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I earn my second smile of the morning. ‘Are you ready to start, Dr Peterson?’

When I’ve worked with livestock in the past, I’ve been isolated in the ‘vet section’ of a crush, an area where vets are separated by thick steel barriers from the hooves, horns and heads of the cattle they’re working with. In some facilities, animal handlers will lift calves onto a bench and pin them down so vets can work safely. Cameron offered me the vet section today, but if I was stuck in there, he would have had to do all the work in separating the cows from the calves and herding them into the long, narrow pens that make up the crush. It would also have meant we could only work on one calf at a time.

As it is, we coral the calves in groups of ten. Once they’ve been vaccinated, wormed and, for the boys, castrated, that batch is returned to their mothers. Cameron’s cows are fat with shiny black coats. They crowd together in the yards, bellowing long and loud, until they’re reunited with their calves. At first, the calves are shaky but soon enough they lower their heads and latch on to a teat. An hour passes, two, then three, until the final batch of calves is released. They dart through the gate to the herd and I shut the gate behind them. Cameron, smiling as if just for the hell of it, is even filthier than me. Our boots, jeans, shirts and hands are smeared with cow dung and dirt.

‘You enjoy this,’ I say as he walks towards me.

‘Don’t you?’

A simple question, and one I’d be a fool to answer in the negative because we’ve worked side by side all morning and he knows the answer is yes. He cursed when a calf did an unexpected 360-degree spin and threw him onto the ground. I cursed when I climbed the railing to anaesthetise a calf, slipped and bashed my shin. We’ve shouted instructions to each other: ‘Head him off!’ ‘Shut the gate!’ We’ve encouraged each other. ‘Great job!’ ‘Two hundred down, six to go!’ Sometimes, we’ve laughed.

‘Yes, I enjoy it,’ I say.

‘That’s one week’s rent accounted for.’

‘When there’s no bath or laundry in the cabin?’ I brush my filthy jeans with even filthier hands. ‘I must’ve paid a year’s rent at least.’

He thinks about that. ‘Deal.’

‘I didn’t mean—’

‘Too late.’ He looks me up and down before smiling again. ‘You can’t take that gear to the laundromat in Summerfield.’

‘Jeannette would ban me for life.’

‘Have you got a change of clothes in the ute?’ He points to the house. ‘There’s a mudroom and shower around the back. First door on the right. Leave your clothes in the sink and I’ll wash them with mine.’

‘Thank you, but …’

Already walking away, he looks over his shoulder. ‘I’ll take a shower in the shed.’

The paved area behind Cameron’s house is framed by broad, upright posts that will presumably support a pergola. The view from here is a close-up version of the valley visible from the window in the loft. The mudroom Cameron directed me to is a series of rooms. In the laundry there are two enormous concrete sinks, granite benchtops, cupboards, a commercial-sized washing machine and a matching dryer. There’s also a bathroom with a toilet and basin, and a separate room with a shower, cabinet, mirror and a rack of towels. The water in the shower heats immediately and the pressure is good, but it takes time to scrub the muck from my nails and wash my hair. Cameron’s shampoo and conditioner. His soap. If I were Jimmy, would Cameron have offered his mudroom?

Of course he would.

Keith Urban lies on the laundry floor as I fill a sink to soak my clothes. Five minutes later, he trots alongside me to check the cattle. The cows and calves are still gathered, but not in such a tight-knit group as they were. Many of the calves are drinking from their mothers, other calves and cows are lying down. Some cows are at the gate, clearly keen to be let out into the larger paddocks.

‘Not long now,’ I reassure them as I walk to the shed.

Just inside the wide double doors and sitting on a pallet, there’s a two-metre-high potted spruce, a miniature version of the tree Cameron climbed. Hand-carved timber ornaments, some painted in whitewashed colours, hang on narrow silver strings from the branches. A partridge sits at the top and two doves hang beneath it. I search for hens. One, two, three. Four colourful parrots—a cockatoo, a parakeet, a budgerigar and a rosella. I’d never have sung ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas’ carol when I was young, but I recall the numbers and search for the ornaments that match. Five rings, six geese, seven swans. No maids-a-milking, but eight cows have the black and white markings of dairy cows. The dancing ladies are represented by ballet shoes, and—

Cameron, a towel under one arm, looks down and curses as he pulls his shirt out of his jeans before zipping the fly. His shirt is open and his skin is wet. He swipes dripping hair from his face before looking up.

‘Amelie?’

My name is a question because I shouldn’t be here staring at his Christmas ornaments. I shouldn’t be here staring at him. I should still be in the mudroom, which is three rooms not one room, because that’s where he told me to go. Or maybe I should be at the ute with Keith Urban, who’s waiting to go home.

‘Thank you for letting me shower here.’ I link my hands and study them as if they’re new to me. ‘I’d better get back to work.’

‘Do you have another client?’

‘I’m doing my accounts.’

‘Stay.’ Voice gruff, he fastens a button of his shirt. But then he unfastens it because the buttons are out of line. ‘I’ll show you the horses.’

‘I’ve seen a black thoroughbred and a smaller grey horse from my window.’ I want to meet Cameron’s horses, but it’s much too risky to stay. I like him. Possibly more than like.Probablymore than like. ‘I should go.’

‘Another time.’ He lifts a hand and drops it.