Page 35 of Stockman's Showdown

‘Like local champion?’

‘Three times Australasian Champion, thank you.’

Charlie shrugged with a touch of regret, lowering his head and slowly rubbing the back of his thick neck.

‘The Station Hand mentioned you were a rodeo champion…’ Ryder took another look at the large bookcase, packed with rodeo trophies and shiny belt buckles. A gold-plated set of spurs, were set alongside a set of chaps and a rodeo rider’s leather vest, encased in glass and hung like a prized portrait on the wall.

Yet again, it was the legacy brands that caught his eye. The one that belonged to Elsie Creek Station, that somehow Charlie owned. ‘Who do the other two branding irons represent?’

‘The top one is the Splint family brand. My father made that one for my brother.’ Charlie cleared his throat as he wiped overhis face. ‘And the other one is the Wilde brand. I made that one for my, um, great-grandson.’

Neither of them were alive today.

‘Shall we strike while the iron’s hot and open this letter, Pop? So you can get some rest?’

‘Yeah, let’s do it, then we can put this cracker of a day to bed.’ Carrying the bottle of port and glasses, Charlie hobbled outside, his weary walk showing his age, as the strain etched in the crevices of his sun-hardened face.

As Charlie poured the port, Bree turned off the TV, creating a heavy silence. Under the glow of fairy lights, a delicate tinkling sound came from a set of wind chimes caused by a soft breeze that carried the inviting scents from the nearby vegetable garden. It was enough for Ryder to sink heavily into his comfy outdoor chair, feeling the weight of a long day.

He sipped on the strong port Charlie passed to him, the deep ruby liquid coating his tongue. It was rich and smooth, like velvet over his palate, carrying a quiet heat, spreading slowly through his chest. If he wasn’t careful, he’d fall asleep here—he hadn’t felt this level of comfort in a long time. ‘Nice port.’

‘Told you it was a good poor-man’s plonk,’ murmured Bree, as she opened the envelope, yellowed with age, that had long since lost its glue. Yet, the pages of the letter itself were surprisingly well-preserved.

‘Dear brother…’She gave Charlie’s hand a tender squeeze.

‘Go on, kid. One clean strike, like you said—get it done.’

Bree lifted the pages and read aloud:

Hey, Splinter, it’s Harry.

I’ve never been much for writing, so I’m sorry that I was left with little choice except to put this down in a letter when I really wanted to tell you this in person. But I wanted to avoid yougiving me a good bollocksing for falling for a married woman, Penelope Price.

I didn’t mean to fall in love with her. And neither did she. It just happened.

But, mate, that’s what love does. It makes grown men do dumb things, and I know this might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. Yet it feels so flaming right.

I didn’t expect to fall in love with her, or the amount of trouble that soon followed.

So, I’m just gonna be as blunt as can be…

Jack Price is not who he says he is. Jack Price was actually born Jake Blackwell. A deserter from the Army, who is wanted for stealing a truckload of shotguns.

‘Wait.’ Ryder lifted his hand. ‘Is that why you’ve got so many shotguns stashed all over the place?’ He asked the redhead sitting opposite him. ‘That shottie of yours I fixed is a 1960 Winchester M12. Commonly used by the Army in that era.’

Bree barely shrugged.

Ryder tilted his head slightly, pressing his lips into a thin line. ‘How many shotguns do you have?’

‘Can we hold off on the questions tillaftershe’s finished reading the letter, please?’ urged Charlie. ‘Go on, kid.’

Bree adjusted the pages and went on:

The problem was Jack—or Jake—had sold those stolen guns to this mob down south. Instead of delivering them, like he’d promised, the scoundrel kept them and drove north. He met Penelope along the way, before getting a job here at the station as a stockman. He’d been a drover, mustering on various cattle stations in Queensland before he joined the Army. You always said Jack Price was a good head stockman for Elsie Creek Station.

‘That I did.’ Charlie gave a short nod.

Without missing a beat, Bree carried on:

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