charlie pushed the envelope across the table. ‘We should have a port for this. Do you want one, Ryder?’

Ryder hesitated, waiting for that smart-arse response from the redhead seated opposite.

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