Page 2 of A Home Among the Snow Gums
‘Now, now,’ he said. ‘I’ve had one of my ideas.’
‘Oh,’ said Marigold, delighted. ‘Let’s hear it.’
‘That horse of yours, Hannah, that’s been living in our back paddock these last coupla months ever since you had your tantrum up at Ironbark, sticking his head through the fence rails and helping himself to my apple tree … I reckon he’s got some skills.’
‘I do not have tantrums,’ Hannah said, sinking her nose into her paper cup of warming wine in case it decided to grow an inch. How did Kev know about that, anyway? She’d spun a totally feasible story about why she’d had to move Skippy to a stable nearer to town. It hadn’t been a tantrum she’d had up at Ironbark, anyway. It had been acrisis… um, no, that wasn’t right. It had been ashockandalarmingandout of the freaking blue, but also weirdlythrilli—
She kicked the back of the log Josh and Vera were snuggling up on, making the lump of a dog grunt in annoyance. Whatever The Incident had been, it was Tom Krauss’s fault, and she’d spent a goodly time since instructing herself to block out the memories. She wasn’t about to relive them now, right when she was on the cusp of putting all that … stuff … behind her and starting a new year.
She answered the part of Kev’s statement that hadn’t started her insides churning. ‘Of course Skipjack has skills. He spent his youth mustering sheep at a station out past Ruffy in country Victoria. He probably knows more about sheep and kelpies and barber’s pole worm than I do.’
‘Han, no-one wants to hear about barber’s pole worm.’
Huh. Josh could apparently listenandcanoodleandbe handfed morsels of some delicious-looking dessert from the tin on Vera’s lap. Life was so not fair.
‘This resolution you’re deciding on,’ said Kev, ‘I reckon campdrafting’s the one you’re after.’
Even Marigold was silenced by that announcement.
‘Pony competitions as a kid don’t really qualify me for cutting cattle from a herd on horseback, Kev. Besides, I’m not too flush with cash or time. I can’t buy a horse float or spend my weekends traipsing all over New South Wales and Victoria.’
‘None of that matters, pet. You can ride, can’t you?’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘I can ride the pants off you, old timer.’
Kev chuckled. ‘Now, don’t get all antsy. What I’m saying is, there’s a lot of campdraft tournaments hereabouts in Tumbarumba and Adaminaby and Bombala. You’ve got a horse who’s not so long in the tooth he won’t enjoy a little excitement once in a while. And—as it happens—I used to compete myself back in the day. Be happy to teach you the timing rules when the roses at the hall aren’t calling out for their Uncle Kev.’
‘That’s super sweet of you, but I—’
‘You’ll be wondering where we’ll scratch up some cattle to practise with, but don’t you worry about that. I’ve got plenty of space to agist and plenty of mates to assist.’
Kev was serious about this. Learning a new sport? Doable. But competing against strangers? Complicated. Travelling out of Hanrahan, where the looming peaks of the Snowy Mountains weren’t there to back her up against failure?
Yeah. That was the issue. Travelling away from home had, over the years, become somehow heart-poundingly difficult.
She must have looked as overwhelmed as she felt, because Marigold gave her arm a pat.
‘No rush to pick,’ she said. ‘It’s not midnight for hours yet, plenty of time to narrow down your choices.’ Marigold lifted a hand and started ticking off on her fingers. ‘Campdrafting, which will be outside, the wind in your hair, your horse’s mane in your hand. Crafting a snuggly safe space for orphan possums, which—’
Hannah decided to stop her before one of the tantrums she’d just told the world she never had started brewing. ‘If you’re going to start talking about the joy to be found in preserving historical whatnots or the wonder of double triple treble crochet, you’re going to have to find your own patch of Lake Bogong foreshore, Marigold.’
A massive hip bumped up against Hannah’s. ‘But you’ve bagged the good spot close to the bar.’
She chuckled. ‘True.’
‘And much as I love a little creativity in my craft group, I feel obliged to point out that there is no such thing as double triple treble crochet. A double trebleisa triple. Just FYI.’
Whatever. The minutiae of craft terms was something Hannah had zero desire to master. She was only marginally more interested in the rules of campdrafting.
‘Besides, pet, you won’t know how wonderful a new interest can be until you try it. Saluting the sun is the best part of my day.’
‘I get to salute the sun often enough. I’m usually in a paddock at the time, half frozen and covered in muck. Fancy a vino?’ she said, waggling her paper cup in Marigold’s direction. ‘My shout.’
‘I’ll have what you’re having. Kevvy?’
Armed with drink orders, Hannah picked her way up the foreshore to where the food trucks were serving up a storm under the party lights. As she was paying for two beers, a water and two proseccos, a border terrier with a lead trailing behind it like an angry snake tore past her.
Wait. Was that—?
