by Karen Wood
They were nice saddles with big poleys, the kind she would love to own, made from what looked like hand-stitched Australian leather. Their owner leaned on the steel rail, eyeing the dozen or so yearlings.
He didn’t turn or acknowledge her. This would be good. How was she meant to work with a guy who was incapable of interacting with people? Never mind the fact that he was some sort of criminal.
She unclipped the filly from the cross ties. As she led it through the gateway it scraped its hip on the latch. The touchy youngster panicked and catapulted out of the stall. Kirra tried to run with it, but it bolted towards the yearlings in the round yard, reefing the reins from her hands.
The new guy turned, saw the filly and moved into the middle of the aisle, blocking its path. Kirra stood at her end and waited as he calmly took it by the reins and ran a hand over its neck. It instantly relaxed and he led it back towards her. But rather than hand the filly back, he walked past as though she wasn’t there. He led it in and out of the stall a few times until it was calm, and then handed the reins to her.
‘She caught her hip,’ Kirra tried to explain.
He moved his eyes questioningly to the horse. ‘Did you break her in?’
‘Yeah, but she . . .’
He lifted his chin towards the gate. ‘You should put her back in there and do some desensitising work with her.’
Kirra gave him a stiff smile. This is exactly what she knew would happen. He would automatically think he knew more than her because she was a girl. When she spoke she was cool and calm. ‘I don’t mind working with you, but you’re not my boss,’ she said. ‘I don’t care who you are or where you come from.’ For the first time, she dared to look into his eyes. They were dark, almost black, set behind thick lashes.
He stared back and Kirra was startled by the intensity of his gaze. He studied her face, really studied it, then frowned.
‘What?’ she demanded.
‘Nothing,’ he said.
’Look, I’m sure we’ll get along just fine, but don’t start telling me what to do, got it?’
‘I’m here to work, not make friends,’ he replied. ‘I don’t care who you are or where you come from either.’ He paused as though wondering whether to continue, then added, ‘Being the boss’s daughter doesn’t put you in charge either.’
Kirra took a backwards step and folded her arms tightly across her chest. So this was going to be an issue, was it? ‘If you’d lived here for longer than one day, mate, you would know that I never use my dad’s job for favours. I work as hard as everyone else.’
‘Good to know,’ he said, sounding bored. ‘Because I won’t be carrying you.’ He walked off. ‘My name’s Daniel,’ he said, without looking back, ‘and I already know yours.’
Kirra stared after him with her mouth open. What was this guy’s problem? And how did she get stuck with him?
She worked through the rest of the day, fuming. She rode another of the freshly broke horses behind a mob of bull calves, back out to the paddocks. Every time she thought of Daniel she kicked it slightly harder than she needed to, and it startled beneath her.
So he’d spent three months in juvenile detention. What for? What did he do? Kirra couldn’t wait to get her dad alone and ask him what was going on. Why hadn’t he given her some sort of heads up about this guy?
After closing the gate behind the calves, Kirra rode to the yards to look for her dad. She heard the commotion before she got there. Under the scrubby trees, the yards were teeming with creamy Charbray cattle. Her father was in the lane with Pete and Paul, drafting the calves off their mums, sending them into an adjacent yard and the cows back out into the paddock. They opened and closed gates and separated one pair at a time.
Kirra rode into the yard and helped push the last small mob through. Then she watched the young weaners settle onto large round bales of hay while the cows paced the fenceline, bellowing.
Kirra looked forward to helping the men work the calves over the next week, weighing, vaccinating, checking tags and generally getting them used to being handled. They would be well fed and watered while their mums gradually gave up and wandered back to their favourite feeding places. Steers and heifers would be separated and trucked up to Scrubby Creek to finish off over the next few months.
Out in the wider paddocks, Kirra noticed a couple of calves still shadowing their mothers. They’d slipped the muster. She rode around them and walked them through the trees and towards the yards. Her dad held the gate open as they ambled through.
She took the opportunity to ask him about Daniel. ‘Hey, Dad, what’s with that new guy?’
‘Why, what’s happened?’ he asked, looking immediately concerned.
‘Nothing,’ she answered, wheeling her horse around to face him. ‘He’s just so . . . unfriendly.’
‘Yeah, he’s had a bit of a hard time.’
‘Well, that’s not my fault. What’s he doing here? Who is he?’
Jim took a deep, hesitant breath. His eyes wandered back to the yards, where Pete and Paul waited for him. ‘He’s the son of a friend of the boss. Listen, can we talk about this later?’
Kirra frowned, but her dad gave her a pleading look. He was busy. Bad time to talk.
‘Want me to ride back out and open the gates?’ she asked, relenting. The cows would break through the fences looking for their calves otherwise.
‘Thanks,’ said Jim. ‘That’d be helpful.’
Kirra rode solo through the open flat country waving with Flinders and Mitchell grass, and then over the low ridges where gidyea and boree trees grew in sparse stands. She came to the creek, wide and shallow, the water gliding smoothly between banks of buffel grass. She had never seen it so low.
She followed the cattle trails along the banks, thinking about Daniel all the way. Had Nancy and Tom given him a job as a favour to his parents?
She rode up out of the creek and through the steer paddocks. The sun was low in the western sky as she turned towards home and, for the first time since she had lived at Moorinja, she was hesitant about going back into the horse shed.
When she got there, Daniel had three youngsters sidelined. Ropes looped around their necks and one hind foot. The horses seemed calm and accepting. They didn’t fight the restraints. Maybe they were smart.
Kirra watched him untie the ropes and spend a moment rubbing each one down. He had a good handle on them. But he’d picked the quietest three, she noticed. She and her dad had worked with those horses as yearlings last summer. They were the most submissive of the mob. Had he known that too, just by watching them? What would he do if one challenged him? Would he have the skill to bring it around, or would he lose his cool?
Daniel ignored her as he bundled up the ropes and let the horses out with the rest of the mob in the small paddock out the back.
He also ignored her at dinnertime, sitting in taciturn silence while everyone made awkward conversation around him at the main house. He had showered, Kirra noted, and put on a fresh shirt. Without his hat to hide it, she could see his hair was close-cropped, still wet from the shower, and she noticed a scar on the side of his head. More questions buzzed about in her mind. Why was everyone so uncomfortable around him? Did they know him? Know of him?
Her dad sat next to him for a while and mumbled a few directions for the next day, to which Daniel nodded without question or comment. He didn’t eat while Jim spoke. When he did, he took large mouthfuls, but he had manners, cutting the meat precisely, resting his forearms on the table between mouthfuls and chewing slowly. The blokes around him all talked with their mouths full and leaned on their elbows.
Eventually, everyone resumed their normal banter, carrying on as though he wasn’t there. Pete and Paul talked about some TV show and Steve flicked through a hot rod magazine.
There were more stockmen at another table. They were from Scrubby Creek, about an hour up the road, and had come to help with the cattle the next day.
Jamie was among them. Still grubby from wo
rk, his sleeves were rolled up past his elbows and he had a bad case of ginger hat hair. He gave Kirra a wink hello and shovelled a chunk of steak into his mouth. She smiled awkwardly and downed a last mouthful of potato in reply. Then she stood to take her plate to the kitchen.
She followed Daniel, passing Nancy on the way.
‘Taste all right, love?’ she asked him.
‘Thanks, Nancy,’ he answered. ‘That was great.’
‘There’s plenty more,’ she replied. ‘Don’t go hungry.’
‘I’m good,’ he assured her, and Kirra watched as he took his plate to the sink, washed it and put it in the rack. Was that some prison ritual?
She filed in after him and put hers on the sink. ‘Liz does that,’ she told him.
Kirra made a point of not washing her plate. Not one bloke in the place ever did, and she planned to work as hard as, if not harder than, most of them. Unsurprisingly, he didn’t respond.
She strutted out and home to the foreman’s residence. In the kitchen she ripped the fridge open, cracked a can of Coke and stood staring vacantly at an open packet of Tim-Tams, thinking about Daniel. He was so . . . unsettling. The tension in his jaw, the hard edge to his voice, the dark intensity in his eyes, the rigid way he held his shoulders and the surly way he ignored everyone made him intriguing somehow.
She grabbed the whole packet of Tim-Tams and slammed the fridge door closed. He was a messed-up unit. Maybe slightly good-looking, but derailed. Why couldn’t she stop thinking about him?
Her mum walked through the kitchen door. ‘How’d your first day go?’
‘I don’t like that new guy much.’
‘Give it time,’ said her mum. ‘You just need to get to know each other.’
‘He’s so . . . defensive.’ It was the only word Kirra could think of to describe him. She had known horses like Daniel: ones that had been pushed too hard, and had become all hard-boiled on the inside, snipey and guarded on the outside. ‘Every time I go near him he comes at me with his ears flat back and his teeth bared. How come I have to work with him?’
‘Well, you’re not there to socialise,’ her mum answered.
Jocelyn disappeared into the lounge room and Kirra heard the telly flick on. She wandered out onto the porch and sat on the old lounge chair in the dark. It was a clear night and she hadn’t seen so many stars for ages. Apart from the muted voices of the workers over by the flame tree it was blissfully peaceful. But across the yard, a light spoiled her stargazing plans.
Someone was in the cottage, a small fibro outbuilding that had been vacant for years. It had a kitchenette, a lounge room with manky furniture, and two tiny bedrooms. The air-conditioner hung its backside out of the wall and now, she noticed, it hummed so hard it sounded as if it would blow a gasket.
The only light on in the place shone from the lounge room. She could see Daniel’s silhouette. He sat sideways with his feet up on the lounge, unfolding what looked like a letter and reading it. By himself. Why hadn’t they put him with the other workers?
Kirra sat watching him. ‘What did you do,’ she muttered, ‘to get yourself thrown in juvy?’
He’d probably got caught speeding too many times, or he’d stolen cigarettes from the local servo. Something like that. Those sorts of shenanigans went on in remote areas all the time.
The light in Kirra’s room slapped on suddenly behind her, lighting up the porch. Her mother was delivering fresh laundry. The light switched off again.
Kirra looked back over at the cottage. Daniel was looking out the window to where Kirra sat. He stood, walked to the window and yanked the blind down.
4
In the kitchen the next morning, Jim sat sipping coffee and muttering at the radio. Kirra stayed quiet, knowing better than to interrupt her dad when he was listening to the news. After the weatherman failed again to predict rain and a country tune twanged cheerfully to soften the blow, Jim turned it down.
‘So, what’s the new guy’s problem?’ asked Kirra, sitting opposite him with a plate of toast.
‘Did something stupid, ended up in detention,’ answered her dad.
‘Yeah, I know that. What did he do?’
Jim put his mug down and turned his attention to Kirra. ‘I’m not at liberty to say. He’s staff and his background is confidential, just like anyone else’s.’
Kirra pulled a disappointed face.
Her dad took off his glasses and folded them closed. ‘Why don’t you ask him? If he wants you to know, I’m sure he’ll tell you.’
‘I can’t ask him anything. He’s so unfriendly. Why did I get stuck working with him, anyway?’
Her dad chuckled. ‘Welcome to the real world, Kirra. You don’t always get to choose your workmates. But you do have to get along with them. Be polite and respectful and get on with the job. Don’t get into any arguments with him.’ He rose and reached for his jacket, slung around the back of his chair. ‘Sometimes it’s easier to plough around the stump.’
Kirra pulled on her boots and joined her dad out at the yards. He called to Paul and Pete to get to the cattle ramps. They would load steers as they branded them, ready to take to the finishing paddocks at Scrubby Creek.
‘Load any green broke horses onto the other truck and they can come out too,’ her father called to her. ‘You can show Daniel around the other property.’
Great. She would be stuck with him again. Kirra groaned but nodded. ‘Can I ride Iceman?’
‘Sure.’
Kirra made her way to the horse shed. She tossed out hay and had the breakers into the round yard before Daniel made it out to the shed. He walked in, grunted a cursory good morning and opened the gate to the round yard.
‘We’re taking some young horses out to Scrubby Creek,’ she told him. ‘These ones will have to wait until this afternoon.’ She paused. ‘You can fill some water buckets while we wait to load up, if you like.’
She left the shed before he could respond, and took some halters to the horse paddocks, where the six young horses she and her father had started last holidays grazed. She caught them one by one and tethered them to the horse truck. Then she went back to the shed.
To her annoyance, Daniel had ignored her. Drafted into the round yard were the same three breakers he’d worked yesterday. He was starting with the side-lines again. He had a rope around one gelding’s shoulders and was trying to run it back to the horse’s hind leg.
‘We don’t have time for that.’
He glanced at his watch and got back to the horse, moving his hand over its hindquarter, down its leg and reaching for its hoof. It lashed out at him and he calmly started again, pushing the horse around and around until it stood still. He took the leg and deftly strapped the leather cuff above its hoof. Then he left it kicking and complaining in the yard.
Kirra glanced around the shed and for some reason felt irritated again when she noticed that the water buckets had been filled. Why did that bother her? She’d asked him to. She headed over to the harness shed to get some saddles.
It was a fantastic old shed. Hundreds of rusty, disused horseshoes hung along the open timber struts of one wall. She liked to imagine where those shoes had been and what cattle they’d chased. Some had caulked heels; others had rolled toes, extra clips or had been banged out flat. She imagined all the different horses that had galloped across Moorinja over the past hundred years.
Over another wall, tangles of ropes and leather hung like bundles of spaghetti. There were disused spurs, rusty iron bits and leather quart pots, plus bridles and limp woollen blankets folded to the size of a horse’s back. There were battered helmets and every imaginable thickness of rope – hemp, cotton, nylon – coiled and strapped into neat bundles or woven into makeshift reins.
The stock saddles, which were in constant use, sat in row after row, stacked on short timber posts jutting from the wall, all leather with big knee rolls and lined with blue or gold felt. Carved into one of the old timber beams behind one of the saddle racks was a quote she
loved: Love all, trust a few, but always paddle your own canoe . . . Ted 2/4/63
Who was Ted anyway? No one seemed to know. Some long-ago stockman, no doubt. Had he sat and had smoko under the flame tree?
There were whips: short, long and every size in between. Then there were the hobbles: cuffs of leather, lined with white waxy skin cells chafed from the horses’ fetlocks and secured with strong steel buckles and lengths of chain. Some were designed to restrain a horse’s two front feet; some were for the knees; and some were spider hobbles, made to shackle all four legs. There were breeding hobbles to stop a mare kicking, and crueller harnesses that were used to stretch a horse’s hind leg back until it hurt. For the life of her, Kirra could see no point in that.
Most of the hobbles had hung on the wall gathering dust since the day her dad took over the horse-breaking at Moorinja. She noticed now that they had been disturbed. From Daniel using the side-lines, she guessed.
She took the saddles and gear that they would need and locked them in the tack box of the Hino, a small four-horse truck.
By the time Daniel joined her, the cattle trucks had pulled out of the long dirt driveway with Steve, Jim and the two young ringers hanging their elbows out of the windows. The Scrubby Creek boys stood on the back of the farm ute clinging to the rollbar while it fishtailed on the dirt behind them. Nancy waved out the kitchen window as they blasted the air horns.
Daniel sauntered out of the horse shed and began untying horses to load them. Kirra hit the button on the side of the truck and an electronic winch whirred, lowering the narrow ramp.
She took the rope from the horse he held, tossed it over its neck and pointed its nose up the ramp. It walked straight up and she went in after it and bolted a dividing rail alongside it.
She hopped back down the ramp and took the next horse from Daniel. By the time she got to the fourth horse, she heard footsteps behind her. She chose to ignore him.
