by Mandy Magro
Hoof pick in hand, he got to work checking his gelding’s feet. He tapped lightly above each of Ratbag’s pastern joints, his horse lifting each hoof for him in turn as he worked from heel to toe, paying special attention to the cleft around the frog. It was a job that didn’t help his already aching back, but it had to be done every day. Ratbag, an aptly named old-timer, took the opportunity to nick Joel’s hat, a game the horse often liked to play.
‘Oi!’ Joel snatched it back and Ratbag snorted. Joel eyed him, grinning, as he tugged it back on. ‘You know what your trouble is, buddy? You’ve gone and lost your manners over the years. It’s no wonder no other bastard wants to ride you. You’re just lucky I love your guts otherwise you’d be retired, and god knows what that’d mean for you.’
Ratbag threw his head up, blowing air through his lips as though laughing. He was a cranky swayback with a nasty habit of nipping those who were less than wary around him, but Joel had come to love the old brute, even if he’d spent the first year trying his best to stay in the saddle. The horse had a habit of grinding to an abrupt halt if he’d had enough, or pig-rooting when he was fed up with weight on his back. But plenty of time spent together, following the dusty tracks and stock routes, rounding up the cattle on the stations that contracted them year after year, had warmed him to his grumpy mate, and the horse to him. Ratbag wouldn’t let anyone else on his back. For Joel, it felt good to feel wanted, respected, loved – even if it was only by his horse.
Wandering towards him after a quick dash to the bushes, last night’s dinner of leftover stew playing havoc with all of them, Curly, Joel’s boss and bald-as-a-badger best mate, tossed a braided rope over his broad shoulder and sidestepped a nip to the butt from Ratbag. ‘Ready to hit the road when you are, bud.’ A barrel-chested man with arms that could wrestle the life out of most, Curly was gentle at heart, and the only person Joel felt he could really rely on, and, most importantly, trust. Family wasn’t blood, like he’d once been led to believe. He was born alone and he would die alone – end of story.
‘Righto, Curly.’ Joel tightened Ratbag’s girth strap. ‘We’re coming.’
With a cheeky smirk, Curly paused and pulled a bent rollie out of a crumpled tobacco packet. ‘Yeah, and so is bloody Christmas.’ He followed up his customary banter with a throaty chuckle before lighting his half-demolished cigarette and drawing in so deeply that the smoke came back out in a coughing fit.
Joel shook his head. ‘Those things are gonna kill you one of these days, buddy.’
‘Yeah, well, something has to. I might as well enjoy whatever it is.’ Curly sauntered off, his bow-legged gait a tell-tale sign of his years spent in the saddle. He was talking to himself again – a habit Joel had grown used to over the years. Retrieving his broody mare, Dolly, from where he’d tethered her, Curly led her on a loose lead, which experience had proven to be a bad idea. Joel watched on, amused, as the mare waltzed behind her owner, tossing her head and yanking Curly’s burly arm. Turning, Curly growled and gave her a light tap on the muzzle, stopping the misbehaviour in its tracks. Dolly stared back at him, wide-eyed and offended. Joel couldn’t help but laugh at the pair of them. They loved to hate each other – and vice versa.
‘That’s enough malarkey from you, Huntsman,’ Curly said, emphasising Joel’s nickname lightheartedly as he climbed into the saddle.
‘There can never be enough malarkey in this world,’ Joel responded, faking shock-horror as he heaved himself onto Ratbag.
‘Too right, mate, too right.’ Curly gave his horse a light jab and they rode off to where Bluey and Nugget were already waiting on their antsy mounts.
The whipping of the chopper blades slicing through the crisp morning air grabbed their attention, and they glanced skywards. Right on cue, Curly’s two-way crackled to life. ‘Ready to hit it, boys?’
Curly held his thumb up to the chopper pilot looking down on them. ‘Roger that.’
The five hundred head of livestock were methodically led out of the holding yard. It was a smooth transition as they bunched together, following their leader cattle, and moved towards the next, and last, watering hole. Bluey and Nugget rode at the edges of the flight zones, keeping the mob in check and applying a little pressure as needed, while Curly and Joel worked from the back, making sure to keep out of the cattle’s blind spots. It was imperative to keep the mob as calm as they could. Sudden fright meant a world of absolute mayhem. So, like a well-oiled machine, they moved along at an easy pace, all of them knowing their job like the backs of their hands. With everything going to plan, Bluey and Nugget yarned casually while Curly smoked like a chimney.
Although Curly had more horse-savvy in his hands than most horsemen possessed in their entire bodies, after almost two weeks on this particular mustering contract, Joel could see his boss didn’t have his mind on the job. Probably more on the women he’d be trying to bed in the big smoke of Mount Isa. All Joel wanted was a decent counter meal with a couple of icy cold beers to wash it all down, followed by a few games of pool before crawling into a real bed and sleeping for an eternity in a dark, air-conditioned room.
Times had most certainly changed.
When he’d first left Little Heart, an angry and damaged eighteen-year-old boy, he’d spent the first few years breaking more hearts than horses – his Casanova ways earned him a reputation amongst his fellow stockmen that he was none too proud of now. He’d stupidly thought wooing every woman who batted an eyelid at him would help him forget Juliette Kern, but all it did was make him yearn for her even more. Now he was a man, he knew better.
He was snapped from his thoughts when a rogue bull broke from the mob. With fire in his eyes, the one-tonne monster headed towards a patch of scrub. Some of the cattle spooked and broke ranks too, creating a knock-on effect that the men knew they needed to get a hold on quick smart. Shouting rang out, vehement, urgent. The chopper overhead snapped to action, dipping and diving. With Nugget, Bluey and Curly working to keep the mob from scattering in every direction, Joel turned Ratbag on a threepenny bit and took off after the belligerent beast. The chopper was hot on the bull’s heels – it would be needed to push the bull out of the cluster of trees if the bugger got that far. Joel was hell-bent on not letting it get its way. And so was Ratbag. His head pushed forwards, mane flowing in the wind, the gelding mixed long powerful strides with thunderous bursts of speed.
Glued to the saddle, Joel homed in on the bull and lapped around him. Ratbag’s pounding hooves seemed to shake the very ground. Man and horse were close to swinging the four-legged hooligan in the right direction when the chopper came in from the other side. The bull skidded to an almighty stop and spun, his menacing sights now on Joel and Ratbag. A wild-born killer with wide shoulders and rippling muscles, the bull was as cunning as he was savage. Joel’s blood froze. Head down, tail up, deadly horns at the ready, the bull rushed forwards, charging.
With only seconds to think, Joel pulled at the reins to try to avoid the incoming missile, and even though Ratbag’s head came up, the horse’s body didn’t swivel as fast. As time seemed to slow, Joel steeled himself, ready for the inevitable.
They were in the firing line.
There was a loud, sharp crack as Ratbag reared, whinnying in pain from the lightning jab of the pointed horns, before crashing to the ground, taking Joel with him. Agony struck as his legs and torso jammed beneath the horse, but he couldn’t stop, desperately trying to free himself as the bull circled them, snorting and pawing at the ground. It wanted more. It wanted to kill both of them. Blood dripped from its horns and ran in rivulets down its face. Ratbag’s blood. In a world of pain himself, Joel didn’t dare to look to see if his old mate was dead. He didn’t want to know. Couldn’t handle the heartache.
Freeing himself from beneath Ratbag, whirling dizzily, he pushed himself onto shaky legs, terrified of facing his fate. The bull snorted, flicking saliva over its shoulder as it flung its head about … and then charged. Joel leapt away, and the bull skidded by, just ba
rely missing him. Spinning back, he faced Joel again, wilder, fiercer. The world spinning, Joel almost met the ground once more, but he held himself steady. He didn’t have the luxury to stop and think. He had to try to run to something, anything that would help to shield him. The chopper zoomed in on them, mercifully preoccupying the bull, giving him the time he needed to stumble towards the trees, gasping for breath. He could hear the loud bellows of his fellow stockmen from behind the cluster of trees and within seconds Curly was in front of him, diving from the saddle, his face grave with concern.
‘Holy shit, Joel, are you all right?’
‘I’m not sure, buddy.’ Buckling over, Joel heaved up his breakfast. Blood trickled from his nose and dripped onto the ground. Straightening, he wiped it away with his sleeve. Arms aching and legs as heavy as stone, he knelt and tried to ease the dizziness. Curly was beside him, saying something he couldn’t decipher. The whopping of the chopper blades sounded a million light years away. His thoughts turned to Ratbag, and he wanted to ask if his horse was okay, but his mouth was too dry to speak. His strength ebbed and the world around him swirled, twirled, twisted. Falling against Curly, he felt the world give way as everything went black.
* * *
There was the murmur of distant voices. Joel could sense himself floating between realms, but he had nothing to grab hold of, to bring himself to the surface. Was he still in grave danger? Frantically clawing his way to consciousness, he eventually blinked open lead-heavy eyes. His head pounding and his vision blurry, all he could make out were soft blue walls, although he could feel the crispness of the sheets he was lying on and hear the methodical beeping of machines, steady with his heartbeat. He was safe. The realisation gave him peace. His jumbled thoughts began to fuse together. The last thing he remembered was collapsing to the ground – he had no idea how in the hell he’d gotten to a hospital.
Someone clearing their throat had him turning his head. Curly’s face came into blurry focus. ‘Hey, bud.’ Two words, yet his mouth felt as if it were filled with cottonwool, it took so much effort for him to address his boss.
There was a relieved whoosh of breath. ‘Oh, thank Christ, Huntsman. I thought you were a bloody goner.’ Curly straightened in his chair and scratched at his crotch. ‘Scared the bloody bejesus outta the boys and me, you did, mate. We were capping it when we saw how much you were bleeding.’
‘Which hospital?’ Joel could feel the effects of painkillers stealing his words, pushing him into the mattress. He fought to regain his senses, wanting to know everything.
‘Mount Isa.’ Curly sucked in a breath and sighed it away. ‘The flying docs had to get you here.’
‘Really?’ Joel shook his head slowly. ‘I don’t remember a thing.’
‘Yeah, you were mumbling gibberish and in a load of pain, so they gave you something to completely knock you out. Worked a bloody treat, I tell ya.’
‘Ratbag?’ Joel’s eyes stung, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the bright light overhead or if tears had sprung.
His slight smile giving way, Curly shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, mate. He was in a real bad way. We had to put him out of his misery.’
Joel nodded, feeling as if he’d just been king hit in the chest. Ratbag was his comrade, his workmate, his family … and just like that, he was gone. He didn’t even get to thank him for saving him, or to say a last goodbye.
‘I know it’s a tough pill to swallow, mate, but it was for the best.’ Curly placed a hand on his arm, giving Joel a few moments. ‘And how are you feeling?’
Joel bit back his tears and pressed to find his voice. ‘I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck, but yeah, I’m breathing, so I’m okay, I suppose.’
Curly nodded. ‘No doubt.’
‘What happened to me?’
‘Luckily, no broken bones, but you hit your head a doozy.’
Joel breathed a sigh of relief. There was no way he could stay cooped up in hospital for long, the four walls would drive him round the bend. ‘No biggy, then. How long before I can get back to work?’ Joel had a good nest egg after saving almost every penny he’d earned over the years, but he didn’t want to chip away at it. Besides, mustering alongside Curly was his life – he didn’t know what he’d do otherwise. Hard work and distraction were his only way to survive.
Curly slumped back down, eyeing him almost sympathetically. ‘You’re not coming back to work for a while, Joel.’
‘What’s “a while”, Curly?’
‘A couple of months at least, Huntsman.’
Joel tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness stopped him. ‘Oh, come on. Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill, she’ll be right.’ He begrudgingly eased back into the pillow.
‘Sorry, mate, but it’s the doc’s orders. And mine.’ Curly sighed, closing his eyes, and shook his head. ‘You really need to get off the booze, Joel, and on the straight and narrow. You think I can’t smell the stench of it hanging from you every day? Not good when we’re meant to be a dry camp.’
Joel’s defences fired. A couple of nips from his hip flask at night to help him sleep wasn’t anything to write home about. And so what if he took a sneaky swig occasionally during the day, to break up the monotony of billy tea and water? ‘You saying I have a drinking problem?’
‘You’re definitely no alcoholic, but you might end up that way if you don’t figure your life out.’ With Joel glaring at him, Curly offered him a slight smile. ‘I’ve got your back, even though it might not feel like it right now. I don’t want you to be worse off next time round.’
‘There won’t be a next time round.’ Joel grit his teeth through both the pain of the conversation and the agony of his throbbing head.
Curly shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘Maybe, but we’re not going to risk finding that out.’
Joel heaved a sigh, wincing from the pain of doing so. ‘So, tell me, what the bloody hell am I meant to do for two months?’
Curly stood, hands planted at the base of his bowed back. ‘I’ve booked you a plane ticket home.’
‘You what?’ Without thinking, Joel went to sit up again, but the discomfort and wooziness sent him crashing back to his pillow.
‘You heard me, mate. It’s about time you faced up to whatever it is you’re running from.’ Curly leant on the side of the bed, looking Joel right in the eyes. ‘I know you love and miss your folks and your sister. Maybe this is god’s way of giving you no option but to go home.’
‘Maybe, maybe not,’ Joel bit back, hard and sharp.
‘Look, I know you’re pissed, but like I said, I’m just looking after ya.’ Curly grabbed his hat from the back of his chair and tugged it on. ‘I’ll give you a bit of space to let it all sink in. I’m going to head downstairs and grab myself a toasted sandwich and a drink. Do you want anything? A can of Coke, a coffee?’
‘No, thanks.’ Stubbornly, Joel turned his head and stared out the window at a sapphire-blue sky.
‘You sure? It might help to wet the whistle.’
His throat as dry as sandpaper, an icy cold sweet drink suddenly sounded real good. ‘Okay, grab me a can of something, if it’s not too much trouble.’
‘No trouble at all.’ Curly half-chuckled. ‘Be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’ He paused before stepping out the door, and Joel begrudgingly met his gaze. ‘I’ll let the good-looking nurse know you’re awake, tell her you need a full-body bath.’ He winked, chuckled, and off he went, his heavy footsteps fading down the hall.
Unamused by the banter that would usually have cracked him up, Joel lay staring at the ceiling, clenching and unclenching his hands. Was Curly right? Could this be god getting even? Or, at the very least, grappling for his attention after the speedy loss of his faith since leaving the township of Little Heart? Was his near-death a sign to make things right, to finally follow through with what had sat heavy in his heart and soul all these years? He hadn’t parted on good terms with his dad or Juliette. He and Jules, and he and his father, had both said some h
urtful things. He’d taken off for what was supposed to be a few days to clear his head. The few days had turned into weeks, then months and had gradually bled into eleven long years.
Gutless came to mind, followed by coward.
He mentally tried to shake away the thoughts.
Maybe it was time he ventured back to where it all happened.
Back to his family.
Back to her.
Home.
CHAPTER
4
Little Heart
For January, it was a little cooler than normal, the recent rain having washed away the humidity for now. The warm light of her lamp washing over her, Juliette paused and stared at her reflection. She looked old, exhausted. Done. Her life had turned out like nothing she’d imagined it to be. Loveless. Childless. Lonely. Her marriage had been wrought with complications at every turn, and having reached her limit, she wanted to know why her husband was home less and less. Even though he blamed it on his campaign to become town mayor, Juliette was struggling to ignore the possibility that he was seeing someone else.
Jumping into another relationship way too quickly to try to rid herself of the broken heart from Joel’s untimely departure, as well as wanting to move out of her parents’ home to make a life of her own between her weeks spent at university in Cairns, had been a huge mistake. But she’d made her bed. Now she had to find a way to lie in it if she wanted to avoid the dreaded D-word. She didn’t want the stigma of being a divorcee, especially at her parents’ church. She could only imagine how they would react. Surely, she and Lachlan could find a way to be happy again? That was if he wasn’t cheating on her.
Lachlan was rarely home these days, and when he was, he was so distant he might as well not have even been there. He rarely touched her outside of when she was ovulating, never kissed her like he meant it, and had been sleeping in the spare room for the past six months because apparently he didn’t want to annoy her by tossing and turning all night with his sore back.
