By midday, the cattle were in the holding yards, and Elara was exhausted, every muscle screaming. She was covered in a fine layer of red dust, her hands raw inside the borrowed gloves. She slid off Ember, her legs buckling slightly.
Jax dismounted beside her, his own fatigue hidden behind a mask of competence. He took Ember's reins from her. "I'll see to the horses. There's food in the kitchen."
It was a dismissal. She was just extra labour. A nuisance.
Humiliation burned hotter than the sun on her neck. She stumbled towards the homestead, the gulf between her life in Sydney—of air-conditioned offices, client meetings, and almond milk lattes—and this raw, physical world feeling impossibly wide.
Later, as the sun dipped below the horizon, she found him on the veranda, a beer in his hand, staring out at the darkening plains. The scent of grilled meat from the barbecue Mick had cooked hung in the air.
She stood in the doorway, unsure of her welcome.
"You hungry?" he asked, not turning around.
"I'm fine."
He finally glanced over his shoulder. "Suit yourself."
She stepped out onto the veranda, the ancient floorboards creaking under her weight. "I'm sorry about today. About the heifer."
He took a long swallow of his beer. "It's been a while. You'll remember."
"It's not just that, Jax." The words tumbled out, raw and unplanned. "It's everything. This place… it reminds me of who I was. And who I hurt."
He was silent for a long time, the only sound the chorus of crickets beginning their nightly song.
"I know," he said finally, his voice low. "It reminds me, too."
He didn't say what it reminded him of. The good, or the bad. The love, or the leaving. But for the first time since she'd arrived, the wall between them felt less like a fortress and more like a scar—something that had healed, but would always be there.
The mustering had been a failure. But in the quiet of the evening, surrounded by the vast, forgiving land, the first fragile thread of understanding had been spun.
Chapter 3:
The Stockman's Lesson
The days fell into a gruelling rhythm. Up before the sun, work until the harsh midday heat forced a break, then more work until dusk. Elara’s body ached in places she’d forgotten existed, but a stubborn pride kept her silent. She would not give Jax the satisfaction of seeing her quit.
He was a relentless taskmaster, his instructions terse and practical. "Don't look them in the eye, you'll spook 'em." "Shift your weight, not the reins." "Trust the horse, she knows more than you do."
It was during the tailing—the process of vaccinating and branding the new calves—that the real test came. The yards were a swirling mass of dust, noise, and frantic energy. Men wrestled calves to the ground, the air thick with the smell of singed hair and leather. Elara was assigned to the gate, a simple but critical job of controlling the flow of animals into the crush.
She was tired, her focus wavering. A large, panicked cow, separated from her calf, charged the gate. Elara fumbled with the heavy latch, her city-soft hands slipping. The gate swung open, and a dozen cattle burst through, scattering into the larger yard, undoing an hour's work.
A string of curses erupted from the men. Jax strode over, his face a mask of controlled fury under the brim of his hat.
"What part of 'hold the gate' is too complicated for you, Flynn?" he snapped, the use of her surname a deliberate blow.
Tears of frustration and exhaustion pricked her eyes, but she blinked them back fiercely. "I'm trying, Jax!"
"Try harder!" he shot back, his voice low and sharp. "Or get out of the bloody way. This isn't a game. This is my livelihood."
The words landed like a physical blow. He turned his back on her to help the others re-secure the mob, leaving her standing there, humiliated and seething.
That evening, the silence in the homestead was heavier than ever. She couldn't bear it. She retreated to her old room, but the four walls felt like a prison. Needing air, she slipped out the back and walked towards the old machinery shed, a place she’d hidden as a child.
She heard the soft sound before she saw him. A low, melodic humming. Peering around the corner of the shed, she saw Jax. He was sitting on an upturned drum, a newborn lamb cradled in his lap. Its mother had rejected it, and he was patiently feeding it from a bottle, his large, calloused hands impossibly gentle.
The anger on his face from the afternoon was gone, replaced by a quiet, weary tenderness. He spoke to the lamb in a soft murmur, comforting it. "Easy there, little mate. You're right. You're right."
