Page 66 of Stockman's Showdown

‘Ever regret any of it?’

‘No, son.’

There, Charlie said it again.Son. It made her sit higher, carefully watching the two men for some reaction. But nothing.

‘No matter how many miles of fencing wire I’ve tangled with, or outback dust I’ve swallowed, it’s rotten rails and long snaking wire fences that still puts a smile on this old man’s dial.’ The many sun-hardened crinkles softened as he gave a dreamy smile. For Charlie, he could never retire, being a stockman wasn’t a job, it was a lifestyle he lived and loved.

‘What do you think is the worst thing about being a stockman?’ Ryder asked.

‘Well, um, lemme see…’ Charlie scratched at his head of white hair. ‘After eighty years working on stations, with plenty of bruises, cuts, lacerations and other painful experiences, including rodeoing…’ He pointed to the large black-and-white image of him riding a bucking bull. ‘Out of the top five forpain and discomfort, it’d have to go to that there bucking bull, Buckshot. Then I’d say it’s the buffalo fly in the ear.’

‘Really?’ Ryder paused with his fork full of food.

Charlie shoved a thick finger in his ear as if cleaning it out. ‘My old eardrums can’t handle their wing beating frequency or something. That’s when I’m looking for the nearest trough to sink my head underwater to drown the blighters.’

‘I agree, those buffalo flies suck. But the horsefly is the worst for their bite.’

‘Don’t I know it. One bite is enough to make a sleeping pony leap in the air like it’s been zapped.’ Charlie slurped on his mug. ‘Now, don’t get me started on them pesky midges, mate. And with the wet season coming, I’m not looking forward to the return of them mongrel sticky black flies either…’

Bree ate fast, doing her best to ignore the men’s gross conversation. Any second now, they’d start comparing scars as they bonded over breakfast.

Charlie had never been like this with her ex-husband, Finn.

Although Charlie behaved similarly with Cowboy Craig, who was the closest thing to a son for her grandfather. Charlie had taught Craig how to ride rodeo bulls and they shared a love of the sport. But Charlie never called Craigson.

‘And I’m done.’ She jumped off her stool.

‘I’ve got this, kid.’ Charlie took her plate, then turned to Ryder. ‘So we’ll be going in your ute, eh?’

Ryder used his toast to sop up the sauce on his plate. ‘Yep, it’s fully fuelled. Bree mentioned you had deliveries?’

‘We’ve got the post office and the pub today.’ Charlie again slurped from his banged-up enamel mug that he took everywhere. ‘You’ve got no complaints about an old man taking his cuppa with him for the drive?’

‘No, whatever you need, Charlie.’

‘Why are you taking us into town?’

‘Um…’ Ryder hesitated, glancing at Bree.

‘Ryder was going to visit his mate, Marcus. And I said we were visiting Porter at the police station—’

‘So I offered,’ said Ryder, finishing her sentence. ‘Why waste fuel if we’re going to the same place?’

‘Too right, you are.’ Charlie flicked on the kettle. ‘You’d better get them orders into Ryder’s ute then, kid.’

‘I’ll bring them down in the trolley.’ Grabbing the blanket, she pushed open the back screen door. The cool outside air was invigorating as she headed past the silent patio area where her empty trough sat before her widescreen. It wouldn’t be long, and she’d be dragging buckets of ice to fill the tub to cool down under an outback summer.

The irrigation for the vegetable garden brought a chill to the air, as a light hazy mist hung over the paddock, Drover’s Rest, that spread to the fringes of Scary Forest. The back gate squeaked, and her boot steps echoed inside the blacksmith’s workshop. She grabbed the small trolley to load the sturdy, boxed orders being posted today. The rolls of steel rods wrapped in bubble wrap were for the customers to collect from the pub.

‘What are those?’

‘What the hellfire!’ She dropped her rolls that clanged on the ground but held one up like a sword. ‘You could have warned me.’ She was jumpy after last night. Why hadn’t she heard the gate?

‘Sorry.’ Ryder leaned down to pick up her packages. ‘Are these branding irons?’

‘No. Some are fire pokers.’

‘Fire pokers?’

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