Brumby's Run

by Jennifer Scoullar

  Drew had unchained Jock, expecting it would be an easy matter for the kelpie to round up the goats and yard them. But he hadn’t counted on one thing. Goats don’t herd, not like sheep do. The cute creatures had shot off in singles and pairs, at odd angles, in all directions. He and his mother had leapt into the fray. They’d dashed around like mad things, their shouting adding to Jock’s excited barking and the goats’ indignant bleating. It had taken forever to collect a group in the corner of the chicken yard. But even then, they wouldn’t stay put. They seemed to have no respect for humans, no fear at all – charging scornfully past all attempts to block them.

  It had soon become obvious that his strategy wasn’t going to work. Drew had been loath to bring out the big guns. Dad’s tough heelers were liable to make mincemeat out of the petite little goats. But if he hadn’t done something soon, his mother would have made mincemeat out of him.

  Suddenly a new sound had joined the general cacophony. The sound of pealing laughter. Drew had turned to see a tall, dark-haired young woman watching them, splitting her sides with mirth. She’d looked familiar somehow. But how could he have overlooked such a beauty? Skin like ironbark honey. Deep-chestnut hair cut like a pixie’s, long on top and short around the back and sides. It had emphasised the length of her graceful neck, and her almond-shaped eyes. The most mesmerising eyes: like pale, luminous amber, daring you to look away. Could this be the rude, skinny kid from next door, all grown up? The next minute, he lay sprawled on the grass, butted from behind by a small sharp-horned goat that packed a big punch.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ the girl had asked, rushing over.

  ‘Nah, I’m good,’ he’d said, picking himself off the ground. But Drew had soon realised that her professed concern was not for him, but for the goat instead.

  ‘Hammerhead, you naughty boy.’ The wayward goats had lined up to be petted and fussed over by this gorgeous girl. Drew had wanted to get in the queue. Then, like she was some sort of modern-day Pied Piper, the animals had followed her meekly home.

  After that day, Drew and Charlie had become friends. Her mother, Mary, was always coming up with one mad scheme after another. Like all its predecessors, the angora-goat stud didn’t last long. Mary couldn’t afford the shearer. Then the goats got out and chewed their way through a local blueberry crop. The grower had kept the flock as compensation. Two years later, he’d established a thriving mohair operation with Mary’s goats.

  ‘How come he could make it work, and we couldn’t?’ Charlie had asked Drew.

  He didn’t have the heart to tell her. And anyway, he knew that deep down, Charlie already knew the answer. That her mother never put a sustained effort into anything. That she spent too much time drinking and smoking and fooling around with men. That she’d never make a success at anything unless she changed … and that she’d never change. Mary just lurched from one disaster to another, all at her daughter’s expense.

  From what Drew could figure out, the pair had scraped by for the last few years on little more than his dad’s lease fees. Why Bill wanted the extra land in the first place was a mystery. Kilmarnock always turned a substantial profit. Drew had walked in on a couple of blazing rows between his parents on just that subject. Mum accusing Dad of wanting to help Mary – although why that should be a problem, Drew still didn’t understand. Mum’s favourite preacher at church was always urging the congregation to help their neighbours.

  The issue had coincided with the collapse of his parent’s marriage. Their relationship had always been adversarial. They’d been fighting for as long as Drew could remember. Mum had been feeling increasingly isolated in far-flung Currajong, and Drew supposed that his sisters’ move to Sydney had just been the final straw. She’d left Drew and Bill to battle it out on their own.

  Charlie had always had a way with animals, horses in particular. When Mary sold all their horses to pay the rates, Drew had helped Charlie run in a few brumbies and let her keep Tambo for herself. He’d soon spotted Charlie’s talent for riding in general, and camp-drafting in particular. Before long she was winning events. She and Tambo caught lifts with Drew and his horse truck to the local competitions. It was a crazy time, a happy time, and he’d fallen hard for Charlie.

  But it had been a ruinous romance. Charlie could no more stick with one man than her mother could. Drew had given Charlie a great deal of leeway, suffering a flood of snide remarks and vicious rumours along the way. He’d endured all the gossip that the town could throw at him, and still he’d stuck by Charlie. Stuck by her for months. And then he’d discovered Charlie and Spike together on the ground, behind the chutes, after the Walawai rodeo. More than together. And it was clear it wasn’t the first time.

  But even this final humiliation hadn’t been enough to end his friendship with Charlie. She’d had a tough life, he knew that. Abandoned by her father, neglected by her mother, ostracised by her peers in the town. Of course, Charlie could be her own worst enemy, lashing out at those who tried to help or befriend her. I’ll get you before you get me seemed to be her chief philosophy. There’d been a couple of other girlfriends since the break-up, but none with Charlie’s vitality and spirit – poor carbon copies at best.

  Until a miracle had come along. Sam. All of Charlie’s beauty, all of her sparkling energy, minus the chip on her shoulder – and with a phenomenal personality of her own. Sam was a girl in a million. If he could just figure out how to get their romance back on track …

  Drew pulled off the road into a truck stop, where a cheerful Italian woman was selling flowers from a stall beside a caravan. What were Sam’s favourites, he wondered. He picked up an arrangement of natives – scarlet waratahs, flanked by kangaroo paws and bull-rushes. They would have been Charlie’s pick, but Sam wasn’t Charlie. Drew grabbed a big bunch of red roses as well. ‘You want both?’ asked the woman. Drew nodded. ‘Your sweetheart, she’s a lucky girl.’ He gave her a rueful grin and wished Sam would agree with her. He drove on, anxious to swing by Brumby’s on his way home. He was hanging out to see Sam. A day apart from that girl felt like a week. The Currajong Festival was on this weekend. Was Sam the kind of girl to be impressed by a King of the Mountains title? He wasn’t sure, but it was worth a shot. There was one thing he was sure about, however. Nothing and nobody would make him give up on Sam now.

  Sam was in the hayshed when Bess bounded in and Drew’s head appeared around the door. ‘Afternoon,’ he said, proffering the bunches of flowers. ‘Here I am, reporting for duty.’ Sam took them from him, stammered her thanks, then put them aside. He ducked inside, put his hands around her waist and bent his head to hers. The kiss was long enough to stir the butterflies in Sam’s stomach, and short enough to leave her hungry for more.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said, half-heartedly squirming from his grasp. ‘I’m busy. Thanks to you and your crazy schemes, there are about a dozen horses to feed.’

  ‘I’m here to help you, aren’t I?’ he said, looking briefly irritated. ‘Christ, Sam. You sure do run hot and cold.’

  What could she say? He was right, of course. Ever since her sister’s surprise phone revelation, Sam was about as confused as a person could be. Drew hadn’t changed – keen as ever, helpful; devoted even. He found any excuse to come around, and resisting him took all of her willpower, leaving her frustrated and miserable. Damn Charlie! She’d ruined everything and made Sam’s life a misery. The strangest thing was that Drew barely ever mentioned her. When he did, there was no trace of anything but friendly concern in his voice. He was so cavalier that Sam almost doubted Charlie’s assertion that Drew was her boyfriend before she left for Melbourne.

  Sam had spent a lot of time thinking of ways to suss out the truth of her sister’s story. She just couldn’t bring herself to ask the question outright. She’d ploughed through all sorts of scenarios, ways to casually raise the topic. She stopped to watch Drew swing a bale over a rail. He moved with an easy grace. She loved the sure sweep of his arm. She loved everything about him.

  W
hy on earth couldn’t she just come right out with it? Were you sleeping with my sister? If I wasn’t here, would you two still be together? Is it me you want, or her? These were the questions she needed to ask, but she was scared she wouldn’t like the answers. Scared of looking like a fool. Scared to ruin such a good thing – although it had already been ruined, she thought bitterly.

  Her phone rang. Mary. Sam sighed and picked up. ‘Hi, Mary … Yep, I’m fine, things are good here … So Charlie’s doing well? … When are you coming home? … I will. Goodbye, Mary.’

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Drew. ‘How’s Charlie?’

  Here was her chance. Sam’s heart beat faster. She inspected Drew’s expression, ready for any trace of deceit. ‘What did Mary think,’ she asked, ‘about you dating Charlie?’ There, she’d said it. She wanted to see shock on his face. She wanted him to say that he’d never been with Charlie, and why ever would she think such a stupid thing? She wanted it not to be true. But Drew didn’t deny it. He didn’t bat an eyelid. He just answered the question, as if it hadn’t been laden with hidden meaning.

  ‘Mary hated it when me and Charlie hooked up,’ said Drew. ‘Beats me why.’ He smiled, his green eyes full of humour. He had the most gorgeous smile. ‘Bit of a laugh, Mary not approving of me. I reckon it should be the other way round.’

  Sam gulped hard. So Charlie was telling the truth. She was disgusted with herself. What sort of a person hopes to discredit her own sister? If only there was some way to fall out of love with Drew. It really would be so much easier.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Brumbies, Sam had come to understand, were different from other horses in a few fundamental respects. Bushy said it was because they were raised the way horses were meant to be raised, in a herd dynamic, within a settled social structure of equine law and order. Foals stayed with their mothers for a year or more, learning brumby lore, growing up with a firm sense of their own place in the world. ‘Those poor little tame horses, I feel downright sorry for them fellas,’ said Bushy. ‘All that early weaning, and not enough mothering – it’s a crime.’ Sam had learned about attachment disorder in humans. About how the strength of the parent–baby bond affected the emotional health of the child, right through to adulthood. Perhaps it was the same for horses? Perhaps it was the same for her.

  A lot of the pampered mounts she’d known back at the Melbourne stables were terribly temperamental – flighty or bossy, or downright vicious. By contrast, the wild-caught brumbies were extraordinarily grounded and level-headed. They swiftly embraced their positions in the new pecking order. Bushy taught her how to tune in to this natural aptitude, how to show leadership but never domination, how to earn the animals’ respect. Brumbies treated this way, even high-spirited colts like Phoenix, displayed a touching innocence and willingness to trust. They bonded closely to humans in a way rarely achieved by domestic horses.

  Sam rode Phoenix once more around the yard. He was a dream ride: intelligent, spirited and responsive. Pure fire and air. Bushy stood beside the rails, observing the pair with his usual critical eye. ‘That’ll do,’ he said, and Sam brought the colt to a halt. Bushy ran a hand down Phoenix’s foreleg and grunted approval. ‘You be here by six o’clock sharp tomorrow.’ Sam nodded. Tomorrow was the first day of the annual Currajong Festival. It was exciting to be helping with the brumby demonstrations. ‘They’re trucking in a dozen new horses for the Brumby Catch,’ said Bushy. ‘I’ve got a fella coming both days to lend us a hand.’

  She dismounted and rubbed the colt’s golden neck. ‘Do you think he’s ready?’

  ‘My oath,’ said Bushy. ‘He’s a smart youngster, that one.’

  Sam kissed Phoenix on the nose and the colt tossed his head at her impertinence. ‘Did you say somebody’s helping us out tomorrow?’

  ‘Yep. I reckon you already know him. Spike Morgan.’

  ‘Why do we need help?’ she said, trying not to squirm. ‘What’s wrong with me?’

  ‘There ain’t nothing wrong with you, girl. You got a hell of a gift with them brumbies.’

  ‘Then why do you want Spike?’

  Bushy climbed through the sliprails and took the colt’s reins. ‘There’s a couple of long days ahead of us,’ he said simply. ‘I could use a top horseman.’ For some unaccountable reason he chuckled. ‘Go home, Charlie,’ he said, and with that he led Phoenix from the yard.

  Sam rummaged through the pantry for something to eat. She opened a tin of spaghetti and ate it standing up, cold from the can. She threw the empty tin into the sink and dragged herself back outside. There were still so many jobs to do, after she’d already worked a full day at the racecourse. Normally she didn’t mind. Normally she willingly launched into the feeding and watering: admiring Jarrang’s arrogant displays, laughing at Topsy and Turvy’s antics, fussing over the pregnant mares.

  Evenings used to be her favourite time. When the sun sank low behind the mountain, she’d wash her hands and cook a simple meal. An omelette or a chicken breast, with fresh salad greens and sweet cherry tomatoes picked from Mary’s overgrown garden. She’d fill up a glass from the jug of tank water in the fridge. It was the sweetest, purest water she’d ever tasted – once the wrigglers were strained out, of course. Then she’d eat at the table under the peppercorn tree, sharing her meal with Condor and the occasional bold currawong.

  Or Drew would come around and barbecue some steaks. She stopped herself from smiling at the recollection. Ever since that dreadful phone call with Charlie, Drew’s absence in the evenings was like a physical ache. It left her empty, hollowed out. But there was no getting around it. Drew had betrayed Charlie, and by extension Sam herself. He’d admitted it, and hadn’t even have the good grace to be ashamed. This was an unfathomable, unbearable fact, and the implications were clear. It meant the death of their relationship. What did Drew think about her pulling back from him? She’d never explained herself. Most probably he’d figured out the unsavoury truth for himself. How could he have slept with her when he was going out with Charlie? It was a bastard act. It would have been easier if she could have made a clean break of it, excised Drew from her life. But the truth was, she was still bound to him in so many ways. Without his help, there could be no future trail-riding business. She couldn’t do it alone. Her impulsive purchase of the Mitchell string would turn into one huge folly, a white elephant, a financial albatross around all their necks. She tried to imagine what Mary might say, returning home with a sick daughter to face no lease income, and the added cost of a dozen extra horses to feed.

  Sam gulped down a glass of water, headed for the haystack and heaved a bale onto the rusted wheelbarrow. She looked miserably at its flat tyre, then staggered up the hill towards the dam paddock, casting Drew firmly from her mind. She had more pressing problems. Like how on earth she was going to manage things tomorrow, with Bushy calling her Charlie, and Spike calling her Sam? What a mess she’d made of things. Why the hell had she allowed people to believe she was Charlie in the first place? She was an idiot, plain and simple.

  Sam tossed biscuits of hay over the fence at regular intervals, and watched the two ponies boss all the bigger horses out of the way. She turned and trundled back down to the hayshed for a second bale. If only she could get Charlie’s voice out of her head. That’s my life, not yours! Drew had accused her of much the same thing. Accused her of being seduced by the adventure of living a double life – of living Charlie’s life. Was he right?

  Sam hurled the bale onto the wheelbarrow with such force that it tipped over. She could agonise over motives, or she could concentrate on coming up with a plan to fix things. Because like it or not, she was living in a house of cards, and tomorrow was tumbledown day. Then and there, she made a resolution to put things straight, no matter what the cost. Because the truth was, Charlie didn’t know the half of it. If her sister was upset now, how would she react to the news that Sam had been impersonating her all over town, however innocently it had begun? Sam grimaced. It didn’t bear thinking
about.

  As Sam hauled the hay back into the barrow, she heard a car pull up in the drive. Please no, not Drew. She couldn’t bear the prospect of all those I told you so’s. What right did Drew have to be so sanctimonious?’ His deception had been far more deliberate, and far more cruel.

  ‘Charlie? Sam? Jesus Christ, which one are you, darlin’?’ Spike strolled around the corner, lithe and languorous, like a well-fed tiger.

  Sam let out a great, relieved sigh. Spike was one of the few people in Currajong with whom she’d been honest, right from the start. And what was better, he didn’t seem to be the type to moralise. ‘I’m Sam!’ she yelled. ‘Samantha Carmichael. Any resemblance to Charlene Kelly is purely coincidental.’

  ‘That’s not what I hear,’ said Spike. He smiled seductively. ‘Shove over.’ Tossing the bale to the ground, he wheeled the empty barrow down to his truck and inflated the tyre using a portable air compressor he kept in the tray. ‘How’s that?’ he asked. Sam nodded approval. The wheelbarrow now moved with ease.

  ‘Allow me, Princess,’ said Spike, marching the hay up the hill. ‘I heard Charlie bought Terry Mitchell’s horses,’ he said, as they fed out the second bale. ‘Drew’s idea?’

  ‘I did,’ she said, in compliance with her new policy of full disclosure. ‘I bought them and I signed my real name, but Terry kept on calling me Charlie and I didn’t correct the mistake. So shoot me.’ She heard the defiant note in her voice. Why was she angry with Spike? None of this was his fault. ‘I’ve left a great many misunderstandings uncorrected,’ she said, trying to sound more contrite.

  Spike whistled, smooth and low. ‘So I figured.’ He cast his eyes over her and the horses. ‘Not a bad-looking bunch,’ he said. ‘Now you’ve got them, what in fuck’s name are you gonna do with them?’